Two Trains Running - By Andrew H. Vachss Page 0,32

the collector was alone.

Perrini drove off, the Mercury’s distinctive canted-V taillights marking his trail. Dett followed, varying the distance every few blocks, checking his mirrors to make certain he wasn’t being boxed.

After a few minutes, the Mercury slowed, and Dett pulled closer behind. Perrini drove past a single-story building with CLUB MIDNIGHT on its marquee. The street was lined with cars on both sides, every spot taken except for a large space directly in front of the entrance.

The Mercury turned left at the next corner, and slowed to a crawl. Dett did the hunter’s math: He’s not collecting from that joint—he’s going there for fun. And he hasn’t got enough clout to use that VIP spot, so he’s looking for a parking place.

Gambling, Dett brought his Ford to a halt, then backed it into a narrow alley. He quickly put a red felt cap with tied-at-the-top black earmuffs on his head, slipped on a pair of deerskin gloves, and left his car. He flattened his back against the alley wall, then cautiously peered in the direction Perrini had driven. He spotted the Merc’s taillights as it reversed into a spot between two cars, parallel-parking. Probably at a fire hydrant, Dett thought, stepping out of the alley and walking briskly in that direction.

Dett watched as Perrini locked his car, adjusted the lapels of his camel’s-hair coat, and ran a comb through his hair. Perrini crossed the street, heading back toward the nightclub, moving with overcooked self-assurance.

Approaching his target, Dett began walking with a limp, his right hand held stiffly at his side for balance. He looked down at the sidewalk, as if ashamed of his condition.

The gap between the two men closed. Dett felt a familiar calmness radiate from his center. His heartbeat slowed, his blood pressure dropped, and his senses sharpened like a safecracker’s sandpapered fingertips. He unclenched his right fist; a length of lead pipe dropped into his gloved hand.

As they were passing each other wordlessly, Dett pivoted on his left foot and slammed the lead pipe into the back of Perrini’s head.

The motion of his strike carried Dett down to one knee. He quickly scanned the street, then smoothly rolled Perrini over onto his back. The man’s nose was flattened, and his front teeth had penetrated his upper lip—he had been unconscious before he fell, meeting the sidewalk face-first.

A quick search produced an alligator wallet from Perrini’s inside pocket. Dett shifted position so he could check the street in both directions. Thirty seconds, he told himself, as he removed a driver’s license before replacing the wallet. Adjusting Perrini’s left hand so that it rested on the sidewalk, palm-down, Dett used the butt of the lead pipe to shatter the collector’s expensive wristwatch, and maybe his wrist.

Dett walked back across the street, got into his car, and drove out of the alley. A few blocks away, he pulled over and tossed the lead pipe into a vacant lot. It didn’t make a sound.

* * *

1959 October 01 Thursday 01:02

* * *

The diner was too packed for Dett to see whether Tussy was still at work as he drove by. He moved on, through the darkened streets, learning the city. It took him almost two hours to return to the pawnshop. Dett left the Ford in the street, locked it, and opened the trunk, where he traded in the denim jacket for his armed overcoat.

The dull metal shim Dett had left in the side door of the hotel was still in place. He let himself in, made it to the stairs undetected, and was in bed before three-thirty.

* * *

1959 October 01 Thursday 07:07

* * *

“When do you think he might be able to tell us something, Doc?” Detective Sherman Layne asked the stoop-shouldered man in a white lab coat.

“Maybe in ten minutes,” the doctor replied, looking down at the body of Nicholas Perrini, “maybe never. He’s in a coma.”

“Yeah, I can see that for myself,” Layne said. He was a tall, heavyset man, a human mass of ever-encroaching bulk who gave the impression of standing very close to whoever he spoke to. His voice—patiently insistent—reflected his personality. “What I want to know is, what’s the odds?”

“Medical science isn’t a horse race,” the doctor said, haughtily, favoring the detective with his patrician-nosed profile.

“Too bad it’s not. I could handicap a race a lot better than what you’re giving me now.”

“Sorry,” the doctor said, making it clear he wasn’t—apology had deserted his language repertoire the moment he had finished his internship,