Cut Me In (Hard Case Crime) Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Acclaim for the Work of Ed McBain!

  Also by Ed McBain

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  Want More McBain?

  Also Available from Titan Books

  Acclaim for the Work of ED McBAIN!

  “McBain is so good he ought to be arrested.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “The best crime writer in the business.”

  —Houston Post

  “The author delivers the goods: wired action scenes, dialogue that breathes, characters with hearts and characters that eat those hearts, and glints of unforgiving humor…Ed McBain owns this turf.”

  —New York Times Book Review

  “You’ll be engrossed by McBain’s fast, lean prose.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “McBain has a great approach, great attitude, terrific style, strong plots, excellent dialogue, sense of place, and sense of reality.”

  —Elmore Leonard

  “McBain is a top pro, at the top of his game.”

  —Los Angeles Daily News

  “A virtuoso.”

  —London Guardian

  “McBain…can stop you dead in your tracks with a line of dialogue.”

  —Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “I never read Ed McBain without the awful thought that I still have a lot to learn. And when you think you’re catching up, he gets better.”

  —Tony Hillerman

  “Full of noir touches and snappy dialogue.”

  —New York Newsday

  “Ed McBain is a national treasure.”

  —Mystery News

  “Raw and realistic…The bad guys are very bad, and the good guys are better.”

  —Detroit Free Press

  “A story so sharp you could shave with it.”

  —Orlando Sentinel

  “McBain is the unquestioned king…Light-years ahead of anyone else in the field.”

  —San Diego Union-Tribune

  “As good as it gets…compulsively readable.”

  —Seattle Times-Post Intelligencer

  “Vintage stuff. The dialogue is sharp, the plotting accomplished, and the prose bears the McBain stamp—uncluttered, unpretentious, ironic.”

  —Philadelphia Inquirer

  “If you’re looking for a sure thing, pick this one up.”

  —Syracuse Herald-American

  “A major contemporary writer…His prose [approaches] a kind of colloquial poetry.”

  —William DeAndrea, Encyclopedia Mysteriosa

  “The McBain stamp: sharp dialogue and crisp plotting.”

  —Miami Herald

  “A master storyteller.”

  —Washington Times

  “McBain keeps you reading and keeps you guessing… The book is a winner.”

  —London Sunday Telegraph

  “What is it?” she asked. She was holding her glass tightly, and her knuckles were white, the skin pulled taut against the bone.

  “Del’s dead,” I said quickly.

  It was almost as if I’d hit her in the stomach. She closed her eyes tightly.

  Then, as if she’d finally gripped her insides together, she looked up and asked, “How?”

  “Three bullets in his head. I found him this morning when I…”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. The police are on it now.”

  I expected her to cry, or scream, or something. She just stood there, though, and said, “It takes a while to get used to it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Especially when…” She stopped speaking, turned rapidly and filled her glass again.

  “You’d better go easy,” I said.

  She tossed off the brandy in one gulp, then turned to fill her glass once more.

  “Gail…”

  “Shut up, Josh. Please shut up. Just let me do what I want to do, and shut up.”

  She took another fast swallow, and then began nursing the drink, sipping at it slowly, rolling the glass between her hands. There was sweat on her brow, and the duster clung to the lines of her body.

  She didn’t look at me. She stared at an invisible spot in the rug, rolling the glass, clinking the ice.

  “I’m glad,” she said at length.

  “What?”

  “I’m glad. I’m glad someone killed the bastard…”

  OTHER HARD CASE CRIME BOOKS BY ED McBAIN:

  THE GUTTER AND THE GRAVE

  SO NUDE, SO DEAD

  SOME OTHER HARD CASE CRIME BOOKS YOU WILL ENJOY:

  GETTING OFF by Lawrence Block

  QUARRY’S EX by Max Allan Collins

  THE CONSUMMATA by Mickey Spillane and Max Allan Collins

  CHOKE HOLD by Christa Faust

  THE COMEDY IS FINISHED by Donald E. Westlake

  BLOOD ON THE MINK by Robert Silverberg

  FALSE NEGATIVE by Joseph Koenig

  THE TWENTY-YEAR DEATH by Ariel S. Winter

  THE COCKTAIL WAITRESS by James M. Cain

  SEDUCTION OF THE INNOCENT by Max Allan Collins

  WEB OF THE CITY by Harlan Ellison

  JOYLAND by Stephen King

  THE SECRET LIVES OF MARRIED WOMEN by Elissa Wald

  ODDS ON by Michael Crichton writing as John Lange

  THE WRONG QUARRY by Max Allan Collins

  BORDERLINE by Lawrence Block

  BRAINQUAKE by Samuel Fuller

  EASY DEATH by Daniel Boyd

  QUARRY’S CHOICE by Max Allan Collins

  THIEVES FALL OUT by Gore Vidal

  A HARD CASE CRIME BOOK

  (HCC-122)

  First Hard Case Crime edition: January 2016

  Published by

  Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark Street

  London SE1 0UP

  in collaboration with Winterfall LLC

  Copyright © 1953, 1954, by Hui Corp. Copyright renewed.

  All rights reserved. Novel originally published as by Hunt

  Collins and reprinted in 1955 as The Proposition.

  Cover painting copyright © 2016 by Robert McGinnis

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Print edition ISBN 978-0-78329-445-9

  E-book ISBN 978-1-78329-362-9

  Design direction by Max Phillips

  www.maxphillips.net

  The name “Hard Case Crime” and the Hard Case Crime logo are trademarks of Winterfall LLC. Hard Case Crime books are selected and edited by Charles Ardai.

  Visit us on the web at www.HardCaseCrime.com

  The new ones, the old ones, they’re all now dedicated to

  the love of my life—my wife, Dragica.

  1.

  The girl was sitting at the kitchen table in a bra and half-slip, casually puffing on a cigarette. I propped myself up in bed, looking out past the living room and through the half-open kitchen door. A cup of coffee rested before her on the table, the steam
rising from it lazily. Her legs were crossed, and she wore high heels with ankle straps. Nylon stockings were stretched taut against the curve of her leg, and I wondered why any girl in her right mind would wear stockings in this kind of weather. I also wondered who she was.

  I didn’t really give a damn, you understand, because the buzz saw inside my skull and the decaying caterpillar in my mouth told me there’d be plenty I wouldn’t remember about last night. But it seemed to me that a gentleman upon rising should at least know who was sitting at his kitchen table enjoying a cup of coffee and a cigarette. I swung my legs over the side of the bed, and the buzz saw went to work on another cord of wood. I tried to spit out the caterpillar, and gave that up when I discovered it was only my tongue. The window was wide open, but there was no breeze. It was going to be another scorcher just like yesterday. I almost wished the damned Stewart deal hadn’t come up to cancel my vacation. But then I thought of the money involved in the deal and I forgot all about vacations and heat. I found a rumpled potato sack thrown over one of the chairs, discovered it had legs and cuffs, and put it on.

  I was walking out into the living room, tightening the belt around my waist, when the girl spoke.

  “That you, Josh?”

  “Why, yes,” I answered. “That you?”

  “I’ll pour you some coffee,” she said.

  I nodded, stopping at an end table to spear a cigarette from a container. I was in my bare feet, but the rug was thick, and I didn’t mind. I got the cigarette going, and then walked into the kitchen as the girl set a steaming cup of coffee down on the table. She was tall, with blonde hair cut close to the oval of her face. Her eyes were a pale blue, with skillfully darkened lashes and lids. She wore a pale orange lipstick that accentuated her blondness and added just a touch of color to her full lips. My eyes studied her face, and the first impression I had was that she modeled. She smiled and lifted one eyebrow, glancing at the coffee cup.

  “Oh,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “I’ve got to be leaving soon,” she said.

  I tried to think of something appropriate, but I only came up with, “So soon?”

  She grinned knowingly. “Gal has to earn a living, you know.”

  I sipped at the coffee and looked out over the rooftops. Occasionally, I glanced at the girl’s face, and my eyes strayed down to the firm cones of her white bra. The girl’s dress was neatly folded over one of the kitchen chairs, and I imagined she was postponing putting it on because of the heat. The clock on the wall said eight-twenty, and that meant I would have to shave and shower and dress in less than a half hour if I wanted to get to the office on time. And I did want to get there on time. I wanted to get there on time very much. If Friday had been any indication, today would really be a lulu. I wanted to be there the minute the phone started ringing. This was likely the biggest deal the agency had ever…

  “…who I am, do you?”

  I looked up quickly. “Huh? I’m sorry. What did you say?”

  “I said you don’t even remember who I am, do you?”

  I grinned and opened one hand in a futile gesture. “I’m sorry, honey, but I was potted.”

  She smiled a warming smile. “That’s all right. My name is Janice.”

  “Oh, yes, Janice.”

  “You still don’t remember.”

  “No, I guess I don’t.”

  “The Cockatoo? At the bar?”

  “Ah, the Cockatoo,” I said, nodding. “A nice bar.”

  “Stardust and Artie Shaw.”

  “A nice song, and a nice band.”

  “You were drinking Zombies,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “I was?”

  She nodded, and the smile got bigger. “Uh-huh. After your third one, you put your hand on my knee and said, ‘Baby, you and I should…’ ”

  “I remember,” I said quickly.

  The girl stood up and reached over for her dress. Quickly, she ducked her head, and when she stood up straight again, the dress slid down the curves of her body. She pulled it over her hips, smoothed it, and then fluffed her hair.

  “My lipstick all right?” she asked.

  “Fine. Very nice.”

  “Well, I’ve got to run. Monday morning…” She sighed and shook her head. “It’s been real nice, Josh. I enjoyed it.”

  “I guess I did, too,” I said.

  I walked her to the front door, and she reached up and patted my face, her hand lingering there for an instant. “Goodbye, Josh.”

  “Janice,” I said.

  I closed the door and stood staring at it for a few minutes. I shrugged. Quickly, I walked back to the kitchen and gulped down the coffee cooling in the cup. I thought about the Cam Stewart deal all the while I was showering, and I thought about it while I was shaving, too. Del Gilbert, my partner, had gone up to see the author on Friday. By this time, the deal would be cemented on that end. Not that his visit to Stewart’s Connecticut home had been really essential. We’d never met the author, though, and a literary agency likes its clients to be friendly as well as profitable. And Cam Stewart was profitable, all right. Cam Stewart was the most profitable thing to come along in a good many moons. The Westerns that flowed from Stewart’s pen were the hottest marketing commodity around, and even though we only had permission to handle the radio and television rights to the six published novels, that was enough. It was enough because any movie deal necessarily hinges on the TV rights, and they were snug in our happy little pocket. The Hollywood boys had been barking for the past week, and it looked as if the big deal was ready to go through at last. If we agreed to it. If we didn’t, we’d simply queer it, and there wasn’t a damned thing they could do. No producer is going to spend a million bucks on a movie and then discover that his potential audience can get the same thing on television for free.

  Oh yes, it was very sweet.

  And we’d fallen right into it, almost with no effort at all. We’d simply written to Stewart asking for permission to handle radio and television rights, telling the author we had what looked like a good opportunity for their sale. Both Del and I almost keeled over flat when Stewart’s return letter arrived. It granted us sole and exclusive permission to handle the rights for which we’d asked, provided a five-hundred-dollar option was paid. We sent our check out in the next mail, and I’d have been willing to deliver it personally. Then we had a photostat made of Stewart’s letter. This was our meal ticket, and we weren’t taking a chance on it getting lost or misplaced.

  I was excited, all right. I was excited as hell. The Hollywood boys had been talking in terms of fifty thousand per picture, two pictures a year. That’s a lot of money no matter how you fold it, and we were in a position to kill the deal unless we got what we wanted out of it. I dressed rapidly, almost forgetting to put on my tie. There was the faint odor of perfume in the bathroom, and I sniffed it appreciatively. It takes a lucky man to pick a winner even when he’s souped to the ears. I’d probably have dropped dead if I’d found a dried-up old hag sitting at the table this morning. And considering all I could remember, or rather all I had forgotten, the likelihood was not a remote one.

  I left my apartment and took the Buick from the garage under the building. The traffic was thick, and the heat was beginning to pour down out of the sky—a heat that stuck your pants to the seat, and your shorts to your pants, and your skin to your shorts. That kind of heat. Damp and sticky, like sorghum molasses.

  I sweated out a red light that took forever to change, and then I was in the Fifth Avenue stream of traffic. I had the top down, but that didn’t help at all, and by the time I’d parked the car in a garage on Eighth and caught a cab crosstown, I was drenched to the skin. I took the elevator up to the twentieth floor and walked down to our offices at the end of the hall. We had a suite of six rooms, including a large reception room; a general office; a consultation room; an office for Tim, our executive editor; and two private offices for Del and myself. It was a nice layout, and it had taken us a long time to get where we w
ere. The Stewart deal would shove us one more notch up the ladder, and a few more notches after that would put us in the really big agency bracket. I closed the door to the reception room behind me, glanced briefly at the big guy sitting on one of the couches, and then headed for the door leading to my office. Jeanette, the brunette receptionist and switchboard operator, smiled pertly as I passed her desk.

  “Good morning, Mr. Blake,” she said. The words hardly left her mouth when the big guy sitting on the couch leaped to his feet and started across the room after me. I didn’t turn back, but I smelled writer, even from that distance. When you’ve been a ten-percenter long enough, you can smell a writer at a hundred paces, even if he’s wearing a butcher’s apron. This guy wasn’t wearing a butcher’s apron, though I’m sure he could have slaughtered a steer with his bare hands.

  He ran around me and stopped in front of my door, clutching a briefcase to his chest. He was at least six-four, weighing all of two hundred pounds, with straight black hair that fell over his forehead. His shaggy brows matched his hair, and his nose had been skillfully rearranged by someone with big fists. He had a jaw like a pig’s rump, with twice as many bristles protruding from it. He looked like a rundown bookie, or a hired killer, but I knew he was a writer.

  “Mr. Blake?” he asked.

  I allowed my eyes to roam toward Jeanette, the promise of quick strangulation in them. “Yes,” I said slowly, “I’m Mr. Blake.”

  “My name is Gunnison,” he said, his face erupting into a some-what ghoulish smile. “David Gunnison.”

  I nodded pleasantly, waiting for him to say it.

  “I’m a writer,” he said.

  “Oh?” I asked, interest all over my face.

  “I’ve written a novel.”

  “That’s nice,” I said. I knew the answer to the next question before I asked it, but I’m a glutton for punishment. “Is it your first novel?”

  “Why, yes.”

  “Well, if you’ll just have a seat, Mr. Gunnison, one of our editors will be happy to talk to you.”

  “Oh, no!” he said, moving over and covering the door with his huge body. “I want to talk to you personally.”

  I allowed my glance to find Jeanette again, and this time there was arsenic and a small pinch of cyanide in it