Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  “Code 4,” Judith Barrows said. “The Ford was last seen going north on Pennsylvania at Third Avenue.”

  Code 4, hit and run. Crestone obeyed the .38.

  Kurowski said, “10-4. We’ll swing up that way.”

  She was keeping 751 north, sure enough. The phone exploded. Judith Barrows went around the counter again to the extension. She nodded.

  From the background of a noisy party a man said, “Somebody swiped my car.” A woman shouted. “Tell ’em it’s even paid for!”

  Crestone wrote down the information. A ’52 cream Cadillac sedan, R607, taken sometime between 12:30 A.M. and 1:30 A.M. “It was right in the damned driveway,” the owner complained. “We’re having a little party here and—”

  “Keys in it?” Crestone asked.

  “Sure! It was in my own driveway.”

  “We’ll get on it right away.” Crestone hung up.

  The woman said, “You won’t put that one out, Buster.”

  So he was guessing right. They had a cream Cad waiting. If they planned to use State 7, the quick run for the crew at the Wampum was up the county road past the country club and then on out Canal to where it intersected across the river with State 7 near the old brick plant. Barrows could shoot straight north on Meredith to Glencoe, turn east—Why hell, she would strike State 7 just a hundred yards from the old brick works. The Cad was waiting out there now!

  She was behind him once more. As if she had read his thoughts she asked, “What’s in your little round head now, Buster?”

  “I’m wishing you’d beat it.”

  She laughed but there were little knots of tension in the sound. The deal must be on at the Wampum now. Before she left she would have to level him. She would swing lower and harder then. The thought made Crestone’s headache worse. He hoped she knew the bones on the side of a man’s skull couldn’t take it like the thick sloping top. She might stretch him so he never got up. He could smell his own sweat.

  Before the clincher came he would have to run a test on her. The next time she was in the chair.

  One of the side doors made a whushing sound and then a voice boomed across the lobby. “Hey there, Bill, how’s the peace and dignity of the community?” It was old Fritz Hood on his way home from the power company’s sub station. He always stopped to bellow at Bill Walters.

  “Hello, Fritz!”

  “You, Joey! Where’s Bill tonight?”

  “Sick.”

  “The old bastard! I’ll go see him before he dies.” The door rocked back to center. Hood was gone.

  Judith Barrows was in the chair, with her jacket across her lap and the code sheets on the desk. Crestone rose slowly. The fur jacket slid away and showed the .38. Something dropped out of one of the jacket sleeves. He made another step. She tilted the muzzle, resting the edge of her hand on her knee. She cocked the gun then. Her face was white.

  Crestone tried to talk himself into it; but he knew she was too scared. An excited or scared dame with a gun. Murder. He backed up and sat down. His head was pounding. On the floor at her feet lay a piece of doubled wire, the raw ends covered with white tape.

  The phone sang like a rattlesnake. The woman made a nervous stab at it before she gained control and nodded at Crestone. Mrs. John Slenko, 3648 Locust, had just seen a man in her back yard. She wanted the police.

  Judith Barrows’ vigilance wavered while she was fumbling her phone back into the cradle. Crestone used his phone to push the Gain dial of the radio down to One while he was putting the instrument away. He dispatched 750 to Mrs. Slenko’s home.

  The big dame was in a knot now and Crestone was coming out of it. She had grabbed at the phone because she was expecting a call to tell her that the job at the Wampum was done. She was staying in the chair to be near the phone.

  When York and Shannon began to talk about a revoked driver’s license, the sounds came faintly.

  “What did you do to the radio!”

  “Nothing.”

  The .38 was on his stomach. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing, damn it! We get a split-phase power lag on the standby tower every night.” He hoped she knew as little of radio as he did. “The reception fades, that’s all.”

  “You’re lying! You did something, didn’t you?”

  “No! You’ve been watching me every second.”

  “You’re going to get it, Crestone, if anything goes wrong.” She was wound-up but the gun was easy.

  Car 752 came in, so faint that only “seven-fift’ ” was audible, but Crestone knew Purcell’s voice and he could guess the message. Purcell had sulked in the Sunset Drive Inn, dwelling on the inequalities of traffic code enforcement, but now he and Old McGlone were on their way again.

  The woman’s voice was a whip crack. “What was it?”

  “I’ll have to get it on the other mike.”

  “What other mike?”

  Crestone kept his finger close to his chest when he pointed. “On a hook around at the side of the radio.”

  The faint call came again.

  “All right,” Judith Barrows said.

  There was dust on the curled lead of the hand mike. Crestone said, “Car 750, I read you 10-1. The standby trouble again, as usual.” 10-1 meant: receiving poorly. From the corner of his eye he saw the woman grab the code sheet to check on him.

  Car 750, which had not called, now tried to answer at the same time 752 came in. Crestone said, “Standby, 751. 10-6.” Busy. Now he had them all confused. He called for a repeat from Car 750 to make it more confused. During the instant Judith Barrows was checking the code number he had used, he turned transmitting power to almost nothing.

  Faint murmurs came from the radio as the three local cars asked questions Crestone could not hear. The woman did not like her loss of contact. She got out of her chair. “Where’s 751?” she demanded.

  Into a dead mike Crestone asked the location of the car. He pretended to hear the answer from the receiver against his ear. “He’s trailing a green Ford toward the Wampum Club.”

  “Get him away from there!” She was panicked for a moment and then she got hold of herself. She grabbed the local code sheet. “Code 9 him to the Silver Moon.”

  Code 9 was a disturbance. Crestone went through the pretense of calling 751. There was still enough flow of power to light the purple eye.

  “Tell him to disregard the Ford,” she ordered.

  “10-22 previous assignment, 751. Code 9 at the Silver Moon.”

  When the next small scratch of sound came from the speaker, he said, “Midway, Car 55. Go ahead.” He began to write as if he were taking a message: ‘52 cream Cadillac sedan, R607, State 7 near old brick plant. Driver resisted arrest.

  She came out of her chair. “What’s that message?”

  “Car 55 just picked up a guy in a stolen car near the brick works.”

  It struck her like death. “Give me that paper!”

  He tossed it toward her. She raked it in with her heel, and picked it up without taking her eyes off him. She read it at a glance and cursed.

  The phone rang. She had it with out making her signal to Crestone. He lifted his receiver. A tense voice said, “All set here.”

  “No!” she cried. “The state patrol just got Brownie and the car!”

  “You sure?”

  “It just came in on the radio.”

  “The other way then. You’re on your own, kid, till you know where.” The man hung up.

  Crestone said into the hand mike, “10-4, Car 750.” He swung to face the woman when she went around the counter. “Car 750 is four blocks away, coming in.”

  She raised the gun. “They’re coming in,” he said. A man might have done it. She broke. It was her own safety now. Her heels made quick taps on the steel steps, a hard scurrying on the lobby tiles.

  Crestone loaded the shotgun as he ran. The blue Mercury was at the first meter south of the police parking zone. She spun her wheels on the gutter ice and then the sedan lurched into the street. H
e put the muzzle on the right front window. Her face was a white blur turned toward him. He could not do it. He shot, instead, at the right rear tire and heard the shot rattle on the bumper.

  He raced back to the radio and put the dials where they belonged. He poured it out then in crisp code. All cars, all stations. First, a ’53 green Hudson sedan, K2066, possibly four men in car. Left Wampum Club, Midway, two minutes ago. Armed robbery. Dangerous. Second, a ’52 blue Mercury sedan, K3109, last seen going north on Meredith one minute ago, possibly shotgun marks on right rear fender.

  The phone blasted. “This is Sonny Belmont, Bill. We’ve had some trouble down here. Four men in a late Hudson tudor, a light color. They cut toward town on Market. The license was a K2—something.”

  “K2066, a green ’53 Hornet, Belmont.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Crestone. What’d they look like?”

  Belmont’s descriptions were sharp. “I slipped, Joey. They nailed me opening the safe.”

  “How much?”

  “About eighty grand.” Belmont said the amount reluctantly. It would be in the papers and he knew it. “How’d you boys get hot so quick, Joey?”

  “Luck.” Crestone hung up. Car 750 reported that a speeding Hornet sedan had outrun the cruiser and was headed north on 315. Crestone sent that information to all cars north of Midway.

  Car 752 came in. “We’re on the blue Mercury with the woman,” Purcell said. “She’s got a flat rear tire.”

  “She’s got a .38 too,” Crestone said.

  Three minutes later Purcell called from Glencoe and Pitt. “We got her. Car 751 is here with us.”

  Crestone dispatched Car 751 to the old brick works with the dope on a cream Cadillac sedan. Car 55 came in from Highway 315. “The green Hudson got past me, Midway. I’m turning now to go north. Tell Shannon.”

  The Shannon dispatcher said, “10-4 on that message, Midway.” A moment later he was talking to a sheriff, and then state patrol 54 came in.

  When the channels were clear again Crestone called Steel City to cover State 7 from the east, just in case. He called the police chief and the sheriff by telephone. The chief said he would be down at once. Crestone was still talking to the sheriff when Car 751 reported. “We got the cream Cadillac sedan at the brick plant,” Kurowski said. “The guy scrammed into the weeds and took the keys with him.”

  The message went into the mouthpiece of the telephone. The sheriff said, “I’ll be down there with a couple of boys in ten minutes.” Crestone hung the phone up. He told Car 751 to stand by at the brick works.

  Everything was set now. There would be a tough road block at the Y on State 20 and Highway 315. If the Hudson got around that, there would be trouble on ahead, piling up higher as more cars converged.

  Crestone lit a cigarette. The phone rang. A man asked, “You got my car yet?”

  “What car?”

  “My Cadillac! My God, man! I just called you.”

  “The only stolen car in the world,” Crestone said. “Yeah, we got it. You can pick it up at the police garage in the morning. Bring your registration and title and five bucks for towing charges.”

  “Towing! Is it hurt?”

  “No keys.”

  “Oh,” the man said. The party was still going on around him. “Look, officer, I’ve got an extra set of keys. If you’ll send a car around—”

  “Get it here in the morning.”

  “Okay then.” The man hung up.

  Crestone decided that his skull was breaking. He punched his cigarette out and tried to swallow the bad taste it had left in his mouth.

  They brought her in, Purcell and Old McGlone. The tension was gone from her now; she looked beaten down and helpless.

  “Cute kid.” Purcell held up the .38. “She put a couple of spots on 752 by way of greeting us. Is the chief on his way?”

  Crestone nodded. The woman looked at him and said, “I’m sorry I kept hitting you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “She was here?” Purcell asked. “She slugged you?”

  “She did.”

  Old McGlone needed a shave as usual. He was staring at Judith Barrows. All at once he asked, “When did you leave Pulaski Avenue, Zelda Tuwin?”

  Her eyes jerked up to Old McGlone’s face. “Five years ago. It was raining.”

  “I remember you. You were a chubby kid, Zelda. You—”

  “I was a big fat slob!”

  “You been a dress model?” Crestone asked.

  “Yeah! Big stuff! I got tired of parading in front of bitches and their men. I couldn’t eat what I wanted to. I had to walk like I was made of glass. I got tired of it.”

  Old McGlone nodded. “Sure, sure. So you wanted to have the money like them you pranced in front of. You were doubtless making plenty yourself—for a kid from the Polish section of Midway. You’d have been better off staying on Pulaski and marrying a good boy from the mill, Zelda Tuwin.”

  Old McGlone looked sad and wistful. He never did want to believe the things he had been seeing for twenty-five years. He was tough but not hard. He understood and he deplored but he never could condemn. Zelda Tuwin watched him for several moments and seemed to recognize those things about him.

  And then she stared at the floor.

  The chief tramped in. Crestone gave him the story. The chief nodded, watching Zelda Tuwin. He tilted his head toward his office and clumped down the steps. Old McGlone and Purcell took her out, Purcell walking ahead. Old McGlone said, “Watch them steel steps there, Zelda.”

  After a while the sheriff’s car came in. He had Brownie, who had tried to jump a canal and nearly drowned. Car 54 was on the air a moment later.

  “We got the Hornet, Midway. Four men. What’s the authority?”

  “Midway PD. Bring ’em back, and everything they have with them.”

  “They got it too. Cars 55 and 86 are coming in with me.”

  Crestone sent out a cancellation on the two stolen cars. He could hear the chief talking to Zelda Tuwin downstairs. He knew how Old McGlone felt about some things there seemed to be no help for. It was 3:41 A.M.

  Joe Crestone had a hell of a headache.

  NICE BUNCH OF GUYS

  Michael Fessier

  All the taxi drivers and the fellows who hung around the pool hall would tell you that Marty was a laugh; you should’ve seen him when the boys got him burnt up about something. He was more fun than a circus, was Marty. Not exactly crazy enough to be put in the nut house or anything like that, just goofy enough to be really pretty darn funny.

  He sold papers at the station. They were Posts and Marty yelled something that sounded like “Whoa”, so all the fellows got a great kick out of yelling “Giddiap! Whoa!” at him and making him mad. He got screwy when they did that. He’d come across the street with his dirty checkered cap pulled down over one side of his face and his twisted mouth all squeezed up into a snarl.

  “You old bootleggers,” he’d say. “You old bootleggers!” The fellows got a special kick out of Marty calling ’em bootleggers and they’d laugh like anything. “I’m gonna get you,” Marty would say. “Just you wait and see. You’d better not make fun of me.”

  “Aw, gosh! Don’t scare us like that,” one of the fellows would say, and everybody’d laugh again. Everyone would gather around. There was always a laugh when you had Marty going. He’d lay his papers on the sidewalk and double up his fists. “Wanna fight?” he’d ask. Then everybody’d act afraid and beg Marty not to hit ’em. Of course they weren’t afraid. Marty was just a little fellow and any of the fellows could have licked him easy with one hand. They were just kidding him for a laugh. Even Old Ironsides—that’s what they called the corner cop—would come by and grin at Marty standing with his fists doubled up and acting like he was a tough guy.

  They’d keep on kidding Marty and he’d start squealing like a stuck pig, he’d get so mad. You couldn’t understand what he was saying when he got mad like that. Just a lot of cuss words that didn’t make sens
e. And his mouth would froth like he was a mad dog or something.

  Then somebody’d act like he really was going to fight Marty. He’d double up his fist and prance around and wiggle his arms and say, “All right, Marty, look out!” and he’d make a couple passes at Marty. “Come on, put ’em up,” the fellow would say, “I’m gonna knock your can off.” Then Marty’d start whimpering like a little kid. He’d rub his eyes and back away and say, “You’d better not. You’d better not. I’ll tell the cops, that’s what I’ll do.” Then he’d grab his papers and run like hell back across the street. Gee, it was funny!

  It wouldn’t be no time before he’d forget all about it and he’d be walking up and down the station platform yelling “Whoa, Whoa,” or something that sounded like that. He sold a lot of papers because people felt sorry for him, I guess. He kept all his money in one pocket and when there wasn’t anybody around he’d take it out and count it. He’d count his money seventy times a day. Guess it was the biggest kick he got out of life. And you couldn’t get him to spend a nickel. Nobody knew what he did with his money. He was nutty about money.

  He was always begging for it. “Gimme a nirkel,” he’d say, looking up at somebody. “Aw, go on, gimme a nirkel. Please,” he’d say, “go on, please gimme a nirkel.” It was funny the way he said nickel. There was something the matter with his tongue and he couldn’t talk straight. He’d do anything for a nickel and that’s no kidding. He’d do anything. Sometimes when the fellows were drunk they’d get Marty in the back room of the pool hall and if you’d been there you’d seen there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for a nickel.

  But one of the biggest kicks was when the fellows would kid Marty about his girls. Of course he didn’t have any. He was about thirty years old and he had a face like a monkey. His chin sprouted long black hairs that grew far apart and the fellows said he had pig’s bristles instead of whiskers. I don’t think he ever shaved but the whiskers didn’t get any longer. It was funny to think of him having a girl. Gosh, no girl’d even look at him. Even the Mexican woman would chase him away when he’d go to her shack across the tracks and say what the fellows had put him up to saying.