Broadway Can Be Murder by Lawrence Block

Author:Lawrence Block
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lawrence Block
Published: 2021-04-06T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 10

* * *

The bar was in Hell’s Kitchen, that totally unglamorous section of Manhattan where large four-legged rats devour babies in their cribs and where their two-legged counterparts lend money to dockworkers at rates of interest that would have made Shylock wince. The bar crouched on Tenth Avenue between 35th and 36th Streets. A neon sign with a nervous tic announced that the bar was named Sully’s Place, and the odor that issued forth when the door was open announced that Sully did not believe in washing the floor. The odor was one part spilled beer, one part urine, and two parts vomit.

The man walked into Sully’s Place a few minutes before ten. There were four people inside plus the bartender. Five heads turned lazily to take a look at the man when the door opened; nine eyes—a tenth had been lost in a fight several months before—focused on the new arrival. They took him in at a glance, saw who he was, and turned away instantly.

You did not take long looks at a syndicate man. It was unhealthy. It brought visions of six bullet holes grouped in the precise center of a man’s forehead, of cement overcoats and prolonged swims in the Hudson.

And this man was a syndicate type.

That much was obvious. It showed in his walk—hands in pockets, head set back on shoulders so that the neck nearly disappeared, shoulders set and legs striding easily, cockily. It showed in his dress—black Italian porkpie hat with a brim a little too short, black overcoat cut a shade too long and bulging ever so slightly over beside the heart where a gun was waiting, black Broadway suit, slim and highly polished black shoes.

Most of all, it showed in the face. The firm little lines around the mouth. The hawk nose. The slight pouches beneath the eyes. And the eyes themselves—very narrow, half-closed, and staring flatly ahead showing no expression whatsoever.

The man walked past the four customers without looking at them. He went to the far end of the bar. He did not sit on one of the stools but leaned against the bar itself. He drew the bartender without a gesture. His eyes brought the man over.

The bartender was fat. He carried his stomach in front of him like a proud, pregnant woman. He hurried.

“What’ll you have?”

The man shook his head shortly. When he talked, the words were pitched so that only the bartender heard them. The lips did not move.

“Some muscle,” the man said. “Two boys. Big boys.”

“Nobody around here,” the bartender whispered. “Just a couple of lushes. You wanta go up the street—”

The man’s eyes stopped him cold in the middle of the sentence. The bartender looked into those eyes and saw Death staring him in the face. He wanted to look away but he could not.

“Information,” the man said flatly. “Yesterday two boys did a job.”

“There’s a lot of muscle jobs.”

The man’s hand snaked inside his coat and the bartender took an involuntary step backward. The hand came out holding not a gun but a cigar.

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