Ed Lacy - Shoot It Again

• Название: Shoot It Again
• Автор: Ed Lacy
• Жанр: Прочая старинная литература

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     Gus seemed to be listening intently as I talked; now he slipped me his practiced smile, said, “Fatty, you are a talker! Act like you're on the stuff yourself, although Lu says you ain't a weed-head. So, you're offering me a deal?'

     “Yes, if you can produce the right buyer.”

     “Fatty, you're forgetting—I'm aiming the Chairman Of The Board at you, the gun makes the final decision! But I'm willing to talk—a little. You ain't tossing that out the window, or blowing any whistle: I got you figured—you're this artist-football character the cops are looking for in the Al Foster gunning. Sure, you're the courier who brought the junk in. Run to the cops and they'll slap twenty years on you, if they don't rap you for the killing! Remember the airline hostess who claimed she didn't know she was bringing in H—thought it was powdered perfume: she got twenty years because she wouldn't say—or didn't know—who was behind the business. It was in all the papers. If you want twenty years, you're dumber than you look. Also I came here prepared, big boy.”

     “For what?” I asked, resting the bag on the window sill.

     “When Lu first phoned me last night, I thought she was high. But this morning, after she phoned again, I give them a feeler, and man were they all ears! What I mean is, I'm not playing a lone hand in a deal this big. Yeah, you must be the guy Foster was to meet. Well, courier, your job is finished, you ain't necessary no more! If they agree, and you don't cause me no trouble, I may give you a couple grand. I said, may! Man, you ought to be happy you're alive—you'd be with Foster if they'd seen you yesterday.”

     I gulped as I said, “If you take over the courier job, you'll be dead on delivery, too.”

     “Don't worry about little Gus, fatty. I'll make the sale but not like a dummy. Now don't go for stupid, make me hurt you—give me the bag! I'll see you get a few grand, even take care of you the way you want.”

     “What are you talking about?”

     “You're the biggest one I ever seen, but faggots come in all sizes. Ever take it into your head to make money?” Gus cackled with horrible laughter.

     “You and me will have a swishing good time—I treat all my gals good. The bag!”

     Gus stepped toward me, cocky grin on his stupid face, so sure of himself the gun was pointing toward the floor...

     In college they had the football squad try out for track. For a couple of weeks I was a hammer thrower. Now, I was so blind-angry at his daring to call me a swish, I said, “Here's the bag!” Swinging the sixteen-pound bag by the string hard as I could, pivoting all my weight behind it....

     ... Gus walked into the arc, the duffel bag striking the side of his ratty face. His entire head seemed to fold over at an unreal angle, then he collapsed into a crumpling heap at my feet. Picking up the .32 with my left hand, I smashed it down into his pale face again and again.

     Lucille grabbed my arm. “Tony! You're hitting a dead man! You broke his neck! Tony, you and I...”

     With the bag still in my right hand, I punched her thick chin: she went sprawling on the floor, blood gushing from the nice lips. “If we get this settled... we both might go to the beach today...'“ I panted, trying to mimic her warm voice. “Whore! Lying bitch, setting me up from the jump!”

     The words echoed in the room, seemed to strike my face—wake me up. Lucille was out cold: I was talking to an unconscious woman and a corpse. Shoving the towel back into the duffel bag, I ran out of the room, thundering down the wooden steps and onto the street... got the full impact of what I'd done. Painting bum, dope courier, wanted by the cops...

     Now I was a murderer.

CHAPTER 9

     Killing Gus also killed my panic and indecision. Figuring I was safer off the streets, I boarded an uptown bus at the corner, my mind sure of one thing—I wasn't going to fry for the death of that dreadful, smirking, toothy, stupid pimp! Calling me a swish... well, his last thought must have been one of absolute shock!

     I felt proud, almost virile, at having killed—no remorse. Best of all, I was thinking clearly. If small-time crooks like Gus knew about the attempted hijack at the Hotel Tran, it was safe to assume the police also knew, that they didn't want me for the killing of Al Foster, but only suspected I was smuggling dope. It would take the police time—since I'd been out of the country for almost two years—to get my picture and description. At least a day or more. In fact, I doubted if dizzy Arlene across the hall in 305 would admit I'd been sharing her room. Nor would Amy be anxious to come forward—so there wasn't anyone to give them a working description of me. True, once Gus was found and Lucille arrested, she could give a decent word picture of me.

     I had to tear up my passport, destroy all evidence of Clayton Biner. Oh I could appreciate the ironical twist—it was the loss of my passport which started me in this mess. As plain Joe Blow I'd have about twenty-four hours in which to contact the syndicate. If I could only find a pipe-line to 'them,' the rest would be fairly simple—remembering Gus' pearls of wisdom I'd work out a deal where my services as a courier wouldn't be over until I safely had some loot. I wouldn't be hard to deal with— hell with fifty grand—I'd settle for... ten or fifteen thousand... enough to give me a few years cooling off time in Mexico or the West Indies. Yeah, I'd offer 'them' the greatest bargain ever seen.

     If I still hadn't any real idea of how to do this, at least I'd lost my depressed mood, was ready to fight. I had one thread to the syndicate—Al Foster. Somebody at Foster's home address, perhaps his wife, would know his friends... give me a clue which would take me to the syndicate.

     Okay; it wasn't much of a plan but I was done with my aimless wondering, fooling with cheap hustlers and whores. The original news story had given Foster's address on West 78th Street. I took the crosstown bus at 79th Street, sweating more than the day called for. At Broadway I walked down to 72nd Street and into the Automat for a sandwich and iced tea. In the men's room—not without a pang of deep regret—I tore up my passport and the few other pieces of identification on me, flushed them down the commode.

     I rode a cab across 78th Street to the Drive. The late Al Foster had lived in an old and modest apartment house. Far as I could see, there weren't any detectives in sight. I walked back to the subway station at 72nd, found a group of dime public lockers. I sweated more at the thought of leaving three million bucks in a locker, but in case Foster's place was staked out, I couldn't risk being picked up with a duffel bag of junk on me.

     At a barber shop I took a close haircut—although it hurt like hell to have my good hair end on the floor—manicure and shave. Next I bought a white shirt and conservative dark tie, changed in the men's room of a swank cafeteria on 73rd Street. (Hell, I was practically living in men's rooms I) But now I looked the part I was going to play, although my suit was badly wrinkled. Having less than twenty dollars, I had to stay with the old suit.

     With the locker key securely in my left sock, I walked over to the apartment house, studying the parked cars and few passing people: I didn't see anybody looking like a dick. The house was a walk-up, remodeled into small apartments some years ago, judging by the condition of the mail nestboxes.

     Foster's name was there but I didn't have enough nerve to go directly to his apartment. I walked along a delivery alley to the super's place. Sweating like a pig, I knocked on his door. A little faded man wearing worn over-alls and an old work shirt opened the door. His pale face was narrow and pointed, thick glasses giving mild eyes an owlish expression, few grey hairs on top of his egghead. In what sounded like a Northern European accent he asked, “Yes, mister?”

     Glancing over his head I looked into a cool and darkened apartment. Far as I could hear, he was alone. “I read in the papers about somebody in this house dying. I wonder if the apartment has been rented?”

     “You mean Mr. Foster's place? It was a great shock. I always thought he was a tobacco salesman.”

     “Of course if his wife is living here...

     “He had no wife. Such a quiet man.” The soft eyes blinked up at me. “Are you a friend of his?”

     “No. I merely read about him in the papers and well, you know how difficult it is finding a flat these days. I'll make it worth your while, Mr. —”

     “Lund. I don't know about Mr. Foster's lease. Also, I don't handle the renting. I'll have to phone the agent. I don't take anything under the table, SO...

     “How about five hundred dollars, Mr. Lund?”

     He swallowed, Adam's apple dancing as if choking on a peach, pit, the magnified eyes blinking with surprise, or it could have been—fear. His pink tongue licked a faint moustache. “That's a lot of money, Mr....”

     “Brown—Adam Brown.”

     “Well, come in, Mr. Brown. Ill phone the agent.”

     “I... eh... know I'm kind of breaking the law, by offering you money, Mr. Lund, so... can we talk someplace where we'll be alone?”

     “Come in, Mr. Brown. I've been a lonely widower for years.”

     “I didn't want to cause you any trouble,” I told him, stepping into the cool and dark little apartment, quite pleased with my acting ability.

     I followed Lund into a damp living room which, aside from an old-fashioned round dining table and a few chairs, had a long low work bench holding two huge mossy-green fish tanks. The only light in the dim room came from the faint hallway bulb. “Raise tropical fish, Mr. Lund?” I asked, casually.

     “No sir. For years I've been trying to cultivate pearls and now...”

     “There's oysters in there?” I peered into one of the tanks. Through the foggy green water the bottom seemed covered with odd-shaped cobblestones. “These must be fresh water oysters, like they have in the Mississippi River.”

     The pinched face brightened. “You know about them, sir?”

     “I've read of fresh water pearls.”

     “Few folks have. Always been a frugal man and long ago I read of the Japanese injecting sand into an oyster, growing pearls. The idea fascinated me. For years I spent a lot of money, put in much work, learning the feeding habits of oysters, the right water temperatures... oysters are such delicate creatures. Carted brackish water from the Hudson River up here five times a day... without any results. Six years ago I read of fresh water oysters forming pearls. Would you believe it, I even took a trip South to buy some?”

     “You're a real hobby fan,” I said, cleverly.

     “A hobby? More of a tragic dream.” Lund looked at his mossy tanks with pride. “The dream was to make my fortune with pearls. Now, when I have finally grown some small pearls, and in this batch may have large ones—cultivated pearls have become so cheap, it's hardly worth the work. It takes so much of my time and effort, but what else have I to do with my free time?”

     “There's an easier way to make money, Mr. Lund: that five hundred I mentioned—even more if we're lucky.”

     “Lucky?” In the dim, greenish light his eyes looked ghostly. Still, he didn't weigh much over one hundred pounds. “The agent rents...”

     “Forget the agent. I really don't want to rent the apartment. Listen to me, Mr. Lund, I'm a writer for fact crime magazines. You've seen the mags on the stands—a blown-up rehash of actual crimes which have a sensational...”

     “I read only the classics.”

     “You're to be admired, Mr. Lund. The deal is this: I take a hot crime yarn—like the Foster shooting—dig up old pictures, a few puff facts, sell it to one of the mags. That's where your five hundred comes in. But, if it turns out Foster was an important gangster, why all this might end as a book, a motion picture sale, and your cut larger. All you have to do is tell me what you know about Foster —little things—any friends he might have had, girls, etc. No danger to you, I mean, you won't even be mentioned in the article, unless you want to see your name and picture in print. Of course I'll need to see Foster's apartment, take a few snaps, snoop around. Okay?”

     “Mr. Brown, as I told the police, I don't know much about my tenants. Keep to myself and my oysters. I...”

     “Mr. Lund, for letting me look at his apartment, a few pictures—and I assure you I won't take a thing—you make yourself five hundred dollars!”

     “Well, I don't see any harm in that. The agent has the key to the apartment. I'll phone him now —tell him there's a leak up there. Office isn't far, he'll send it over with the office boy.”

     “Fine. But remember, the bit about the article has to be kept between us.”

     “I understand, sir. The phone is right in the other room. Just take me a second, Mr. Brown.”

     He stepped across the hallway into what must have been the bedroom—it was too dark to see for sure—dialed a wall phone. Peering into one of the tanks, I touched the water with my finger—it was almost ice-cold. Lund called out. “Careful, mister. For eleven months now I keep the water free of any impurities and...”

     “Don't worry, Mr. Lund.”

     He began talking over the phone, voice so low I couldn't make out what he was saying, but I heard him mention “apartment” and “leak” a few times. I was examining a faded and corny photo of FDR framed on the wall near the hallway. There was a thick silence: Lund was listening and nodding his head. Then I heard him mutter, “Yes, Lieutenant, I phoned like you...”

     I didn't wait to hear any more—the sly bastard was phoning the cops! I pulled one of the tanks off the bench—it hit the floor with a crash of glass, water, and his scummy pearl-raisers. With a shrill cry of horror, the janitor dropped the phone, ran to kneel among the oysters as I raced out of the place.