FSE

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I'm tramping through the jungle. Gunfire sounds in my sensitive ears. It's a ways off, but still too close. If I'm nervous, it's nothing compared to the new recruits. Private Walsh, who joined my squad two weeks ago. He's eighteen. This is his first taste of combat. Corporal Jensen, who was pulled from two years' desk duty in San Francisco. He's not in the best health. I guess they're running out of able-bodied men. I want to tell them it'll all be okay. You can't, Coney, I say to myself. I'm the staff sergeant of this outfit, after all. I should probably show more grit than that. And I'm not sure it'd do any good.

Even after three years, it doesn't get much easier. Any minute, I think, a battalion of Japs could jump out of the trees. I sigh and grip my rifle a little tighter. Our division, the 81st Infantry, had been sent in a few days ago to relieve the Marines. They'd suffered a lot of casualties, something like three-quarters depletion. My squad's out on a scouting mission. Easy, you'd think. Walk around the island for eight hours, try to find the enemy, then come back home. Maybe it's the uncertainty that's got my men so scared. See, if you're being sent into combat, you know you're going to see some. We don't have that luxury.

It's four hours in. We're taking a quick rest. Finley, one of my buck sergeants, puffs away at a cigarette. I barely even hear the shot. But Finley's suddenly on the ground, bleeding from a hole in his heart. Before we even know what's happening, Walsh is down, too. It's the Japanese, of course. I can't make anyone out. But Finley was in front of me when he was shot. The shooter must have been behind. I wheel around. I see the barest possibility of a silhouette and fire. I'm not sure if it hit, not sure if it was even a person.

But I don't have time to worry.

I hear the thunk behind me just a split second before I hear one of my boys -- I have no idea who -- shout something. In the gunfire, I miss what it is. I turn around, and then I see it. A grenade. I see Jensen two feet to my side. I tackle him to the ground just as the grenade goes off.

I don't know anything after that. Just pain. I was never a religious guy, but I feel this has to be Hell. I weave in and out of consciousness. I see my squadmates huddled over my body. I focus on Jensen.

Then, without any warning, his pointed coyote's muzzle suddenly transmutes into the flat, round porcupine's snout belonging to Matilda Manderly.

I was lying on my couch, in my office in Hell's Kitchen, 9,500 miles and six years away from the scene that had assaulted me in my dream.

"You all right, boss?" Tilly asked.

Was I? I took a brief check. The nightmare had left my fur and clothes drenched in cold sweat, the ether had given me a headache, and the fact that I'd allowed any of it to happen left me with a deep pit of shame in my stomach. So, on the whole, no, I was not. But hell, I'm not the sort of guy that lets on.

"Wonderful," I replied. I sat up and felt the afghan fall of my chest. "How are you here?"

"I do work here," she shot back. "But if you mean why I came back . . . Well, I got all the way home when I realized I'd left my keys here. So I walked all the way back."

"The whole two blocks from 11th Avenue?" I asked, my voice drenched in sarcasm. "What a trial that must have been for you."

"Well, lucky for you I did, 'cause you should have seen what I saw when I got here."

"What was that?"

"You, you lunk. With your mouth about an inch from that hussy bird's beak, by the way. I mean, I came in extra quiet, 'cause I thought I heard voices, and I realized, 'Well, that's odd. Who'd be here this time of night?' And then she drugged you and jumped out on the fire escape. Now, I made sure you were alive, first. But you seemed like you'd be fine, so I headed back down to the street. And there she was, hailing a cab. So I got in the next one and went after her."

Sometimes, Tilly's instincts about these things surprised me. All that was exactly what I would have done in her place, although I admit, if it had been the other way around, I might not have thought to stop and make sure she was okay first. "Where'd she go?" I asked.

"A place in Bed-Stuy. We're going to have to talk about reimbursement for that fare at some point, by the way. Bit of a hole in the ground, if you ask me. Kind of a surprise. You'd think someone like her would go for something a bit higher-rent."

I shook my head. "No, Bed-Stuy makes sense," I said. "They don't ask a whole lot of questions in that sort of neighborhood, and what she'd want most is to stay under the radar. Did you get the exact address?"

"I did. But --" she paused. I could tell from the look on her face that she had something she wanted to say that I wasn't going to like. I figured I knew what it was.

"You don't want me going there."

"Just hold off a few hours, boss," she said. "It's only been a couple hours since the last time you went up against her, and look how that turned out. I know it's a time-sensitive case and all, but if you snuff it, where am I going to work?"

"I don't want her getting away."

"No, I know you don't. Tell you what, I'll go. Keep an eye out for you. There's a payphone right across the street from the building she stopped at. If I see her leaving, I'll give you a ring here."

I agreed to that, reluctantly. I lay back on the couch and shut my eyes, but sleep wasn't going to come, my head was so full of thoughts. So I stood up and paced back and forth across the office. Sat down at my desk and decided to write down the fundamentals of the case, see what I could make of it. I opened the drawer to get a pencil. Sitting at the top was a small paper bag with a note taped to it.

In case you change your mind. -- V.

I opened it up. It was full of peppermints. I put it back in the drawer.

Dawn was breaking when the sound of the telephone finally shocked me out of my musings. I picked it up at once.

"Tilly?" I asked.

"Yeah, boss, it's me. Listen, I didn't have much change, so I don't have much time on the line. Bad news. I'm heading back to you. I'll fill you in when I get there."

"She got away from you?"

"Well, not really. Like I said, I'll tell you when --"

A click. Her time must have run out, but I didn't have long to wait. Within the hour, the front door opened and she walked in, yawning.

"What happened?" I blurted out immediately.

She rubbed her eyes blearily. "Come on, boss, I need some breakfast. Let's go to the diner. I'll tell you on the way."

So we adjourned. As it transpired, Velia had been onto Tilly from the start. When Tilly had gone back to the Bed-Stuy bolthole, she had waited several hours. When there was no sign of Velia leaving, or even that she was there, she'd worked up the courage to go in.

"And I was shaking in my boots, yeah?" she said. "I mean, I don't know what this bird's capable of. So I go up to the front door, you know, and on the register it said Apartment 12 -- Marchetti. I thought that was weird, since I thought she was trying to lay low and all, but I went up to 12 anyway. The door was unlocked, which got me even more suspicious. So I open it, and what do I see?" There's a long pause here, evidently for theatrical effect. "Nothing. Nada. Place is bare. No furniture, no curtains. All there is is a little box in the middle of the floor. I open it up, and what do I find?"

By this point, we were at the diner and we've settled into a booth. She dug into her purse and brought out a small cardboard box. She pushed it toward me and I opened it. There were two things inside: a Polaroid and a letter. I read the letter first.

You're going to have to try harder than that, bunny boy. I tell you what, your secretary's got a good head on her, but she . . . sticks out in a crowd. I spotted her as soon as she got into the cab behind me. I could hardly lead her right to my secret lair, now, could I? This was my family's place when I was born. It fell out of use in '34 or so, landlord and pretty much all the tenants went bankrupt. Been abandoned ever since, but the Marchetti family name is still out front, so I thought it'd come in handy.

If you fell for this, you're probably going to need help to find me, so I'll give you a hint: think about the feather.

I couldn't figure out the hint just yet, so I set the letter aside and looked at the photograph. It was of Marchetti, holding something up to the camera. I looked at it for a minute before I realized what it had to be: the diamond. In a weird way, it sort of reminded me of a hard candy. I couldn't glean too much from the poor quality of the film, but it was flat and circular -- kind of like a cushion cut, except round -- about an inch and a half across and half an inch thick. I wasn't an expert, and like I said, the picture wasn't very clear, but even with all that I could tell it an absolutely gorgeous diamond. This was the sort of gem men would kill for.

"Hell of a rock, huh?" Tilly asked as I stared at the Polaroid. "That's not the most interesting thing, though."

"What do you mean?" I said, confused.

"Look at the edge," she instructed.

I did. The date was imprinted on the white strip around the photo -- 4/22/51. Two days ago, not current. That struck me as odd. She must have known the date was there, so why use it and not take a more recent one?

"She got rid of it," said Tilly.

"Or she's trying to make us think she did," I countered. I couldn't make heads or tails of it, myself. "What do you make of the feather clue?" I wondered.

"Honestly?" she said. "Not a damn thing. I tell you, boss, we're both exhausted. I think we should both head home, try to get a few hours' sleep, and tackle this thing fresh in the afternoon."

I shoveled down my omelet and went home. The first thing I did was go into the bathroom, strip down, and get into the shower. Showers always helped me think. But for once, no inspiration came, so I gave up and went to bed. I looked at the clock: 7:04. I had less than seventeen hours left before the meet. I wondered if I could smooth things over with Rossini. It was possible. If I could get Darrow to leave the city -- maybe the country, just to be sure -- maybe I could talk Rossini down from killing him. I slipped slowly into unconsciousness.

It was eleven-thirty when I woke up abruptly. Immediately, I knew I had it. I knew where Marchetti was. I sprung out of bed, threw on a pair of underwear, and called Tilly's home phone. It didn't even ring once before she picked up.

"Boss, I'm glad you called."

"Tilly, I've got it," I said. "I figured it out. Marchetti, she's --"

"She lives across the alley from Mr. Darrow," Tilly cut in.

"Yes!" I paused. "How the hell did you know that?"

"I just figured it out," she explained. "I was just about to call you when the phone rang. See, I've got this friend Gertie, and she's a jay, you know? So I ask her, Gertie, do you ever trim your feathers? And she says, yeah, of course I do. And I ask her what she does with them and she says, well, I just throw them out, don't I? What good are they? And then we got to talking about --"

"All right, well," I said, trying to cut her off while slipping into the legs of a pair of pants, "I'm going over there A-S-A-P. Wait for me at the office, okay?"

"You got it. Should I call Mr. Darrow, tell him we found it?"

"No, hold off on that. If we come up short . . ."

"We won't, though, will we?"

I sighed, shrugging on a suit jacket. I sure as hell hoped not.