Ed Lacy - Dead End

• Название: Dead End
• Автор: Ed Lacy
• Жанр: Прочая старинная литература

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     “Then best you go up front. Get wet here.”

     I walked ahead, wondering when I'd try to take him. If it was Johnson, he was wearing so damn many shirts and pants I couldn't tell if he was armed. I watched the car coming through the spray, the men following it, working on it.

     For a moment I nearly chickened out. I kept thinking I was far from certain the guy was Johnson. His eyes looked ordinary to me. But more important, car washing was damp, hard work and I couldn't see a big-time goon going in for real labor. If I threw a gun on him and he made a wrong move, I'd have to plug him. If it turned out to be a mistake, I'd end up to hell and gone up the creek.

     When the car moved out of the spray, both men started drying it with big rags. The white fellow held a small hose in his left hand for spots the shower didn't take off, a cloth in his right mitt. When he finally put the hose down, I touched my gun in my pocket, took a deep breath, and went in.

     I stepped over to him, picked up the hose, as I said, “There's a mud spot you skipped.” I had the hose in my left hand, and when he turned toward me I sent a stream of water full in his eyes, then lashed him across the gut with the nozzle. He put a hand to his eyes as he bent double. I yanked my gun out.

     The Negro and the manager were coming at me, the manager with a hammer in his hand.

     “I'm a cop! This is an arrest! Get back!” I ripped my coat open, flashed my badge.

     That did it. Even though he was doubled up, fighting for air, I saw Johnson's body stiffen. The ice left my insides: It had to be him.

     The manager asked, “What's the trouble, officer?”

     “Get to the phone and call the police!” I snapped.

     “But what—”

     “Goddamn it, phone the police! You, Johnson, turn around—slowly!”

     He was still bent over, his big can up in the air, but he turned until he was facing the wall. I felt wonderful, I hadn't even told him to face the wall. I said, “Get your legs apart!” He spread his thick legs. He was in an awkward position as I ran my left hand over his hips, his chest. He was clean.

     The manager was using the phone next to the cash register. Johnson turned slowly, facing me. His mouth was open, fighting for air from the sock in the belly. He was still bent over, hands almost touching his rubbered feet. His pants went down into a pair of high work shoes, were held tight around his ankles by thick rubber bands to keep any water out.

     The manager put the phone down, started toward me. “The police—”

     “Stay where you are!” I didn't want to be crowded.

     “The police are on their way. Can't you tell me what this is all about?”

     “This man is Batty Johnson. He's wanted.”

     “Him? He's a rummy named Howie Brown.”

     “We'll see,” I said. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Johnson's right hand fumbling with the rubber bands around his right ankle, the red fingers working them loose. His ankles were thick with padding, and I'd forgotten to frisk him down there. I was about to growl at him to stop it; then I thought: No, it will look harder this way. And be safer. I have the drop on him.

     Deliberately, I half turned toward the colored guy, said, “Stay back there.”

     “Man, I ain't moving no place.”

     “That will be fine,” I said, looking at him but watching Johnson out of the comer of my eye. He was still bent over, staring at the wet floor. We all heard the wail of a siren growing closer in the distance as Johnson got a small automatic half out of an ankle holster.

     I didn't give him a chance; I emptied my gun into his head and back. It turned out exactly right. He sat down hard, then fell over on his side, blood running from him in several places. But he was holding the automatic in his right hand!

     As the barks of my gun faded, I heard the manager moan, “Oh my God!” and he got sick all over himself.

     A radio car came screaming to a stop outside.

     And a few hours later I met Doc for the first time, although I was on such a merry-go-round by then I didn't notice him.

5—

     Opening my eyes, I saw the light from the naked bulb in the ceiling. It wasn't enough light to hurt your eyes. What was the life of a bulb? The damn thing had been burning steadily now for days. I wouldn't want it to go out, to be in this trap in the dark. But we could always take a bulb out of another socket in some other part of the house. But where was the fuse box? We ought to know, in case all the lights went out or...

     I told myself to stop worrying like a kid. I sat up and glanced at my watch. I'd dozed about fifteen minutes. I reached for my coat on the chair, looking for a butt. Doc was sleeping but even in his sleep my movement seemed to make him stiffen, as if ready to come awake and on his feet in a second.

     Yawning, I ran my tongue over my teeth, felt of my gun, then looked over at the bags. I had a silly desire to open them, play with the money. Maybe we ought to count it; counting a million would take up a lot of time. And who would we yell to if we found we were shortchanged a few hundred?

     I stepped over to Doc's cot, killing a roach on the way. Doc's coat was crumpled at the foot of his cot. I ran my hands through it, feeling the wad of money in the inside pocket, before I remembered we were out of cigarettes. Doc had smoked the last one.

     He seemed to be breathing regularly, yet I'd give odds he wasn't asleep. When I stretched out on my cot again, I saw his body relax. But that didn't make sense. Was he afraid of me? And if he was, what could he have done about it, with his gun busted? I was hungry; I wanted a drag. More important, I wanted to be doing something. I thought about going into the next room, shadow-boxing the restlessness out of my system. Instead I wound my watch, looked up at the ceiling light. I guess I had a secret horror of the bights going out, never being able to open the wall, being trapped in this room. Be something, trapped to death with a million bucks. Find us years later when they would be tearing down the house. Find our bones, but the dough would still be good.

     I said aloud, “Suppose I do have to go out tonight. I need a smoke.”

     I don't know why I talked; Doc didn't answer. For a minute I listened to his even breathing again, and the silence of the house. My eyes went back to the bags, then returned to my newest hobby—wondering about Doc. They called him Doc because he was always studying. He claimed he'd graduated college. Maybe he had. Doc sure knew a lot of things. He liked being called Doc, said someday he would finish studying for his Ph.D. Well, he had the dough to do it, now—if we could get out of here.

     There were more than a few things about the whole deal that troubled me. Behind the doubts another idea was growing. It wasn't only the risk of going out that bothered me; I was really afraid of leaving Doc alone with all the money. Maybe that's another reason I didn't want the lights to go out. I couldn't see the money then.

     But not trusting Doc was dumb. He'd never given me a bum steer yet. I could be getting stir-slappy. But a few more days and we'd be on the move. The next time we holed up—if there had to be a next time—at least we'd find a room with a radio or a TV.

     Knowing as little as I did about police work, I couldn't see how we'd break out of town. It didn't seem to be worrying Doc. The trouble was, nothing worried him. But I wished he'd let me in on his plans. Or was he telling the truth when he said he didn't have any plans? Doc said we'd make it and I had confidence in him.

     Only I wasn't sure I had a million dollars worth of confidence in anybody.

     I stared at his narrow back, the dirty shirt. When I first became his partner, Doc had told me, “Kid, partners must get to know each other so well they know automatically how the other will react to anything. It's like a marriage—you even have to know how many sugars the other takes in his coffee.”

     In the year or so we'd been working together, I never really made Doc, completely understood him. But then, there was a lot he didn't know about me. I'd never told him about Nate, for example.

     One thing was for sure: Doc was the smartest man I had ever known, on or off the force. Nate had been smart, but in a smalltime way. Doc wasn't afraid to take a chance. He'd stepped over the line plenty of times, but always playing it clever. He'd never been caught. And he certainly wouldn't do anything to risk his life now. As he'd said, we were in this all the way, together. He'd been the one who thought of taking the money. It was crazy; the idea never came to me. Yeah, it was Doc's show; I was just along to help spend the loot.

     Still, sometimes Doc's very cool cleverness worried me—a little.

6—Shep Harris

     It seemed like a great hand whisked me up out of the car wash and pulled me through the air for the rest of the day and night. So many flash bulbs popped in my face I could barely see. Reporters were firing questions at me; the Commissioner personally made me a detective third grade, said he was going to put me in for a citation. At one point I made a filmed interview for TV, and at another time during the night I remember signing some sort of contract and getting three hundred-dollar bills—a queer-looking character was going to do a story under my name on how I captured Johnson. It gave me a charge to imagine Elma seeing it in one of her magazines.

     Matter of fact, the first Elma knew of things, she told me hours later, was when she saw my name and picture splashed all over the front page of the morning paper. I was going to send Nate a copy of the papers but I figured that was playing it crude; he'd read about it in California anyway.

     If I was in a happy daze, I snapped out of it when some of the police brass cross-examined me. They went at me so hard, for a second I thought they had things mixed up, took me for Johnson. They kept assuring me it was only for their record and the publicity; they were going to make the most of a local cop capturing the F.B.I.'s top wanted man. After a few questions I got the message: They were a little sore I'd made it a one-man show.

     A deputy commissioner, a sharp-faced joker named Oats, or something like that, was the chief examiner. He kept firing questions at me over a silly smile, as though we were making small talk in a coffee shop. I was sitting in front of his desk, wishing I was on my feet. Doc was standing around, along with some other guys. Doc was leaning against the wall, a kind of bored look on his face. But he never took his eyes off me. Of course, I didn't even know his name then.

     Sharp-puss and I went through dialogue that sounded like something off a TV crook show:

     “Now, Penn, you say you were never in this car laundry before?”

     “Yes, sir.”

     “You just happened to drive your car in this afternoon?”

     “It's not my car. I only rented it for the day,” I told him, weighing my answers, careful not to lie too much.

     “You rented the car?”

     “Yes sir. You see, I can't afford a car, so sometimes I rent or borrow one for the day, drive around like it was mine. I like cars.”

     “If it was a rented car, how come you had it washed?”

     “I told you, sir. I like to pretend it's mine. It was dirty with snow and mud, so I drove into this car wash. I was lucky.”

     “Be a good background bit,” sharp-face said, writing it down on a scratch pad. “Let the papers play up the fact a patrolman isn't paid enough to buy his own car. So by luck you drove into this car wash? Tell me, Penn, how were you able to recognize Johnson so quickly? He had quite a disguise.”

     “I didn't pay any attention to the dyed hair, the padding. When I first studied the wanted flyer on him, I noticed his ears were high up on his noggin, and his cheekbones unusually far apart. I kept those in mind, knowing he couldn't change those features.”

     “Do you study all wanted flyers that carefully?”

     “Why, of course, sir; it's part of my job. Another thing, I knew he had bad eyes, so I sprayed the water in his eyes first.”

     “It's a wonder Johnson could work without his glasses. His lack of glasses made us think, at first, you had made a big mistake.”

     “Mistake, sir?” I repeated, playing it cool. “Don't forget he went for his gun. And he was wearing glasses, contact lenses. I had him figured for those, too.”

     “How?”

     “Well, sir, when I read about his killing the optometrist, I got to thinking. He'd only got fifty-three dollars in cash, so money wasn't the reason for killing. We know he wanted glasses, but why destroy the office records? I told myself he did away with the records because he'd had this eye doctor make him contact lenses, but he wanted us to think he was wearing frame glasses.”

     “That's damn good brainwork, Penn, although how could you tell he was wearing contact lenses?”

     “I didn't worry about it, sir. I assumed he was wearing contacts but based my identification on his ears and facial structure. I was merely going to hold him for a routine check, but he threw a gun on me. I was lax there. I mean when I frisked him, I should have thought of an ankle holster.”

     “Don't worry about it, Penn; you did some real police work. Now let me see; according to your statement, and that of the witnesses, you pulled your gun on him and asked the owner of the laundry to phone the police. Then when Johnson—”

     “Sir, in my excitement I accidentally hit him in the stomach with the hose.”

     “Yes I know about that accident.” There was a faint hint of sarcasm in sharp-face's voice. “Of course you had to defend yourself, and you're a young cop—that's why you didn't frisk him completely. And if you'd had help, Johnson wouldn't be dead. We wanted to question him about a score of cases.”