Ed Lacy - Dead End

     “You wish to be paid off in clothing? Stop screaming; you'll get the money.” Doc looked at me. “Give me some cash, Bucky.”

     As he walked over to me I knew what was going to happen, what had to happen, just as I knew Doc had five thousand on him—like I did. I went through the motions of reaching into my hip pocket for my wallet. Me and Doc worked so well he didn't have to say a word, or give me a sign.

     My coat and holster were hanging on the back of the one chair. Doc did it neatly—grabbing my pillow with his left hand, yanking my gun out with his right. It was practically all one motion, his back toward Molly. He spun around and shot the old biddy twice in the body. She fell face down, as if her legs had been yanked from under her, the muffled shots echoing in the room like tiny thunder. The acrid stink of gunpowder filled the place, a welcome odor compared to the usual stale smell. And my pillow needed ventilating.

     Without a sound, Molly turned on her side, curling up like a burning worm, hands pressed to her scrawny belly. Her mouth was wide open and her plates came loose, pushed half across her lips. Her eyes were staring down at her stomach too, as if she had forgotten all about us, was so busy dying she was in a world of her own. After a few seconds the look in her eyes was too steady and I knew she was dead.

     Handing me my gun, Doc listened carefully for a few seconds, one slim hand up for silence. Then he asked softly, “You knew it would come to this, Bucky?”

     “Yeah.” I holstered the rod. I didn't feel a thing at seeing the witch die. It had been so different when Betty was killed. That had ripped me wide open. I pointed to the corpse with my shoe. “What do we do with that?”

     Doc knelt and took her pulse. When he let the thin, pale hand fall it made a sharp sound against the floor. Doc stepped through the “door” and returned a second later, dropping a worn rug on the floor. “Wrap this around her before she bleeds all over our room. We'll park her in an upstairs closet, let the rats decide if she's worth eating.”

     “Do you think she told anybody?” I asked, kicking the rug over Molly, wrapping her in it as if she was a hunk of baloney.

     “Not this pig. She probably figured on going for the dough alone by killing us in our sleep.”

     “Suppose somebody comes around asking for her?”

     “Molly was never the friendly type. If the doorbell rings, we'll face it then. Another few days and we'll be ready to blow this hole.”

     “And go where?”

     “I haven't the faintest idea—yet.” Doc smiled down at me as if talking to a kid asking dumb questions. Sometimes that annoyed the devil out of me.

     We carried the rug and Molly upstairs. I'd never seen much of the house before and it was awful creepy, full of broken furniture, thick dust and dirt over everything. In Molly's bedroom we found stacks of old newspapers, boxes of dirty clothes—things piled high as the cracked ceiling. It was strictly nutty, miser stuff. And if our room was under this—old as the dump was—it was a wonder the floor didn't collapse. Her closet held torn dresses, hills of worn shoes, scattered dirty underwear that had to have come from a trash can. Molly never even threw a used toothpick away. But her bed was a modern foam mattress on smart iron legs, and in a cedar bag we found a mink coat smelling clean and new—a good mink like Judy wanted.

     Doc laughed at the coat. “Bucky, as you see, vanity never ages. Why, this must have set Molly back at least a thousand, even if she bought it hot. If we look hard enough we'll find money here.”

     “Let's get back downstairs. Makes me nervous leaving the bags.”

     “I wasn't thinking of her lousy few bucks,” Doc said, almost to himself. “If we ransacked the house, make it robbery, the work of a punk who had his eye on miser Molly, killed her while hunting for the loot...”

     “That's an idea,” I said, admiring Doc. His brain was always ticking.

     “No.” Doc shook his head. “Be a waste of time. Ballistics will check the lead in Molly and link it with the slug in the kidnapper; they'll know it's us. No, forget it. Shut that closet door tightly and stuff the cracks with paper—the old gal will smell rather strong in a few days.”

     “I hope we'll be long gone from here in a few days,” I said as Doc went into the hole she called a bathroom, began poking around. I took some newspapers—dated two years ago—and closed the closet door as hard as I could, got down on my knees and began stuffing paper around the door. That was another thing about Doc that sometimes got on my nerves—his habit of ordering me about. Of course he was the senior man, but this was hardly police work!

     As I was stuffing the top of the door, Doc returned, holding a small bottle.

     I asked, “What is it—dope?”

     “It's a blond rinse. She has a case of the junk. A lot of cosmetics.” He pocketed the bottle. “Move some of those boxes of junk against the closet door—no, put a couple piles of papers against the door. We'll look through the boxes—we ought to find some men's clothing. And keep away from the windows.”

     “Hell, the windows are so grimy nobody could see us.” I moved a big stack of old papers against the closet door, began to sweat. Then I kicked a cardboard carton open. “What do we need clothing for?”

     It was real disgusting, the lousy boxes were just that—full of all kinds of bugs, even worms, and a startled mouse. Doc picked out a dirty, cracked leather windbreaker and a couple pairs of shabby pants. I still didn't know what he wanted with this junk. Shaking the windbreaker, Doc grinned at me, said, “I wonder what thug owned this? Must be a dozen years old.”

     “When do you figure this joint was last used as a hide-out, Doc?”

     “Hard to say—perhaps ten minutes before we pulled in. Who knows? Back during Prohibition this was a blind pig and a popular hiding place for the big shots. Molly even had girls stashed away for the boys. The last I know of anybody using this was Baldy Harper, who was wanted for a knife party back in 1949—or was it 1951? I wasn't on the case but—”

     “The hell with it. Let's get back to the suitcases.”

     “Sure.” He slapped me on the back, hard. “Don't get your nerves up, kid. It's only paper.”

     “But a million bucks is so much paper.” I headed for the stairs, and Doc followed me, carrying the clothing.

     We looked through the kitchen, scattering roach patrols. The bugs must have been a frantic lot, for the cheap bag didn't have any food around—a few cans of beans, stale coffee, a can of milk that smelled awful. The odd part was, she had a spotless refrigerator, and completely empty. Not even a brew. Sitting on an unstained part of the kitchen table, I asked, “Now what, mastermind?”

     Like Nate, Doc never got rattled. He laughed at me. “It's simple, S.O.P.: We keep sitting tight.”

     “The only think tight will be our guts—we have to eat.” And Bucky boy, you well know how much I enjoy eating. We shall eat very well, too.”

     “How? Even the roaches are having it rough.” I glanced at my watch, the same one Nate had given me for graduation years ago. The boxer's arms said it was ten to six. “It's damn near suppertime now. You going to saute the bugs, or maybe roast those old clothes?”

     “I wish you'd put that childish watch away. Time has little meaning for us now. A timeless world is one of man's goals. We are fortunate to—”

     “Okay, Doc, but we can't eat words. Exactly how are we going to eat so 'well'?”

     He patted the clothes he had tossed on a chair. “I may be fairly well known in this end of town; I used to have a post here when I was a harness bull. That's how I knew about Molly and this hide-out. While that was over sixteen years ago, it would still be far too risky for me to venture outside. But you can go out and buy—”

     “Me?” I jumped off the table. “You're talking like a man with a paper head! Remember the whole damn force is looking for the both of us!”

     Doc nodded, that wise tight smile on his unshaven puss, as though I'd just made a funny. “I know. The beat cop most certainly has a general description of you: young, stocky, black hair, well-dressed.” He pulled out the bottle of hair dye, threw it on top of the old clothes. “Disguise has become a lost art among you younger detectives. Look, as soon as it's dark a blond, middle-aged man in worn work clothes with a blanket around his middle to make him look stout will easily be able to walk the two or three blocks it will take you to find a delicatessen. The nearest one is run by an old German, a very clean store. You'll be perfectly safe. You won't buy much: beer, a few packs of butts, sandwiches. Ordinary staples. Granted it's a chance, but a very little one. It's comparatively simple to make a young fellow look old, but to make a man my age look young—well, it would be much more of a chance if I tried it.”

     “I'd have to be crazy to buy that!”

     “Bucky, Bucky, you sound as if I was throwing you to the lions. We're in this together all the way. Do you think I'd let you take a real risk? Hell, if you got caught they'd beat this hiding place out of you in no time, and I'd be collared too.”

     “But Doc, going out... seems such a dumb thing.”

     “Okay. We can use up these beans tonight, but tomorrow we'll have to eat. There's little point in our being the richest men who ever starved to death. I told you before, Bucky, we have to meet things as they come up. Now we have to cross the food bridge, just as a half hour ago we had to take care of Molly. Look, I know my business. I'll fix you up so you wouldn't recognize yourself in a mirror.”

     “Well... I guess there's no sense in us arguing. We do have to eat, but... Doc, what are we hanging around this house for, giving them a chance to close in on us?”

     “This is the smartest move we ever made, our salvation. Kid, you've never been through a dragnet; you don't know what it's like. The tightest man hunt in police history surrounds this city right this minute. Not only our police force, but the F.B.I. and the state troopers have undoubtedly thrown in hundreds of extra men—every guy anxious to make the big collar. Two men carrying bags couldn't reach the highway, or even get within shouting distance of the railway station or bus terminal. We have to wait a few more days, maybe a week or two, to give them time to relax the dragnet, make everybody feel positive we've left town. Time is on our side, not theirs. Suppose we have to wait a month, even a year. The pay is right and—”

     “A month!” I exploded. “I'll go stir nuts. Not even a radio in the house.”

     “Take it easy, Bucky boy, learn to relax. You must have heard of the St. Valentine's Day massacre in Chicago—way back?”

     “What's that to do with us?”

     Doc sat on a kitchen chair, stretched his legs. “The real head of the mob, the joker they were after, was in that garage but they didn't kill him. Matter of fact, he died several years ago—in bed. But the killers had seen him go into the garage and they kept an around-the-clock watch on the garage building for over six months, after the massacre. This mob leader was smart, he stayed in that garage, in hiding, for eight months—and lived.”

     “You mean we might have to spend that much time here?”

     “Maybe. Or somebody like a building inspector might come around ten minutes from now and we'll have to make new plans.” Doc felt in his pockets, then held out his hand. “Give me a butt—and some fire. Suppose we do stick here for a half a year—isn't a million bucks worth it? What's a few months, a year, out of our lives? It's simple if you learn how to unwind. That's the secret of a long life.”

     “Come on, Doc, you can talk plainer than that,” I said, giving him my last cigarette and a match.

     Winking at me over a cloud of smoke, he said, “I keep telling you to remember the one big advantage we have in this setup—we didn't plan this!”

     “So what's the big fat difference?” I asked, watching my last butt working in the middle of his dirty face.

     “When you've done police work as long as I have, you'll—”

     “We're not exactly the police in this case.”

     Doc showed me his neat teeth—and they looked dirty, too. And he was the character who always carried a little can of tooth powder, insisted on rubbing his teeth clean after eating. He said, “That's not as much of a wisecrack as you seem to think, Bucky. When you spin a coin, both sides are affected. Now stop shooting off your big mouth for a moment and listen. It's on the planning level that most capers strike a reef. Punks make a lot of plans beforehand, with no way of knowing what the actual realities of the situation will be. They plan a deal to go a certain way; if it goes another, they're sunk. In the pattern of crime, plans equals mistakes. Also, plans can become known, and the more you plan the more errors you overlook. What I'm telling you is this: Without making plan one we stumbled over a million dollars. Any errors we make will come from facing the problems as they arise. I believe that with any sort of break we'll get out of this dump, then out of the country, to enjoy the money.”

     “But how, Doc, how?”

     He blew smoke at a roach crossing the table. “Don't be so impatient. I don't know—I just told you we haven't any set plans.”

     “Damn it, we have to plan our next step!”

     “Why? Sometimes it's best to stand still, not take a step. Give me time, Bucky—I'll think of an out. I always have. Here, since you're so in love with plans, here's a few precautions. We'll keep to our hidden room most of the time—less chance of anybody spotting us from the windows. Somebody rings the doorbell, we don't answer. Every night, for a half hour or so, we'll leave the kitchen light on, and the light up in her bedroom.” Doc crushed his cigarette on the table, wasting half of the butt. He stood up and yawned. “For the present our immediate steps are simple—get some sack time and stop worrying.”