Ed Lacy - Lead With Your Left

She said, “I do wish you'd stop inspecting me—it makes me feel as if I have two heads. Wintino? Are you of Spanish descent? You look Latin. As you may have guessed, I'm Puerto Rican—Hondura is my real name.”

“I'm part Italian. Now Miss Henderson, what's your trouble?”

“Since the beginning of last week my phone has been ringing at odd hours of the night and either nobody answers or a man's voice goes into the most obscene sex talk. Various men have been to the superintendent downstairs, making ridiculous inquiries about me. They've also been to my neighbors. I know I'm being followed on the street. In fact on Monday, Tuesday and this morning when I went to the library— and later when I was shopping—I have been jostled by several different men,” she said through the smoke of her cigarette.

“What do you mean by jostled?”

“Exactly what the word means—tripped, elbowed, pushed around.”

The last thing she looked like was a neurotic babe. “Having any trouble with your boy friends?”

“No, this isn't any so-called boy friend trouble, as you put it. I know exactly why all this is being done.”

“Okay, why?” I asked, watching that wonderful full curve move a little every time she breathed.

“Have you ever read the Weekly Spectator? I suppose not.”

“You suppose right. I hardly ever get my noggin up out of a comic book.”

She gave me a warm-smile. “Sorry, I was rude. Mr. Wintino, I'm a free-lance writer and at the moment working on an article for the Spectator—this is a weekly liberal magazine sort of like the Nation, Harper's, the Atlantic, except it deals entirely with economic subjects. My article exposes a newly formed monopoly in the electronics business. I'm certain the firms I'm writing about are trying to stop the article by making me a nervous wreck.”

I wanted to tell her she had a head start on the nervous wreck angle but instead I got out my notebook, saw my notes taken from the Owens file, said wearily, “Let me get this straight. You're doing an article for a magazine called the Weekly Spectator and you claim that because of this article you're being annoyed on the street and-your sleep is being knocked out of whack by mysterious phone calls—and all this is being done, you think, by some of the business firms you're writing about. Is that correct?”

“Yes. Don't forget the men snooping around the apartment house, and ringing my bell at odd hours of the night, and nobody there when I answer.”

I nodded, and wrote in my book, “This chick is in a bad way,” as I asked, “What makes you think these business companies are back of this?”

“Because this all started last week when they learned from a Spectator query I was writing the article.”

“You were never bothered like this before?”

“Never.”

“Can you give me the names of these firms?”

“Of course: Modern Electric, Wren & Company, Popular Electronics, and Twentieth Century Power, Inc. Two weeks ago I finished working, for over three months, as a typist for Modern Electric, to confirm my material and secure data. The magazine approved an outline and last week I started my final research and a rough draft.”

“Can you identify the men who've molested you as working for any of these outfits you mentioned?”

“Certainly not,” she said impatiently. “They're obviously hiring... uh... private detectives, I suppose, to do this.”

“When do you leave the house every day? Any set time?”

She waved her cigarette as if it was a baton. “No special time. Usually in the morning, sometimes in the afternoon. Depends upon when I get up.”

“Miss Henderson, you're saying they have at least one man, and most likely two, shadowing you all day, not to mention a guy working nights on your phone and doorbell. An all-day shadow job costs about seventy-five bucks per man, which means somebody is spending over two hundred dollars a day to make you—nervous. You claim this has been going on for a week and a half, ten days, over two grand. Lot of money for a—”

She crushed her butt with an angry gesture. “Are you implying this is all my imagination?”

“Yes and no,” I said carefully, thinking it would be exciting to see her breathe fire, and she looked like she could do it easily. “Let's examine your statement calmly. Those sexy phone calls may not mean a thing; it's fairly common for perverts to get their kicks by picking a woman's name out of the phone book, telling her things they'd never have nerve enough to say to her face. Then you say people have been around here asking about you. Could be you applied for a job some weeks ago, or opened a charge account, and they're simply making a routine check on—”

“But I haven't applied for a job or opened any accounts recently. And they ask if I'm a whore, a dope addict!”

“As for being shadowed on the street,” I went on, “many people say that. They see the same man or woman a few times during the course of the day and become convinced they're being followed. And being pushed about, jostled, that happens all the time too—a guy is rushing for a bus and bunks into—”

“Are you supposed to protect my rights or explain them away!”

“Miss Henderson, I have to look at things objectively. I'm not calling you a liar, merely trying to show you there might be other explanations for the things you complain about. For example, let's get back to a boy friend who could be sore enough to phone—'

“Will you stop jabbering about a boy friend!” she snapped, jumping to her feet.” “I haven't been on a date in months, I've been too busy. I told you I was working as a stenographer and in the evenings I did my writing. Matter of fact while I was working I finished a children's book. I don't understand your attitude, why don't you believe me?”

“I haven't said I didn't, only I can't quite see anybody spending a couple of thousand bucks a week to upset you. Suppose you finish this article and the magazine runs it, what happens?”

“Let me give you a picture of these firms. They aren't the biggest, like General Electric, but they do a good business manufacturing small electrical devices—doorbells, buzzers, switches. For the last year there have been rumors of something revolutionary in the business, what might be termed a liquid wire that can be painted on. This would cut the production cost of thousands of gadgets by at least half—do away with wiring, screws and wireholders, as a small example. A patent has already been issued to a California scientist on this. However, a certain type of crushed metal is needed to make the paint conductive and the four companies I mentioned have cornered the market on this metal. In brief, they constitute a monopoly, plan to squeeze everybody else out.”

“I still don't see why they should get so excited about your article.”

“It should bring Washington down on them for violating the antitrust laws. The least it will do is force them to open up the field to others, and thus the public will benefit from the low cost.”

“A bunch of doorbell manufacturers are spending, two grand a week to stop your article? Hardly seems worth all—”

“This 'bunch of doorbell manufacturers' figure not only to split some three millions in profit in the first two years, but there are untold uses for this wire paint. When perfected it might do away with all wiring in cars, for example. Don't you understand, once they control this, they'll be in a position to drive competitors out and in time send prices sky-high.”

“And the magazine, this Spectator, what are they doing about your troubles?”

“At the moment I'm not involving them. They can only do what I've done—call in the police. After all, I'm just a free-lancer and the magazine hasn't the money to fight these companies. The Spectator is lucky to break even each month.”

“What are you getting for the article?”

“Two hundred dollars.”

“Why don't these outfits spend a few grand in advertising and buy off the magazine?”

“Because it isn't that type of magazine. Any more questions?”

“You're not getting much pay for all the work you're doing on this. What's in it for you?”

“Partly I do it because they're breaking the law, rooking the public, and I'm part of the public. Also I'll benefit in other ways. The publicity if the article makes enough noise will get me other assignments. Now, do you think I might get some protection from the police instead of a grilling?”

“I wasn't grilling you, we have to check all sides of a story. I'll report this back to my boss, Lieutenant Reed. We've been busy on a murder and I doubt if he can spare a man to guard you twenty-four hours a day. But he might put a tap on your phone, try and trace those calls. I'll let you know what we can do,” I told her, getting up, heading for the door, a little high from her perfume.

“When will you let me know what will be done?”

“Probably late this afternoon. I'm not sure: I don't run the department.”

She shrugged and everything that moved was a boot to watch. “At least you still don't think there's some love-struck idiot after me.”

“I haven't ruled that out.”

“What?” she said loudly. “Can't you see that these—”

“Sure, I can see and I don't rule out a nutty boy friend because... Miss Henderson, let's not fence for compliments, every time you look into a mirror you see an exciting young woman. You certainly know that.” I tried to sound casual but I blurted the words like a schoolboy.

Her face was a slow blush, then came this warm, almost tickling laughter. “I suppose I should say thank you. Thank you, Mr....”

“Wintino, Dave Wintino.” I took out an assignment slip, wrote my name and precinct phone number on it. “Next time you're pushed around on the street, if you're sure it was deliberate, tell the nearest cop to hold the man and have the cop call me. Show him this card.”

“Thanks. I won't leave the house till I hear from you.”

“Miss Henderson, the Police Department is understaffed so I can't promise we'll give you an escort, but even reporting this, having it on the precinct record, is some protection. And don't worry, well keep an eye on you, perhaps have the beat cop stop by now and then.”

We said good-day and I walked down to the basement, keeping an eye out for mutts, and found the super. He was an old mousey duck in dirty overalls and I asked, “Been any men around inquiring about Miss Henderson up in 3C?”

“You another one? I'm too busy to be answering questions all the time.” He had a weak voice and some kind of mild accent. Eating would be a problem for him, he only had a couple of mossy teeth in his mouth.

“Another one? How many men have been here asking about her?”

“Don't rightly recall. I'd say five, six. They come late at night or early in the morning, get me out of my bed to ask about her. And I need my sleep, I work hard.”

“What do they ask?”

“All kinds of things. One asked did I know she was Spanish, a greasy Spick he called her. Guess you saw her name, Hondura, on the mailbox. She's Puerto Rican, and uses the name Henderson to write under. Does she entertain men, these men ask, does she have meetings in her flat, is she a Red? Was one creepy old man yesterday about scared the living life out of me just to see him, he wanted to know if I thought she was selling dope. I understand they been asking some of the tenants too, getting them out of bed. I told them I knew was she was a quiet girl who kept to herself and paid her rent on time.”

“Any of these men give you their names, say what they were?”

“Nope, They just fired questions at me.”

“Can you describe them, would you recognize any of them again?”

“Nope. Except for the creepy one they was all well-dressed, classy-looking men. I told you I ain't got time to be answering a lot of questions.”

“But you have time to shoot your big mouth off. Why didn't you ask who I was before you talked to me?”

“See here, don't you raise your voice to me, young man. Well, who are you?”

I showed him my badge. “Detective Wintino, 201st Squad.”

“A cop. Say, Miss Henderson done anything crooked?”

“No. She complained about some jerks annoying her.” I took out my notebook. “What's your name? How long you been employed here?”

“Heitman. Teddy's the first name. Been here going on fourteen years this August. What you writing me down for? I don't want no trouble.”

“Relax, Mr. Heitman. Have a phone here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Here's my name and police phone number on this slip. Keep it handy. Next time anybody comes asking around about Miss Henderson before you tell them a thing, ask to see their credentials, write down their name and address. Even if they say they're police or government men ask for—'”

“You'll get me into trouble.”

“You can get into trouble by talking too damn much. Know who you're talking to before you run your gums. I want you to do me a favor, phone me as soon as anybody asks about Miss Henderson. Leave your name if I'm not in and I'll call you back. Don't make a fuss about it but try to get the name of whoever asks about her, ask to see their credentials or badge, then phone me. Got that?”

“Yes, sir,” he said, clutching my card. “I never had no run-in with the police, never. I don't want no trouble. No, sir.”

“Aw, stop drooling about trouble. And don't be so ready to give out information about your tenants: tell 'em to go ask the tenant. Remember, if they ask about Miss Henderson, phone me soon as you can.”

“I'll do that.”

“Fine,” I said, walking away, knowing he was too scared to do anything. I walked up the basement steps and the humidity was like a blanket. I stopped to run a comb through my hair, glanced up and down the street, trying to make her tail.

The street was empty, so were the parked cars. Little ways up the block there was a tall guy of about twenty-five wearing dungarees and a shabby black leather jacket leaning against one of the buildings. What made me forget about my hair was the crumpled wire coat hanger he was toying with in his right hand.

I slipped my badge on my belt as he glanced around like a ham actor, crossed the sidewalk to the Jaguar and shielding the hanger with his body, started working the wire into the rubber lining of the front window. He was less than two hundred feet from me and having a rough time with the window.