“Well, I’d like a check on him. I’ll go for the price, don’t worry. It’s a little idea of my own.”
“Your ideas are expensive,” said Frankie. “You know, for anyone else I wouldn’t do this, you know that.”
“I appreciate.”
“Sure, you do. And you are appreciated here, remember that. You had a good idea there, it is paying off.”
“Two million last year, clear, to the Syndicate,” said Pete. “That’s from one man. Can you top it?”
“Well, truthfully, yes. But it’s good enough. Keep cookin’, sweetheart.”
“Who topped it?” demanded Pete. “Tell me who?”
Frankie sighed. “Sensitive, always sensitive. So there’s a guy in Florida, he runs a one-man book on the baseball, football, horses, numbers, everything. He topped you. But look Pete, I doubt his take was as big as yours. I doubt that. Happy?”
Pete said, “Okay, okay.”
“You sure you can’t get me that broad from last night?”
“Frankie, I kid you not.”
“Honest to Paar?”
Pete laughed. “Honest to Honest Jack.”
“Honest to Hugh Downs?”
“Even to him.”
“Okay, sweetheart. Goo’-by.”
“Remember the Maine.” Pete hung up, in good humor again. There weren’t six men who knew Frankie’s predilection for the late television show starring Jack Paar. You had to be on the inside of the inside to joke with the Boss about the slightly hysterical semi-comedian who nightly kept millions of Americans awake with his high and low jinks.
Yes, outside the Syndicate, he, Pete, must be the top money maker in the rackets. It was worth every dime he paid them to protect him and keep him, through their extensive organization, informed on cogent matters.
There was a time when he could have been in the Big Mob. He had proven himself by knocking off a couple of Syndicate enemies, including a nosy cop. He had never even been suspected because he was not a member. That gave him the idea of staying on the outside, paying tribute but working on his own.
He lay back and again conned the ceiling. Things were perfect. When you came right down to it, there was nothing in the world to worry about. He was practically legit. Nobody was camping on his doorstep, local or Federal.
He needed only to keep tabs on Lila, Damon and Jack Ware. There was a day when he would have got hot at Ware and knocked him off like shooting rabbits. Maybe it would still come to that—but if it did, he wouldn’t attend to it personally, he would have a perfect alibi and he would send flowers and mourn at the funeral.
He could get Lila back if he wanted her. He did not want her. He would not give her a divorce for good reasons—it kept him from preying women to know that he was married; it kept Lila on the hot spot to know she couldn’t get free.
The hell with Lila. He got up and went into the adjoining bath and scrubbed his teeth hard.
She wasn’t any good, anyway, taking up with Ware so soon after Ted. It wasn’t decent. He had thought better of her. He was disappointed in her.
To a great many people who dwell in large cities the midday hour is not noon, but waking time. To Sergeant Damon it was four hours after he had left his flat in possession of the snoring wad of flesh which was Nola Shenovitz and a half day’s work was done and he felt terrible.
In the four hours he had taken care of the paper work on his desk, received a bawling out for failing to get anywhere on the midtown murders of the Colyer brothers, parried the questions of several bored and cynical newsmen and consumed a gallon of water not as cold as he would have liked it.
He was in danger and he knew it. As the expert on café society he was expected to have answers. If he failed to come up with anything there would be reprisal. The one thing he could not bear to imagine was a transfer.
He was all wrong about that, he surmised. He would be far better off out in the boondocks some place. He had his rating, he could set his sights on retirement and maybe marry someone like Nola and the hell with it.
He would just as soon be dead. He rallied himself. He was far from dead, he had a couple of ideas.
He went in and saw a certain city official who owed him favors and asked for a search warrant in blank and went back to his desk and waited for it.
Sergeant Wynoski came in and asked, “You heard anything about the bootleg in midtown?”
“They couldn’t get away with it. Third Avenue, the Bowery, the Bronx, Harlem, that’s where the juice goes.”
“Yeah. Well, the Feds are gettin’ nosy. You know what they say? They say it’s a two billion a year industry.”
“They say a hell of a lot.”
“They say the town’s fulla stills and we oughta knock on some doors.”
“Screw them. Boy Scouts,” said Damon.
“The Mayor listens to ’em.”
“Sure, he does. He’s a fink, too.”
“Well, just thought you might have heard something from the mob.”
“Screw the mob, I got troubles of my own.”
“Why don’t you make a few calls and grab off the killer?”
“Get smart, go ahead, Wynoski.”
“If you found some big time alky cooker in midtown, they’d forget the Colyer brothers, maybe,” said Wynoski.
“Get lost.”
Wynoski laughed in a nasty manner and walked away. They either disliked him for his personality or were envious of him because of his job, Damon knew. He had few friends, and those were bound to him by ties not of love but of duty.
Malaney came by and Wynoski stopped, putting his arm around the shoulder of the younger man. Wynoski was an old gasbag. He had been on the force over twenty years and should never have been taken out of uniform, Damon thought. Now he was sucking around the college boy.
Malaney knew about the incident at Jack’s Place, of course. He knew Damon had been backed down and had been made to like it. He was the exact opposite of Wynoski, one of those new-type cops, too smart for their own good.
Damon’s search warrant was delivered by a clerk. He was thinking very clearly now, with the aid of the acid eating at him. He arranged for a ride, went down the hall past Wynoski and Malaney, heard them talking about the alky drops and stills, sneered at them and left the building.
He got off on Park Avenue. He went to the Waltham Gardens, showed the doorman his badge and took the elevator. He got off on the tenth floor and went to the door of Apartment Number Two. The name plate read Jack Ware.
He had several small, clever tools with which he worked on the lock. It took him some time.
When he finally got the door open, he walked in and closed it behind him. Then he leaned back against it, staring, stunned.
A tall, handsome young woman, dressed in nothing but panties and an uplift bra which bulged amazingly, said, “All right, you sonofabitch, hold it right there.”
In her hand was a .45 caliber army Colt’s automatic. The safety was off and she looked capable of handling the weapon. In fact, she looked capable and willing to shoot Damon in the belly.
He raised his hands, blurting, “Sure, baby, anything you say. With or without the gat, anything you say!”
ten
At noon Jack Ware was in his office above the restaurant, pretending to make decisions about the business, actually letting Pat Shapiro handle everything. He had no mind for the restaurant. He moved to the opaque window and looked down on the luncheon crowd.
Cy Camp and his wife were at the bar. There were dozens of other well-known faces. Television stars abounded. There were two boxing champions, the new, cleancut style, a couple of ballplayers and the coach of a metropolitan football team who was going into the pros.
Pat left and Brownie came in with his liquor list. Jack asked him to make a Bloody Mary and the head barkeep took his time, measuring the Worcestershire sauce, squeezing the lime with great delicacy.
Jack checked the list and signed it. He accepted the tall, cool glass and drank. �
�Nobody makes it like you, pal. Just right again.”
Brownie said, “I stick to the Smirnoff vodka. They keep touting me on other brands, but I stick with it.”
They sat a moment, Brownie working on bourbon over the rocks, then Jack asked, “How long have you known Eloise Mannering Camp?”
“Since she started around and about.”
“What about her and Alvin Colyer?”
“It was in the columns.”
“Was it true?”
Brownie considered. “Is this about the murders?”
“It’s not about Eloise’s private affairs unless it relates to the murders. I couldn’t care less about her. She could be a big nuisance if Camp didn’t hold her down.”
“Yeah. He holds her down. She was one of those dames from Westchester. There was a heap of ’em. Café society. My ass and general training.”
“Alvin moved in?”
“The tall broads all liked Alvin.”
“That’s been established. What’s new?”
“Well, they drank it up. It was just before Alvin busted out at the track. She had it bad for him, there.”
“Was Camp in the picture at the time?”
“He moved in and took over. Alvin didn’t give a damn, you know. He never did, he had dames all around.”
“But Camp did move in on him?”
“More like he moved in on her. Camp is tough, Jack. Camp is real tough.”
“You got a for instance?”
“Several. I knew his first wife. Camp is mean, real mean. Chubby little guy, fools you. He could hurt you, or me, or anyone, with his loot and his connections.”
“That’s a cinch. Matter of fact, we’ll be wrecked if you don’t go down and watch that till for me. Thanks a lot, Brownie.”
“She wasn’t so bad, Eloise. Not a good girl, either, you understand. Easy to get along with until she was loaded. I always kinda liked her.”
“Until she got loaded.”
“Oh, sure.” He hesitated. “Jack, about the vodka. There was some guy in here offering a terrific buy. Thirty-six bucks a case. Never heard of the brand.”
“We don’t want it.”
“I know, but I had to tell you.”
“Probably straight alky.”
“You don’t remember Prohibition, of course. It was heyday and nonny, nonny if you could get good straight alky. Make anything out of it.”
Jack stared at him. Alvin’s letter rustled in his pocket. He said, “Thirty-six bucks, huh? You know the guy?”
“Never saw him before, but he wasn’t kosher. He had that Prohibition look about him. Slick, but not a real salesman type. Pushers, they called ’em, and they carried heat. They’d brass knuckle a bar that didn’t buy.”
“If the character comes in again, I want to see him.”
“I thought maybe,” said Brownie. “It didn’t smell good.”
He went down into the bar. Watching, sipping his pink drink, Jack saw Lila Sharp come into the restaurant. She walked tall and straight. Eloise Camp stopped her and they chatted. Cy was busy talking to an editor of Life Magazine. Eloise made a sympathetic gesture and Lila left her and came toward the stairs. He went out to greet her.
They came into the office together and he closed the door and she kissed him. She smelled fresh and good and clean. He said, “You’re awful damn nice.”
She said, “You smell of drink.”
“What’ll you have?”
“Another kiss?”
They went close and an amazing flow of feeling passed between them. She was wearing a light tweed dress with a loose cape and he burrowed beneath the outer garment, seeking something, not quite certain of what, but knowing surcease. They gravitated toward the bedroom, neither speaking, scarcely breathing, their arms intertwined.
He had a brief thought while closing and locking the door. The proffered magnificent body of Rose Marie had not tempted him for an instant. Yet this woman, merely by existing, moved him in every fiber.
It was barely past noon when they undressed each other, lingering at every step of the process, kissing, kissing. It was like a dream, it was unreal, yet it was very real.
It was one o’clock when the private phone beside the bed rang insistently. At first he was not going to answer it, then he came to his senses reluctantly, realizing that Pat Shapiro had cleared the call.
When he heard Rose Marie’s voice he was annoyed, then her words brought him away from Lila and reaching for clothing.
“Someone is trying to break in,” the girl said.
“Are you sure?”
“He’s picking at the lock.”
“There’s a gun in the top dresser drawer. It’s an automatic. Do you know how to handle it?”
“Yes, I know.”
“Get it, and hold the guy, whoever he is.”
“You’ll come over?”
“In ten minutes.”
“I’ll hold him.” She was cool as a cucumber.
He hung up. Lila stirred and asked sleepily, “What is it, darling?”
“It may be a break. Someone’s picking the lock at my apartment.”
It was Lila’s turn to start fully awake. “The girl?”
“Never worry about that one. I only hope she doesn’t let some holes into the guy.” He was dressing in haste. “Will you stay here?”
“I’d love to. I do want to talk with Max again.”
“Call him from here. No one will bother you. Keep the bedroom door locked.”
He went out on the run. In the street he instinctively looked for Izzy’s cab, remembered that Izzy would be taking today off after the long drive from Hobartville. He caught a floater and the driver picked his way through traffic with a five-dollar bill tucked in his kick, making good time.
He went up to the apartment, hauling out his seldom-used key, thrusting his way into the room where he was stopped in his tracks by the tableau.
Rose Marie was wearing a light summer robe from his closet. She was sitting in an armchair, her feet dangling over the arm. The automatic was in her lap.
Sitting opposite her was Sergeant Damon. He scarcely glanced at Jack. His attention was rooted on the girl. Rose Marie said, “Seems like there was a mistake.”
“I see,” said Jack. “Just the law.”
“He’s got a warrant.”
Jack went toward Damon. “Let’s see it.”
Damon said, “It’s in blank, Jack. One of those things. I apologized to Miss Coole, here.”
She said brightly, “He explained that it was about Alvin. He thought maybe you were hiding something from him.”
“Well, now isn’t that just ducky.” Jack squared himself at Damon. “You want to apologize to me, too? Or do you want trouble?”
“Well, now, I can fill in the name on the warrant,” said Damon mildly. “Then it would be a Mexican standoff. You and me and the Commissioner. You know how those things go.”
“I could take a chance.”
“You see, I still ain’t sure just where you stand.”
“You thought I was in Hobartville and you’d ransack the place.”
“That’s right,” said Damon.
“What in hell did you expect to find?”
“Something I might use.” Damon kept looking at the girl. “Any kind of a lever. I’m in trouble, Jack, if I don’t do something. I’ve got to move.”
“What could I possibly have? Do you really think I had anything to do with Alvin’s death?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know a damn thing. That’s why I’ve got to look around.”
Jack sat down. This was a new Damon, seemingly frank, apparently defeated but resigned to the facts. After a moment, Rose Marie said, “Seems like we all ought to work together. I was telling him about Alvin’s letter.”
“I see.” That was why Damon was so friendly, then. “Well, you did send me up there. I wasn’t going to hold out on you.” He took out the letter and handed it to Damon.
Rose Marie said, “N
ot that we give a damn about Alvin. But Ted didn’t deserve to be killed. I’ve been thinking. The same ones must have killed them both.”
“You’re turning detective, Rose Marie?”
She said, “Well, I’m not as dumb as I look.”
“You don’t look at all stupid,” Jack assured her. “You just look sexy as hell. If you’d go and put on some clothing maybe Damon could pay attention to that letter.”
She smiled. “You should have seen me when he came in. I didn’t have the robe then.”
She got up and sauntered to the bedroom. Damon flicked one glance after her, then returned to the letter. When he had read it for the second time, he handed it back to Jack.
“Judas Priest,” he said.
“A salesman offered Brownie vodka at thirty-six dollars,” said Jack. “It fits.”
“Alky. Wynoski wasn’t a-birdin’,” said Damon half to himself. “The Feds don’t know. Hell, the Camp Coal Company was the biggest in the city. They own a hundred spots.”
“You can turn that over to the revenuers,” said Jack impatiently. “The important thing is that Alvin knew about it and Cancelli must have found out that he did.”
“Gold Bug,” said Damon. “All that jazz about doping the horse.”
“That figures, too,” said Jack. “Alvin thought he had the whip hand. If they caught him, he could holler cop on their alky operation.”
“No,” said Damon. “Camp ain’t in on it.”
“You want to bet?”
“I’d bet. This letter is aimed at Pete, not Camp. The thing with Camp and Alvin was about Eloise. Camp is a sonofabitch where she’s concerned. He’s weird about her. He could kill Alvin because they had a thing—but he wouldn’t.” Damon paused, then went on, “Jack, this checks out as a revenge murder. It goes on that Ted stumbled onto something, got himself in the middle and had to be killed. Believe me, that’s the way it sets up from a cop’s angle.”
“I can see it that way.”
“But this letter, this changes things.” Damon was puzzled. “We’ve worked over every stoolie in town. Maybe you know, maybe you don’t. There is never a gang job that we don’t get a rumble. Never. That goes for the Mafia, the syndicate, the whole bit. We may not be able to do anything about it, but we get a rumble.”
Death Comes Early Page 9
