Ed Lacy - The Men From the Boys

• Название: The Men From the Boys
• Автор: Ed Lacy
• Жанр: Прочая старинная литература

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“Colonel, you just said you'd give me full co-operation. Well, that's what I'm asking for.”

“I will in any official capacity. As for pulling... strings, using special influence, favoritism, I have always been against that. I will do everything I can—through channels.”

“Through channels? Are you for real? This has to be taken care of now, today, tomorrow, or it never will be solved.”

“As a former officer you must see my position. I can't...”

“I don't see no position—I ain't playing checkers. All I'm asking you to do is make a few calls for me. Won't take you more than a couple of hours, and with the information I'll be able to hook up, or throw out, a lot of loose ends in the case. Will you do that?”

“If you tell me what you want, I will suggest it to the police department, and to my own...”

“Flatts, do you know the police commissioner, or know anybody who knows him?”

“As it happens, I know the commissioner quite well. I also know the mayor, but I fail to see ...”

“Will you call the commissioner right now, tell him to put you in touch with a detective who will work with you?”

“I see no reason for...”

I headed for the door. “Colonel, those eagles on your shoulders must have dropped something—your head.”

He was starting to draw himself up as I left.

There was one check that would take a lot of phoning, so I went back down to the Grover. Dewey was on, said, “King left a message for you—unless you call him right away, you're through.”

“I haven't time to worry about that underfed mouse. Any trouble last night?”

“One of Barbara's customers tried drinking in the lobby, but left after I talked to him. Don't know what's happened to Lilly; we've been short a maid now for the second day. Oh yeah, this Dr. Dupre was in, wants you to call him. Marty, see the doc—you must be sick, screwing up a good job like...”

“Don't worry about me, Dewey. Give me an outside line in my room.”

I undressed and took a sponge bath, then started calling guys I knew in the department. It took over an hour, and a lot of “Where you been all these years, Marty old boy?” before I found one who had an in with the Immigration Department. He gave me a name to call and I got my info in a few minutes—nothing. Lande's real name was Landenberg. He'd come to this country in the late 30's with his wife, and a relative in Jersey City, a Herman Bochstein, a bricklayer turned building contractor, had stood bond for him.

That was that—I'd spent all day running in empty circles. I stretched out, but it was too hot for sleep. It was after four and I decided to go over to the hospital, see how Lawrence was, give him a talking to.

As I left, Dewey asked, “When will you be back?”

“I don't know.”

“What shall I tell King if he calls?”

I told him what to tell King and went out. The streets were like an oven as I headed over toward Seventh Avenue. One of the maids, a big wide dark woman, was walking ahead of me, and as I passed she said, “Heat is a brute, isn't it, Mr. Bond? That Lilly, we got to work twice as hard with her out.”

“It's tough all over. Maybe she'll be back tomorrow.”

“She don't—you'd better get an extra woman to fill in or you going to have me out.”

She turned the corner and I hadn't walked more than a few hundred feet alone when I had this feeling I was being followed. I've never been wrong about a hunch—when it came to being tailed. Because of the heat, the streets were pretty empty; I did all the usual tricks, but I couldn't make my tail or throw him off. Finally I ducked down some subway steps, put a token in the turnstile. There were less than a dozen people along the uptown platform, and I kept watching the turnstiles. Nobody came through except an old dame—yet I knew I was being followed.

I jumped on the first train that came in—a Bronx express. I sat down, and all this rushing made me sweat—wet. I was going to shake the tail by jumping off at Times Square, hop another train, or bluff it... then I got a better idea. It was too hot for all that work—I'd take my tail for a little ride—up to Harlem.

Except for a few days, I'd never worked in Harlem and it was just as well—the place gave me the shakes. I felt like an open target: a burly white man in Harlem could only be a cop. I've known cops who said working Harlem was a good deal, but not me. I expected to be jumped any and every moment, was full of this uneasy fear.

I tried spotting my tail in the store windows—there weren't many whites walking around—but I couldn't make him. I hoped he was as nervous as me.

Lilly lived in a room in an old brownstone with about ten bells at the entrance. I rang her bell four times, like it said above her name, and before she could buzz back, the door opened and two big dark men came out, rough-looking jokers. The way they looked at me as I went in, I thought they were going to try and stop me, but they just went on out, down the steps.

I walked up two flights of stairs, full of the smells of too many people living in one place, wondered what the hell I was doing up here. It wasn't the money—I sure didn't need dough now—it was just the idea of being screwed, somebody putting something over on me.

Lilly's dark face was at a door opening, and from what little I could see of her, she was in a nightgown. She looked astonished when she saw me but didn't make no move to open the door. I said, “Hello, Lilly.”

“What you doing up here, Mr. Bond?”

“Just dropped in to talk to you—but not in the hallway.”

“I'm in my bed clothes, not dressed to admit no men. Don't the hotel believe I'm sick? Got a cold in my shoulder that's about killing me. When I come back I'll bring a certificate from my lodge doctor and...”

“Cut it, Lilly, you know why I'm up here. Where's my dough?” I kept my voice down.

“What money, Mr. Bond?” she said, her voice loud in the quiet of the house.

If her room faced the front, I might make my tail from the window, although he didn't seem that sloppy. “Let me inside and we'll talk it over.”

“No, I'm not letting you in my room. You drunk again, Mr. Bond?”

“Don't get fresh—drunk again.”

“What you mean, fresh? I'm not feeling well, and there's a draft here. What you want?”

“Look, Lilly, I did you a favor. I got that five bucks for you from them drunks, and this is the way you pay me back. Trouble with you people, try to be nice and...”

“What you mean by you people? Aren't you people, Mr. Bond, a human being?”

I was getting sore. “All right, cut the lip. You were going to put a buck in for me on 506, remember?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Number 605 came out that day.”

“So?”

“Lilly,” I said, fighting to keep my voice low, “nobody plays a number straight. You combinated the number—means I had about fifteen cents of the buck on 605—I want my seventy-five bucks.”

“You must be drunk! I play 506 straight, always. And if you'd won I'd have brought you your money, even if I had to leave my sickbed.”

“Lilly, don't play me for a sucker. I don't want no trouble but...”

“I'm catching cold talking to you.” She started to shut the door and I stuck my foot in.

She stared at me, said evenly, “Mr. Bond, get your foot out of my door. This isn't the Grover; you ain't no kingpin up here.”

“Keep your voice down! I ...”

“You don't scare me, you lout! When you dig a grave for me—dig two—one for yourself!”

For a moment I was so frightened I couldn't talk, then I asked, “Lilly, what made you say that—dig a grave for myself? You see something on my face? Or... Tell me, Lilly, forget the dough and tell me why you said that. Dig a grave. I...”

I took my foot out of the doorway and she slammed the door shut. For a moment the house was terribly still, then I heard other doors opening slowly, whispers. I looked around. From the floor above, a dark-faced little girl was staring down at me with frightened eyes.

I turned and walked down the torn carpeted wooden steps, knowing people were watching and listening behind the closed doors. I reached the street in a hurry, started walking fast. By the time I reached Lenox Avenue I felt better, a little sore at myself for being frightened. Hell, I'd smacked more than my share of black boys and never ...

At Lenox, like a chill wind, I got this feeling again about being tailed. I almost laughed. If my shadow was following me to see who I was working for—as he probably was—this trip to Harlem would sure puzzle the hell out of whoever he reported back to.

Anyway, maybe Lilly had played the number straight, and what difference did it make to me—money wouldn't buy nothing where I was going.

I rode the subway back down to Fourteenth Street. In St. Vincent's I phoned the police station, got Bill. “What's the idea of putting a tail on me?”

“A tail? Why should ...? Marty, will you leave me alone! Downtown just chewed my end out again. I haven't even thought of you.”

“Don't bull me, I'm being followed.”

“Then maybe Dick Tracy is tailing you!” Bill snapped, as he hung up.

Stepping out of the phone booth, I wiped the sweat from my puss with a damp handkerchief and grinned. Now that I was sure Bill didn't have a man on me, it was time I started carrying my gun. The fish were biting so good even a rusty old fisherman like me could land a shark... the man-eating kind. Smith would be my sleeping pills, my...

Dig a grave. Why would a sick old woman call me a lout?

Four

Whoever said youth is the best medicine had the right dope—it was remarkable how Lawrence had recovered from the beating in less than twenty-four hours. Of course he was still in bed, but his voice was good and they'd taken off some of the bandages on his face—I could see his blackened eyes, his lips and scrawny neck. The doc told me he hadn't found any more internal injuries and it would be at least a month before Lawrence would be able to walk out of the hospital.

As I saw the sparkle in his eyes when he saw me, and as I sat beside the bed and told him what I'd done, even my ideas about Bob Smith, I felt sorry for the boy. Maybe it was that skinny neck between all the bandages of his chin and chest. I decided once and for all I'd talk the kid out of his silly box-top ideas.

The boy listened without interrupting, finally said, “I don't know, Marty. As you say, the big thing is the link, and what possible connection can there be between Lande and the top crime syndicate? Somehow, I agree with Lieutenant Ash— it doesn't make sense.”

“Sure, it don't make a bit of sense—now. But it's something big, all right. I'm being tailed. That means soon as I left Lande this morning he got on the phone, yelled—to somebody. Somebody big because hiring a tail is an expensive deal.”

The eyes nodded. “Be careful, Marty, although I know you can handle anything that comes along. I can't understand Ash's not working with you, but as you say he must be busy. Anything new on the Anderson killing?”

“Haven't had a chance to read a paper or hear the radio. Look, Lawrence, when you get out of here, I want you to promise me something—that you'll leave the auxiliary force and forget about taking the police exam.”

Now his eyes actually blazed. “Why? Because I was ambushed you must think I'm not tough enough to be a real cop!” The words came out hard, almost curt.

“Lawrence, stop talking like you're a wide-eyed twelve-year-old. Know the true definition of 'tough'? It means you're scared. The tougher the joker, the more the coward. I found that out for the first time the other night—the hard way. So let's stop talking like children about being tough or brave —that's for the birds. I want you to forget trying to be a cop because you're an intelligent boy and you'll only break your heart. I tell you to forget it just as I'd tell you to forget any other lousy job.”

“This is new—Marty the cop-hater!” he said, mocking me, his eyes sort of smiling at me above the bandages.

“I don't hate cops, it's only that we're called upon to do an impossible job. Kids rob because they're bored, thrill-happy, want a bang—but mostly because they're broke. So you stick them in jail and they come out broke, and other kids continue to be broke, and it goes on and on. What the hell real good do cops or laws do unless you change the cause of the lawbreaking?”

The cut lips parted in what passed for a smile, and his eyes became tender, like a gal's. “Marty, you astonish me— you have a social consciousness under that hard-boiled front.”

“I haven't a social anything, but I've been around, seen the facts.”

Tin glad you have a sense of social welfare,” Lawrence said. “And you're right—at best laws are only a salve for deeper social sores, but a salve is better than nothing. And until we reach an Utopian era, I'll continue to love the law, try to see it is carried out and obeyed.”

“You kidding? I told you the other night that not an hour goes by without mister average jerk citizen breaking a law—spitting on the sidewalk, sneaking a smoke in the subway, jaywalking. You can't enforce all the laws so right off the bat, because of a lack of time and men, a cop has to close his eyes to things... and a cop with his eyes shut isn't a good cop. There is no such animal.” Suddenly I didn't know why I was even talking to the silly kid. I felt tired, impatient with the dope—all bandaged up because he was a lousy tin hero and still arguing with me.

“You're wrong. You were a good cop,” he said, “a real pro. And you still could be. You've been on my... this beating... less than a day and you've already narrowed it down to a point where you're ready for the break. That's efficient police work.”

“Lawrence, kid, I'm a stumblebum. That's what I'm trying to tell you—I've been one all my life but never knew it till now. Let me give it to you straight, even if it won't be exactly pretty. I gather you think Bill Ash is what you call a 'good' cop?”

“I certainly do. I think he's capable, industrious, and steady.”

“Let me show you something else he is, has to be. When I... uh... retired I needed a job and police work was die only thing I knew,” I told him, talking slowly so he wouldn't miss a word, and because it was a little rough to put it in words. “I didn't have the connections for private jobs, the time and money to build up a clientele. I either had to be a guard in a bank, a walking gun, or luck up on something... like being a hotel dick at the Grover. You've seen the joint; most hotels that size haven't a house man. You know what I really am there? I'm a combination bouncer and pimp. Yeah, p-i-m-p.”