Free Ed McBain - Downtown by Ed McBain Page A

address here on Bowery. Michael flipped through the business checkbook and found the stubs for the last several checks written, all dated December 23. There was a check to Sylvia Horowitz for a $200 Christmas bonus ... "His secretary?" Connie asked. "Could be." And a check to Celebrity Catering for $1,217.21 ... "The party, must be," Michael said. "Some party," Connie said. And a check to Mission Liquors for $314.78. "More party," Connie said. "Some party," Michael said.
    No checks beyond the twenty-third. They leafed backward through the stubs. The last payroll checks had been made out on December 20, the ones before that on December 6. The firm paid its employees--apparently only Crandall and the woman named Sylvia Horowitz--on a biweekly basis. "Let's try the personal checkbook," Connie said.
    In the personal book, they found only one stub for a check written on Monday, December 23. It was made out to cash. For $9,000. They both fell silent.
    Outside, there was only the keening of the wind. Snow broke off from the telephone wires, fell soundlessly to the backyards below. "It's almost Christmas, you know," Connie whispered. Michael looked at his watch. "Two minutes to Christmas," Connie whispered. His digital watch blinked away time, tossed time into the past. "I want to give you a present," she whispered.
    It was one minute and twenty-two
    111 seconds to Christmas.
    "Because you really do have a very nice face," she whispered. "And also, I like kissing you." She cupped his face in her hands. "You don't have anything communicable, do you?" she asked. "No, I ..." "I don't mean like a common cold," she said. "I mean like anything dread." "Nothing dread at all," he said. "Good," she said.
    He told himself that when this was all over and done with, if ever it was over and done with, he would remember this last minute before Christmas more than anything that could possibly happen afterward. Because in that slow-motion moment, Connie kissed him and murmured, "Merry Christmas, Michael," and moved in so close to him that he could feel her heart beating, or at least his own, and then he heard bells going off and he thought he'd died and gone to heaven until he realized it was only the telephone.
    5 The telephone kept ringing into the otherwise blinking stillness of the room. Michael picked up the receiver.
    "Crandall Productions, Limited," he said. "Arthur?" a woman's voice said. "Who's this?" he said. "Is that you, Arthur?" the woman asked. "Yes," he said. "You sound funny," she said. "Who's this?" he said again. "This is Albetha," the woman said. "Uh-huh," he said. "Arthur?" "Uh-huh." "Arthur, your children are waiting for Santa Claus, what are you doing at the office? It's Christmas morning already, do you know that? It's already five minutes past Christmas, do you know that? Now when do you plan on coming home, Arthur?"
    Michael gathered she did not know he was dead. "Did you get the roses?" he asked.
    "Yes, I got the roses," she
    113 said. "Thank you very much for the roses, Arthur, but I'm _still getting a divorce." "Now, now, Albetha," he said.
    "Arthur, the only reason I want you to come home here tonight is because it's Christmas and the children expect you to be here, that's the only reason. Tomorrow I'll explain to them how their daddy is a no-good philanderer, but this is Christmas right now, and you'd better come home here and get in your Santa Claus suit and be Santa eating the cookies and drinking the milk for your goddamn children, do you hear me?" "I hear you," he said.
    "Or is _she there with you?" Albetha asked. "Is who here?" he said. "Jessica," she said. "I don't know who that is," he said.
    "Your blonde bimbo with her red panties," she said. "Oh, her," Michael said. "Come on home to your children, you _louse!" Albetha said, and hung up.
    "Albetha?" he said. He jiggled the rest bar. "Albetha?" "His wife, huh?" Connie said. "Maybe I ought to call her back," Michael said. "No, I think we'd better get out of here,"