Death Comes Early

by William R. Cox

  William R. Cox

  Death Comes Early

  one

  Jack Ware cut the deck for Ted Colyer and walked to a one-way window which looked down on his restaurant. No one glancing up could see him, but he could count the crowd, which was good sized for late afternoon, and keep an eye on the cash register and look for pretty girls.

  Ted Colyer said, “The damn Pirates had to take everything and now you beat me at gin.”

  “You should have saved your money. You should have invested in Polaroid Camera. You would be a millionaire by now, instead of a bum.”

  “Agh. Shaddup,” said Ted amiably. He was as lean and good-looking and tanned as when he was with the Yankees, a fine outfielder with a rifle arm, a consistent long ball hitter and a sparkplug for Casey. He was thirty-seven and only the worry lines on his face betrayed him. “Pick up your hand. I can’t afford to quit now.”

  Jack walked across to the other window. His office was part of a second-story layout which allowed him to watch his kitchen and his cash box. He thought about how fond he was of Ted Colyer.

  He said, “I still think you’re wrong about that horse.”

  “You don’t know your elbow from horses. Play cards.”

  “Nobody knows from horses and I don’t even believe in boat races,” said Jack.

  “Play your hand,” said Ted.

  Jack lowered his large, wide frame onto a chair across the desk from his friend. He was a muscular man; even his face had muscles. He was blond and colorful to the eye, not handsome, blunt-featured, with a direct manner. He picked up his cards and arranged them. He took the king of hearts and fitted it in and discarded the ten of diamonds to keep from blocking himself.

  Ted picked, discarded the king of spades. Jack said, “You were first in line when bad luck was handed out. Gin.”

  “You dirty slob,” said Ted. “Fifty-nine.”

  “That’s another blitz.”

  “How much I owe?”

  Jack counted it up. “Five hundred and two bucks.”

  “Okay.” Ted was listless, which was very unlike him. He usually cursed and screamed and damned his luck, Jack, his ancestors and his brother.

  Jack folded the cards away, put them in the drawer of the small desk. The office had been built for convenience and comfort, not for bookkeeping or business conferences. There was a small bar, a hi-fi with stereo, books of all kinds, comfortable chairs. There were sports lithos on the wall which set the motif for the room and the people who habituated it.

  A door led to a bathroom and a tiny cubicle containing a double bed, a dresser and a huge closet. Another door led to the hallway and the elevator and stairs required by fire regulations. It was a home away from home and a hangout for a carefree Broadway crowd and some other people.

  “Mind if I tune in the race?” asked Ted.

  “If you can stand looking.”

  The ex-ballplayer went to the color television set which was built into a corner. He fiddled with the switches.

  It wasn’t anything new, Jack thought, it merely had new overtones. Ted had retired from baseball with a fortune. Ever since that day he had been trying to find an excuse for living.

  Ted never had a job. He was a ballplayer, period. From seventeen until thirty-seven he had spent his time on the baseball fields of the nation. It had been impossible for him to believe he would ever be anything but a baseball man.

  It hadn’t worked out that way. For various reasons, none of them all Ted’s fault, the business hadn’t wanted him. Once his legs gave way, there was no job.

  The picture arranged itself in black and white. The color would come on when they started the race. It was the Camptown Special, a stakes race worth $90,000. There were ten other races on the program, but Ted was laying it all on Gold Bug in the Special.

  Jack had a couple hundred riding on the horse, because Ted was so certain that it couldn’t lose. Fortune was the favorite, Jack Jim was rated second best. Ted knew something, he knew the trainer, he knew the stable. The stable was owned by Cyrus Easton Camp, who had said nothing to Jack Ware about Gold Bug, but Ted had it bad for the nag. Bugged by Gold Bug, Jack thought

  There was no use saying anything more. Ted was older than Jack, he had been around. He was a positive guy, in his pleasant, friendly way. The bets were down and the race was about to begin. Jack adjusted the color as the scene shifted to the track, the announcer began his staccato, brittle call, the horses paraded on the brown dirt.

  Ted said, “Stop worrying. It’s for sure.”

  “Who’s worrying?” Jack knew who. He tried to keep it light “They’ll be running tomorrow. I just took you for more than I’ve got on your damn Gold Bug.”

  “Chicken.”

  “You bet. Horses, to me, are large, inimical animals. Whenever I’m near them they bare their fangs. They step on me, try to kick me in the groin.”

  “Horses don’t aim their punches.”

  “Mine do. Right in the groin.”

  Ted laughed, but there was no lift to it. He had always been a big laugher. Nothing had ever deterred him on his merry way, until lately.

  Jack said, “We ought to go up to the country for a weekend. Catch a fish, maybe.”

  “You hate to fish, you clown.”

  “I like to make believe I enjoy fishing. It’s unmanly not to enjoy fishing.”

  “Nuts,” said Ted. His eyes were glued to the screen. They were in the starting gate.

  Jack moved to where he could watch Ted and the race at the same time. Concern was growing in him every moment. The little lines on Ted’s face had become canals.

  The man at the track began his call. “It’s Fortune breaking on top, then Whirligig, then Jack Jim, then Gold Bug, Skyaway, Carmen’s Daughter, Underway, Gray Leg and Marbletop…”

  Jack wondered how a man could call them like that, identifying the position of each horse. He must have four pairs of eyes and a helper or two, he decided. It was all a blur of color and motion. He had never cared about horse racing. He liked to bet, would gamble on anything, but horses were for the addicts in his opinion and he was not hooked.

  He watched Ted Colyer. It was like watching a man in death row awaiting a reprieve.

  “Gold Bug is making his move. Wester has him on the outside… Wester goes to the whip… It is Fortune, Jack Jim and Gold Bug at the turn…”

  It happens fast in a race. They come out, they go around, they come into the stretch. Only this time in the stretch, after one look, Jack Ware knew the truth. The race was close, it was a dandy, only it lay between Fortune and Jack Jim. Gold Bug was a bad third.

  Ted Colyer leaned back and fumbled for a cigarette. He allowed Jack to light it, inhaled, blew out a cloud of smoke. Then he went over and turned off the television set.

  Jack said casually, “Wanted to talk to you, amigo.”

  “That was real funny,” said Ted, “that race. Really ridiculous. That race didn’t make sense.”

  “They seldom do unless you win.” He felt that Ted was not listening. “Look, I do want to talk to you.”

  “Sure, Jack. What like?”

  “Well, I’m opening this new place in Hollywood, remember?”

  “Sure. You told me.”

  “Just like this one. Jack’s of Hollywood. On restaurant row, La Cienega Boulevard. So many New York people out there, it will be an annex, sort of.”

  “Lots of luck, pal.”

  “Uh-uh.” He had to break through, get Ted’s attention. “I figure it’s about time you went to work. Take charge of the joint for me. It’d be a hell of a favor.”

  Ted said, “One hell of a dumb race. I wonder…” He broke off, stared at Jack. “Me? What the hell do I know about restaurants, you idiot. I can’t even pay my
tabs!”

  “You think I know anything? I hire people. I’ve got a man out there knows what to do. I need a greeter who knows how to meet folks. I need a pal to watch things and call me every day, someone I can trust.”

  Ted started to say something, stopped, took a new grab and began softly, grinning. “You sonofabitch. You know too much about me.”

  “I know the way things have been going.”

  “Well, sure. You’re right. Not going good.”

  “This job—there’ll be something in it, a percentage. Maybe we’d open another place in Florida. Hell, if I can learn it, you can.”

  “That’s for sure. I don’t know how you did it.” Ted looked at the ceiling. There were deep circles under his eyes. There was a minute of silence.

  He’ll take it, Jack thought. He’s a reckless guy and all that but he never was stupid. It’s a chance to get away from New York and the mob and that damned broad…

  The door opened and Lila Sharp came in, as if on cue. Jack swore beneath his breath, watching Ted come back to life. He wished Lila Sharp were in hell, where he believed she rightly belonged.

  She was all style, a tall one. She wore a gray suit which fit her like a full-length Bikini. She was fair without being blond, with fortunate honey-colored hair that needed no dye job. Her eyes were slanted, her lips curving as though on the verge of smiling. She was lovely as a sailing ship on a calm blue sea.

  If she were only also without brains, Jack thought, as Ted hugged her tight If she only had something inside to match the outside.

  If she would only go away and leave Ted Colyer alone. Hell, she had most of his money, or had spent it, or had led him to invest it in ruinous projects; why did she hang on?

  Lila said, “Hi, Jack.” She also had a low, exciting voice. “Gold Bug didn’t do it?”

  “How could you tell?”

  “I can tell.” She held Ted at arm’s length, looking at him. “I can always tell.”

  Ted said, “Can’t win ’em all, baby.”’

  “I know, I know. Stiff upper lip, all that.”

  “Forget it,” said Ted. “It’s happened before.”

  “Has it?” It seemed as though she would say more, then she looked warily at Jack, knowing his dislike of her, and was silent.

  Jack said, “Will you take the job, Ted?”

  “Maybe. Tell you later. Got things to do, now.” He scribbled in a small checkbook, flipped the bit of paper on Jack’s desk. “Five hundred and the hell with the extras, I think you cheat on the score, anyway.”

  Lila asked, “What job?”

  “Tell you about it later,” said Ted. He was, suddenly, in a hurry, as though he had made up his mind to something definite.

  “It’s open from now on,” Jack said.

  Lila went out, looked back, then vanished toward the elevator. Ted paused a moment, smiling, looking for that moment as he always had, gay, kindly, happy.

  “Thanks, you slob.”

  The door closed. Jack picked up the check. The handwriting was hasty, half-formed, indicative of Ted’s inner turmoil.

  That damned walking broad, that high-toned stripper, he thought. She won’t marry him, she just takes his dough. Now that he’s broke, and I believe he is broke, she’ll ditch him soon enough. If I could only get him off to California, maybe that would do it.

  He put the check in a drawer. He wouldn’t cash it until he knew more about Ted’s finances. Sooner or later he would have to cash it because of Ted’s pride, but not now.

  He sat for a moment, decided against taking a drink.

  He felt low in spirits when he went out and down into the restaurant and bar which was making him a pocketful of money and giving him a lot of fun and some little fame.

  two

  Jack’s Place was on Third Avenue between 45th and 46th. The general refurbishing of that old, disreputable street had led him to build where once a brick tenement had moldered on the shady side of the El. The entry was modest, the interior was comparatively Spartan, the booze was the best, the food was plain but luscious.

  The circular bar was nearest the street, tempting the thirsty customer to linger under the spell of Brownie, who had been a referee and an umpire, football and baseball. The other night men were Spike and Jake, who could fan any sport or for that matter any show, on Broadway or off, any night club act or movie or carnival. They had been selected with care and were the best paid dispensers of liquor along the Avenue if not in the city.

  The restaurant was beyond the bar, deep and wide, with booths along each side and tables well-spaced between them. The kitchen was at the far rear end of the building. There were two private dining rooms upstairs, sound-proofed, flanking Jack’s office-apartment. The decor was red leather and white, the walls splattered with paintings of people: sports people, stage and screen people, newspaper and magazine people.

  There was no snob appeal in Jack’s Place and no knuckling to the intelligentsia, yet snobs and intellectuals fought to get in on a night like this, an autumn Saturday. They were coming in droves and Jack moved among them, towering, dressed as always in a fine gray suit of dacron and silk, wearing a plain, narrow blue tie and a white shirt and black, imported laceless shoes. Toots was just leaving and paused for an interchange of insults laden with “Crumb-bums,” before hastening to his own new place, where Jack would join him later. Sergeant Hal Damon came in as Toots departed.

  Damon wore blue serge because that was what he believed a cop should wear. He looked like a shabby car salesman. He had a long nose and watery green eyes and a suspicious mouth. He said, “Whyn’t you and that other slob go in business together? You got the same customers.”

  Jack said, “Always nice to see the law. Have a drink, Sergeant. On the house, of course.”

  “You miserable bastard,” said Damon emotionlessly. “You think I’d pay?”

  They stood at the bar and Jack had his first, a Daniel on the rocks. They understood each other very well. There was no warmth between them, only grudging tolerance.

  Damon said, “Where did Ted go when he left here?”

  Jack sipped his drink. He had surmised there was trouble, but this was bad. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “It would be better if you told me.” The detective swallowed vodka and soda. People called out, eddied to and fro, yelling at Jack. “I might could do something.”

  “About what?”

  It was Damon’s turn to be surprised. “Hell, he’s your best friend. You know all about it.”

  Jack said deliberately, “Don’t ever try to con me, Damon. It makes me very nervous. You can come in here any time and free load, you can check the trade as long as you do it legally and quietly, you can enjoy any privilege that’s coming to you. But don’t crap me.”

  Damon finished the drink. “All right, weisenheimer.” He turned and padded out, an inconspicuous, thin man with a prominent adam’s apple and sore feet. Jack looked after him and wondered if his tender temper hadn’t led him wrong again. If Damon had been tipping him to something about Ted, he had surely been wrong.

  On the other hand, the cop was a sneaky one. Maybe he was, as Jack had believed, prying, hoping to make Jack talk by implying that they were all in it together, whatever it was.

  It added up to trouble and plenty of it. Ted was mixed up in a dozen enterprises, any of which might well be shady, thanks to Lila Sharp and her friends.

  Ted’s failing lay in the fact that he never had any job outside baseball. He had made a fortune at the game and through side efforts, such as television, advertising testimonials and the hunting lodge which was run by his brother, Alvin. Work of any sort was foreign to him. He was a late-to-bed, late-to-rise man. He liked drinks and dames.

  Lila had, of course, contributed to this. She had cut off the other women and moved in on everything else.

  Jack turned from the bar, frowning. He spoke absently to several people, making his way into the restaurant. Pat Shapiro was handling the crowd and the scurrying waite
rs with an iron hand: a graying man, half Irish and half Jewish, shrewd and honest and loyal. Pat ran the place, to be honest about it.

  In the kitchen there was Louis Alphonse, Louie the Knife, who took care of that end of the business. Jack wondered if they would miss him if he walked out and did not return for six months. He doubted it.

  Well, he thought, that’s what makes a good executive, they tell me. Hire men who know how, pay them well. Then raise hell with them.

  Only he didn’t have to raise hell. He gave them their heads and when the money rolled in he bought more land in other places like Miami and Hollywood. If he could find other men as good, he would be a blinking millionaire and begin worrying about taxes.

  No, he wouldn’t worry about taxes, either, because downtown there was Max Somerwell who did that for him. Truthfully, he was on the edge of boredom, everything was going so well.

  The kitchen was immaculate, it smelled of good meat and fresh air, the vents were working, there were no stains or spots, French Louie the Knife regarded him with mordant suspicion. He went on out into the back alley where he half hoped he might find a garbage can uncovered. There were some trash cans, huge things for refuse, cartons, sundry dry items. The top was off one of these.

  Then he paused, amused at himself. Here he was, healthy, wealthy and thirty, looking for some picayune detail about which to complain. It had been that way all his life, a restlessness, an impatience with the good fortune handed out to him by the gods.

  He had been born in Greenwich, Connecticut, of rich parents. They had neither loved nor disliked him, being content with their own pursuit of happiness and excitement. They had been handsome and young, ever young, because in 1943 his father had gone down in flaming glory to a hero’s death over Germany; his mother had never learned of this. She was in London at the time and a blitz bomb had wiped out the ambulance she was driving.

  Jack had been brought up by a Trust Fund, sent to Lawrenceville, then to Princeton, where he had done very well until he was twenty, when the police action started in Korea and he had gone into the Navy. Nothing much happened to him, except he learned to dislike the sea and had been transferred for a brief time to OSS which he had also found unrewarding, if informative.