by Ed Lacy
Walt was an exciting experience for Ruth. For one thing he was taller than she, the importance of which Ruth wouldn't even admit to herself. And she was utterly amazed to learn he was a cop. To her a policeman was as nebulous and impersonal as a fire hydrant. For some “unknown” reason Ruth had been outside the sexual play of her neighbors. Her actress friend had affairs, although they both had agreed not to have men spend the night in the flat. Ruth did her share of necking, but somehow had never gone beyond that. The second time Walt kissed her was in bed and his muscular body utterly delighted and fascinated her. He was still thinking of turning pro and while she doubted if any man could hurt big Walt, the thought of his being marked or injured became her nightmare. She was flatly against his doing any more boxing.
At parties she found Walt fitted in well with her friends, that he could hold his own in bull sessions. For example, if Paris or Rome were mentioned, Walt knew the cities thoroughly, from his army days. When he casually mentioned he'd been a member of the U. S. Olympic team (which was a surprise to Ruth) he completely stopped conversation at the home of an established painter. She knew other girls began paying attention to Walt, most of them small and dainty, and she was thrilled that he had eyes only for her— as the song went.
Above all, for the first time Ruth knew a man financially capable of marriage. (Not that she'd admit that to herself, either.) Nor was that the reason she married Walt. For months she had been so much a part of Walt that when he suggested marriage it was as expected as if he'd mentioned having supper together. After they married they moved uptown, so he would be within walking distance of his precinct house. He had nearly two thousand dollars saved— mostly from his army days—and both their parents had been lavish with gifts for their only children. For a time it was exciting furnishing the two room apartment, being a housewife. When that wore off, Ruth religiously began writing every day, found an agent, and turned out a story a week. Not one sold. She learned writing for the commercial magazines wasn't the “moronic snap” she had imagined.
Ruth tried—really tried—being friends with the other young wives, but after the first reaction they were not impressed with her being a “writer,” and she found their conversation about shopping and family politics petty. It was about this time, along with her rejections, Ruth started to feel she was in a rut, wasting her talents. She began hanging out with her old friends downtown more and more, especially when Walt was working night tours. That spring, after they had spent his month's vacation at Cape Cod, she suggested they move downtown and Walt was willing. Ruth landed a job as a reader in a publishing house and for a while was content. When one of her stories brought a polite letter from a publisher asking if she had a novel, Ruth was in orbit and began planning her novel. She immediately quit her job and worked on an outline. The publisher said it was interesting but wanted to see a few sample chapters.
Ruth nearly had a breakdown writing and rewriting the chapters. She and Walt had their first serious fight when he suggested she try writing a novel and not the world's greatest literature. Ruth blamed the “atmosphere” now and although it was a strain on his bank account, Walt rented a place for her on a small island which was trying terribly hard to be a second Fire Island. Ruth spent the summer attending many parties and doing little writing. That fall she took her present job, editing a trade magazine and now had a true excuse for not writing—the job “pooped” Ruth.
Whatever Walt did turned out wrong. A famous playwright and a well-known book reviewer happened to be at a party Ruth had dragged Walt to. Both men were fight fans and on learning Walt had been an amateur champ, they tried to take him over. Walt explained about Ruth and her novel and they suggested she try for a fellowship, agreed to sponsor her. For a time Ruth worked feverishly, filling out forms, retyping her chapters. When she mentioned living in Paris for the year, if she won the fellowship, Walt said he couldn't get that much leave. She accused him of being selfish, after all, he had been to Paris. He said he didn't want to give up his job, even if Ruth felt her book would make a fortune. They had a real battle, but Walt simply refused to think of leaving the force. He had just been promoted to a detective, third grade, for capturing two stick-up men. In a fit of rage Ruth tore up the applications and ever since had accused Walt of ruining her career. In her own mind she had neatly convinced herself she had, in fact, been awarded the fellowship.
For a time she tried drinking, but wasn't good at it. Then, as if to spite herself, she began working like an eager-beaver on the cosmetic magazine, making it one of the top journals in its field. In a perverse way she was happy at her job because she hated it and knew Walt was unhappy because she despised and mocked her job. For the past three months they had barely talked to each other—and with Walt's change of tours, during some weeks rarely saw the other. Ruth decided to “punish” Walt by not having any “mama-papa” stuff until Walt came crawling. But he also seemed indifferent. A month ago she met Burges and somehow he reminded Ruth of her younger days, when she was so sure of being a famous writer.
Ruth stopped to buy a bottle of soda. Entering their apartment, with her story about being at the printers carefully worked out in her mind, Ruth was surprised that Walt wasn't there. It was a few minutes after nine thirty and she stared at the cigarette butts in the ash tray, made herself a light drink, wondered, uneasily, where Walt was. Now she was sure somebody had been with him when she had phoned, and felt a flash of hysterics as she examined the butts for lipstick traces.
The late evening paper was on top of the television set and Ruth had a hunch Walt had just left the house. But that wasn't like him. He never went out alone. She glanced at the paper, thinking a little about Burgie, not at all sure what he meant to her. After soaking in a hot tub, she finished the paper in bed. By ten-thirty she was really worried about Walt. As Ruth was debating whether to call the squad room, he might have gone out on an emergency assignment, the phone rang. Walt said, “Glad you're home. I'll be right over. Oh, I'm bringing somebody with me.”
He hung up before she could ask what it was all about There was an intenseness in his voice which annoyed her. She carefully brushed her long black hair and, as an afterthought put on her best girdle and bra, to make certain she looked slim under her robe. “Now wouldn't this be a living bitch if Walt is bringing another woman over for a showdown!” Ruth told herself. “But that's impossible, I know Walt. Still... he might have been seeing some floozie all these months. Perhaps I misunderstood his coolness in bed. Well I can always phone Burgie. I'll scream if Walt tries to leave me!”
Twenty minutes later Walt unlocked the door. There was a little, boyish-looking old man with him. As Walt said, “This is my wife, Ruth. Ruth, meet Tommy Cork,” she realized the man wasn't old. It was merely his face was out of shape and at the moment full of worry.
Shaking her hand, Tommy muttered, “Pleased to meetcha, Mrs. Steiner, I...eh...” Opening his coat Walt told her, “Ruth, we're in a kind of jam. We have a favor to ask. Something very important we want you to do. Right now. A woman's life may depend upon it.”
TOMMY
Leaving the steak house, Tommy headed west. At the corner he glanced at a window clock. It was a few minutes after eight and the window happened to be part of a bar. Knowing May didn't come on until around ten o'clock, he decided to have a shot. He needed one.
Over his third belt he told himself, “Man, when you get a nutty fight fan, you got the tops in being dumb. Arno takes out a policy on me, as a favor, and Al starts yelling murder. If I hadn't put the lid on him hard just now, Al would have ruined the works for me. For crying out loud, the way Al reasons, if Arno decided to buy me a tux it would mean he was thinking of marrying me. 'Cancel the policy and see what Arno does.' What would they expect Mr. Brewer, or anybody else, to do but throw me out? I got it made and no creep is going to spoil my last chance....Now why am I calling Alvin a creep? He's been plenty decent to me, give me what breaks he can. That cop, that Walt, he was something.
�
��If I packed his weight, I bet I'd be working at least once a month. And with my savvy—most heavies don't know how to move off their flat feet. Sure can't figure Walt for not turning pro, getting in a couple big paydays. Being an amateur was the good life. Really kid stuff but I sure felt I had the world by the hairs then. Seventy-two bouts—I damn near had more watches than the Swiss navy; if I hadn't hocked them with the promoters. And those bootleg fights, hop into some beat-up car and spend a week fighting in Troy, Albany, Toronto, come back with a pocket full of bucks. I don't get it, even the medal chasers can't get a fight today. TV killed off the amateurs, too. And I figured TV would be a shot in the arm for... Aw, what am I stewing about? I'm set. I'll make some good fights now, I'm feeling strong, ready to go. Always knew my Irish luck wouldn't let me down. That Al.
“Good thing I didn't blow my cap trying to calm him down. Got to keep in good with these TV guys. They're as important now as the mob boys. Well, guess I'll stop with this shot, really have to keep in shape. I'll go see May now— only get tanked if I hang around here. Another thing I like about Arno—he don't mind if I take a belt now and then. Yeah, I'll see May now, show her I'm on my way, all togged out. She hasn't seen me look this sharp in years. Even if she isn't working yet, I'll find out where she's rooming and.... Hey, that was Walt looking in here! I hope that dick isn't tailing me.”
Going to the door, Tommy watched Walt Steiner walk on down the street. He decided the detective was merely passing by. He straightened his tae and overcoat, inspecting himself in the bar mirror, quite pleased with what he saw, then started for the diner.
Mac, the partner on duty, was the baker—although despite the sign behind the counter, all the cakes and bread weren't “baked on the premises.” It depended on how drunk Mac was. Tommy walked in and sat on a counter stool. Over a cup of coffee he asked Bertha, “What time does May Cork come on?”
“You mean what day will she be back, if she comes back,” Bertha said.
“What? Is she unwell?”
Bertha giggled. “Unwell? Yeah, guess you might call her unwell at that. All the gals I ever seen get beaten up weren't exactly well.”
“May's been beaten up?” Tommy said, jumping to his feet. “What is this?”
Bertha examined his rough face. “Who you, mister?”
“Her husband. Where's May?”
“Who knows? In hiding, I guess. I'd be. I only hope she gets all this settled before the month's over so I can go to California and...”
“What's going on here?” Tommy asked loudly. “Where is May?”
Mac came over, asked Bertha, “Any trouble?”
“This guy is asking for May. I told him...”
“You run your flabby mouth too much.” Mac turned to Tommy. “What's all this to you?”
“Where's my wife? What's happened to May?”
“I don't know where she is. I don't know nothing, see? I ain't sticking my nose into nothing. You say you're her husband but...”
“I am!” Tommy snapped. “And stop stalling me.”
Mac shrugged. “Okay, maybe you are her old man. And then maybe you're a strong arm punk sent around to work her over,” he said, his voice mild. Mac was a large fat man, with an alcoholic's indifference to fear. He asked Bertha, “You know May's husband?”
“Never saw him. But she told me he was a pug. This one sure fits the part What a puss! I seen the husband once on TV.”
“Then you know who I am!” Tommy shouted.
“I was pretty bug-eyed then. Besides, this guy had so many gloves hitting his face, I couldn't see much. Anyway, I don't even know May wants to see you. I hear the last time she saw her ever-loving, she had to hit him. I always say a gal...”
Tommy slapped the counter. “The both of you cut the chatter. Just tell me where she is!”
“What you making all this noise for?” Mac asked.
“I'm asking where my wife is and you'd damn well better tell me before I knock your ears off!”
“That kind of talk don't impress me. I got nothing more to say.” Mac started toward the cash register, walking casually, where he kept an unloaded automatic.
“I'll impress your fat face with a...!”
Bertha rested all of her bosom on the counter as she said, “Come on, cut the rough stuff and listen to me, May's husband. Mac's only a good-natured rummy. He don't know a damn thing. None of us do. That's a fact.”
Yanking out his wallet, Tommy held up his plastic-covered boxing license. “Read it! Tommy Cork. That's my picture there. Now you believe me?”
Bertha glanced at the license, also measured the thickness of the wallet. “For sure, you were never strong on looks, even when this snap was taken. What Mac was trying to say is, So what if you are her husband? I mean, not only don't we know anything, but maybe you're working for them too. May was all wrong to start this stuff in here, and we don't want no trouble.”
Tommy shoved the wallet back into his hip pocket. Trying to hold his temper in, he said, “Look, Miss, I been out of town for a while, training. First chance I get to see May, you start giving me double-talk. What did May start? What trouble is she in?”
“She began picking up numbers. Butch warned her not to start that here. The way I hear things, she was holding out. But May had bad luck. One of the numbers she held out hit for a buck. Naturally the player yelled. So the boys found out she was stealing and the syndicate man slapped her around. Now we don't know where she's been hiding out That's a fact. I haven't seen her in two days. Maybe Butch knows something, but he won't tell. Even though he's sore at her for bringing the syndicate in here, involving the restaurant still he likes May—not the way you think—just likes...”
“He'll tell me! Who's Butch?”
“One of the bosses. Guy who was on the last time you were here.” Bertha sighed. “Look, I keep telling you, even if Butch knows where she is, and I ain't sure he does, he won't tell anybody.”
“I'll call the cops.”
Bertha gave him another sigh. “That would be the best way of making everybody clam up. Butch won't talk, for May's own good.” She examined Tommy's clothes for a second. “You going to give May the dough for my apartment?”
“Right now all I care about is finding my wife!”
“Sure, I understand. Luck, Mr. Cork. I hope you find her okay, and she's like six o'clock with the syndicate—straight up and down. I hope also she gets that one hundred and fifty bucks up, so I can make California. Now that's about all the hoping I can do.” Bertha walked away to wait on a new customer.
“You know where she was rooming, before... this?”
“You're a bright one,” the fat blonde called over her shoulder. “If you're in hiding, the last place you'd be is in your old room.”
“Yeah,” Tommy muttered. As he started for the door, Mac called softly from behind the cash register, “This ain't no mission. We charge for our Java. One dime.”
“You sure say nothing for a slob who talks too much,” Tommy said, throwing the dime on the counter. Outside, he breathed in deeply of the cold night air and wondered what to do. It didn't sound possible—May mixed up with the numbers racket. Why in the old days, she wouldn't even go to the races with him. If she found a nickel on the street she would insist upon putting it in the church poor box.
For a half hour Tommy walked through the markets, the side streets, not really expecting to see May, but not knowing what else to do. He couldn't go to the police, if May was really in this. Then he stopped at another stool joint, phoned Walt Steiner, told him what had happened.
Walt was just taking off his shirt—having decided to stay home—when the phone rang. After listening to Tommy he told him, “Look, if you want to make any charges, go to the local police station and report your wife missing, then...”
“I don't want charges or reports. I want to find my wife!” Tommy said, almost crying over the phone. “The blonde said May's been beaten up. She may be hurt, needing me. Before, we... well... we were living apar
t; but what I mean, she was not in danger or hurt. Walt, I don't know what to do. But you have a badge, you're a cop. Can't you help me?”
Walt hesitated. He had learned long ago not to volunteer. Throw your badge around and it could easily bounce back in your face. Still, he could feel the real grief in Tommy's voice, and anything was better than moping around, waiting for Ruth. Only because it was something to do, Walt asked Tommy where he was, told him he'd be there in twenty minutes.
When he met Tommy a half hour later, Walt was sorry he'd come and told Tommy, “Before we start anything you have to remember once I step into this as a police officer... that... if your wife is mixed up in any numbers deal... Well, when the wagon comes, everybody goes. Understand?”
“Just find her,” Tommy said, thinking, What's wrong with this big joker? If he knew anything about May, he'd have to know she's too sweet to be mixed up in anything shady. Not May!
“Okay, let's go to the diner. Let me do the talking,” Walt said, shivering slightly with the cold night air. He also knew the numbers syndicate was real big-time, far too powerful for one cop to buck, even an honest one. He almost wished Tommy would argue, give him an excuse to back out of this.
