The Triple Shot Box (Goodey's Last Stand, Not Sleeping Just Dead & Fighting Back): Three Gritty Crime Novels

by Charles Alverson

  Hildy continued driving automatically, not really knowing where she was headed. And Joey stayed a discreet few cars behind, congratulating himself for being a highly skilled tailer. He didn’t imagine that Lizzie was paying any attention to him and lapsed into a daydream about a carhop he’d met in Tarrytown the weekend before.

  For no particular reason, Hildy made a left turn. A few blocks later she turned right. Joey followed these turns automatically, but then something prodded him. The image of the carhop receded slightly.

  Hildy leaned over to Lizzie and said: “Fasten your seat belt, kid.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if you don’t, they’ll be scraping Lizzie off the windshield. Mommy is going to be doing some very interesting driving in a few minutes.”

  “You mean fast?”

  “Very likely,” said Hildy.

  “With lots of twists and turns and skidding and like that?”

  “It’s entirely possible.”

  “Goody.” Lizzie pulled her safety belt tight.

  “Keep a tight hold on Sophie’s cot,” Hildy said. “Pretend you don’t see your friend.”

  “Can I stick my tongue out at him?”

  “Certainly not. You’re not supposed to even see him.”

  Hildy had blundered onto a street running parallel to the Hudson Expressway. At intervals on the right side of the street were on-ramps to the Expressway. Carefully keeping to the left lane, Hildy drove along the crowded street. She saw that Joey had crept up to two cars behind her in order to cut down the chances of losing her.

  Helplessly, Hildy passed two on-ramps, but there was no way to get on them, much less lose Joey at the same time. Then, nearly a block ahead, Hildy spotted a possible chance. The traffic light was green, and in the closest oncoming lane a big silver bus sat patiently flashing its left-turn blinkers at the unyielding stream of cars in Hildy’s lane.

  Just past the intersection on the right side of the street, gaping invitingly, was another entrance to the Expressway. Checking on Joey’s position, Hildy was surprised to find him right at her back bumper looking bug-eyed and trying to be invisible.

  Gritting her teeth, Hildy started her left-turn blinker and slowed slightly at the edge of the intersection. The bus driver, with a slight salute, started pulling slowly out into her lane. Joey, still stuck to her bumper, also signaled for a left turn.

  But as soon as she entered the intersection, Hildy whipped the steering wheel all the way around to the right, pushed on the horn button and jammed the accelerator pedal to the floor. “Hold on, Lizzie,” Hildy said as the old car lurched, found its balance and shot directly across the path of the bus. Hildy saw the bus driver’s face go white, and she pushed even harder on the horn, hoping that somehow the noise would keep the narrowing gap open.

  Somehow it did. The car on Hildy’s right shot up and over the curb, giving her a vital couple of feet, and with a hurried twist to the left Hildy snaked her car around the stalled bus and gunned it up the on-ramp.

  “Sorry. Whoops. Excuse me. Beg pardon,” Hildy muttered to the drivers behind her as she roared onto the Expressway.

  At the intersection, Joey had wakened to the danger far too late and had tried to follow Hildy’s kamikaze charge. But in a split second the hole she had squeezed through closed, and Joey found himself jammed to a stop against the massive bumper of the bus and rammed on the left rear fender by an elderly station wagon. From each of these vehicles, an angry and frightened driver had emerged and was heading toward Joey as a poor substitute for the madwoman who had escaped.

  “Jeez,” Joey said to both attackers at once, “I got to make a phone call.”

  Once she was on the Expressway and sure that Joey hadn’t followed, Hildy pulled into the slow lane. Her hands began shaking so violently that she couldn’t steer, and she weaved into the first lay-by.

  “Are you okay?” she asked Lizzie. Sophie still slept.

  “Sure,” said Lizzie. “That was fun. Do you know what I did?”

  Hildy, still shuddering with fright and watching her hands as if they belonged to someone else, didn’t answer.

  “Just as we got onto the on-ramp,” said Lizzie, “I stuck my tongue out at that boy. But do you know what?”

  “No,” said Hildy automatically.

  “I don’t think he saw me.”

  8

  On his drive to the Lamplighter late that morning, Harry imagined that he was a perfect target caught in the crosshairs of a high-powered rifle. He fully expected every moment to be his last. But nothing happened. It was a warm morning full of sunshiny autumn haze, and the most sinister thing he heard was the cry of a wood pigeon.

  Automatically, he set about cleaning the bar and setting up for the night’s business. Marco had worked alone the night before, and there was much to do. Harry lost himself in the trivial tasks behind the bar, but all the time his mind was with Hildy and the girls. But then, after Harry had begun washing a sinkful of glasses, three telephone calls came which put his mind in new, more complicated channels.

  The first was from Marco. “Hello, Marco boy,” Harry said. “You must have had a good night here. Every glass in the joint is dirty.”

  “Sorry I wasn’t able to get them cleaned up, Harry, but something came up right at closing time.”

  “Yeah,” Harry said, “I’ll bet. Has she gone home yet?”

  Marco ignored the intended joke. “Harry,” he said in a serious voice, “I’m not going to be able to come in to work.”

  “I think you’re getting old, kid,” Harry said, still joking. “Why—”

  “Harry,” Marco cut in, and the obvious urgency in his voice stopped Harry cold, “I’m serious. I can’t come in.”

  “That’s okay,” Harry said easily. “You take care of yourself, Marco. If you’re not feeling well, maybe you better stay in bed for a couple of days. If it gets too busy, I’ll give Hank Sherman a call to come in and help me out. When do you think you’ll be back in?”

  “I’m sorry,” Marco said, “but I can’t work for you anymore. I just can’t.”

  “Can’t work? I don’t understand. Why? What’s wrong, Marco?”

  “I can’t talk any more right now,” Marco said in a strained voice. “I just can’t work for you, so find somebody else. Goodbye.”

  “Marco?” But Marco was gone, and Harry put the receiver down with a baffled look on his face.

  But Harry had little time to ponder this strange call. The telephone rang immediately. “Lamplighter.”

  “And about time, too,” said Hildy. “What have you been doing—telephoning matrimonial agencies? You’ll be interested to hear that we made it.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’d rather not say. You-know-who or God-knows-what might be listening in. Besides, you know very well where we are. Where did you tell me to telephone from?”

  “Of course,” said Harry. “But what happened? Did you have any trouble getting out of town?”

  “Certainly not. Except for a pimply young man who insisted on trying to join our party. Lizzie spotted him in the supermarket parking lot, and he followed us all over town. But I lost him on Broderick Boulevard near the Expressway. The last time I saw him he was busy discussing motoring etiquette with a big bus driver.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, but Lizzie’s bored stiff already. She wormed it out of me that the cabin doesn’t have a TV set. Sophie’s still sleeping, but if she knew what she’s been through, what little hair she has would be snow white. And the old banger is wheezing something terrible. I think I killed it.”

  “Hildy,” Harry said, “go right to the cabin and stay there until I come to get you. Funny things are going on. Marco just called and said he can’t work here anymore. God knows what will happen next.”

  “Okay.”

  “And take care of yourself.”

  “You, too, Harry,” she said and hung up.

  Harry tried to call Hoerner, and his answe
ring service said they’d have him call back as soon as possible. Then he went back to his work. A half hour passed, and he was scooping a mound of squeezed-out oranges and lemons from a utility sink when the telephone rang again. He knew the voice immediately.

  “Caster,” demanded Carlo Rizzo, “what the hell are you playing at?”

  “What do you mean, Mr. Rice?”

  “You know what I mean. Your wife, this morning. She almost got one of my boys killed and then she disappeared on the Hudson Expressway.”

  “Does that mean you were having her followed?” There was no answer. “I wouldn’t say that was a very friendly thing to do.”

  “Caster,” Rizzo said in a too-calm voice, “this is not a joke. If you think this is a game, you’re going to find out that I can play very rough.”

  “I’m sure you can.”

  “Well then,” Rizzo said, “what’s your answer to my business proposition?” When Harry didn’t respond, Rizzo insisted: “I want an answer.”

  “I need more time,” Harry said. “This is a complicated proposition.”

  “There is no more time, Caster. I want an answer right now. What is it?”

  “What choice have I, really?”

  “None.”

  “All right, I’ll go for your deal.”

  “Now you’re being smart. I’ll be right over.”

  “No,” Harry said, “make it tonight. Come around—come around just before closing time. Say a quarter to two.”

  “Why not now?” Rizzo pressed. “I’m coming over.”

  “You do and I won’t be here,” said Harry firmly. “This is still my business, and I’ve told you when I want you to come here. At one forty-five tonight. I’ll talk to you then.”

  “Okay, okay, Caster,” Rizzo said good-naturedly, thinking that Harry was trying to save a little face in defeat by sticking at a small detail, “you’re the boss. I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

  “Okay,” said Harry, sweating in the cool darkness of the bar as he put the telephone down.

  The twenty minutes which passed before Hoerner returned his call seemed like hours, but then Hoerner was on the line.

  “Hello, Mr. Caster. What’s happening?”

  “Everything,” Harry said. “Rizzo called a little while ago. He’s getting edgy and he pushed me for a decision. He wanted to come over right then, but I was able to put him off.”

  “How long?”

  “Only until tonight,” Harry said glumly. “A quarter of an hour before closing. He said he’ll be here, and I don’t like the way he said it.”

  “Christ,” said Hoerner, “that’s not much time. Couldn’t you do any better than that?”

  “No. It was tough enough getting that much time. I still can’t help expecting him at any moment.”

  “Just hold on,” said Hoerner. “I’ve got a hell of a lot to do today, but you’ll be seeing me about midnight tonight. Don’t sweat the rest.”

  “But what’s going to happen tonight?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” Hoerner said. He had only a vague idea himself. “I assume Mrs. Caster got out of town safely this morning.”

  “Yes, she did,” Harry said, “but just barely. Rizzo had some kid following her, and she had to lose him before she got on the Expressway. Rizzo was mad as hell.”

  “Too bad. That means Rizzo may be getting the idea that something is up, that you’re not just lying down so that he can walk over you. And it changes things a bit.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll tell you tonight. In the meantime, you go to the bank and draw out five hundred bucks in fifties. I’ll want it when I see you.”

  “Okay. Anything else?”

  “No,” said Hoerner. “Just take it easy today and be ready for anything tonight. We’re going to need your help.”

  “My help? What doing?”

  “You’ll find out. See you tonight.”

  The receiver in Harry’s hand went dead and he looked at it questioningly before returning it to the holder. With a sigh, he went back to work behind the bar.

  9

  It was the prime of the evening, and the Lamplighter was well stocked with customers. Hank Sherman, the relief bartender, was doing most of the work while Harry chatted with the drinkers.

  But Harry’s mind was far from the Lamplighter that evening. He had no idea what Hoerner was up to. He only hoped that whatever it was would help rather than make the situation worse. And what the hell was going on with Marco?

  Harry kept up his usual light banter with the drinkers, gossiping, throwing dice for drinks, settling disputes from his set of reference books near the cash register. And the clock wound around to midnight. At that hour, the bar was packed, and Harry was caught up in a furious game of liar’s dice with Doc Schenley when he glanced up and saw Hoerner looking over his opponent’s shoulder.

  Accidentally letting a die escape from the box, Harry recaptured it and said to Hoerner: “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  “No hurry,” said Hoerner easily. “I’ll be over in the corner booth.”

  After losing the game, Harry excused himself and went over to Hoerner.

  “Good evening, Mr. Caster,” Hoerner said. “Have you heard from Rizzo this evening?”

  “No,” said Harry, “but I forgot to tell you something this afternoon when you called.” He quickly filled Hoerner in about Marco’s curious telephone call.

  “That doesn’t sound promising,” said Hoerner, “but we’ll handle it.” He looked at his watch. “Rizzo is due in about an hour and a half. There’s a back door to this place, isn’t there?”

  “Yes. It leads to the alley out back. We take deliveries there.”

  “Show me where it is and the rest of the layout.”

  Harry led the way through a narrow corridor piled high with liquor and soft-drink cases to the back door. Hoerner inspected the high-walled alley and came back inside.

  “Okay. Have you got an empty room back here?”

  “Just the liquor storeroom,” Harry said. “What do you want it for?”

  “Let me take a look at it,” said Hoerner, ignoring the question. Harry switched on the light in a small, white-painted room half-full of cases of liquor. The room was about ten-foot square and windowless.

  “Can some of these cases be moved somewhere else?” Hoerner asked.

  “Yes, I’ll put them in back near the door.”

  “Never mind,” Hoerner said. “We’ll take care of that. You get back to your customers. When Rizzo shows up we’ll know. Stall him until closing time, lock up, turn off the front lights and lead him back here. Then I’ll take over.”

  “But—”

  “Mr. Caster, you hired me to do a job. I’ve already started. You’ll just have to trust me.”

  “Okay,” said Harry, and he returned to the front of the bar.

  “What’s up, Harry?” asked a regular customer. “Got a buyer for the joint?”

  “I should be so lucky, Burt.”

  After one in the morning, the crowd began to thin out. People who had to work the next day slowly began to leave. Only the hardcore of light sleepers and non-workers were left huddled around the bar. A little later, Harry told Hank he could go home and then was left with a small knot of mid-week drinkers who didn’t want to go home until they absolutely had to.

  Unencouraged by Harry to stick around, even these began to slide off their stools and make their way to the front door. Finally, only Jimmy Allgood, a retired Army sergeant, was left hugging the curved bar with a glass of rye whiskey in his hand. And then Rizzo was in the doorway. He was alone, but his big, cream-colored car was parked out in front with someone sitting in the darkened front seat.

  “Hello, Harry,” said Rizzo, easing onto a stool. “Hi, Jimmy.”

  “Hello,” Harry said reluctantly, his eyes returning quickly to the glass he was washing. Allgood didn’t return the greeting.

  “Bourbon and water,” said Rizzo. Harry gave him the drink and then
retreated to the sink again. “Business good tonight?”

  “Fair,” said Harry.

  “It’ll get better. You ready to have that little talk now?”

  “As soon as I close up,” Harry said. “Jimmy—”

  “In Hudson County, the State of New York,” said the old sergeant, “establishments which are licensed to serve alcoholic beverages are allowed to serve such beverages until two a.m. It is now one-fifty a.m. I’ll have another rye, Harry. A double.”

  With a look at Rizzo, Harry poured the drink.

  “Thanks,” said Allgood. “Now you’re going by the book. It’s a good policy. In thirty-eight years of soldiering, all I had to do was take a little look in the book and any problem was solved.”

  “Yes, Jimmy,” said Harry, not really listening.

  “Any problem. In ‘43 I had a problem with a wop kid in our outfit in England. He was a real cute little fellow who could use his fists like razor blades; flyweight champion of the division, he was. He could have been a champion. He was some cute little guinea.”

  “Jimmy—” Harry said warningly.

  “No,” said Rizzo, “I want to hear. What happened to the little wop, Jimmy?”

  “Got too cute for his own good. We had a West Point captain, a miserable bastard but a good soldier, and Peruchio, that was the wop, Pfc. Peruchio, took a fancy to this captain’s wife. She was a tall blonde from Cleveland. She encouraged the boy to a certain degree.”

  “Encouraged him?” asked Rizzo.

  “Took off her panties and climbed into the back of the captain’s staff car with him,” said Allgood. “The captain found them all twisted up like a pair of wet overalls.”

  “What happened?” asked Harry in spite of himself.

  “Court-martial. Got out my little book of U.S. Army regulations. Absent without leave, conduct prejudicial to discipline, undue familiarity and failure to obey a direct order. Got three years at hard labor. The captain got his head blown off by a booby trap in France. Don’t know what happened to the blonde. Probably went back to Cleveland. Just goes to show you: Always go by the book and things will turn out all right.”