Ed Lacy - The Best That Ever Did It Страница 17

Federal shook his head. “We can't have too many people in on this, too much chance of a leak. For all we know Brown and Smith are in touch with the family—I mean see them on a social basis, under other names. As for the reputation of the Police Department, no trouble there. If nothing comes of this, the D.A. will dismiss the case for lack of evidence, or an alibi comes up. All done quietly. More I think of it, better I like our chances.”

“My client, Mrs. Turner, has to be in on it.”

A Fed who hadn't spoken till now asked, “Afraid you'll lose out on a day's pay?”

“That's an idea,” I said, fighting to sound calm. “I don't want Mrs. Turner to think I've solved the case when I haven't. Her interest—and mine—in all this is solely why and how Ed Turner was killed, and we're still a long ways from bringing that under the wire. Also, in my opinion—for what it's worth— you can foul things up easier by trying to hush this than by letting the people concerned know the score. That's why I've ruled out Hunt and Cohen. No point in starting with a new set of people. As for Spear, he's going with Andersun's sister, so he'll tell her. Our best bet is explain it to them and...”

“We'll work out the details,” a police bigwig said curtly. There was a little more chatter, and the conference was over. All the way uptown Al Swan kept telling me how, ”.... Can't get over you, Barney boy. Just keep surprising the crap out of me. You been hiding a brain under that bushel of wild hair.”

I felt uneasy, and when I left Al I went to the office, looked through the ads I called mail. I began to feel even more jittery. I kept telling myself it was the muggy heat, but that wasn't entirely it. I drove around to look up the last known addresses of a couple of deadbeats, then I went home to take a shower. I gave myself a stiff workout with the weights, ended in a river of sweat, and still restless. I finally got in the tub and cooled off, and of course started sweating again as I dried myself. I kept telling myself they had taken my ideas, yet I felt odd, on edge. I drove over to the school and when Ruthie climbed in beside me and I asked what she wanted for supper, she said, “Betsy said we can eat at her house.”

“We're not eating at Mrs. Turner's house. And don't call her Betsy.”

“Aunt Betsy?”

“Call her Mrs. Turner. That's good manners.”

“Daddy, when you know somebody good, like I know Betsy, then you call them by their first name.”

“Not little girls and big people.”

“Well, why can't we have supper with her? She bakes swell and I want to see my new dresses.”

“You'll see them some other time,” I said, driving toward the super market. “We're eating home. Maybe a salad and...”

“But why, Daddy?”

“Because I say so!” I snapped and immediately wished I'd bitten my tongue.

Saying that made me jump back twenty-five years. The only real fight I ever had with my old man was once when I was eleven years old and he told me that, instead of giving me a reason. The old guy had raced with Oldfield—that's why he named me Barney—and as far back as I can remember he was always working on a garage on Sixty-fourth Street—a stoop-shouldered man, dirty with grease, an old skull cap pushed back on his big head. I was so mad I burst into tears and that got him; he made me explain what I was boiling about. Then he said, “Fair enough, a kid is entitled to a reason for everything— if I can give you one. Tell you what, next time I ever slip you that 'Because I say so,' you belt me.” And I'd said, “But, Pop, I can't reach your jaw.” And he'd laughed as he told me, “Don't worry, Barney, you're tall enough to belt me where it would hurt worse than on the kisser.”

There was a group of chauffeurs hanging around—I always disliked them for being snotty know-it-alls. My old man's crack made them hysterical and when I asked Pop why, he said, “That's a reason I can't give you—yet. See, it's kind of a joke. Has to do with sex—something I'll explain when you're older.”

About a year later, Mom overheard me arguing with a friend about Jean Harlow's breasts, whether they were “big” or not, and that night she told Pop it was time to “talk to him.” Being a slum kid, I had a very clear idea of how sex worked, but I went for a walk with the old man, listened to him stammer it out. I remember he started with, “Barney, time you learned other people besides pimps and gangsters drive Cadillacs...”

Now I glanced at Ruthie as I parked the car; she was looking away from me, her little lips a tight line. I told her, “Honey, I didn't mean to jump you. I'm nervous today—maybe because of the heat. And—I'm working for Mrs. Turner, and we can't mix business and pleasure.”

“Why not, Daddy?”

“I don't know, exactly. Unless because in business everybody is rooking the other fellow.”

“What's rooking mean?”

“Oh—cheating, stealing.”

“Why, Daddy, Betsy—Mrs. Turner—would never cheat you.”

“Maybe I'm cheating her.”

“Why, Daddy!”

I pinched her nose, said, “How would you like to buy cans of noodles and bean sprouts and water chestnuts, make our own chow mein?”

She got excited about that, but all during supper she kept asking me why? why? about everything, and when May Weiss came in at seven-thirty and I wouldn't take Ruthie with me to see Betsy, the kid started to whine and bawl, and I kind of lost my head and slapped her. I spent a hard ten minutes apologizing, and by the time I reached the Turner apartment I was hot and nervous and blue.

Betsy was wearing dungarees spotted with oil paints and a T-shirt, both of which she filled out nicely. She asked if I wanted a highball and I said no and sat like a lump for a couple of minutes, staring at the painting she'd been working on, but not seeing a damn thing. Finally she asked, “What are you thinking about, Barney?”

“Being a kid ought to be a wonderful deal; everything is done for you; no worries about food or rent or war. Yet it's probably the most frustrating time of our lives because adults act like adults instead of human beings.”

She smiled. “Sounds like a profound statement—I guess.”

“Maybe it is, Mrs. Turner.”

“Will you please, please, call me Betsy?”

“Don't start that, I'm feeling nervous enough as it is. Here's my report for the day.” I told her about the talk fest at the Federal Building and when I finished she actually clapped her hands, said, “You're a terrific detective, Barney! This is real news. Of course, so far it doesn't hook up to Ed, but I feel just as you do. When you find Andersun's murderer, you'll have Ed's.”

“I'm the whizbang dick, the mighty private eye—who's smart enough to have a cousin Jake who was smart enough to be an observant mailman!”

“But you said—you've always said most cases are solved by luck.”

“I know, but somehow all this makes me feel... a bit preposterous. Like I was being kidded. A mechanic like me telling the New York City Police Department, the FBI, how to solve a case! Doesn't make sense.”

“To quote Mr. Barney Harris again—nothing about this case makes sense.”

“Yeah, but somehow I feel this is all going to blow up in my face. Well, we'll see.” I stood up. “See you again tomorrow night. Meantime, it's important you don't talk to anybody— including yourself—about this decoy idea.”

“I won't talk. Would you like to take a ride, to cool off? I've been in the house all day.”

“Well, I... eh ...” I didn't feel up to a lot of light gab.

“You don't have to!”

“I know that. I also know the cops still have Ed's car tied up. If there's any place special you want me to drive you to...”

“Yes, to the nearest movie, and I'll walk!”

The phone rang and she answered it, waved the receiver at me. “For you.”

I was certain it was Ruthie and bad news, but it was Al Swan's hoarse voice. I asked, “How did you know I was here?” It was a dumb question and of course Al couldn't drop the ball. He said, “Why, I'm not only a detective in my own right, but my brother-in-law is a regular Sherlock Holmes. Some of the magic goofer-dust from his badge rubbed off on mine. I made a simple deduction, as we dicks say, after I phoned Ruthie. Say, the kid answers the phone like a grown-up young lady. 'No, Mr. Harris isn't at home. Can I take a message ...?'”

“What's on your mind, Al?”

“Having a little trouble with your decoy idea. This Irving Spear flatly refuses to be a sitting duck. And his girl friend, the Andersun tomato, she hit the ceiling too.”

“Tell him to make out his insurance to her, then she'll go for the deal.”

“Franzino is going to talk to him again tomorrow, maybe threaten to take his hack license away. Thought I'd tell you before you gave Mrs. Turner the big story about what a big hero you are. You having fun, chum?” There was an asinine chuckle and Al hung up.

I ran my sleeve over my sweaty face, lied to Betsy, “I have to go over to the station house, but I'll drive you to...”

“Oh, shut up!”

“See you tomorrow night, Mrs. Turner,” I said, heading for the door.

“Mr. Harris, I imagine my retainer has been used up. If you'll tell me how much...”

I cut her off with, “Send you a bill when the case is over, Mrs. Turner.” I walked out, wanting to make a crack about us sounding like Gallagher and Shean, except she was too young to have heard of them.

I took off my coat and my shirt was wet. I drove around, letting the car eat up the road, the wind drying my shirt off. But the car didn't give me a kick and I went home and told May to take off. I poured myself a good hooker and waited for the rye to loosen me up. All that happened was that I started sweating again.

I ran a bath and sat in the tub for a long time, chain-smoking cigarettes, thinking of Brown and Smith and their foolproof plan. All the time and patient work they put into it. Then one of those things happen—Andersun has to win a prize and decide to go to Europe. I could almost feel the way they must have felt, suddenly finding their perfect crime going up in the air, maybe the Feds on their tails, and murder the only out. Like a guy highballing along the highway, weaving in and out of the stream of cars—maybe just to show off for his girl. Then there's a car speeding the other way and showing off—a gag that in a matter of seconds becomes life or death.

And then, of course, the fantastic piece of luck—my cousin being Brown's mailman, and by another hunk of luck—telling me about it.

I took a shower and toweled myself, knew I wouldn't sleep much. I decided I'd have some talk with Irv Spear in the morning. I had another slug of rye and went to bed, feeling the tears of sweat rolling down my body as I waited for sleep to come.

It came fast—next thing I knew Ruthie was waking me and it was a bright clean morning, and cool. I felt pretty good and spent ten minutes swinging her in the air as she shrieked with delight.

I drove her to the nursery, headed for the office. As I got out of my car, a taxi gave me the horn and Irv Spear stuck his balding dome out of his cab, said, “Been waiting for you, Harris.”

“Come on up to the office,” I told him.

Cy O'Hara was busy reading the morning paper, but soon as he saw me usher Irv in, Cy said, “Going down for coffee,” and went out after locking his phone.

Irv took a seat, cleaned his thick-shelled glasses and looked the office over. “So this is a detective's office? You're small time, but always smart business to keep your overhead down.” He suddenly leaned forward as I was glancing at my mail, pulled out the bottom drawer of my desk, saying, “In the movies the private eye always has a bottle in the bottom drawer.”

It was embarrassing; I had an unopened pint there. Irv looked startled. I asked if he wanted a drink and he said no, then studied my face with his solemn eyes for a second, said, “Hear this deal is your bright idea.”

“And I hear you don't think much of it. Don't you want us to take Frank's killers?”

“Harris, let's you and me get straight. Don't throw me no curves or sales talks. Sure, I'd like to see the guy that plugged Frankie get his. And if it would bring the kid back to life, I might take the risk. But Frankie is dead and buried and I fail to see any point in becoming corpse three just to take the heat off the cops. I don't believe in making the headlines—feet first.”

“Relax,” I said, trying to make my voice sound light and easy. “Nobody is asking you to be a dead hero. Where's the risk? These guys have probably jumped the country already, so...”

“Crap. If you cops thought they had skipped, you wouldn't be pulling this stunt. Harris, I read someplace about a honest man being one who has a choice. I'm leveling with you—what's it going to get me to risk stopping a couple of slugs?”

“You'll be better protected than Fort Knox. There'll be...”

“Harris, don't crap me. You guys don't know for sure what these two killers look like. They aren't going to come up and make small talk—first thing that speaks will be the guns in their hands. I'm willing to gamble, but not when the stakes is me!”

“But you'll be surrounded by cops, FBI guys.”

Irv slipped me a hard quick smile. “Frankie had a cop with him—they died together. Know what the cops want me to do? I'm supposed to go about as usual, hacking, school, see Juanita, and all the time they claim there will be cops 'someplace' around me. Sure, maybe the cops will nail the guys, but after I'm dead. This isn't a chance they're asking me to take, but sure death. Would you do it, Harris?”

“I don't know, Irv. But then Franklin Andersun wasn't my buddy, nor am I going with his sister.”

“Juanita is against it—she knows this hero stuff is all for the birds.”

“Sure it is, but we're not asking you to be a clay pigeon,” I said, but I knew I didn't sound convincing. “After all, we have pictures of them and...”

“Sure, disguised pictures!”

There were a few seconds of silence, and an idea tickled my noggin. Irv fidgeted in his chair, said, “Funny, I feel like a louse. When they first came to me, I said, okay, I'd hang around the house for a few days, with some cops. But they said no, that would be a tip-off it was all a plant. I'm supposed to go about my daily routine—won't even let me have a gun. That might be a tip-off too. Hell, Harris, that's asking too much. These killers are sharp on this make-up stuff. I understand they even posed as a colored fellow once. How are the cops going to recognize them—in time?”