Ed Lacy - Lead With Your Left

I'd given myself a deadline and it was past that. Although they might hand my head to me on my badge for not reporting all this sooner, I headed for the precinct.

Lieutenant Reed was out but Captain Lampkin was sitting behind his desk, his blue and gold coat open like a drape, his white shirt bunched up over his belt. He was reading a teletype and after a moment he turned his big puss up at me and asked slowly, “You on duty, Wintino?”

“No, sir. But I have something that may help on the Owens-Wales murders,” I said, placing the bankbook on his desk. “This was found taped under Owens' dresser drawer by his daughter Susan, along with four thousand dollars in fifty-buck bills. I have a list of the bills, Susan Owens has the money in a sealed envelope. I also have the tape home-might raise some prints. I've checked with the bank and from the signatures, Francis Parker was Ed Owens. The check for $4000.75 was paid to Owens by a manufacturer named Edwin Wren. He claims he agreed to pay Owens a grand for doing some private work in connection with a case our squad is handling: a writer named Rose Henderson is—was—being annoyed by strange phone calls, pushed around and rough-shadowed on the street. She's doing an article that exposes Wren's and several other companies as a monopoly. I took care of that, Wren has agreed to stop it. But he says he hired Owens about six weeks ago and that Owens then blackmailed him for the four grand.”

“When did you learn about the money and bankbook?” Lampkin asked, his slow voice reminding me of a funeral-mine.

“Late last night. Mrs. Owens phoned here yesterday that she wanted to see me. She wasn't exactly holding out, but she wanted me to check this morning and see if it was evidence or not.... Four grand isn't carfare.”

“And too much to pay for private work.”

“Yes, sir. Seems Owens was using a phony name, according to Wren, to avoid paying tax. I figure it might be a motive for Owens' death, although it seems pretty farfetched. As for Wales, he doesn't fit in, but I have a hunch, a theory, about an old collar Wales and Owens made, that should be looked into. Has some odd angles.”

“Seems like both Owens and Wales had something going for themselves.”

“That's what I think, Captain. I wasn't trying to solo on this, just wanted to check before I turned it over to you.”

“Nice of you to do this on your own time, Wintino. I'll send the dope down to Central Bureau. This Wren in the phone book?”

“Yes sir, Edwin Wren & Company, they make electrical gadgets. I'd like to work with Central on this, or at least talk over my theory with them,” I said, almost high with relief. And I wasn't going to let the glory hounds downtown get the credit on this if anything broke. “When are you due in?” “Tomorrow midnight.”

“This theory of yours, does it require immediate action?” “I don't think so. You understand, Captain, I'm not sure of anything, just a strong hunch that may blow up.”

“They haven't even got a weak hunch working on the Wales killing, so might be worth looking into yours,” Lamp-kin said, picking up his phone. He asked for an inspector at Central Bureau and after they called each other by their first names and asked about the family, Lampkin told him about the bankbook and the inspector must have put on the detective who was handling the case and Lampkin repeated what I'd told him about the bankbook and Wren and that I had a theory about Wales. Then he said, “Dave Wintino, Detective Third Grade... Yeah, yeah, he made that maniac arrest. The Owens family called him last night and told him about the money.... Why? Maybe because he has a trusting face.... What? Come off it, Wally. On his own time he found out who gave Owens the check and why, saved you fellows a lot of legwork.... Yeah, he's a real beaver. 'You know these young studs—all pistols. Says he has something on Wales, an idea, he wants to talk over.... Midnight tour tomorrow.... Sure, that's okay, he won't mind.... What? You out of your mind? The Giants have it in the bag. You should live that long.”

Lampkin hung up and stared at the phone for a moment as if in deep thought, then he looked up at me. “Call Detective Shavers at Central Bureau in the morning, around ten. He'll arrange to meet you. What's the matter with your face? Haven't you outgrown boils yet, or don't you know how to shave right?”

“Why, I... uh... well, sir, I was in a fight.”

“I hear you're handy with your dukes. Remember we have several posts here in need of a tough beat cop,” Lampkin said, drawing out each word the way he always talked, like it was an effort. He picked up the teletype report.

I started for the door, then asked, “Anything new on Wales?”

He shook his big head. “Nothing, haven't even found anybody to question. Yeah, they found he sometimes got himself one of these expensive young call girls, holed up in a hotel room with her and a couple of bottles, knocked himself out. About every three months. Told the girls he was a buyer from Chicago. A guy his age doing that, don't know where he got the juice. Certainly can't tell about people nowadays.”

I said “Yes, sir” and walked out. Downstairs, I remembered I'd left my bag on his desk. I went back to his office, told him, “Excuse me. I left my coconut milk on your desk.”

As I picked up the bag he asked slowly, “Your what?”

“Coconut milk,” I said, half-taking the can out of the bag so he could see.

Lampkin looked sad and when I walked out I heard him mutter, “I'll be a sonofabitch if I know what the world is coming to.”

Friday Evening

I was feeling tops when I reached the old apartment. I'd been so damn sure Lampkin was going to bust me for working alone. I don't know why but soon as I kissed Ma and hugged Pa the high feeling left. Then I was sore at myself for being restless in my parents' home.

First it was the fuss Ma made over the cut on my face, crying I was back in the ring again. Then there were the unsaid comments about Mary. She had phoned her excuses, said she had to work late, but both Ma's and Pop's eyes asked me, “What kind of a wife have you got that she is ashamed of us?”

Ma brushed off the can of coconut milk and despite it being a warm night, she gave me the full treatment—minestrone, gefullte fish, lasagna and boiled chicken. Whenever I said I had enough she would give me another helping as she asked, “You sick, Dave, or don't you like my cooking anymore?”

He kept right up with me, even had room to pack away the dessert—noodle pudding in fruit sauce. The old boy looked good. As Ma gave me the latest family gossip Pa, full of his usual sly humor, smoked one of his strong black Italian cigars and made snide remarks about both sides of the family.

I sat and half-listened, my heavy gut making me sleepy, thinking they certainly had the happy little world of their own Rose had talked of. Because of the difference in their religions they hadn't married till they were in their late thirties. When I came along a year later—almost killing Ma— both families made up and had been on fair terms ever since. But it must have been rugged to have been “engaged" for nearly ten years. Did Wales have any family troubles—angry in-laws? That needed checking.

Pop turned on the TV while Ma did the dishes and we sat like a couple of slugs, dozing off at an old movie. Once Pop asked, “Dave, is everything all right with you and Mary?”

“The best. But you know how it is, little fights and... Naw, Pa, guess we aren't making it. She doesn't want me to be a cop. Wants me to take some dull job with her uncle.”

“You think Mama and I don't tremble when we see a headline about a policeman hurt or shot? You should understand her view too.”

“That isn't it. She has these phony standards—a desk job is good, any other job stinks. She'd rather have me a half-ass 'executive' than a police lieutenant. Know what kind of funky job her Uncle Frank has for me? I should start in at thirty-five a week as a land of strong-arm fink.”

Pop sighed. “That is definitely no good. Still you should be patient, see her side.”

“Why? Why shouldn't she see my side? Pa, I think we should have a kid now, while we're young, but I don't make an issue of the fact she wants to hold on to her gassy job. I—”

Pa held up a skinny finger, pointed toward the kitchen. Ma came in, drying her hands. She put out a bowl of fruit and sat down. “It's after nine, turn to Channel 5, see what has happened to Big White Sing, the Indian Scout.”

As Pop changed stations he made a mock bow and told me, “Behold what television does to culture. At her age she must see a cowboy movie every night.”

“Shhh!” Mom said.

I sat in the semidarkness, sleepy and full, suddenly thinking of Owens and his wife watching their old TV, another happy home... and him out hustling a four-grand cushion. And a penny-snatcher like Wales spending all his dough on a hopelessly sick wife... how damn lonely he must have been to loosen up and spend a couple of hundred bucks with a call girl. What must it feel like, dressing like a slob, working for twenty-five bucks a week: with eleven grand wrapped around your gut? The—

The phone rang and Pa got it, said, “Yes. He's here. We were sorry you couldn't make it tonight.... Yes, get some rest. The heat takes its toll.... Mama had a wonderful supper. Maybe next Friday... I'll call him.”

He put the phone down and came over to me. “Your wife is on the phone, David.”

“What does she want?” Ma shrilled.

“Mama!” Poppa scolded softly as I picked up the receiver, asked, “Yeah, Mary?”

“Dave, I feel nervous, scary. I... can you come home right away?”

“Sure. What's the matter?”

“Nothing really, except I have this feeling. Three times in the last hour the phone has rung and each time there wasn't any answer, not a sound.”

“Nothing to get excited about. Could be a couple of wrong numbers, or something wrong with the phone.”

“Davie, please come home. It may be silly but each time I said hello, the more certain I was that somebody was listening at the other end. The phone was too quiet. Please, Davie, I'm jittery.”

“Okay, Babes. I'll leave now and be there within an hour. Make you feel better, go visit a neighbor and I'll pick you up there.”

“No. Somehow I don't want to leave the apartment. I'm not the kind that goes up in the air but I have this terrible feeling, have it so strong, that something... evil... is waiting outside. Just hurry home.”

“Okay, sit tight and don't open the door for anybody but me. Turn up the TV and try to relax. I'm leaving now,” I said, hanging up.

When I tried to explain it to Ma she said, “What's the matter, she can't let us have you for a few hours? She's nervous and... David, is she pregnant?”

“Not that I heard. Guess I'd better go.” I wondered if the three phone calls were an accident. But it didn't make sense for the Data clowns to start giving me the works. And Wren had said he was calling them off. Maybe she had seen a horror show on TV... and three calls were spooky to a girl home alone. Still, she wasn't the emotional kind... but she might really be tired and upset. I could phone the local precinct to have the beat cop look in, but how would that sound?

Ma hinted that Mary was doing all this on purpose and Pop said, “Such nonsense, Mama. And if his wife is nervous, no matter what the reason, what else should the boy do but rush home? Dave, call us the moment you reach your house.”

I said I would and was about to borrow cab fare but didn't want them to know I was broke. I was sounding almost as hysterical as Mary.

I had luck at the subway, an express was just pulling in. Thinking it over on the ride downtown I knew what had happened: Uncle Frank had phoned, said I hadn't gone overboard about the job, and this was Mary's way of needling-me. She'd been mad because I went up to Ma's anyway... and the last couple of days had just been one long argument. Only if Mary was sore about something she usually said so.

I made good time, it was a few minutes under ten-fifteen when I ran up the subway steps and headed toward our place. I didn't even stop to buy the morning paper. If it was the Data boys, if I found Flatts hanging around my place, I'd give him a beating he'd sure never forget. But when I reached our corner, turned into the block, everything looked so quiet and peaceful I decided to have it out with Mary. If this was her sneaky way of getting back at me for having supper with the folks it was time we found out where we stood. In fact that time was long due.

When I'm mad I walk fast and I was rushing into the entrance of our house when I heard the sudden step behind me, felt a hell of a big gun shoved in my right side. Then a heavy arm went around my neck, hugging my shoulders in a hard embrace and Mr. Wren was saying loudly, “No more talking, not that late. Come on, let's have a last drink.”

It was a good act even though nobody was around to see it; looked like a friendly greeting. His left arm casually around my shoulder while his right held the gun inside his coat pocket against my side. We were about the same height and I was looking smack into his eyes, eyes distorted by his thick glasses. At first I was so completely surprised at seeing Wren—if anybody, I'd expected the Data clowns—my mind was a blank. But one look at those eyes and I got scared, but fast.

According to the Police Manual I should have gone for my gun. There wasn't any crowd or bystander to stop a wild shot. Even common sense should have told me to make a stand, call his bluff. But his eyes told me the gun in my side wasn't any bluff, it would mean a sure slug in the gut.

He said gently, jovially, “Oh, now, just one last nightcap.” Then the whisper: “Keep your hands in sight. If you're not foolish you may live. Now walk!”

If he had pushed me, if his gun had left my side for a second, I might have made my play. But he was smart, waited for me to walk, then moved with me, like we were a couple of chums. There wasn't a person in sight on the dimly lit street as we headed toward Second Avenue. Then his left hand neatly slid inside my coat while his gun, feeling as big and round as a shotgun barrel, pressed into my kidney as he took my gun from the shoulder holster. He didn't try to pocket the gun, merely pushed it up his sleeve and kept walking with his arm around my shoulder.

I was still frightened but mostly I was burning with shame. For a cop to have his gun lifted is like wearing a coward's badge. I'd never live this down. I never thought I'd be a complete coward... but I was.

We kept walking slowly toward the lights of Second Avenue. I said, “You're crazy, Wren, if you think you can get away with this!” And my voice was as shrill as Ma's.