by David Goodis
Original edition of Night Squad, copyright © 1961 by Fawcett Publications, Inc. Published by Gold Medal Books, New York. The Secret Squad (Illustrated), copyright © 2014 by The Devault-Graves Agency, Memphis, Tennessee. All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review, without the permission of the publishers.
ISBN: 978-0-9896714-2-2
Cover design: Cerny Beran
Title page design: Martina Voriskova
Illustrations: Martha Kelly
CHALK LINE BOOKS
Chalk Line Books is an imprint of The Devault-Graves Agency, Memphis, Tennessee.
The names Chalk Line Books, Devault-Graves Digital Editions, and Lasso Books, are all imprints and trademarks of The Devault-Graves Agency.
www.devault-gravesagency.com
Chapter 1
At 11:20 a fairly well-dressed boozehound came staggering out of a bootleg-whiskey joint on Fourth Street. It was a Friday night in mid-July and the humid heat was like a wave of steaming black syrup confronting the boozehound. He walked into it and bounced off and braced himself to make another try. A moment later something hit him on the head and he sagged slowly and arrived on the pavement flat on his face.
Three local muggers bent over the boozehound. One of them went through his pockets and got the wallet and the loose silver. The others took the wristwatch and the cufflinks and the tie clasp. Then the first mugger happened to look up and saw Corey Bradford standing under a lamppost on the other side of the street.
“Hey you,” the mugger called to Corey. “You got any plans?”
Corey didn’t answer. He stood looking at the three muggers. They’d moved away from the unconscious boozehound and were grouped near the curb, gazing at Corey and waiting for him to say or do something.
He remained silent. He didn’t budge. His expression was placid, showing only a mild acceptance of what was happening.
The first mugger called to him, “Well, what’s it gonna be? You just gonna stand there?”
Corey shrugged. He didn’t say anything.
The three muggers looked at each other. One of them said, “Come on, let’s walk. He won’t do anything.”
“He might,” the first mugger said. “He just might.”
Then the third mugger spoke up. “Say, what is all this? Who is he?”
“Name’s Bradford,” the first mugger said. “I know him, he lives around here.”
“Is he trouble?”
“He could be. I’ve seen him work.”
“He got a badge?”
“Not now,” the first mugger said. “They took it away a month ago.”
“Then what the hell are you worried about?” the third mugger said fretfully. “Come on, let’s shove—”
“No, wait,” the first mugger said. “I wanna be sure about this. I better talk to him.”
“Talk about what?” the third mugger said louder. He was getting annoyed. “What’s there to talk about?”
“Just wait here,” the first mugger said. He walked slowly across the street. He came up to Corey Bradford and said, “All right, first I’ll tell you this—you don’t worry me. You don’t worry nobody now.”
Corey shrugged again. He inclined his head slightly and let out a little sigh.
The mugger moved closer and said, “Without that badge you’re nothin’. You can’t blow no whistle and you can’t show any hardware. Ain’t a move you can make and you know it.”
Corey’s eyelids lowered slightly, lazily. And a dim, lazy smile drifted across his lips. He looked at the mugger and didn’t say anything.
The mugger frowned. He bit the corner of his mouth, then muttered, “Another thing you can’t do. You can’t rat. You wouldn’t rat. Or maybe you would. You’re just hungry enough—”
Corey didn’t seem to hear. He’d turned his head and was looking at the unconscious boozehound on the other side of the street. He murmured to the mugger, “You hit him hard?”
“Just tapped him.”
“With what?”
“Blackjack,” the mugger said. His frown deepened and he took a backward step, carefully, slowly. It was a defensive maneuver and he knew it and it bothered him.
Corey went on looking at the fallen man on the other side of the street. He murmured to the mugger, “You hit him too hard?”
“For Christ’s sake, I told ya. Just a light tap. He was ready to pass out anyway. Won’t even raise a lump.”
Just then the boozehound was starting to regain his senses. He stirred, rolled over, got to his knees and crawled a little. Then he lifted himself to his feet and walked around in a circle, and finally sat down on the pavement. He looked all around him, then looked up at the black sky and said loudly, clearly, “I’ll tell you what the trouble is. The trouble is, we just can’t get together, that’s all.”
The mugger said to Corey, “You see how it is? He’s all right. He won’t need no stitches, he won’t need nothin’. I tell ya he’s in good shape.”
“What did you take from him?” Corey asked.
“Whaddya mean, what did we take? What’s that to you?”
Corey showed another lazy smile. He closed his eyes for a moment, as though he was getting somewhat weary. Then his eyes half-opened and the smile faded. He looked directly at the mugger and waited.
The mugger shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “All right,” he said. “All right, Corey.”
“So what did you take?”
“The wallet,” the mugger said. He gestured toward his two associates on the other side of the street. “They got his watch and some other things. The watch is strictly drugstore. The entire haul won’t bring us more than—”
“Let’s see the wallet,” Corey cut in.
The mugger took another backward step.
“Come on,” Corey said slowly, wearily. “Come on—”
“You louse,” the mugger said. “You louse you.” He took the boozehound’s wallet from his pocket and handed it to Corey. There was a five and seven ones. Corey took six singles and returned the wallet to the mugger.
The mugger put the wallet back in his pocket. He looked Corey up and down. Then he turned toward the curb. As he stepped off the curb he turned again, faced Corey and said, “You know what’s gonna happen to you? One of these days you’re gonna get all mashed up. They’ll hafta scrape it up and put it in a sack—”
Corey wasn’t listening. He was lighting a cigarette. The mugger crossed the street and joined the others and the three of them walked away. The boozehound remained sitting there on the pavement, mumbling incoherently. Corey walked over to him and lifted him to his feet. The boozehound leaned heavily against Corey and said, “I’ll tell you what the trouble is.”
“No, I’ll tell you,” Corey said. “You got mugged. They took your last penny.”
“Is that a fact?” the boozehound asked mildly. He gazed past Corey and said, “I guess it brings up a problem. It’s a good seven miles from here—”
“Where you live?”
The boozehound nodded. Then he grimaced and felt the back of his head. Corey took the six dollars from his pocket, peeled off three and handed the bills to the man. “For cab fare,” Corey said. He turned to move away.
“Hey, thanks,” the boozehound said.
Corey was walking away.
“Thanks,” the boozehound called to him. “No kidding, thanks a lot. You’re really all right.”
“Yeah,” Corey said aloud to himself. “I’m very nice. I’m the original Joe Wonderful.”
He walked a few more steps and then, thinking about the boozehound and making a bet with himself, he stopped and looked back
. Sure enough, the deal was thirst instead of transportation. The boozehound was weaving slowly but purposefully toward the door of the juice joint. So the three beans go to the houselady instead of the cab driver, Corey thought, and allowed himself a philosophic smile. He was remembering the boozehound’s statement, “—trouble is, we just can’t get together.” And what that means, he told himself, is simply—we just can’t get together on what’s right and what’s wrong.
Now he was walking again, headed in the direction of a certain social center known as the Hangout. The back room of the Hangout was always active on Friday nights and the action was stud poker. Let’s get there fast, he urged himself, and his hand drifted to the trousers pocket where the three dollars mingled with some sixty-five cents in coins. It was all the money he had to his name.
***
Corey Bradford was thirty-four years old. He stood five nine and weighed one fifty-five. His hair was light brown, his eyes were gray. He seemed to be slightly the worse for wear, in recent weeks he hadn’t been eating regularly. What little cash there was went mostly for cigarettes and alcohol, the emphasis on the alcohol. It wasn’t because he was worried or depressed. He was never really worried or depressed, not consciously anyway. It was solely because drinking alcohol gave him something to do. He was out of work these days and there was nothing else to do.
Some five weeks ago they’d kicked him off the police force. He was a plainclothes man attached to the 37th Precinct and they caught him accepting a handout from a houseman. It wasn’t carelessness on Corey’s part; he was always very smooth and he timed every move. It wasn’t treachery, either. He was on friendly terms with all the neighborhood hustlers and scufflers, the numbers writers and unlicensed hooch sellers, the professional females and dice-table bankers. When he was nabbed, it was due solely to the persistence and drive of certain investigators from city hall. There was a campaign going on, aimed specifically at badge-wearing shake-down artists, and Corey was one of many who got busted.
He took it with a shrug. It was bound to happen sooner or later. For three years he’d been getting away with it, but he always had a feeling that one fine day they’d spot him and grab him and take away the badge. When it finally happened, it came almost as relief; the badge was a kind of hindrance, an annoyance. It was like itchy underwear. And aside from the discomfort, it sometimes hit him harder, drilled in deeper. The shining metal face of the badge would somehow come alive. It would look up at him and it would say quite solemnly, who do you think you’re kidding?
At times he managed to evade that question. At other times he felt obliged to reply. Without sound he’d say to the badge, what the hell, jim—we ain’t tryin’ to kid nobody; we sure ain’t out to cause grief or suck blood. It’s just that we wanna live and have fun and be happy; and we wish all others the same.
That ain’t no answer, the shining metal face would say. You’ll hafta do better than that.
So then he’d squirm just a little, with perhaps the slightest trace of a sigh. He’d wait a moment, looking off to one side, getting his thoughts lined up in order. Well now. I’ll tell ya, he’d say to the badge, his eyes patient and kind as though he was dealing with someone on the square side, someone who just didn’t know the score. You see, it’s like this—it’s a very poor neighborhood, the folks here get hardly any breaks at all. I know that for a fact, I was born and raised in this layout.
The deal is, jim, there’s an acute shortage of funds. So let’s take whiskey, just as an instance. A legitimate bottle, a fifth, it’s four dollars and up. The contraband booze, the cooked corn and goat-head, you get it for a dollar a pint. Of course sometimes it’s poison, but those times are very seldom. Maybe one batch out of five thousand, and you’ll admit that’s a tiny percentage. Chances are, when you drink the homemade juice you won’t be sick the next day. I’ve never had a hangover from the corn or the goat, and that’s more than I can say for some well-known legal brands.
Or take gambling. You get paid forty to sixty a week and you got a wife and four-five kids to feed. You just ain’t got the cash it needs to speculate in the stock market. You can’t afford the transportation that will take you to the tracks where the horses run, or join them certain private clubs that are never raided. The membership lists include big names and the big names have the pull and the cash, and that’s what counts—only that. So you live in this neighborhood and you wanna gamble. Only thing you can do is play the numbers or pull down the shades and get out a deck of cards. Of course that makes you a lawbreaker, what they call a culprit. Well anyway, you wanna gamble, you gotta have your mind at ease, you gotta be sure they won’t come bustin’ down the door and breakin’ in through the windows. Only way to be sure is to make a deal with some badge-holder.
Another thing, the girlies, the professionals. I don’t mean the teasers, the phoneys who drink up all your money and actually it’s nothing but tea in shot glasses and later they get their cut from the bar owner. And I don’t mean the ones who clip you, the ones who roll you, the ones who get you hurt in some room where Danny comes out of a closet and puts brass knuckles on your jaw. I don’t mean them; I mean the real professionals who give you your money’s worth and you walk away satisfied. You wanna know somethin’, jim? You figure it on the law of averages, them real professionals are more on the plus side than the minus. You can list them in the same groove with the street cleaners and the garbage collectors and the workers in the sewers. It all amounts to the same thing—they’re needed. It’s what’s known as performing a necessary function. And don’t give me no argument; it’s a matter of statistics. If it wasn’t for the professionals, there’d be more suicides, more homicides. And more of them certain cases you read about, like some four-year-old girl getting dragged into an alley, some sixty-year-old landlady getting hacked to pieces with an axe.
The badge made no comment.
So then he went on with it. He said to the badge, I tell you, jim, I know what I’m saying. With all them creeps and freaks and maniacs that walk around loose these days, it’s a downright misfortune there ain’t more houses where they can go and pay their money and let off steam. Because then nobody gets hurt.
All right, the law says no. But I’d like to have a shiny new dime for every pro skirt in this neighborhood who’s pulled the rescue act time and time again, selling him whatever kind of relief he needs to prevent him from going out and doing something weird. Is that good enough for you?
No, the badge said.
You got me labeled bad?
Strictly, the badge said. You accept payoffs from lawbreakers, you’re worse than they are.
But listen to me, will you? He begged the badge to hear him out. It’s only with the little things, the harmless mischief, the gambling and white whiskey and the girlies turning tricks. Nothing more than that, believe me. I never took a shakedown from dope pushers and store robbers or boosters, and never did business with anyone I knew was really evil. All I did was try to—
Balls, the badge cut in. Don’t feed me that mush. You were out for the extra dollar, that’s all it amounts to, only that.
You think so?
I know so, the badge said.
He frowned for a moment, and almost gave it some serious thought. But serious thought was like a classroom, and he much preferred the playground. The frown became a grin and he shrugged and said to the badge, maybe you’re right, but what does it matter?
Yet even so, the grin was somewhat forced and the shrug was more or less faked. Under it, he squirmed and twisted as though trying to pull free from hard gripping shackles.
It amounted almost to a favor when they finally caught him and marched him into city hall and took the badge away.
***
Headed toward the Hangout, he kept fingering the three sixty-five in his pocket. He was walking east on Addison Avenue. It was the neighborhood’s main drag.
The neighborhood was known as the Swamp. It was on the outskirts of the big city and on three sides it was
bordered by swamplands. The rows of ancient wooden dwellings abruptly gave way to a soggy terrain of gray-colored mud and green-gray weeds and pools of gray water filmed with slime. On the fourth side there was the river and Addison merged with the bridge that crossed it. On any map that showed the city, the Swamp was a tiny triangle that seemed to have no connection with the other areas. It was more or less an island.
Addison was the only two-way street. The other streets were very narrow, some of them paved with cobblestones and others with scarcely any paving at all. For the most part, the thoroughfares were alleys. The Swamp was a labyrinth of alleys, and with an excessive number of oversized cats. The cats were very rugged, but every now and then a loner would be jumped by a pack of rats, and that would be the end of him. The rats in the Swamp were extremely vicious and some of them were almost as large as the cats. On certain nights the noises of cat-rat combat in the alleys would resemble that of a sawmill going full blast.
They were at it tonight. As he passed an alley intersection, Corey heard the yowling, screeching, screaming, the almost human shrieks of agony that mixed with slithering sounds of lightning-fast four-footed action. He winced slightly and quickened his steps a little. He’d been born and raised in the Swamp, but somehow he could never get accustomed to these sounds.
Of course there’d been worse sounds overseas. He’d heard some gruesome sounds in Sicily and Italy, especially at Anzio where the enemy was up in the hills and pouring down the heavy artillery. And yet the Swamp alley sounds slashed into him deeper, stabbing through every nerve in his body and finally making explosive contact with a certain circular jagged scar very high on his thigh near his groin.
It had happened when Corey was seventeen months old. He’d been left alone in the first floor back, while his widowed mother and her latest boyfriend were out drinking wine in some joint on Addison. The baby was asleep when the rat came in. It was a huge rat, hunger-crazed, and it came creeping in from the alley, entering the room through a gap in the loose wallboards. Some moments later the tenants in the first floor front heard the screaming. They came rushing in. The rat got away, leaping off the bed and onto a chair and leaping again, went through the open window.
