by Ralph Dennis
CHAPTER EIGHT
Walt had thickened some around the waist since I’d last seen him, since I’d tried to bust him over some jewelry I was sure he’d contracted to fence. That had been about four years ago. It hadn’t worked then but I’d had a good look inside him. His eyes as he recognized me, as they darted from me to Hump and back, made me sure that I’d read him right. We could break his bones and pour the marrow out.
“Mr. Hardman, isn’t it? It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you.”
“Four years.”
“I hear you’re not with the police anymore.” He was talking to me but he was watching Hump who’d drifted away, back toward the rear of the pawnshop. Hump did it so you could read it from a mile away: he was checking the place for other customers and for any employees Walt might have working back there.
“I gave it up for my health,” I said.
Walt gave a kind of jerky ha-ha. “That’s not what I heard, but I’m not judging.”
“I hope not.”
Hump returned as casually as he’d moved away. He stared at Walt for a second and then nodded at me.
Walt saw that. He was supposed to. It shook him and the first crack appeared in his backbone. “What can I do for you and your friend, Mr. Hardman?”
“You could tell me a few things,” I said.
“Anything I can,” Walt said expansively. “You know I respected you when you were with the police.”
“That makes it a lot easier then.” I held up the bandaged hand. “Somebody tried to stick a blade in my liver.”
“Terrible what these young punks will do,” Walt said. “It must have been some junk-user trying for your roll.”
“That’s a good plot, Walt. I think you ought to make a short story out of it.” I turned to Hump. “What’s the dude’s name anyway?”
“Charleston,” Hump said. “Some people call him the Charleston knife.”
“I’ve never heard of him,” Walt said. “Is he a local man?”
I didn’t show anything at the lie. I gave Hump a sad, slow shake of my head. “I told you on the way over here that Walt wouldn’t lie to me, didn’t I? That he might lie to some people, but not to me.”
“That’s what you said.” Hump sounded bored with it all. “A man lies when he’s hiding something.”
“Why should I lie?” Walt wrapped the sincere indignation around him. “I keep an honest pawnshop and I pay my taxes and. . . .”
“And love your mother . . . and lie to people,” I said.
“Mr. Hardman, with God as my witness, I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“Let’s hope God’s busy somewhere and not listening,” Hump said. “False swearing can get you in trouble.”
The crack in the bone widened. “I swear. . . .”
“See? You keep doing that.” Hump gave him an insolent grin.
My turn. “I got it on a good source, Walt, that you furnished the clean iron for the robbery a couple of nights ago.”
“That’s a lie,” Walt shrieked. “A fucking lie.”
“You calling me a liar, Walt?” I looked over at Hump. “What you think about this tub of guts calling me a liar?”
“Easy, Jim. That’ll make trouble.”
Hump’s reasonable tone was a good one to play against. “I don’t give a shit. I’ve already got trouble. Look at this turd. He sells the clean iron, takes their money, and then he turns right around and sells them out. Makes bloodmeat out of them.” I waved the hand around and it began to ache. “And I almost end up buying the farm because I know one of them. No, you’re not going to lie to me, Walt, because I’ll kick your ass from here to Decatur before I let you.”
Hump moved over and got a grip on my good hand. “Come on. How’d he know he was getting you in the line of fire? Be smart, Jim. How could he know?”
Walt wasn’t sure quite how to play this. Nodding seemed to be easier because Hump was holding me back, but nodding meant that he’d be admitting something he didn’t want to. On the other hand, denying it might make me break bad and come over the counter after him. Back when I’d known him I’d had a hard reputation and I guess he remembered it. With that choice before him he decided to nod. It was a tentative nod, one so brief that perhaps he hoped we’d miss it. We didn’t.
“What you say, Walt?” Hump pushed at him.
It came out choked. “I didn’t know. I swear it.”
“You see, Jim? It’s not his fault. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all day. Hell, he’d probably walk around the block rather than get you in trouble. Right, Walt?”
“Sure. If I’d known they’d come after you, I’d have thought about it twice.”
“Calm down, Jim,” Hump said. “Walt’ll find some way to square it with you.”
“I’ll do anything I can.” But Walt was beginning to get his second wind and the bone would have to break the rest of the way quick or he’d find a way to lie out of it.
“Wake up, Hump. He’s going to cheap shit con us. Look at him. Right now he thinks he’s out of the woods and he’s running a few lies past just to decide which one he’ll use on us. And after we leave he’ll be laughing up his armpit at us.”
“He better not be,” Hump said. He released my arm and stepped away.
I moved to the counter and let him smell the Irish and the beer fumes. “You sold out Jake and the rest of the bunch. So far Jake and a girl who worked for him are dead. Butchered, bled like hogs. Now that’s your fault and you’ve got twenty-five words or so to convince me there’s some reason why you ought to be living.”
“I couldn’t help It,” Walt said.
I turned to Hump. “Count the words. That’s four he’s wasted so far.” I swung back at Walt. “Charleston’s got his wires crossed. He’s trying to cut me. You better pick your side and you better pick the winner. If he wins you’re free and clear. If he loses and you haven’t been straight with me you’ll end up in dog food cans.”
“If it helps you make your choice,” Hump said, “I’m with Hardman and the dude who’s going to cut me is still in his daddy’s gonads.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Six more words,” I said to Hump. “That makes ten.” Back to Walt: “I want to know who you sold them out to.”
“I can’t. . . . ” Walt stopped himself. He realized that the protest just ran the word count up.
“Make your bet,” I said.
“And I never talked to you?”
“I haven’t seen you in years. I don’t even know you.”
The bone broke the rest of the way. “A soldier named Bert Wolff came by the morning after. He was checking the dealers, all the ones who furnish guns for jobs. He roughed me up and I told him. They didn’t pay me anything. They didn’t even offer me anything. But they said they’d kill me if I didn’t tell.”
I vaguely remembered the soldier’s name. “Who does Bert soldier for?”
“I heard it was Jocko.”
“Just heard?” I said.
“No, he told me Jocko sent him.”
That would be Eddie Giacommo. He owned an Italian restaurant and owned pieces of some bars and topless places. The restaurant, The Gondola, was considered the best Italian eating place in town. I’d eaten there a few times. The last time I’d taken Marcy there Eddie had made a big thing over admiring her. And he’d sent a bottle of his private stock over to the table. So much for that kind of old-country courtesy. If Jocko was running the hunt, a nodding acquaintance with me wouldn’t buy me much. In that hunt business nobody knows the names of the foxes.
“We’ll cover you,” I told Walt.
“The way you covered Jake and the others?” Walt didn’t seem that sure.
“Better,” I said, “a lot better.”
“Jocko? I thought he was out of that kind of thing.” Art was talking in a whisper. That meant there was company around. “His name hasn’t bounced around the shop for months.”
“See if Intelligence has an up-date.�
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“And meet you where?”
“The Coffee Shop.”
“It’ll be an hour. Still got paperwork on the girl.”
“Soon as you can,” I said. “Dark’s around six and I don’t feel comfortable out with that cutter around.”
“Forty-five minutes,” Art said.
Hump took his time driving over to The Coffee Shop. It wasn’t much to rush across town for. The cooking was said to be like mother’s but to Southerners that meant overcooked and greasy with ham fat. It’d been a bad night and a hard day and I could feel a headache coming on. No lunch and those drinks with Art and then those beers. Maybe I’d have felt better with something to eat, but after seeing Heddy in that stream-ditch I wasn’t sure I’d eat for another week.
“You look dragging,” Hump said.
“A snake’s belly,” I said.
“The girl?”
I was watching the street. It was cold and gray, the kind of day to be in bed with a woman you loved if you had one. If not, then one you liked and could talk to. Marcy. I guess she was one or both of those.
It wasn’t a good day to be found face down in the water.
“It’s not all that Mike Hammer shit. A mixture of the sad blues and pissed off.” Human life ought to mean more than that. Jocko birddogs and does his point and Charleston rushes right over and cuts a throat. And all the time Jocko’s sitting in the back booth in the front room of The Gondola drinking coffee and looking for all the world like the kindly old country host. If anything bothered him it didn’t show while he lunched on veal or moved through the lunch crowd, bestowing his recognition upon a choice table or two. Nothing showing on him. Money and pride washing over him while the bones and bloodmeat got made somewhere else.
I decided it would be better not to say much of that. “You ever meet Jocko, Hump?”
“Me? I’m a spaghetti and meatballs man. You reckon they serve that over at his place?”
“Probably.”
“I met him once. A year ago. You know Harve White, locates and runs a game now and then? Takes a percentage out of each pot. Skinny little guy always got a cough?”
“I know him,” I said.
“I was short one time. Some girl screwed me to sleep and ran off with my roll. So Harve comes up and asks if I’d be doorman for him. You might remember about that time some guys were knocking over games?”
I remembered. It seemed to be a sport that caught on now and then. No income tax and nothing on your police bands because the robberies never got reported. But sooner or later a couple of the studs would be burned bad and the sport would wash away.
Hump parked in the lot across from The Coffee Shop. Neither of us made a move to get out. There was still a lot of time before we expected Art.
“I’m good for a touch,” I said. “You could have come to me.”
“And admit some dog rolled me? I feel funny telling about it now. Anyway Harve offered me a hundred the night. I’d meet them at the door, check their names against the list. Nobody in who wasn’t on the list. And no iron in the room. Iron to be checked with me out in the hall. No trouble the first hour or so. They’re drifting in one or two at the time. Going to the bar Harve’s set up. No trouble until those two show up. Jocko and his shadow. Jocko’s all sleek and pampered. Dark suit with a white silk tie. Handmade shoes. Sweet and kindly. Not the shadow with him. He’s all rock and rough edges. No make-believe about him, no smokestacking about him. He’s the real article. Now I see the bulge and I know he’s carrying and he tries to waltz right past me. The last thing I want to do is mess with him but when you take a man’s money you take the rank with it. So sweet as a tea party I tell him there’s no iron in the game room and he’s got to check it with me. For a second it’s tight. Hardrock didn’t want to give it up. He says nobody touches his iron and I go over to this dresser where I’ve put the guns and I pull out a drawer and I say he can put it in himself and take it out himself after the game’s over. He still doesn’t like it but Jocko’s been looking at me like I’m one of his black dishwashers or busboys and he tells Hardrock to go ahead and leave the iron. Then he grins at me and says something like he’s sure Hardrock won’t have any trouble making me give it back.”
“Would he have had trouble?”
“I’m not sure. He’s one hardcocked dude and he might have been more than I could handle.”
“You might meet him again if he’s still working for Jocko.”
“I’m running that around in my head, have been since Walt gave us the name. Might have to head-on with him.”
“It comes to that I’ll help you,” I said, grinning.
“You?” The laugh was friendly but there was some truth in it. “A fat nice dude like you with one good hand?”
“Come on, now, don’t hurt my feelings.”
“Wouldn’t do that.” Hump opened his ash tray and took out a short, half-smoked joint. He lit it and did that hissing and smoked it off. He didn’t offer me any but it wasn’t unfriendly. At first he had and now I guess he’d decided to save his breath. When he was done, he stubbed it out and we went across the street to wait for Art.
“The recent file’s flat as my bankbook,” Art said. “I made the trip so you could buy me supper.”
“Order,” I said.
I passed up a menu and Hump looked a question at me. I shook my head. “We might try the spaghetti and meatballs later.”
Art ordered and Hump and I took another beer. Art watched the waitress out of earshot. “Almost nothing on Jocko in the last year. If he’s doing anything he’s hiding it well. Maybe four or five trips to New York this year so far. No way of knowing what his business was up there. Two trips to Miami. Same blank there.”
“Strange traffic around him since the robbery?”
“Nobody new that we know.”
“Why’s Jocko running the hunt?” I asked.
“Maybe pride. This is his preserve, his playground and he runs a tight ship. Looks bad when somebody gets out of hand and rips off half the big-time game people. Looks like he can’t keep the rabble in line. More than that he’s making points for himself, collecting I.O.U.’s he can call later if he needs a favor.”
“Any calls to Charleston since Monday?”
“You know better than that. He’s going to use his office or home phone for that? Not while all you need is a handful of quarters and a pay phone.”
Hump tilted his head back and poured his beer down. “Who’s his shadow now? The same one from a year or so ago?”
Art nodded. “If we’re thinking about the same one. Not quite as wide as a door but he looks like he knows how to make you hurt. Some old acne scars across his nose and high on his cheekbones?”
“That’s him,” Hump said.
“His name’s George Beck. And I’ll tell you this story about him. It got hushed up at the time. A fall ago three tough guys from one of the pro teams . . . I don’t remember whether it was the 49-ers or the Bears . . . went into The Gondola. Had too much to drink and decided to terrorize the place. Jocko just nodded at George and turned him loose. He cleaned plows and handles and harness and he had those boys out on the street before they knew what hit them.”
“What did hit them?” Hump asked.
“Mostly fists. Maybe a high kick or two. Word is he might have been a pug one time.” Art hadn’t read much into the questions at first. Now it hit him that there was more than a casual interest at work here. “You know him, Hump?”
“Met him once.”
“Bad blood?”
“Some,” Hump said.
“You’re not thinking of going against him, are you?”
“Of course not.” Hump grinned at Art. “You think I got crap for brains?”
“If you decided to I’ll take an invitation. I’d like to see it.”
“No,” Hump said, “you wouldn’t want to see it.”
Art’s supper came and I gave the waitress some money to cover his meal, our beers, and a tip. We got
in Hump’s car and sat there. He didn’t make a move to turn the engine over. Just sat there moving his shoulders as if trying to get a chill out of him. Then he lit a cigarette and looked at me. “I’m getting so I can read your foxy mind, Hardman, and right now you’re trying to think up a way you can give me an out, let me slide away from it.”
“That’s close,” I said.
“What’s hard is that you’ve got to find a way that’ll leave me some balls.”
“Closer and closer,” I said.
“Of course, nothing might come of it. We might just end up eating the spaghetti and meatballs.”
“And drinking the wine.”
“And drinking the wine,” Hump said. He kicked the engine over and grinned at me. “Appreciate you worrying about me. And if it makes you worry less there is some badass in me you’ve never seen.” He made his circle and pulled out of the parking lot.
“We’ll leave it at that and float with it.”
“Agreed.”
God, Beck said, you ought to be in the movies, the ones they show on Houston Street.
I have a good day now and then, the blond young man said.
I’d take one of your bad days, Beck said.
It’s all in the mind, the blond man said.
Beck was driving. Where now? he asked.
The blond man gave him an address. He’d checked it on an Atlanta street map and his directions were precise.
More girls? Beck asked.
Boys, the blond man said.
The maître d’ wanted to seat us in the inner room, the one where the bandstand was, where the eunuch-looking Danish tenor sang Italian songs. I’d made that mistake once and almost lost the hearing in one ear. Also I’d almost eaten a napkin by mistake because the lighting was low and romantic in there.
Last of all, Jocko was at his usual booth and it might be a way of getting it started. Sitting under his nose and seeing what came of it. I knew Jocko had seen us enter but he pretended that he hadn’t. Head down over his account books. Let him play act all he wanted to.
I held out against the maître d’ and ended up with a table almost directly across from Jocko. The shadow, George Beck, wasn’t around.
