Ed Lacy - Shakedown for Murder

• Название: Shakedown for Murder
• Автор: Ed Lacy
• Жанр: Прочая старинная литература

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     “Andy, all I plan to catch is some sleep. I'm on vacation.” I tried to change the subject. “Clouds seem to be lifting; don't you want to try your spinning reel?”

     “Sure, but I thought....”

     “Andy, police work is exactly that—work. I merely put my two cents in because I didn't like the way that young cop was pushing you around. We'll let the End Harbor police do their own work. You and I are going to pack a few sandwiches, take our lines and see what's in the bay.”

     Bessie groaned. “Don't know where my head is, I forgot bread. We'll stop at Tony's.”

     She drew up before a small store and I said, “I'll get the bread.” A beefy young man was leaning across the counter, looking bored. He straightened up slowly when he saw me, said, “Now that you're here, I know it's summer.”

     “What? Let me have a loaf of whole wheat.”

     “Yes, sir. And what else?”

     “That's all. Give me a couple cans of beer, any brand.”

     He looked bored again as he got the beer. “Tell you, mister, business ain't worth getting out of bed for these days. It's after nine and I just broke the ice with you. That goddamn supermarket is squeezing out every merchant. My folks made a good living from this store as far back as I can recall but now... big chains put the whole town on its back. Oh, they give jobs to a few people, bat they drain all the money out, spend it elsewhere and.... Sorry, didn't mean to cry on your shoulder. Suppose you heard about Doc Barnes' accident? Now I hear some state trooper says it's a murder. Gives you the creeps.”

     “Murder always does,” I said, paying and taking my bag.

     Reaching the cottage, Bessie found Matty sleeping on the couch. When she pushed him off, the cat arched his back and spat at her. “Give me any back talk, you fat tom, and you'll be crab bait. Andy, go down to the Johnsons' and borrow their oars.”

     “You bet,” the boy said, dashing out.

     As I helped Bessie put things away she told me, “Matt, I don't like all this murder talk around Andy. He sees enough violence on TV. Thank God he's getting a summer off from that.”

     “Don't shield him too much, this is a pretty violent world.”

     “Matt, you're not taking part in this... murder, are you?”

     “Hell, no. It's none of my business. Technically I am a peace officer but I only opened my yap to show off for Andy, I suppose. The local cop was a young snot.”

     “Let's not talk about it in front of Andy. And don't let him horse you into rowing way out—the weather can change fast here. And take it easy rowing, you've done enough grandstanding for one day.”

     I patted her cheek. “Since when did you become such a worry bug? Matter of fact, I don't intend to touch the oars; about time Andy got rid of his baby fat. He's growing up fine, Bessie.”

     “Of course. It's been fourteen months since my miscarriage. We're trying hard for another child.”

     “Don't worry about it. If it happens, it happens. And if it doesn't—you have Andy. Martha and I had two kids within three years and after that, nothing.”

     “It isn't a fixation with me, or anything. But I do so want a girl. Would you like to play bridge tonight? I can ask John Preston over.”

     “I don't care. Better make it tomorrow night, I didn't sleep much last night. Guess I'll get into my trunks.”

     “Take pants along, in case the sun comes out and cooks that pale skin of yours.”

     I changed while she made lunch. Then I fed Matty and cleaned out his box, stretched out for a snooze just as Andy returned with the oars. He got his fishing tackle together, including a pair of old metal binoculars. I picked them up, hung them around my neck.

     Andy said, “Dad's letting me use them this summer. They're powerful.”

     “I know.” They were good glasses, cost five dollars— back in 1929 when Martha gave them to me for Christmas. I gave them to Danny on his sixteenth birthday. Now Andy had 'em. It gave me a happy warm feeling—and made me feel old.

     I carried the oars and the lunch while Andy took the fishing gear. As we walked to the beach he asked, “Grandpa, why do people kill each other?”

     “Because we haven't learned to control our anger, I suppose. We're all under tensions which....”

     “What's tensions mean, Grandpa?”

     “I thought I told you to call me Matt?”

     “Mama says not to. What's tensions?”

     “Oh... people worry too much,” I said, wondering what I'd started. “They worry about a job, money, even clams. Then maybe they start fighting and one party gets so angry he doesn't realize what he's doing, swings the clam rake... and the other man is dead. Or two countries start shouting over a boat or something, and then there's war. Remember, never let your anger master you. These glass rods any good?” I asked, changing the subject with a clumsy hand.

     He was a true fishing nut, talked rods and reels all the way to the beach. I hoped he would outgrow that soon, I've always found guys who go in for a lot of fishing gear to be bull artists—and not just about fish, either.

     In the light of morning, even a dull one, the bay seemed far prettier than last night. It was a large rough circle of water opening on the Sound, or maybe the ocean. Andy started swimming out to get the rowboat. While I didn't want to get wet, I couldn't let him swim alone. The damn water was still ice cold. When we got the boat ashore, Andy wanted to empty some of the water and I almost broke my back tipping the heavy tub. We finally pushed off, and to my surprise the boy rowed well. As I lit my pipe the sun came out for a spell. I examined some of the anchored yachts through the glasses, and if it wasn't for my damp trunks, I would have enjoyed things.

     Dropping anchor outside the breakwater, we got our hooks over. Fishing wasn't exactly a success. Not only didn't we catch anything but Andy's spinning reel wouldn't work. The fish kept eating my bait without my feeling a bite. I realized I was getting a burn and put on my pants and shirt. I didn't have to worry about the kid, he was brown as coffee. He was upset over the reel. I tried to monkey with it but mechanical gadgets are always over my noggin. I gave it up, asked if he wanted a sandwich. He pointed at the remains of a rotting dock, told me, “Pops usually fishes there. The reel was working for him yesterday. You should have seen him cast with it—sent it out a mile.”

     I put the glasses on the dock. “Nobody there.”

     “Pops may be fishing from the beach, on the other side. He can fix the reel, I bet.”

     I motioned for him to pull up anchor as I took the oars. I couldn't remember when I last rowed. Although I once had a post that included the lake at 110th Street and I did a lot of rowing then. I was still pretty good at it.

     The dock and the beach were empty. Andy said, “Damn. I mean darn—Pops is always here.”

     I rowed back out into the bay and tossed out the anchor. The kid fished with my rod while I had a sandwich and some chocolate milk Bessie had fixed. My backside ached from sitting on the hard boat seat and I felt sleepy. I sat there, holding my head in my hands, feeling the stubble on my chin, almost dozing, when Andy caught a Small blowfish and startled me with his shouting. He tickled its white belly to show me how it blew itself up into a ball, then said it was too small to eat and tossed it back. Funny, when I was coming up we never ate them—now they were a delicacy. The kid wanted to row some more. He didn't head out into the bay but followed the shoreline. “There's Pops',” he said.

     Andy was pointing a chubby finger at an old-fashioned but well kept-up house that stood above a cluster of trees. It was a large square house, painted white with red trim and in the center of the roof there was a small glass-enclosed room with a railing running around it. A man was lying on a cot, taking what little sun there was. He seemed to have a blanket over most of him and a large floppy straw hat covered his head and face. Sneakers and old army suntans stuck out of the bottom of the cot. I put the glasses on him; couldn't see any better. There was a paper on the floor, he was probably sleeping.

     “Grandpa, you know what that is? That kind of... of house up on the roof?” Andy asked with the self-importance of the newly learned.

     “No,” I lied. “What is it?”

     “In the days when End Harbor was a big whaling port, the wife of the captain of the ship would walk on the roof every day, looking out on the bay, see if her husband's ship was coining in. I bet from up there she could see for about fifty miles, maybe a hundred. Anyway, they call it the widow's walk because she never knew whether she was a widow or not. I mean, if the boat never came back.” He was making for the shore and now he stood up and called, “Pops!” and waved his hands.

     “Sit down, you'll turn the boat over. You're too far away for him to hear. Besides, he looks like he's sleeping. What's the man's real name?”

     “I don't know, everybody calls him Pops. He knows lots of things about fishing and... heck, I thought I'd ask him to fix my reel. He sold it to me.”

     There was a faint line of narrow beach, then a steep bank that rose ten or fifteen feet and disappeared into a layer of trees. The house sure had privacy. Maybe he was just resting. I asked, “Do you think we'd be bothering him if we took the reel to his house?” I had enough of the boat and water.

     “No. Mom says he's a very spry man for his age. What does spry mean?”

     “That he has pep. Well go to the house, but if he's asleep we'll let the reel go till tomorrow.”

     “Okay, we have to row back to that old dock. The road runs by....”

     “Well go ashore here and walk up. I'll row and you watch out for rocks. Has he any dogs?”

     “I don't know,” the kid said, moving forward as I took over the oars. “He lives with Mr. Anderson. He's the mailman here. He also has a big vegetable truck.”

     We beached the boat and with obvious delight Andy scolded me for not burying the anchor in the sand. I helped him up the bank, getting myself dirty. After the trees we came to a large field that ran up to the house. It was a nice hunk of land. Behind the house there was an open garage with a large new truck. A station wagon stood in the driveway which circled through a well-kept lawn. Everything about the place showed a lot of care, and except for the truck it looked like a rich man's estate.

     We were about halfway across the field when one of the side windows of the house flew up and a shotgun barrel covered us as a man's voice yelled, “Hold it! Don't you lead signs? You're trespassing on private property!”

     I grabbed Andy, said, “Don't move.” Then I called out, “Put that damn gun away. The boy merely wants to see Mr... Pops. I didn't see any NO TRESPASSING signs.”

     “Should have come around by the road. Well, don't stand there, come along. Be careful where you walk, stay on the path.” He stood in the window, the gun still on us. He was a stocky joker. I kept the kid behind me and I was puffing as we reached the house. It was quite a slope.

     The man and gun left the window and a moment later appeared on the screened porch that ran around the house. He was holding the gun by the barrel now. It was an expensive pump shotgun. He had on a dun polo shirt that showed off his bulky shoulders, and work pants. He looked about forty-five, a strong man with a thick neck, heavy iron-gray hair, and wide, homely face. He wasn't tall, in fact looked smaller than he was—like Marciano did in the ring. “What do you want to see Pops about? He's not feeling well.”

     “I wanted to ask him about this reel he sold me,” Andy said, “It don't—doesn't work.”

     The guy smiled and it completely changed his face, gave it some life. “You must be the kid who wouldn't take the reel for a gift, wanted to buy it. He told me about you. What's wrong with it?” he asked, coming down the porch steps.

     “Stuck.”

     He rested the gun between his knees as Andy handed him the reel. I said, “If you're so fond of guns, learn how to handle them. If you should happen to kick the shotgun now, it would blow your head off.”

     “I know about guns, but thanks for the advice,” he said, resting the shotgun against the steps.

     “And you ought to think twice or three times about pointing it at people—even trespassers.”

     He looked up from the reel, eyes staring right into mine. He had honest eyes. “You must be this city policeman causing all the fuss.” He held out a large hand. “I'm Larry Anderson.”

     “Matt Lund,” I said, shaking his mitt.

     “Sorry I shouted at you. This used to be farm land and it's full of ruts and holes. I'm always afraid somebody will break a leg. As for the gun, I've been jumpy as a cat all morning. Pops had a mild heart attack right after breakfast and—you know about Doc Barnes. I couldn't even get a Hampton doctor to come over, those society snobs. Anyway, Pops' condition isn't serious and one of the docs gave me instructions over the phone. Pops will have to rest for a week or so, absolute rest. Meantime, just to play it safe, I've contacted a specialist in New York.” He took out a penknife and loosened a screw in the reel. It spun smoothly. “It's okay, son, you had it down too tight.”

     Andy thanked him and as we turned to walk back to the boat, Anderson said, “I'd better show you the path.”

     “I don't want to put you out....”

     “That's okay.” As we followed him across the field he said over his thick shoulder, “Of course the doc's death upset me too. As a member of the town council, I—and Art, Chief Roberts—have called a meeting for noon. Murder makes it a terrible mess. But you were right, Mr. Lund. At least the Chief agrees it's murder. But it sure don't make sense, anybody killing a sweet guy like Ed Barnes who always.... Careful, step around these wooden boards. Old well here and the weather may have rotted the cover. I know Doc would have been the first to agree with us about the publicity.”