Nightbird by Edward Dee Page A

change from their pockets. For their
     crumbs.
No más
.
    In his hand Victor held the second installment of his golden egg. It was an envelope containing great discomfort for a very
     rich man. A man rich enough to spend a little to buy his own peace of mind. Victor had no desire to hurt this man. But they
     could ease each other’s discomfort. It was a simple business deal; he’d said as much in the note. Simple business. Done every
     day in this city. No worse than the stock market or General Motors. In fact, much less greedy. Mr. Trey Winters would see
     that his request was reasonable.
    Victor felt better with each passing minute. Everything coming up rosy, as his friend Pinto always said. He almost smiled
     as Trey Winters came down the steps of his office. Victor knew that Winters met business associates every day at this time
     in the hotel coffee shop. Winters was right on time. Everything coming up rosy. Victor pulled the hat down tight on his head
     and adjusted the dark glasses. He planned to follow him into the hotel, hand him the envelope, and walk out the front door
     onto Broadway. Disappear into the crowd, just like last time at the Mexican restaurant.
    Winters stopped at the rear entrance of the hotel. A young man had caught him as he was about to enter the revolving door.
     Winters appeared startled. The young man shuffled his feet and gestured with his hands. Victor wondered who he was. Then,
     Winters stormed into the hotel, an angry look on his face. Victor waited, the envelope that would change his life still in
     his hands. He felt his own fury erupting.
    * * *
    D anny Eumont’s timing was impeccable. Just as he came around the corner he spotted Winters walking into the driveway underpass
     of the Merrimac Marquis. He sprinted to catch the tall, lanky Broadway producer. Winters spun around and did a half pirouette.
    “Sorry, Mr. Winters,” Danny said. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
    “You did a damn good job of it.”
    Winters patted his long fingers against his chest. His theater-trained voice boomed with amplified resonance under the hotel.
     Danny had no doubt his tape recorder would pick it up easily. He handed his business card to Winters.
    “I’m doing a story on Gillian Stone,” he said. “I wonder if I could talk to you for a few minutes.”
    “I’d be glad to. Call my office and make an appointment.”
    Except for a meat truck and one taxi, they were alone in the block-long underpass that was created to let vehicles pick up
     and drop off hotel guests without interfering with traffic on Broadway. Danny stepped out of the path of the departing taxi.
    “I’ll call for an appointment,” Danny said. “But just a few short questions. I’ll be quick.”
    “I’m running late right now.”
    “About the rumors that Gillian was taking drugs, everybody I talk to seems to think that they’re false.”
    “Whom did you speak to?”
    “People close to her. Very close.”
    “They couldn’t be that close. What magazine did you say you were from?”
    “
Manhattan
. It’s on the card. Mr. Winters, I also have information from that same reliable source that you were sleeping with Gillian
     Stone. Could you comment on that?”
    “That’s a rude, insulting question. Who the hell are you?”
    “My source swears you were sleeping with her.”
    “Your source and you can both go to hell.”
    Winters turned gracefully and moved toward the revolving door.
    “Don’t you want to know who my source is?” Danny yelled.
    Not much of an interview, Danny thought as Winters disappeared through the
whumpf, whumpf
of the revolving door. He’d taken a shot, hoping Winters would be vulnerable so soon after Gillian’s death. It was a long
     shot, but he’d thought maybe Winters might lose it, say something stupid. His uncle always said the most truth was gathered
     in the hours immediately after the crime. The longer you waited, the more everyone hardened up, lawyered up. Stories got set
     in