Kinds of Love, Kinds of Death [NOOK Book]

Overview

A disgraced ex-cop takes a job from a bereaved, gentlemanly mobster
Six months ago, Mitchell Tobin lost his career—and with it, his identity. An honest cop drummed out of the force because of one terrible mistake, Tobin has spent six months watching his savings dwindle and his family fall apart. But no matter how badly he needs work, he doesn’t want anything to do with Ernie Rembeck, a crime boss whose mistress has just turned up dead. The killer can only be someone inside the ...
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Kinds of Love, Kinds of Death

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Overview

A disgraced ex-cop takes a job from a bereaved, gentlemanly mobster
Six months ago, Mitchell Tobin lost his career—and with it, his identity. An honest cop drummed out of the force because of one terrible mistake, Tobin has spent six months watching his savings dwindle and his family fall apart. But no matter how badly he needs work, he doesn’t want anything to do with Ernie Rembeck, a crime boss whose mistress has just turned up dead. The killer can only be someone inside the organization, and Rembeck wants him identified. Tobin agrees, under assurances that nothing illegal will be asked of him, but he soon finds that without a badge, right and wrong are nothing but words.
Mitch Tobin is about to take on every heavy in the New York mob scene. He’s finally found a purpose, but his safety is in serious jeopardy.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781480428935
  • Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
  • Publication date: 6/25/2013
  • Series: Mitchell Tobin Mysteries
  • Sold by: Barnes & Noble
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 183
  • Sales rank: 686,354
  • File size: 2 MB

Meet the Author

Donald E. Westlake (1933–2008) was one of the most prolific and talented authors of American crime fiction. He began his career in the late 1950s, churning out novels for pulp houses—often writing as many as four novels a year under various pseudonyms—but soon began publishing under his own name. His most well-known characters were John Dortmunder, an unlucky thief, and a ruthless criminal named Parker. His writing earned him three Edgars and a Grand Master Award from the Mystery Writers of America. 
Westlake’s cinematic prose and brisk dialogue made his novels attractive to Hollywood, and several motion pictures were made from his books, with stars such as Lee Marvin and Mel Gibson. Westlake wrote several screenplays himself, receiving an Academy Award nomination for his adaptation of The Grifters, Jim Thompson’s noir classic.  
Donald E. Westlake (1933–2008) was one of the most prolific and talented authors of American crime fiction. He began his career in the late 1950s, churning out novels for pulp houses—often writing as many as four novels a year under various pseudonyms—but soon began publishing under his own name. His most well-known characters were John Dortmunder, an unlucky thief, and a ruthless criminal named Parker. His writing earned him three Edgars and a Grand Master Award from the Mystery Writers of America. Westlake’s cinematic prose and brisk dialogue made his novels attractive to Hollywood, and several motion pictures were made from his books, with stars such as Lee Marvin and Mel Gibson. Westlake wrote several screenplays himself, receiving an Academy Award nomination for his adaptation of The Grifters, Jim Thompson’s noir classic.
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Read an Excerpt

Kinds of Love, Kinds of Death

A Mitchell Tobin Mystery


By Donald E. Westlake

MysteriousPress.com

Copyright © 1966 Tucker Coe
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4804-2893-5


CHAPTER 1

I was working on my wall when Wickler came around the side of the house and called, "Hey, Tobin, whatcha doin'?" He had no right to use my name that way.

I put down my pick, stepped up out of the hole, walked over to him, turned him around, took him by neck and butt, and double-timed him out to the street. "There's the front door," I said. "You want to see me, ring the bell."

"Christ!" he said, shooting his cuffs. "Christ!"

I brushed my hands and went back to my wall.

A wall is an important thing, a substantial thing, a thing worth a man's time and consideration. I was finding it possible to concentrate on this wall as I hadn't been able to concentrate on anything since ... for six months ... for a long while.

This was my third day of work on the wall. The first day I had designed it, with paper and pencil and ruler: two feet wide and ten feet high and completely enclosing the backyard, with no gates or openings, so people would only be able to get in here by going through the house. The second day I'd gone out and ordered the materials—concrete block and brick and cement—and then come back and laid out the position with sticks and string all the way around the yard. And now today I'd begun to dig.

If you're going to build a good wall, a wall to stand, then first you have to dig, because the wall should start down inside the earth, down below the frost line. I figured in this climate two feet was deep enough, so I had a piece of one-by-three with a pencil line on it at two feet, and I was using it to check my depth as I went along. I also had a level, to be sure the bottom was even; at intervals I would lie my one-by-three on the bottom and set the level on top of it. With all this checking, and with my being somewhat soft and out of shape, the work was coming along slowly, but that was all right. I was in no hurry.

I'd done about seven feet so far, and had a hole two feet wide and two feet deep and seven feet long. When I came back to it from removing Wickler, I saw that it looked like a shallow grave, which I didn't like. I hopped down into it and grabbed my pick and began hacking away at the dirt again, in a hurry to make a hole too long to look like a grave. I didn't think about Wickler. I didn't think about anything.

A few minutes later Kate came out onto the back porch and called, "Mitch. Somebody to see you."

"In a minute," I said. "Put him in the den."

She stood watching me a few seconds and then went back into the house. I had no idea what she thought about the wall, and that was good. A wife should not have opinions about the way her husband breathes.

I was working with the shovel now, and I kept at it till I'd scooped all this last batch of loose earth up out of the hole. When I quit this time, it looked less like I was working on a grave. I stripped off my canvas gloves, dropped them on the ground beside the shovel, and went into the house.

Kate was in the kitchen, making a meatloaf. She's a raw-boned woman, and I've given her lines around the mouth and eyes she shouldn't have. She's thirty-five, four years younger than me, but whether she looks it or not I can't say; when you've been married to a woman sixteen years she looks neither old nor young but simply right.

"The store just called," she said. "They want me to come in, until nine."

I said, "You already worked two nights this week."

"We could use the money, Mitch," she said.

Was she thinking of the mounds of building materials in the backyard? I didn't know, and I didn't want to know.

There's a sullenness that comes with guilt that I'd never known until very recently. I'd always been a big one for speaking out, holding nothing in, but more and more these days I found myself turning away, mouth clenched, eyes lowered, chest filled with grim bile. Over the years most of the punks I'd arrested had had the same expression on their faces while being booked that I found these days habitually on my own.

Kate said, "I'll put the meatloaf in the oven before I go. I'll leave a note on the table."

I said, "All right," gracelessly, and went through the house and up the stairs to the second floor.

The den was what I called the smallest of the three bedrooms up there. Kate and I shared the largest, young Bill had the second, and the spare was to be my office away from the office. Another of my do-it-yourself projects, I'd started to make over the room ten years ago, when we'd bought this house. I'd laid thick carpet on the floor, soundproofed the ceiling, and put sheets of knotty pine paneling all around the walls, but that's as far as I'd gone. The built-in bookcases were still merely a stack of lumber leaning in one corner, and taped-over wires sticking out of the ceiling marked where I never put the light fixture in. But of course in those days I was busy, and full of activity, and pleased with life, and sometimes the unessential things didn't get done.

The only two pieces of furniture in the room were a battered desk and chair I'd taken from the precinct house seven years ago. Wickler, short and narrow and dressed like a racetrack dandy, sat in the chair now smoking a thin cigar with a plastic tip.

I said, "Stand up."

He wanted to defy me because I wasn't on the force any longer, but he had sense enough to know I was a man aching to be pushed. After the slightest of hesitations he got to his feet and moved away to the left, giving me plenty of room to go past him and sit down.

I put my forearms on the desk. I felt small nerves jumping beneath the skin all over my body. I looked at my knuckles and said, "What do you want from me?"

"Ernie Rembek sent me," he said, and stopped as though that explained everything.

It didn't explain a thing. I'd already known that Wickler never moved anywhere but where Ernie Rembek sent him. I said, "What did he send you for?"

"He's got a job for you."

I said, "Be careful. Watch what you say."

He decided to be aggrieved. "You ain't on the force any more," he said, his voice squeaking. "Whatcha being so hardnosed about?"

I said, "You're not being careful."

"The hell with careful! You got kicked out, like any alley cat!"

I stood up and slapped him, backhand, not very hard. He fell back against the wall and leaned there, blinking at me. I said, "I never dealt with punks the whole time I was on the force. I was never on the take, not once, not for a penny. No one ever called me for dishonesty. I may have been kicked out, but it wasn't for being involved with scum like you. You go back and tell Rembek I'm the same man I always was. I never took a crooked job and I'm not going to start now."

He shook his head, holding his hand to the cheek I'd slapped. He said, "You got the wrong idea, Tobin."

"Mister Tobin."

He nodded. "Mister Tobin," he said. "It ain't the way you think. Ernie Rembek don't want you to do nothing crooked. He wants you to do a cop job. You used to be a cop, a good cop, and right now Ernie needs somebody to do a cop-type job."

"Not interested," I said. "I let you into the house for one reason, and this is it. To give you a message to bring back to Ernie Rembek. You tell him I am not interested in any deals, any offers, any propositions. Everybody's entitled to one mistake, even Rembek, so this time I do nothing but give you the warning. But he should send nobody else, not ever again."

"Mister Tobin," he said, "I swear to you I'm giving you straight goods. Nobody wants you to do nothing illegal, not even a little bit illegal. It's strictly a cop job Ernie wants done. Detecting, like."

"No," I said. I went over and opened the door.

"Lemme tell you the pay," he said.

"Time for you to leave," I told him.

But he stood his ground. "A flat five G for openers," he said. "Plus so much a day and expenses, you and him work it out together when you see him. Plus a bonus if the job works out okay."

"Wickler," I said, "it's time for you to leave."

He hung on a second longer, and I knew what he was thinking. Ernie Rembek had sent him to get me, and wouldn't be happy when Wickler went back to him empty-handed. But Rembek was a future threat, and I was a threat right in the room with him, so he hung on only for that one last second, and then he shrugged and said, "Okay, if you say so. But you can't say I didn't try."

"You tried," I gave him.

I had him precede me down the stairs, and past him I could see Kate in the front hallway, shrugging into her coat. "See you tonight," she called up the stairs to me. "I've got to run." She waved and went out the front door.

It seemed to me Wickler was going down the stairs too slowly. I was anxious to get back to my wall. The last few steps, I prodded his shoulder, muttering at him to shake it up. He trotted on down the rest of the way, saying something petulant, and I opened the front door for him.

It might still have been all right, if I hadn't seen her. But the angle out the door was just right and I did see her, walking away down the sidewalk, her coat flapping about her shins. I stepped out onto the stoop, crowding Wickler ahead of me, and shouted after her, "Kate! Take the car!"

"No, no," she called back, airy and effortless, "I feel like walking."

I knew what it was; she didn't want to use the gas. A backyard full of bricks and concrete block, and out front Kate was walking over a mile to a part-time job at a shopping center five-and-dime.

Wickler, like anyone unexpectedly present at a moment of domestic tension, was walking away along the path to the sidewalk, head down, affecting not to hear anything. Beyond him was the car. Off to the right, Kate had waved again and was walking on, walking quickly to be the sooner out of earshot.

In a flash, I thought of myself taking her place, showing up at the five-and-dime instead of her, standing at the long and crowded counter—

I could no more do that than I could answer a help-wanted ad in the Sunday paper. The thought of going for a job interview, the thought of that inevitable question about my previous employment, made my cheeks burn and my palms grow wet with nervous perspiration. And what can a man do today without going through that preliminary questionnaire? You can't even dig a ditch any more until you've answered all the questions and filled out all the forms.

I stood on the stoop, sweat cooling on my forehead, and watched Kate walk with quick strides on out of sight. Wickler had turned that way, too, but was moving more slowly, in no hurry to return empty-handed to his lord.

I called, "Wickler!"

I hadn't realized until then just how afraid of me the little hood was. He stopped in his tracks when I called his name, hunching his shoulders and ducking his head as though he expected to be pounded from behind at any second. Slowly, reluctantly, he turned to face me.

I'm not a hardnose by nature, it was only because of the last six months that I'd been so immediately hard with Wickler. I felt embarrassed at that now, and ashamed of myself, when I saw the effect I'd had on him. Trying to get more softness into my tone, I called to him, "Come on back here. Come here a minute."

He came, wary and reluctant, and as he moved toward me I had fresh doubts and second thoughts. But I could at least find out, I could at least do that much.

I said, as he stood below me, "This job. You say it doesn't break the law?"

"It doesn't even bend the law," he said, suddenly eager again. "I give you my word of honor, Mister Tobin, it's one-hundred-percent legit."

"All right," I said. "Come in and tell me about it."

This time I took him into the living room.

CHAPTER 2

The past is the past. What I did to get myself kicked out of the New York Police Department has nothing to do with the story of Ernie Rembek and the "cop job" he wanted to hire me for, and it seems to me I would be well within my rights not to say a word about it. And yet I feel a compulsion to tell, to explain, even to justify. Or maybe just to confess. Or perhaps merely to play the masochist, and by bringing the story out again in words, to twist with my own hands the knife on which I've impaled myself.

I was a cop eighteen years, and in the course of the fourteenth year I had cause to make an arrest on a professional burglar named Daniel "Dink" Campbell. I made this arrest in Dink's home, an unprepossessing three—room apartment on the West Side of Manhattan. Violence was not Dink's style, so the arrest took place without incident, other than that in the process I first met Dink's wife, Linda Campbell, a short, pleasant-looking, ash-blond woman of twenty-eight, who accompanied her husband and me to the—

But the story tips itself right there, doesn't it? On first seeing Linda's name in print you know that I am destined to go to bed with her, knowledge that did not come to me until over a year later, when Dink had already been tried and convicted and was in the process of serving a term that at its shortest must last fifteen years. But it is impossible for me to communicate the knowledge to you as it came to me, in slow revelations, in tiny sunbursts of awareness, in gradual dependence and increasing need and a feeling that developed so slowly it was there long before either of us was fully aware of it, a feeling of inevitability. None of that rationalizing mist which so delightfully blinded me is available now to blind you; you must see it in a cold harsh light, a cheap and nasty bit of adultery with the most tasteless and degrading overtones. But that isn't how it seemed! (And how many bemused dreamers down the ages have cried that silly cry on awakening.)

Still, I cannot resist at least a bit of the rationalization. I have seen the wives of the yeggs, hundreds of them over the years, and they come to a pattern. Most frequently they are slatterns, slovenly frumps in disheveled apartments, as unintelligent and ill-educated and ambitionless as their penny-ante husbands. The burglar, when his night's work is done, does not go home to the arms of a siren.

Not that Linda was a siren, by any means, but neither was she a slattern. A bright and vivacious woman, she had the usual insufficient New York City public school education, but had supplemented it in the years since with extensive reading, and in fact it was a common interest in the library that first brought us into awareness of one another.

I won't tell the whole story, all the stages, the reverses, the landmarks along the long slide down the endless easy slope into one another's arms. It happened. We had an affair that lasted three years.

It might have lasted more if nothing had happened outside us to stop it. But something did, and it stopped everything.

I could only see Linda while on duty, of course, all the rest of my time being too closely accounted for. This meant that one other person was in on the secret; my partner, Jock Sheehan. He covered for me and never said a word to me about what I was doing. In Jock's world, an adult was responsible for his own decisions. Jock helped me because he was my partner and my friend, not because he approved.

The arrest in which Jock was shot to death was one that should have been as easy as the arrest four years earlier of Dink Campbell. But it didn't work right; the numbers runner we were after had gone onto narcotics since we'd last been in touch with him. So we hadn't known that I should be along on that trip, and I wasn't along. Jock dropped me off at Linda's place, and went on to meet his death alone, and in his pocket was Linda's phone number in case he had to call me.

No one knew where I was. The first officers on the scene questioned witnesses, and no one had seen a second plainclothes cop. Someone checked out that phone number, on the off-chance, and got the information from the telephone company, and happened to connect on the name Daniel Campbell—Linda having kept the phone in Dink's name even while he was away—and while, forty blocks away, I stood in front of the apartment building, adjusting my tie and wondering what was keeping Jock from making our rendezvous time, over Jock's cooling body my fate was being constructed of pieces of paper.

The Police Department didn't forgive me, but Kate did. I don't know about Bill, my thirteen-year-old son. I know he understands what happened, I do know that much, but what he thinks about it all I cannot guess. What happens in the interior of a child's mind is forever locked away from the comprehension of adults. As to my forgiving myself for my multiple betrayals, I don't believe I ever will. I have adjusted to the thought of living with myself, a state of truce exists, but its permanence is still open to doubt.

Aside from its other consequences, my unmasking immobilized me. I could not think, could not work, could not plan for the future. In the six months since the crash we had lived on a combination of savings and Kate's part-time work at the five-and-dime.

Only now, half a year later, had I begun to do anything, and what I had begun was my construction of a wall.


(Continues...)

Excerpted from Kinds of Love, Kinds of Death by Donald E. Westlake. Copyright © 1966 Tucker Coe. Excerpted by permission of MysteriousPress.com.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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