Rafferty

by Bill S. Ballinger

  Rafferty stood at the end of the bar and held the glass in his hand. The bar turned in a gentle curve connecting to the wall, and he leaned his shoulder against the painted plaster, pushing his hat back on his head. He was not a hard drinking man, and the taste of the liquor brought him little pleasure, but he drank it steadily and evenly, as he did everything, and when his glass was empty he pushed it to the bartender to be refilled. He stood, in this manner, against the wall, withdrawn from the drinkers at the bar, wrapping himself in silence broken only by the scraping of his glass upon the polished wood. The liquor, however, did not intoxicate him: and in it, he found no release. Once, an aged and stooped colored man tugged gently at his arm, offering to take his order for a sandwich which he would purchase at a delicatessen down the street, and return to Rafferty at the bar. Rafferty shook his head silently, and the colored man moved away to tug gently at the arm of the next drinker.

  When Rafferty looked at his watch, it was nine o’clock. Effortlessly, and without warning, his mind flashed him a signal. Quietly he placed his glass upon the bar and walked steadily to the door. Outside, he flagged a cab, and told the driver to take him to Rose Pauli.

  He stood in the doorway of her apartment, the door swung back against the wall, his key still in the lock, looking across the tiny reception hall and into the drawing room, where the room was bathed in red light. Rose was seated on the black-and-white striped lounge, her back to him. But as the door opened, she had turned her head slightly and called, questioningly, over her shoulder,’ Is that you, Emmet?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘it’s me.’ He remained motionless for another moment before stepping into the hall. Then, his manner almost detached, he removed the key from the lock, and closed the door. He dropped his hat on the chair beside the door, and began to remove his overcoat. Arms behind him, the sleeves of his coat covering his hands, he was defenseless when Eddie Stack stepped from around the corner of the living-room door, a heavy .45 in his hand. ‘I expected you,’ Rafferty said calmly.

  ‘All right,’ said Stack, ‘keep on taking it off.’ He watched Rafferty closely while he finished removing his coat. ‘Put your hands up and back against that wall,’ Stack commanded. Rafferty obeyed him, moving deliberately. Stack approached from the side, sliding his hand over Rafferty’s suit jacket, snaking inside the tweed coat to remove the revolver from his shoulder holster. Stack dropped the .38 in his own pocket. ‘Rose and me are just having a little talk; come on in and join us,’ he said to Rafferty, motioning with his gun.

  Rafferty walked carefully into the living room, his hands held evenly with his shoulders. He was relaxed now, the tension gone, the nervousness vanished. Stack was no longer an intangible shadow, a danger warning which played on the strings of his nerves; instead, he had become a man of flesh, with the breath of life within him, and Rafferty was content to have it so.’ Sit down on the sofa, there, next to Rose where I can watch’ya,’ said Stack, kicking a chair into a position facing them. The red light of the room turned to violet, dancing along the blue metal of the barrel of the revolver in Stack’s hands, and he watched them silently, his face devoid of expression. A muscle twitched, unexpectedly, at the corner of his mouth, and he finally spoke. ‘Jesus! What a beautiful pair!’ he said.

  ‘Eddie...’Rose’s voice was hopeless.

  ‘Shuttup!’ said Stack. ‘A beautiful pair... a double-crossing bitch of a wife, and a crooked cop...’

  ‘You know, Eddie,’ Rafferty said, disarmingly quiet, ‘crooked or not... I’m going to get you.’

  ‘You ain’t going to get me... ever. ’In the red light of the room, Stack’s eyes were an angry crimson. ‘You and me are going to be pals, Rafferty.’ He glanced at Rose. ‘What the hell, we’re brothers-in-law, ain’t we?’

  ‘I didn’t know... Eddie. Honest to God! I didn’t know he was a cop!’ Rose said helplessly.

  ‘Let me have a smoke?’ Rafferty was indifferent.

  ‘Use those,’ Stack replied, motioning to a pack of cigarettes on the coffee table, ‘but keep your hands where I can see ’em.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Rafferty. He placed a cigarette in his mouth and lit it carefully. Then he placed his hands on his knees before him. ‘So?’ he said finally.

  ‘So, you smart bastard, you’re getting me a passport outa the country, and you’re getting one for Rose, too.’

  ‘You taking Rose with you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I don’t know where to get one.’

  ‘You’re getting them the same place Luke was getting mine.’

  Rafferty raised his head alertly. ‘Was?’ he asked, emphasizing the past tense. ‘What about Luke?’

  Stack spat on the floor, rubbing it into the rug contemptuously. ‘That brown-nosing creep!’

  ‘You said Luke was getting you a passport, why don’t you see him?’ asked Rafferty.

  Stack’s hand was steady as he kept the gun on Rafferty, but his voice wasn’t. ‘Look, Rafferty,’ he said, ‘I seen Luke. I had quite a talk with him. He got me crazy...’

  ‘I get it,’ said Rafferty. ‘He got you steamed and you let Luke have it before you got the passport.’ He threw back his head and began to laugh softly.

  Stack leaned across the table, mouth twisted in a mirthless smile. ‘Yeah, but I got something else... just as good,’ he said softly. ‘I got a statement about the break signed by him.’

  Rafferty stopped laughing.

  Rose turned blankly to Stack, her face frightened and puzzled. ‘What’re you talking about?’ she asked.

  Stack held the gun firmly on Rafferty, but he was talking directly to Rose. There was no one else in the room, then.

  Just Stack and the woman he had married and didn’t know any more; together with the memories of all the nights in a cell block. ‘I ain’t dumb,’ he told her urgently. ‘Maybe I ain’t too smart, either, but I ain’t dumb. You’re in there, in that place, and you ain’t a man any more. You’re not Eddie Stack, you’re just a number. And after a while, you get thinking the same way. You see faces, and they don’t belong to anybody with a name; they just belong to numbers. All you can be sure of is... you’re there, and the judge has thrown the book at you, and maybe some day you’ll get out, and maybe you won’t. And then a screwy thing begins to happen, the days don’t make any difference... they’re not days or weeks or months any more. The nights are the only things that’re important, because then you dream of all the things that happened before you went up. And they become real.’

  He paused... thinking back... permitting the memories to flow through his mind. ‘Remember the day we drove down past Laguna? Remember how we got out of the car and walked way down the beach past all the rocks and we came to this spot where there wasn’t anybody? We took off our clothes and went swimming naked with nobody around. And we lay in the sand until it was dark? Then we got dressed and drove back to L.A.?’

  Rose shook her head. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘I do,’ said Stack. ‘I remember it. And up there I’d dream about it nearly every night. And sometimes when it got too bad, I’d look up one of the old queens in the yard, or catch a young punk in the dairy barn.’ He looked at her, awaiting her reply, and when it didn’t come, he continued. ‘After a while you get used to it same as anything else,’ he shrugged.

  ‘Then one day I’m told you’re suing me for divorce. And I’m sorry you are, but I can understand it. You got yourself another man. Every dame does. But,’ his face distorted and leaning back in the chair, he turned his eyes on Rafferty.

  ‘Goddamnit! They don’t marry a lousy cop!’

  ‘It was a matter of timing,’ said Rafferty obliquely. ‘The timing was off.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Stack. ‘First my wife fluffs me off. Then a couple months later, I get word that a guy I never heard of will help me break. A guy named Luke.’ His mouth curled contemptuously. ‘Of course I’m in no position to look a gift horse in the teeth, but I keep asking myself why does th
is guy give me a break? I’m not a big shot; there was a lot bigger shots than me in Waupun. Maybe I got something somebody wants. Somebody wants my wife... she’s running out. Maybe somebody wants some certain dough I’ve got stashed away.’ He looked at Rafferty slowly. ‘Maybe the same guy wants both of them?’

  ‘You’re not smart,’ said Rafferty, indifferently. ‘You’re dumb, just plain dumb. If you hadn’t tried to play it so smart, you’d been out of the ‘country tomorrow night. Safe. Now, you’re going back to finish your time... except you won’t even be a trusty...’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ said Stack. ‘I was supposed to sail on the Abaco tomorrow night, and me and Rosie is still sailing.’ He reached swiftly across the table and slapped Rose across the lips. ‘Ain’t we, dear?’

  Rose hung her head, placing the back of her hand against her bruised lips.

  ‘What makes you think so?’ asked Rafferty.

  ‘I was supposed to see Luke tomorrow and pick up the ticket and passport. He had it all arranged. But I made it to New York faster than Luke thought I would. And I had a reason for making that time! I wanted a chance to talk to Luke and ask him a few questions about that phony break. After I got here, it wasn’t too hard to find Luke. I got a few connections of my own,’ he explained almost proudly. ‘We had a talk... just Luke and me. After a little persuading, he wrote down what he knew about you, Rafferty. Then he made a mistake; he went for a gun and I hadda let him have it. Afterward, I couldn’t find the papers on him or in his room.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Rafferty. ‘He wasn’t getting them until tomorrow, either.’ He lounged forward on the divan, still relaxed, the pressure of his body forcing the butt of the stub-nosed revolver from the opening of his hip pocket. Cautiously, his hand drifted across his coat jacket, edging the skirt of the coat away from his hips.

  ‘You’ll get ’em for me instead,’ said Stack. ‘If you don’t, when I get picked up, I tell everything I know. And I got this paper from Luke to prove it.’

  ‘You show that paper and you’ll be tried for murder. In New York you get the chair, Stack.’

  ‘If they don’t find Luke, they don’t try me,’ Stack told Rafferty grimly. ‘Something tells me they won’t never find Luke.’

  Rafferty shifted his hips, unobtrusively working the revolver further up his pocket. He turned slightly, throwing the weight of his body to the left, swinging himself around to clear his right hand over the arm of the divan. His coat had worked up, in the back, over his hips. ‘What’re your plans for that paper afterward, Eddie?’

  Stack eyed Rafferty deliberately. ‘I don’t know exactly,’ he replied. ‘After me and Rose get on that boat, maybe I’ll drop it in the mail to you. But I always say it’s good to have influence, and maybe some day Rose and me might like to come back for a little visit. And if I had the letter, you’d be very nice to us while we was here.’

  ‘Sure, Eddie,’ said Rafferty, ‘I’d always be glad to see you. You know that.’ He leaned forward, and felt the butt of the revolver break away free from his pocket. Deliberately, he stubbed out his cigarette in an ash tray on the coffee table. ‘I suppose after talking to Luke, you picked me up at the station and tailed me here to Rose’s apartment, huh?’

  He looked slowly away from Stack and gazed at Rose. Stack’s eyes automatically followed Rafferty’s look until his attention, too, centred on Rose’s face.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Stack.

  In one swift, explosive motion, Rafferty’s hand flashed to his hip, his leg simultaneously kicking out and upsetting the coffee table into Stack’s lap. Rafferty fell on his left side, sprawling on the divan, while the short revolver barked in his right hand. The bullet caught Stack high in his shoulder, thrusting him back in his seat and upsetting the chair. As the chair hit the floor, the gun in Stack’s hand went off, the bullet lodging in the wall above the divan. Rafferty, leaping to his feet, kicked the revolver from the fallen man’s hand; he could hear it skitter along the floor and bang into the wallboard across the room. For an infinite part of a second, the eyes of Rafferty and Stack met, and then Stack opened his mouth to scream at him.

  Rafferty stood, legs spread wide, and fired a single shot squarely in the center of Stack’s head.

  Slowly he knelt beside the body and searched the clothes, carefully and deliberately. In the pockets, he found twenty-two dollars, and Luke’s paper. Returning the money to the dead man, he walked to the white manteled fireplace, lighting a match to the paper... holding it in his fingers and turning it gently until it was completely burned. The charred paper he ground to powder with the toe of his shoe.

  Across the room, he found Stack’s revolver. Picking it up with a handkerchief, he walked to the body and dropped it beside the lifeless hand.

  In the hall he could hear a rising tumult of excited voices.

  Calmly, he walked to the door and opened it; pulling out his credentials, he displayed a small silver-and-gold badge.

  ‘Please return to your apartments,’ he said with authority. There has been an accident. There’s nothing to be alarmed over... or to see.’ He stepped back within the apartment and firmly closed the door. Once more he returned to the drawing room, this time to pick up the phone and report to the department. Completing the call, he poured whisky from a decanter, and carried it to Rose.

  She had remained seated on the divan, huddled forward, her head buried in her lap, her arms hanging loosely by her side. The palms of her hands were open, the fingers gently curled. She, too, gave an impression of death, and for a moment, Rafferty wondered wildly if Stack’s bullet had struck her. He slipped his arm gently across her shoulders and pulled her into an erect sitting position. Grasping her chin, he tilted back her head and forced the whisky into her mouth. ‘Listen, Rose,’ he said urgently,’ listen to me!’

  Her eyes remained expressionless, round empty black circles—unfeeling, unseeing. ‘Hurry!’ he exclaimed. ‘Snap out of it. We haven’t much time.’ Grasping her hair, he twisted it into a tight knot and the pain of it sifted into her eyes. ‘Do you hear me?’ he asked. ‘Do you hear what I say?’ In the light, her hair was strawberry colored and when he dropped it, it rippled to her shoulders, protectingly like a shawl. She arched her neck, holding her head to one side, in a little girl gesture, and her face was a smoothly frozen vacuum. The effect was a sickening parody of a broken doll. Anxiously, Rafferty again grasped her face, placing a thumb on each of her temples, locking his fingers over her head, and exerting the full pressure of his powerful arms. The pain lanced through her, bringing a frenzied reality to her face, and she lifted her hands, tearing at his wrists. ‘Do you hear me?’ he insisted,’ do you hear me?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  ‘In a few minutes the men from the medical examiner’s office will be here, and we’ll have to make a departmental report, too. Just remember this: you don’t know anything about this! Get that: you don’t know anything... nothing at all!’

  ‘I don’t know anything... nothing at all,’ she repeated his words, vaguely mimicking his tones.

  ‘That’s right. You were home. You heard a knock at the door. You opened it. He walked in. I followed him. There was shooting. And that’s all there is to it. Do you understand?’

  She nodded, mutely. ‘Repeat what I said,’ he commanded. Stumbling, haltingly, she repeated his words. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘there’s just one thing more to remember. Think back when I first met you at the club. If they ask you, that’s when I first met you.’

  ‘I first met you at the club,’ she said.

  ‘Right! And you haven’t seen me since then... until tonight. Understand?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  There was nothing more to be done. Rafferty walked over and poured himself a drink from the decanter.

  Chapter Eleven

  From general bulletin, Police Department, City of New York, State of New York: Citation:

  GENERAL ORDERS NO. 64

  Departmental.

  R
ECOGNITION. EXCEPTIONAL MERIT

  Detective Emmet Rafferty, acting Lieutenant, Homicide, Manhattan East. Shield No. 3159. at about 9:30 P.M., Friday last, did while in the pursuit of his duty, follow and exchange fire with one Edward A. Stack, a dangerous criminal at large and wanted for the completion of a life sentence for murder by the State of Wisconsin. The prisoner, Edward A. Stack, was dead upon the securing of his capture.

  From page 6, a news story carried by the New York Register, Saturday, Feb. 19. (ed. note: The Register, the city’s most conservative paper):

  ESCAPED CONVICT

  KILLED WHILE

  RESISTING CAPTURE

  Edward A. (Eddie) Stack, former bank robber and gunman was shot and killed last night in New York City by Lieutenant Emmet Rafferty of the Manhattan East Homicide Squad.

  Stack, who escaped a week ago from prison where he was serving a life sentence, was wanted by authorities in Wisconsin. Police here had been alerted, and were waiting for him when he attempted to visit his wife at her apartment.

  From page 2, a news story carried by the New York Bulletin, Saturday, Feb. 19:

  DESPERADO SHOOTS

  IT OUT WITH COP;

  WIFE WATCHES KILL

  Edward A. (Eddie) Stack, West Coast gunman and killer, who escaped last week from Waupun, Wisconsin, where he was serving a life sentence for bank robbery and murder, attempted to shoot his way out of the apartment of his wife, last night, where he had been trapped by Lieutenant Emmet Rafferty of the Manhattan East Homicide Squad. Stack was killed by the blazing gun of the police officer.

  Police here had been notified by Wisconsin authorities of Stack’s escape from prison, and they had posted a close watch on the apartment of his wife, Rose Pauli Stack, beautiful show-girl and former Hollywood starlet. Mrs. Stack told authorities, here, that she had entered divorce proceedings against her husband, and did not know of his escape.