Ed Lacy - Dead End

     I couldn't sleep much that night, and early the next morning we rummaged around the stinking cellar. Luck was with us again. We found a couple of strong baskets, big ones, like apples come in. After lining them with old clothes, we carefully packed one with ten- and twenty-and fifty-dollar bills, and were easily able to put in $231,200. Doc said that was too much and we repacked it with less dough and more clothing. Doc was sharp; he even left part of an old coat sticking out of the top so there wouldn't be any doubt as to the contents. We found some clothesline in a kitchen cabinet—God knows why Molly had bought it: Washing was the last thing ever on her mind—and tied the basket good, real good.

     We decided I would express the basket that afternoon, and buy wrapping paper, plenty of gummed tape, cardboard, twine, and a pack of labels. I'd mail the packages the following day, along with expressing another basket. We would then take off tomorrow night.

     As I was ready to leave with the basket, Doc said, “Now remember, first you make the long-distance call to the hotel, then get the wrapping paper and stuff in several stationery stores. Get plenty of it, and more clothesline. Also another can of lighter fluid; I misplaced the one you got the other day. And I'd like a chocolate bar.”

     “Yes, Daddy,” I wisecracked, but the thought of walking out in broad daylight had me far from a wisecracking mood. Still, I knew it had to be done.

     Strolling down the sunny street with almost a quarter of a million bucks in a basket in my arms made me sweat. If I was stopped, I was a goner. But then, if I was stopped at any time, for any reason, I'd be a burnt cookie.

     Like the first night I'd been out, after I'd walked a block I felt okay. One part of Doc's plan worried me: It was important we know if the market and the trucks were being watched before we started anything. I considered taking a cab down there, or even walking, but it would be a big chance. Besides, at this hour the market would be empty. I was pretty sure I could get a ride out of town.

     I purchased two books of labels and a pen in a candy store, then made the long-distance call. The hotel was still doing business in Syracuse, of course. I wrote out a label for the basket, made certain it was on good, and headed for the express office.

     The bored clerk weighed the basket, asked, “What's in here?”

     “What you can see—old duds. My brother got hisself a job out there and wants his old work clothes.” *

     The clerk wrinkled his veined nose. “Didn't you ever hear of the invention of the washing machine?”

     “Do tell? They really got such machines? What will they think of next?” I cornballed, almost enjoying myself. “Tell you, let him wash it. I don't know why he wants this junk—they been laying around the cellar all year. He must have a dirty job, like in the oil fields, needs these clothes.”

     “Want to insure it?” he asked, starting to write.

     “Naw, only old stuff that... Yeah, insure it for, the smallest amount, just to say I did it.”

     “How much you value this junk?”

     “Guess about ten bucks,” I said calmly, wondering how this jerk's face would look if he could see the “junk.” “Is that label on good? Maybe I ought to write out the address again on—”

     “It's on okay. Don't worry about it.”

     On the way back to the house, I bought wrapping paper, cord, picked up some old cardboard boxes and plenty of gummed tape. I went into a store to get Doc's lighter fluid and noticed they were selling cheap wrist watches. I thought about buying one, for it suddenly occurred to me that quite a few guys on the force had noticed my boxer's watch at one time or another, and I ought to throw it away. But I knew I couldn't part with it, so I merely took it off and stuck it in my pocket.

     I stopped at another store to buy Doc's candy bars, and had a soda myself. Now that the money was on its way, or at least part of it, I felt tense but also relieved—the chips were really down now.

     Doc and I spent the rest of the day packing the other basket and the packages of big bills. Then Doc picked out some old clothes to wear. I told him to take a shave—not even a bum would be seen with his whiskers. He said he'd do it just before we took off; maybe shave off all his hair as part of his disguise. After supper we made a list of the main towns within a hundred miles, decided on which city we'd each try to hitch to, what the probable bus and train connections were. Doc even lectured me on the wholesale produce business. He was such a bug for details, I felt confident things would work out okay. But I hardly slept that night, my brain spinning, my insides knotted—another day or two and I'd be rich, free of this dump.

13—

     I must have fallen off in the early hours, for I awoke this morning when Doc felt of my wrist, looking for my watch. When I pulled it out, it was nearly noon. I explained why I was hiding it and Doc thought it was a smart move. I washed and took the second basket to the express office, my heart beating like a fast drum, wondering if the police would be waiting for me. I'd left my pen at the house, and I had to stop and buy another one. The same clerk was working the counter and he didn't say a word. I told him I'd found more clothes to send my brother.

     On the way back to the house I even walked into a ratty-looking bar for a fast shot to quiet my nerves. There was some loud jerk working off an all-night binge and feeling very gay for himself. He started kidding about my blond hair reminding him of the faggy wrestlers he saw on TV and I got out of the bar fast—before I clipped him.

     The big money was packed in four packages, each a little bigger than a good-sized box of candy. I carried them in a shopping bag. Doc gave me the addresses of the two post offices, reminded me to bring back food for a last supper. He said he would be shaved and dressed by the time I returned, and we'd take off for the market at around ten. Doc had even managed to find a couple of dirty old canvas bags in Molly's room, big enough to carry most of the hundred grand we were each going to take, and the kind of a bag a working stiff would be carrying his few belongings in.

     I felt jittery as I walked toward the first post office. However, Doc had this down pat. It was a drugstore with a one-window post office in the rear. There was a girl clerk. I took out two of the packages, made out labels for them, gave her one as I said, “Parcel post.” To my surprise, my voice sounded calm.

     “Anything breakable in here?” she asked, weighing it.

     “Nope. Just some old notebooks and letters my brother wants.”

     “Then—you mean it contains writing?”

     “Only a lot of pencil writing. You know, school notebooks.”

     “Pen or pencil doesn't make the slightest difference. It's still writing and must be sent first class. This will cost you a dollar and eighty cents.”

     I could have won an Oscar, the doubtful way I stared at the five-dollar bill I was fingering. After the proper hesitation, I muttered, “Sure is a lot of money for nothing. I thought I could ship it parcel post. What would that cost?”

     “What's the difference?” she asked a little stiffly. “You'll have to send it first class.”

     “Well, it beats me why he wants these old papers anyway. But they must be important to him, so send it first class. What's this one add up to?” I asked, handing her the second package. “Has writing in it, too.”

     “This is heavier. Be a... two dollars and twenty cents.”'

     I handed her the five bucks as I said, “I hope I ain't putting out money I'll never get back.”

     The other substation wasn't part of a store. I mean it was, or used to be, a store, but all of it was a post office with several windows. I went through the same routine with the last packages. There were a few wanted flyers on a bulletin board. I couldn't see our mugs and didn't have nerve enough to look.

     I dropped into a coffeepot for a sandwich. Food sometimes calmed my nerves, but not now. I felt high, all of me racing—the way I guess a charge of “horse” hits you. It didn't seem possible I was successfully pulling off one of the biggest scores in crime history.

     I was eating aimlessly; sandwich, pie, toast, cake. I told myself to haul tail out of this place. It would be some jerky, needless move, some little thing, that would queer the whole deal. Elma rarely went farther from the apartment than the corner store, but today she might be walking around here, drop in for a cup of coffee. Not that she'd make me in this clown outfit. Still, it was a needless chance. It was the first time I'd thought of her in days. I wondered how she was taking all this. Not that it mattered to me.

     The fly-specked wall clock said it was eleven after four as I started for the house, anxious to duck any coming-from-work crowds. I stopped in at a small supermarket I'd never been in before, bought some food for supper. I even lucked up on Doc's yen—frozen strawberries.

     As I walked I felt very good, very sure of myself. I'd tested my clown outfit enough to have absolute confidence in it as a disguise. Looking at myself in a store window, I only saw a sloppy-looking fat slob in dirty clothes. And now that all the money was moving, it seemed like most of the work was done, although I knew I was a long way from being in the clear.

     The good feeling—all feelings—fled the second I turned into “our” block. I saw smoke coming out of the house! Fire engines and squad cars were all around the place, blocking the street!

     I ducked into a doorway and for a heavy, dumb moment I didn't get it. The firemen were hosing the wooden house but didn't seem to have the fire under control. I wondered where Doc was—a dull pounding in the front of my head warning me it was all over.

     They moved a pump engine closer, giving me a clear view of the sidewalk near the house. I saw Doc—oh, I sure saw him—in the midst of a crowd of cops and detectives! I even saw Ollie and that little punk who had flattened me. Doc was talking to Lieutenant Smith. Doc looking like a runt next to Smith. Doc still unshaven and in his own wrinkled clothes. Of course, I couldn't hear what Doc was saying. But I didn't have to: His gesturing hands told me plenty—he was going through the motions of his hands being tied! I sure got the message then—right between my stupid eyes!

14—

     I got the whole picture in one staggering flash. I'd been had from the go!

     Doc with his damn lighter fluid! Smart Doc had me timed to the minute, probably figured on me stopping for coffee, or a shot: Doc had set the house afire a few minutes ago. He had tied his hands and waited for the firemen and cops to find him. Or could be smart old Doc had even raced out of the house first to pull the fire alarm!

     Doc the fox had framed me from the moment he first saw me after the Batty Johnson killing. He wanted me for a partner. Why, the sonofabitch had framed me like a picture! He must have been shopping around for a muscle dope like me ever since he'd got the idea for the kidnapping a long time ago—when he'd heard that Australian nursemaid shooting off her mouth in a bar.

     Oh, Doc was thorough: The perfect snatch needed a perfect fall guy—me! How all those “coincidences” fell in line now, fitted so tightly I wanted to scream. Doc had set me up, and Betty too. Doc and the tall guy were the kidnappers. Maybe another corpse somewheres around town had been in on it. Doc had told the thin guy to wait at Betty's. No wonder Doc had been angry when I busted up with Judy; he must have had her marked as the girl. Then, when I broke up with Judy... How decent and generous Doc had been in fixing Betty up. He needed her, needed a place for me to kill the thin guy!

     Crafty Doc, leaving nothing to chance, figuring every angle down to a split hair's width. The deal with the parked squad car, letting me go into Betty's alone, knowing I was so steamed about the kid's murder I'd blast his partner on sight. Child-killer Doc really knew me. Doc's gunning Betty lined up. Oh, how everything fitted: the convenient hideaway, maybe even “finding” the baskets in the cellar.

     But those were merely trimmings. His smartest move was knowing me like a book, holding the hoops and having fool me jump through like a trained dog.

     Watching Doc gesturing to Lieutenant Smith, I knew the fall he was setting me up for, what clever-clever Doc had in mind for me from the start. He would be giving them a simple story, so simple it had to sound true: When we found the kidnapper, I had thrown a gun on Doc; then I'd forced him to come with me, held him captive. And Doc's story would hold; it rang “true” in too many places. My brain was working on all cylinders, but even a dope could see the whole damn frame in a flash.

     I'd made the last phone call to the squad room.

     I'd ditched the car.

     Doc's gun was busted—they could prove it was my rod that had killed Molly.

     They'd found Doc in the house, probably with his hands tied. I was the guy on the loose.

     And I was the jerk in disguise. Doc even looked as if he'd been held captive. Wise, dapper Doc, refusing to shave or take a bath.

     The fire—that was the neat final touch, his real out. Doc wanted to be a rich hero. I could almost hear the bag of lies he must be giving them about the money burning. Would he say it was an accident? Or would he be bold enough to claim he did it on purpose, to attract the police? One thing was for certain, he had $205,000 to burn and Doc would have made it look like all the ransom money had been burned. And with over two hundred thousand bucks with which to salt and pepper the burnt remains of the suitcases, Doc could make it stand up.

     It was such a complete frame I almost had to admire Doc, in a cockeyed way. Old careful Doc, not getting into the game unless he started with a pair back-to-back. Yeah, all the real and circumstantial evidence was stacked against me. Even if I was caught, it would only be my word against his. If I surrendered and tried to tell the truth, I was still guilty of killing Molly. It had been my gun. I would end up in the chair—even if Doc burned with me.