Ed Lacy - The Men From the Boys

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

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“If I say yes, will you tie me up with your liverwurst tycoon? That's what guns are for, mostly to bluff and sometimes to kill—if you can.”

He went over and hefted the gun, balanced it with one finger under the trigger guard. I said, “Forget that and tell me more about Dot.”

“She's the same. We don't have guns. Marty, is this your old gun?”

“Aha.”

“Sure seen plenty of action. Where are your citations, Marty?”

“I don't know, probably around someplace. You medal-happy?”

He opened the top drawer, put the gun in. “Marty, please stop treating me like the village idiot. I want to be a good cop—if I can—and a live one. If I find anything new from Lande's driver, I'll drop in tomorrow night, if you don't mind.”

“Lawrence, I told you I don't mind. And keep away from your butcher—mind your own business.”

“We differ on what is my business. But I'll be careful.”

I shrugged. “All right, and if the joker offers you a steak again, bring it here if you don't want it.”

“Petty bribes, the curse of law enforcement,” he said, mocking me.

“You ain't kidding—hold out for the big ones,” I told him, going over to my desk to make sure the note I'd written Flo wasn't in sight. “Like a drink?”

“No thanks. I have to get home, early class tomorrow.”

I walked him to the door and as we shook hands he said, “Leave the bottle alone, Marty. Get some sleep.”

“Think you're big enough to be giving me advice, kid?”

“I don't have to be big to see you look tired. So long, Marty.”

When he left I felt lousy. Lawrence was a jerk, but a nice jerk, one of these serious kids, and not as silly as he sounded. Only that kind gets hurt as bad as the wild ones. Damn, my own son comes in and all we can talk about is killings and stick-ups. I should have talked to him more—but about what? He was a stranger to me. That was the damn trouble —I'd lived all my life among strangers.

I was hungry and my gut hurt. The quiet of the room gave me the spooks. I was lonely. I turned on my table radio and listened to some jazz, but that didn't help. I phoned Dewey, told him to send Barbara in.

“Now? It's early—can't you wait?”

“Send her in and shut up!” I unlocked my closet and took out another pint. I had four cases stacked there—late at night when a guy wanted a bottle real bad, a pint brought five to ten bucks. I never made much on liquor though, because I was always my own best customer.

I opened the bottle, washed out two glasses, lit a cigarette.

After a few puffs the smoke tasted sour and I threw the cigarette away, chewed some mints.

When Barbara knocked on the door I told her to come in, and she asked, “What's up?”

“Nothing.”

“Is that so?” she said, giving me a wise look.

“It's so. Want a shot?”

“Small one. Hear you ain't feeling so chipper.”

“I can't sleep,” I said, pouring her a shot.

“It's the lousy heat.” She put the drink down with one fast gulp, sat on the bed. “Come on, schoolboy, I'll relax you.”

“Cut it. Let's talk. What do you plan to do? I mean, hell you know you only have another few years left in this racket, then what?”

She jumped to her feet. “What kind of talk is that?”

“Friendly talk. You and me, we don't have to kid each other. Let's talk about something else. Where do you come from—a farm?”

“Are you nuts? This is the best time of the night. I can't sit here and bull with you while the other girls are turning all the tricks. I have to make...”

“Let your pimp buy his new Caddy a day later!” I said, reaching over and slapping her. I didn't hit Barbara hard, but her left cheek went dead white, then a flaming red as she fell on the bed and began to sob.

I sat beside her, held her in my arms. “I'm sorry, honey. Sorry as hell.”

“What's got into you, Marty?” she asked, crying into the gray hairs on my chest. “What the hell's the matter with you?”

“I'm on edge, can't sleep. I... Look, I'm real sorry. You know how things is with you and me. I got no use for those other whores, but you...”

“Don't call me that!”

“Why not? You are a whore and I'm an ex-cop turned pimp and... Stop bawling. Told you I'm sorry. I lost my head.” It felt pretty swell holding her, feeling her crying. Somehow it made me feel alive.

She pushed out of my arms, dried her face with a sheet “I can't stand a guy hitting me. And you...”

I put my hand over her mouth. Her face looked tired and drawn, played out. “Barbara, how many times must I tell you I didn't mean to hit you?” I put my hand in my pants pocket, took out a bill. Happily it was only a five spot. “If I give you this will you buy yourself some perfume, stockings, or something—keep it out of Harold's mitts?”

“I can't hold out any dough on him. You know how funny he is about that. And you don't have to pay me...”

“I'm not paying you. This is a present.”

“Then buy me some perfume—give me the bottle not the dough.”

“All right.”

She got off the bed, looked at herself in the mirror. “I got to go now, fix my face up.”

I walked her to the door and then took a stiff drink—had a hard time keeping it down. The news came on the radio, all about the Anderson killing. I shut it off and walked around the room for a while, trying to think. I opened the drawer and stared at my gun—knew I couldn't do it. It was crazy—there were plenty of mugs around who would be hysterical to plug me if I told them to, only how do you tell a slob you want him to kill you? How do you look? What do you say? What...?

The door opened and I slammed the drawer shut. Barbara came in. “I got some sleeping pills here. Two—enough to knock you out.”

“I never fooled with goof balls.”

“Won't do you no harm and will make you sleep like a baby,” she said, filling a glass with water.

I washed the pills down. “How long before they work?”

“Few minutes, if you don't fight them. Lie down and relax.”

I sat on the bed and wondered if this might be it. Take a box of the junk and slip out of this world. Only somebody would be sure to wake me, or find me, in the Grover. I could get a box and go to another hotel where...

“Feel sleepy?”

“Not yet. And stop watching me like you thought I was getting ready to explode or disappear.”

“You got to stretch out, meet the pills halfway.” She gave me an odd little smile. “You're a crazy guy, Marty. Are you afraid to kiss me?”

“Hell, no,” I said.

I gave her a big hug and kiss, glad I had the mint taste in my mouth. She flicked her tongue at the tip of my nose, said coyly, “That was sweet, Marty,” then she kissed me hard, threw her tongue halfway down my throat. When she pulled away she gave me a smart grin, said, “We're alike. I'm in a lonely business, dealing with lonely people who want to get rid of me fast as they can. A cop's the same way— nobody wants him except when they need him. For a time your being even an ex-cop made me uneasy.”

“What are you, the wise old bird tonight?”

“Sometimes I like you, like you a lot. Now hit the sack.”

I stretched out on the bed and Barbara waved from the door. I told her, “Fix the door so it will lock.”

She did that, waved again, closed the door. I loosened my belt, reached over and turned off the light. And waited, wondering if I was going to dream of Mrs. DeCosta again. I started thinking about Lawrence.

I could have talked to the boy about fishing. Once I took him surf casting with me, and he loved it but he caught a bad cold being up all night on the beach. I even let him take a slug of whiskey. What I remember most is the big bass I got, about sixteen pounds. Had a fight pulling him in and Lawrence was excited too. In the morning when we were getting ready to go, I took a fillet out of the fish, left the rest, and the kid said, “You shouldn't do that, he was such a beautiful fish.”

“I'm not going to lug any stinking sixteen-pound fish on a train.”

Lawrence was thin and sort of sissy looking and he wailed, “But to leave him on the beach like this, all open, it isn't fair to the fish!”

“Fair? The bass is dead. And what the hell does a fish know about fair or unfair?”

The little drip started crying and then sneezing, and when I got him home Dot bawled the devil out of me. Worrying over a fish, now over a nutty butcher who...

The next thing I knew I was jerking myself erect and there was sunlight in the room. The damn radio was still on and the three o'clock news was starting. It reminded me of the old days when I'd pound my ear for a dozen or more hours, sleeping off a drunk.

My mouth was cracking dry and there was a dull, uneasy feeling in my gut. I felt dopey instead of rested. And it was another hot day. A cold shower snapped me out of it a bit. Then I shaved, washed my teeth a couple of times—they seemed to be coated—found a clean shirt and dressed. I chewed a pack of gum for my breath.

Dewey was behind the desk already, looking red-eyed, the veins in his nose large. He asked, “Howya feeling, Marty?”

“Hungry as a church rat. What are you doing in so early?”

“Lawson wanted a couple hours off—going to some art exhibit. As if the heat isn't bad enough, one of the maids didn't show, called in sick.”

“Which one—Lilly?”

He nodded.

“Dewey, what was the number yesterday?”

“Let's see... I think a six was leading... I only play the single action... and... yes, I recall now, it was 605. You have anything down?”

“Think I did.” I went into the office and found Lilly's home address.

As I came out, Dewey said, “Marty, you and I get along because we both mind our own business, so if what I'm going to say is out of line, say so. The thing is, you're acting kind of funny.”

“You mean I'm for laughs?”

“Don't kid me, Marty. Mr. King is up in the air, wanted to talk to you and wore out his hand knocking on your door.”

“Tell Mr. King I may achieve a sudden ambition in life—busting his weasel face.”

Dewey blinked his watery eyes. “Got another job?”

“Nope.”

“Tell you, Marty, we run the hotel so smoothly I wouldn't like to see you lose this one—have to break in a new man. Lucky for you there wasn't any trouble last night. Another thing, a Dr. Dupre has been calling you, three times in the last hour. I would say he was kind of angry at you, too.”

“Long as I have a buddy-buddy like you, Dewey pal, what have I to worry about?” I said, walking out.

At the coffeepot I had a couple of pastrami sandwiches and some orange juice. My stomach was solid and I felt good. I was a dummy not to have thought of sleeping pills. Merely rent a room in one of the uptown hotels where I wasn't known, tell them not to disturb me. About fifteen straight hours would do the trick.

I felt so good I listened to the old waitress's dirty jokes— which she told me over and over again every week—and nearly gave her heart condition by leaving a half-a-buck tip.

I had close to three grand in a safe-deposit box and another grand in a savings account. I had to leave it to somebody. Leaving it to Lawrence would be a waste; he'd never learn how to enjoy a buck. Flo would get hysterical if I left her anything. Barbara really needed the dough, but it would only end up as a new car for pimp Harold. Still, best I draw up a will or some snotty cousins in Atlantic City would come into it—if they were still alive. The last time I saw them I was twenty-one and they gave me a crummy stickpin.

I walked around till I found a public typist—a pimply girl in a plumbing store. I dictated a short will giving Lawrence all my dough on the condition he buy Dewey a barrel of cheap wine. I asked the girl if she was a notary and she told me, “Wills do not need to be notarized, just two witnesses.”

“Okay, you want to be a witness?”

“I don't mind,” she said and called some guy out of the shop in the back of the store. He signed as a witness too, getting the paper all dirty with his greasy hands. The girl even made him put his address down. All this cost me only a buck and I took the will back to the Grover and left it in a sealed envelope in my desk.

Across from the Grover there's an old drugstore which I give all the hotel business. I dropped in there and Sam said, “Marty, don't tell me you need a new supply so soon.”

“I want to buy a small bottle of perfume. Something going for about three bucks. Wrap it up nice.”

“What kind?”

“How would I know? Anything that smells strong.”

Sam showed me a bottle that was all glass with about four drops of yellow liquid that looked like a doctor's sample. “This is the real stuff, from Paris and no lie.”

“All right. By the way, Sam, I get calls for sleeping pills now and then. Let me have a box of goof balls.”

Sam reached under the counter, then showed me a tiny box. “These are the newest thing on the market. Put you to sleep but no drugs, no chance of anything going wrong.”

“I want the old kind, the strong ones.”

“Marty, you don't understand, these are safe. You can take the whole box and your heart won't burst, or your lungs get paralyzed.”

“Sam, I want goof balls.”

He had heavy lids and when he got excited the lids seemed to droop, giving him an evil expression. “Marty, you need a doctor's prescription for those.”

“Stop horsing around. Sam, you know me. When a guy asks for a pill, pays for it, I have to give him what he wants. Don't worry, I won't give him more than two. Think I want to get into trouble?”

“But they're damn strict these days. I can lose my license, my store, maybe worse.”

“You put them in a plain box—I found them in one of the rooms when a guest checked out.”

“Marty, you have no idea how tight they are on sleeping pills and sedatives. I can't take the chance.” His fat face was troubled, his eyes nearly shut.

“All right, if you want me to start dealing with another ...”