JUST DUES

It was a gray and chilly fall day in New York, and a gust of wind
sent tarnished leaves and errant trash spinning wildly up the street. I
shrugged off the chill, sorry I hadn't worn my topcoat. I was in town
from Cleveland for the publication of my first crime novel. Having just
left my publisher's office, I was feeling pretty impressed with the
large advance check in my pocket. I was strolling along Fifth Avenue on
the way to my hotel enjoying the brilliant fall colors in the Park,
wondering if a guy could actually live in this city.

As I walked along, I noticed people looking up. I looked up, too, just
in time to see a woman plummet from high up. I heard her scream pierce
the air as she fell. Her body spun around just before she hit and
landed on her back. As I drew closer, I realized the woman's face was
familiar, and I thought she was a film star from the seventies. I
worked my way through the throng of gawking pedestrians until I was
just a few feet away. Time had not been good to her. Her once beautiful
face was now lined and puffy, and her hair too blonde for her age. I
figured she was at least forty-five, fifty. She was really young when
she was launched into stardom, but she'd spent recent years settling
for infrequent bit parts. I couldn't think of her name.

One of the city's famous horse drawn carriages was stopped at the curb,
and its passengers were standing, straining on tiptoe to get a better
look at the sordid scene before them.

A uniformed policeman pushed through the crowd and asked, "Did anyone
see what happened?"

I stepped forward raising my forefinger. "I did. She came from the top
floor of that building." I pointed upward.

"The Plaza Hotel?"

"I guess so. Awful. She landed with a sickening thud."

"Would you be willing to come down to the station to make a
statement?"

I said I would, adding, "Do you recognize her? I can't think of her
name." I nodded in her direction. The woman lay silently askew atop the
crushed roof of a car. Her eyes were closed as though she were merely
asleep. Dark eyelashes lay against now pale cheeks. Her gloved hand was
against her chest and still clutched a red rose. A silky skirt had
twisted about her thighs and her stockings were torn. One shoe was
missing. I was amazed at the serenity of her face and posture. I always
thought a person like this would be nothing but pulp, but she looked
close to perfect.

The cop glanced her way and then turned back toward me. "Yeah, you're
right. She's somebody famous, isn't she?"

"A movie star, I believe. She was in that old movie about the
prostitute who marries the rich guy." I rubbed my chin. "Darn, her name
is right on the tip of my tongue. It was about twenty years ago. Carole
something."

"Lundgren. Carole Lundgren. Yep, that's her all right."

I stared sadly at her. "I thought she died of a drug overdose."

"Guess not. Looks like she died of a suicide - unless she was
pushed."

Someone in the crowd surrendered to a nervous laugh, and a horn blared
rudely. The coroner arrived and began clicking photos from every angle
while the police vigorously pushed the crowd back and were stringing
crime scene tape when a toothpick-sucking detective pulled up in an
unmarked car. He alit and tossed the toothpick. His right hand rustled
around his pocket searching for a cigarette. Looking up, he cupped his
hand around the match, then blew out the smoke and shook his head as
though he actually cared. Cops call them jumpers - those sorry
individuals who end their lives by leaping from high places. A city
like New York sees hundreds a year.

I watched in quiet horror as blood began to trickle in a thin, jagged
line from her delicate, upturned nose. She looked as though she might
blink any second and awake as from a dream with little more than a bad
headache. Two paramedics waited patiently while preparing to lift her
from the car to a sheet-covered gurney. Red and blue lights flashed
monotonously against the darkening afternoon sky and the city's sirens
screamed their sorrow.

I pulled out a thin cigar, unwrapping it and turning it in my fingers
while I watched. I bit off the end and sucked on the tip to wet it. I
puffed hard to light it and tilted my head back, blowing it skyward. I
looked at the ledge again. Suddenly, there, from the penthouse, I saw a
man's head protrude then quickly withdraw as the window slid down.
Odd.

I pondered a moment, but my writer's curiosity got the best of me, and
taking one last, long puff, I tossed my cigar to the curb. I crossed
the ornate lobby of The Plaza Hotel and waited for an elevator.
Punching Penthouse on the row of buttons, I rode up alone. As I got
off, I passed a man getting on. He seemed agitated and glanced both
ways as he stepped in without making eye contact. He was big and
good-looking in that tough sort of way that women usually like and had
a long, white scar down his cheek. He clenched an unlit cigar between
his teeth and was stuffing a hanky into his coat pocket. Something fell
from the same pocket as the door slid shut. I glanced down and saw an
access card lying on the thick carpet. Scanning the small foyer, I
spotted a single red, rose petal lying In front of a suite door. I
looked around cautiously and considered leaving, but then, foolishly, I
approached and tried the card in the slot. It opened. I slipped the
card in my pocket and left the door ajar.

I entered the darkened suite, heart pounding, surprised to find myself
alone. As my eyes adjusted, I could see the disheveled sheets in the
plush bedroom. I jerked open the drapes and glanced down at the growing
crowd. The window sill was scuffed and there were marks on the wall
beneath it. A bloody fingernail, painted scarlet, lay on the carpet
along with her other shoe. Probably a struggle. The place stunk of
smoke and an ashtray overflowed with butts. There was an almost empty
quart of Johnny Walker Red on the marble bar next to a watery ice
bucket - sad remains of her last night. In a small puddle, a
lipstick-edged glass lay on its side with a cigar wrapper nearby. A
man's silk tie was draped over the doorknob. Poking around, I found a
used syringe in the bathroom trash. A drop of blood clung to the sink.
Just then the suite door swung open, and I froze.

Stepping silently behind the bathroom door, I watched through the
crack. It was the guy from the elevator. I held my breath and my heart
thumped in my chest. He was looking for something. He jerked open
drawers and started toward the door where he found the tie and stuffed
it in his pocket. Suddenly aware of the now opened draperies and the
bathroom light, he stopped, scanning the room carefully. He spun toward
the bathroom door in slow motion. As he pushed it open, I stepped
forward, right into the barrel of his .38 special. His dark eyes
widened, then narrowed, and a broad smile began to cross his
lips.

"Well, well, must be my lucky day. Looks like I just got rid of two
problems." I could smell Scotch on his breath.

"Hold on, I . . ."

"Hold on, nothin', buddy, let's go." He flashed his badge and I could
see his wedding ring.

"Wait a minute, you've got the wrong guy. I was just looking
around."

"Right, tell that to the detectives downstairs. Turn around and spread
'em."

"Wait, you . . ."

He shoved me hard against the door, and I braced myself with my hands.
He slapped me between the knees and frisked me. He jerked one arm down,
and I felt the cold metal of the cuffs snap ominously against my
wrist.

"Let's go, move it." He began to push me from behind.

"I want to talk to my lawyer."

"Yeah, yeah. Let's go." He laughed. "You have the right to remain
silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of
law . . ."

He pushed me through the lobby and out onto the street toward the other
detectives.

"Hey, Rooney, whatcha got there?" asked one of the detectives.

"Here you go, boys. Here's your perp." He holstered his gun. "I found
him in her room, hiding in the john. I was here in the hotel and heard
the ruckus. Thought I'd go up and have a look around, figured you guys
would be up there already. And there he was, pretty as you please.
Looks like he pushed her."

"Thanks, Lieutenant, you're a helluva cop!"

They pressed my head down and shoved me into the back seat of an
unmarked car. Things didn't look good.

********************************
TWO DAYS LATER

"I kept my mouth shut knowing I was in awfully deep. That's when I
called you," I told my attorney, running my hands through my
hair.

"Well, Mr. Racine, the DA has offered you a plea of involuntary
manslaughter."

"Are you crazy? I just told you I didn't do it! I wasn't even there. It
was him, the cop who found me. He did it!" I was dripping with
sweat.

"Look, they'll never buy that. It's your word against a seasoned cop's.
They don't have much, but they found your prints on the bathroom door.
The card key was in your pocket and cop at the scene remembers you -
said you couldn't wait to help. Acted like you knew her."

"I didn't know her. I recognized her from the movies!"

"That's the other problem. She's high profile, so they want to wrap
this up quick."

"I deserve a fair trial."

"Someone in the crowd said he saw you lean out the window."

"That wasn't me!"

"Look, I believe you, but a jury may not. There's a lot of
circumstantial evidence that points toward you. Now, we can take this
to trial and maybe lose, and you'll do 20 to life, or we can plead you
down and you'll be out in 3 to 5, less with good behavior."

I copped the plea.

*********************************

FOUR YEARS LATER

It's a chilly fall day in New York, and a gust of wind sends tarnished
leaves and errant trash spinning up the street. I walk along Fifth
Avenue across from the Park, looking up at the penthouse windows of The
Plaza Hotel. I'll be off parole in two more years and feel lucky for
that. I've earned an advanced degree in the art of crime. Good for
future novels, I suppose. I walk into The Plaza and head toward the
kitchen. As I change into my waiter's uniform, I scan the dining room
for Rooney like I do every night.

At long last, I see him - across the room, smoking a cigar and laughing
it up with a gorgeous redhead. I see the long, white scar on his cheek.
I approach his table to clear the dishes and tip his water glass into
his lap. He jumps up cursing, and I hand him a napkin. While they're
busy mopping his suit, I slip the potassium chloride into the remains
of his cocktail and disappear.

I watch patiently through the kitchen window and see him take the last
swig. Five minutes later he stands, clutches his heart and just before
he collapses on the floor, his eyes meet mine in fearful recognition. I
smile and nod. Too bad. Everybody said he should slow down. It must
have been his heart.