Ed Lacy - Dead End

     “I have the receiver off, like you told me. Bucky, you don't know how much I appreciate this.”

     “I warned you what would happen.”

     “You did. Don't worry; tomorrow I'll deny everything at the top of my lungs.”

     I nodded. “Best you don't say anything about tonight—the calls. Then the police might not drop it. You tell them you're a crime bug, that you were drunk or something. Make sure it sounds good and make certain the police give it to the papers.”

     “Yes, yes.”

     I took out my gun, and Shep's eyes became saucers behind his glasses. I told him, “Now go to sleep and forget it. I'll stretch out on the couch.”

     “Bucky, I'll buy you a case of rye for this.”

     “Forget it. You did me a favor, Shep. I'm paying you back.” There was a kind of moan. I turned to see the frightened eyes of a nice-looking babe watching us from the darkness of the bedroom. She was a runt, too. I said loudly, “Go to sleep, Shep. Don't turn on the lights, and stay away from the windows, just in case.”

     The moan was louder. “Tell your wife not to worry. You'll scare your kid awake.”

     I put the receiver back in its cradle, was able to get a few hours shut-eye. I awoke to see a little girl in a red bathrobe staring at me with a solemn face. I sat up and winked at the kid; she giggled. Shep's wife came out of the kitchenette to get the girl. The wife looked like a kid herself, except for the dark circles under her eyes. As she took the girl to the bathroom, the wife whispered, “Thank you, very much, Mr. Penn.”

     “It's okay. It will be over soon.”

     We all took turns going to the John. I phoned Elma, and it took a lot of rings to get her up. I told her where I was.

     There was a mild argument during breakfast as Shep explained to his wife that he was going to tell the Commissioner he'd been drunk when he called. The wife wasn't thinking of the reward any longer, but the fact Shep would look foolish.

     I said, “So what if he looks like a jerk? It will be forgotten by tomorrow. Those calls last night might be the work of a crank, but we can't be sure. Better to be a fool for a day than a nervous wreck the rest of your lives. Or dead.”

     “Daddy, what does 'dead' mean?” the little girl asked.

     After they got a morning cartoon show on TV for the kid, Shep told his wife about Arnold Schuster and she was sold. We left the house a few minutes before nine, and if he still had any doubts, his busted windshield was the final convincer. He almost fainted as he whispered, “A—a bullet hole!”

     I went through the routine of examining the cracked glass. “Maybe. Might be a pebble from the wheel of a passing car.”

     “No, no, it's a bullet hole!”

     “Could be. But a slug would have gone through the windshield.” I bent down and ran my fingers through the snow and dirt on the ground, examined the road. Finally I said,” I don't see a slug. Let's get going. My wife is waiting for me.”

     “Drive downtown with me, Bucky.”

     “Well, I have to take my car back. Tell you what: I'll follow you. And stop shaking or you'll drive your car off the road.

     I followed him down to police headquarters, then returned my car. I ate a big breakfast and took a cab to the house. Elma was sleeping. I read the morning papers, turned on TV and watched a couple of morning shows. At about eleven Elma got up and drank three cups of coffee. She wanted to know why I'd been at Shep's house.

     “Some nut threatened him. It's okay now.”

     I listened to the noon news roundup. Nothing. But at one a newscaster said, “Dr. Sheppard Harris, the optometrist who yesterday claimed he had tipped off the police about Batty Johnson, this morning admitted it was all a hoax. He claimed he had been reading a wanted circular about Johnson while under the influence of a pill he was taking for a cold, and later, without realizing what he was doing, phoned the police....”

     I turned off the set, started to undress. Elma said, “Keep it on. There's a story I follow every day.”

     I took out ten bucks. “Honey, I want to sleep. Why don't you go out and buy yourself something, or take in a movie?”

     Snatching the bill, she asked, “Where did you get the money?”

     “Oh, stop it. Shep slipped it to me for guarding him.”

     I fell into bed, and my boxer's arms said I'd only been sleeping fifty minutes when the doorbell rang. It kept ringing. I went to the door, in my shorts, ready to bawl Elma out for coming back so soon, forgetting her key. I opened the door to see Detective Alexander grinning at me again. He came in, and when I asked for his coat, he said, “I'll only be a minute.” He ran his eyes over my body. “You pack good muscle.”

     “You got me out of the sack.”

     “Of course. I hear you were up all night.”

     I came awake fast. I didn't like the sarcastic grin on his thin face.

     Alexander sat on the couch, pushed his hat back on his brushed gray hair. “You were right, Penn. Your buddy Harris turned out to be a real crank, as you said.”

     “Yeah?”

     “He was hysterical this morning. Said something about threatening phone calls last night. Too bad his name leaked out to the press. They tell me it was on the radio news last night.”

     “So Shep told me,” I said. Dopey Shep, telling them about the calls. But I was still way out in the clear—although Alexander's mocking eyes didn't say that. “In fact, he dragged me out in the middle of the night, insisted I come up and protect him. Hard to say if there were any calls or it was all his imagination. No one phoned while I was there.”

     “Of course.”

     “What's that supposed to mean?” I asked, knowing my voice was too loud.

     “Nothing. Of course it was odd, the calls coming so soon after he was mentioned in a newscast.”

     “If there actually were threatening calls, what's so odd about it? You expect a nut, or one of Johnson's pals, to wait?”

     “I don't expect anything.”

     “Shep say anything else? Any new calls?”

     “Nope. He was upset about his windshield, thought it was a shot.”

     “I told him it might be a flying stone.”

     Alexander nodded, his eyes watching me like he was seeing a funny show. “The lab said it was a stone.”

     I waited a second, got a cigarette from a pack on the TV. Alexander didn't say a word. I lit the butt and the silence made my nerves jump. “Stop stalling. What's on the Commissioner's mind?”

     “I don't know. I guess he thinks you're a big hero. This isn't an official call, Bucklin. Where did you get a name like that?”

     “Don't worry about my name. If this isn't official, what...?”

     He grinned, showing neat teeth. “I'm here as a friend. You see, I think you're a big hero, too.”

     “Look, I'm tired. I'm not feeling friendly. In fact, I'm feeling like tossing you out on your ass!” I stood up.

     “Relax, son.” He walked over to the TV set and took a cigarette. “You don't have to impress me that you're a tough character. I believe it. I can see it. That's the reason for my visit. I need somebody tough and sharp. My partner died a few weeks ago. His whiskey finally got to his heart. I've been looking for a new partner, the right kind of man, your kind. Think you'd like to work with me?”

     I glanced at his overcoat—it had to cost two hundred bucks. His shirt and shoes weren't anything you found in a bargain basement, either.

     He said, “I usually get special assignments, Bucklin, and—”

     “Call me Bucky.”

     “And if you were my partner, so would you. Right now I'm assigned to the Commissioner's Squad—we go anyplace we wish. I like your record, Bucky. Take that suicide attempt you foiled. Fast thinking.”

     The sarcasm was back in his voice. I took my eyes from his clothes. “I might go for it. Can you swing it?”

     “I wouldn't be asking you if I couldn't. Is it a deal, partner?”

     “Yeah.”

     He put the cigarette in his thin mouth. “When is your vacation over?” The butt moved with his lips like a tiny baton.

     “I can start right now.”

     “Don't be dumb. Finish your vacation, son.” He glanced at the matches on top of the TV. “Get me some fire, Bucky.”

     “The matches are over there,” I said, not moving.

     For a second he stared at me; then he laughed and walked over and lit the cigarette, spit out a few tobacco crumbs. He came over and held out his hand. “You'll get your orders in the mail within a few days. I think we'll make out fine, Bucky.”

     I shook his hand hard. “Sure. What do I call you—Al or Alex?”

     “If you do I'll break your jaw. My first name is Harry but everybody calls me Doc.” He jerked his hand away, flexed the fingers. “We'll make a winning team—with your strength, Bucky boy.”

7—Judy

     I guess the first week I worked with Doc I learned more about police work—the right and the wrong kind—than I did in the entire previous year or so I'd been working at it. Doc was very good, as a cop and as a crooked cop. He was smart, had an explanation for everything. In fact, he could talk you to death about anything.

     He seemed to have solid connections behind him way up to City Hall. Most times we'd be assigned to the Commissioner's roving squad, and whenever there was a shake-up in sight, we would be sent to some precinct detective squad, for a while. I guess Doc could have got us both some office jobs, but we worked hard, put in long hours on the streets—where there was money to be made.

     Right from the first day I made money. We never made a fortune, you understand (up till a few days ago, that is), but I managed to about double my salary. At first I was a little uneasy about the shakedowns, but as Doc told me, “Kid, you get what you pay for in this world. And a city only gets the police force it pays for. You weren't getting an extra dime for working on your vacation, risking your life by going after Johnson. We take chances every minute. Then it's up to us to increase our pay whenever we can.”

     As I said, I soon realized Doc was not only an expert shake artist, he was a hell of a sharp cop—when he wanted to be. For one thing, he had a great memory for faces.

     Take the first day we worked together. We checked in at headquarters by eight, then started driving around in a beat-up squad car. That's another thing, with Doc I was always on rubber. Doc usually stopped at the zoo or a modern art museum for lunch—they both had outdoor tables. Even if it was raw cold, he would have coffee out on the terrace. Doc said it reminded him of the outdoor cafes in Europe. When I asked if he'd been to Europe, he said, “Several times. I was an MP officer during World War II. When I was a young stud I studied philosophy at an English university. Trouble was, I was too young, kept running off to Paris. Some day I'm going to settle down in one of the little towns in the south of France. Perhaps in Juan les Pins or Antibes, and continue my studies of human nature. People know how to relax over there. That's the secret of longevity, Bucky.”

     “You mean when you get your pension?” I asked, thinking I'd never heard that Europeans lived any longer than we did. “You can't be far from a pension now.”

     “Oh, I could retire today,” he said, annoyed. He didn't like to be reminded he was old. “But I'm sticking around for the biggest pension I can get and then... Bucky, look at that stocky joker in the brown coat and cap buying a frankfurter at the counter.”

     I turned to look and Doc kicked my leg, hissed, “Don't be a goddamn amateur! Wait a second, then look casually, slowly.”

     “What about him?'

     “That's Willie Smith. He's done a lot of time as a cat burglar. I thought he was still in the pen. Wonder what he's doing here. He usually works the suburbs.”

     I took another look—casually. Smith was a lanky, middle-aged man. We tailed him when he left. He walked slowly across the park, met some burly guy at the skating pond. They talked quietly for a few minutes. Smith took out a paper and kept pointing out things on it to burly-boy. Finally burly pocketed the paper and they parted. Doc said, “Willie is selling that goon a job he's cased. You follow Smith, get his home address. I'll tail the other slob. Keep calling in: I'll leave a message for you at the squad room.”

     Willie was an easy make; he had a rolling way of walking, like sailors are supposed to walk. He was living at a midtown flea-bag. I kept phoning Doc and around one there was a message to meet him at a Center Street bar. I found Doc eating steamed clams. He ordered some for me, said, “This place looks like a dump but the owner has a house on the inlet and digs his own clams. You don't have to worry about them being fresh. Where does Willie live?”

     I told him and he said, “The big guy is set to knock over a ritzy house on the east side. Placed is closed up. The family has probably gone south for the winter.”

     “Let's go.”

     “Relax, kid. They won't try this until dark, about the time the rush hour dies down. Big boy lives in a tenement on Seventh Street. Around four we'll go down and wait for him to leave.”

     “But suppose they try it sooner? Shouldn't we take a plant outside the house they're going to rob?”

     “They won't attempt it before dark. Forced entries, like all crimes, follow a pattern. Nice bite to the air; let's take a drive.”

     “But why wait? We can pick up Willie now, and with burly having the plans of the house on him...”

     Doc dipped a clam in hot butter sauce, gave me one of his bored smiles. “Pick up Willie for what? And big boy has the plans of the house on him—maybe. So what does that prove?”