A Deadly Affair

by Ed Lacy

  London said, “Let’s see: Harry hits the ball over and runs around to the other court … like this.” I followed the detective as he walked around the wall which separated the two courts. The wall stopped about two feet from the fence on each side so a person could go from one court to the other. The second court was almost all in shade by now. “That would make Harry never more than about … 60 feet from you. Now show me exactly where you were standing.”

  We walked back to the first court. I said, “I was warmed up, so as soon as Harry started after the ball, I went over by that entrance—where our clothing was—peeled off my T-shirt. That took perhaps a second. Then I leaned against the fence, getting the sun. I figured Harry was sneaking in some rest on the other court, or maybe fixing his shoes or gloves. Anyway, after waiting a few moments, I called out for him to make it snappy, that I did not have all day. I called again, shouting, because of the racket the drilling was making. I get no answer. I walk around to where we just were. No Harry. I kept calling and looking. Still no Harry.”

  London nodded as he lit his pipe, sugaring the hot air. Then he asked, “When you had your shirt over your eyes, could Harry have run by?”

  “No. I would have heard him.”

  “Over the noise of the drilling?”

  “Well, you know what I mean, you can kind of feel a person go by. And how long does it take to pull a shirt off—a second? I would have seen him crossing the rest of the playground.”

  “Leaning against the fence, your back would be to the rest of the place.”

  “Look, Harry would have said something. If he wanted to leave, why sneak out?”

  “Why he went is one thing—let’s work on how he managed to leave, first. Where’s the toilets here?”

  “In that little brick building at the other end. But they’re locked.”

  “Let’s make sure.”

  We made sure: they were locked. We strolled back to the handball court. London looked at the fence, said, “Harry could have climbed over the fence on the other court, like a monkey.”

  I shook my head. “His feet are too big for the mesh. I keep telling you; he was tired, sweaty, bare from the waist up, had his gloves on. If he wanted to quit for any reason why do it the hard way?”

  London puffed contentedly on his pipe, seemed to be amused. “Jose, you read detective stories much?”

  “Now and then. Why?”

  “Except for the lack of a ceiling, or top, to this cage, it’s like one of these locked room puzzles mystery writers love. All the doors and windows are tightly locked from the inside, yet somehow the victim—alone in the locked room—is shot to death, or run over by a steam roller …”

  “Listen, I can lose my job for taking time off, to come to the police. You think I’m making this up?”

  “Could be you blacked out for a moment, with the heat …”

  “But I didn’t black out! Why would Harry be running out half naked, leave his things behind?”

  “The money and the keys are the only reasons I’m even listening to you, Jose. Tell you a secret about police work—you have to keep an open mind, consider all the angles. You tell me you were playing handball, instead of resting, during your lunch hour. Harry is too fat for real exercise, not the type. Then Harry runs over to the other court, a distance of less than fifty feet, and despite being literally fenced in, Harry disappears … you say.”

  “What do you mean, I say? It happened! Why else would I come to the police?”

  London gave me a fat wink. “I’m not saying you’re one, but we get nuts coming in every day. Don’t fly off the handle; keep remembering my open mind. Now, by an odd chance, nobody else was in the playground when …”

  “You forget the old sun-bather.”

  “Where was he sitting?”

  “On that second bench, over there.”

  “But you didn’t see him leave either?”

  “No. What reason would I have had to watch him?”

  “None, and then again … eighteen reasons….”

  “Harry found the wallet. I had nothing to do with it, Mr. London.”

  “Call me Jack. My father had a sense of humor—Jack London, after the famous author. Look, Jose, what are you asking me to believe, that Harry was suddenly whisked out of the court by Sputnik, or a flying saucer?”

  “You are the police. I am not asking you to believe anything. I am merely reporting what happened,” I said, anger plain in my voice.

  London grinned. “Fine. Now let me tell you what I think happened. Harry had to haul ass out of here in a hurry, for some reason. Be a damn hot reason for a hustler like Harry to leave his dough behind, too. We know he had a rumble with the number goons a while back. Could be Harry was getting the ball in the other court when he saw a couple of the boys coming up the street—in the direction of that big crane over there. You couldn’t see them from the inner court. Harry, being a punk at heart, panics, and either ran past you—without you hearing him as you were taking off your shirt—or scrambles up and over the fence and takes off. The thugs might have chased him.”

  “Then where is he now?”

  “Maybe still running,” London said, chuckling as if he had made a joke. “Most likely he’s hiding. Did you know Harry was a bed man?”

  “A what?”

  “A lover, a chaser.”

  “Why would I know that?”

  “We know he used to sleep around-with Latin gals. Maybe he saw some babe he knew pass, went after her? Only been a few hours, they could be sleeping it off now. Let’s see if the fence is loose anywheres on the other court, if it can be raised. Harry would crawl like a snake after a piece.”

  I shivered, wondering if he knew about Harry and Louisa, as we examined the fence. We didn’t find any openings, it was a new fence. I asked, “Now what do you do?”

  “Look, I’m thinking off the top of my dome, giving you two reasons why a chump like Harry would have taken off. Let’s go over to his store. He can be waiting for you there, or more likely he’s at the garage, wondering what’s become of you.”

  Walking out of the empty playgrounds and down the deserted street, I said, “But Mr. Jones, my boss, knows I went to the police.”

  London laughed again. “Listen, if the syndicate goons are after him, or he’s knocking off some girl, can you see Harry rushing to the police?”

  The store was locked. London went into a tiny shoe place, a half a dozen FOR RENT stores away. The shoemaker hadn’t seen Harry since yesterday. The shoemaker looked as if we’d awakened him.

  We headed for my garage. I suggested London might call Harry’s wife, but he wisecracked, “What for, to report Harry’s two-timing her?”

  Mr. Jones said no one had been around. He and London went into the office while I went back to work. After ten or fifteen minutes I smelt his fancy tobacco and crawled out from under a truck. The detective said, “If Harry shows, tell him to pick up his stuff in the squad room.”

  I nodded. Mr. Jones was standing in the office doorway, smiling at me. I felt fine; my job was safe. I told London, “I’ve done all I could. I’m glad I went to the police station. I was not sure about going at first.”

  “Why?”

  “Some police at the sight of a Hispano they get … you know. “I carefully didn’t use the word “framed.”

  “You’re wrong to be afraid of us. We’re only doing our job. Trouble is, a cop isn’t a machine but only human, and subject to all the … the prejudices everybody else is. We need more Puerto Rican police officers. Seriously, Jose, a young fellow like yourself, smart and in good condition … be easy for you to pass the exam.”

  “I never considered it,” I said, truthfully.

  “Think about it. Might even go to one of the schools that help you brush up for civil service exams. I’ll be glad to give you any tips I can.”

  “I might try it, at that.”

  “And if you see Harry, give me a ring.” London waved and walked out of the garage. A wave of solid
relief swept through me like a stick of rum. I was done with the police. And I liked London—he was a decent one.

  Mr. Jones came over. “Glad you’re not in any trouble, Joseph. The way you rushed out before, I didn’t know what to think.”

  “I was upset.”

  “Naturally, but I always say it’s best to get things like that off your mind. You did the correct thing. I’ve seen those handball courts, and I fail to see how your friend could have left out without you seeing him. Very strange.”

  “Mr. Jones, I’ll work overtime—on my own—to make up the lost hours.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Joseph. Just try to finish up on this truck, if you can. You were only doing your duty as a citizen, and there’s no reason why the company shouldn’t share that responsibility. That’s what I told this detective when he asked if any tools were missing: I assured him you are an upstanding young fellow, even if … That I have complete trust in you.”

  He went back to timing a motor he was working on. Sliding under the truck with my grease gun I told myself, “Blancos are all plain loco. Mr. Jones was about to say I was a good fellow even though I’m Puerto Rican! London, with his big sales pitch about helping me be a cop … and all the time he thought I could be mixed-up in a stolen tool deal with Harry, that we’d set up a phony disappearance! Okay, I’ve done my bit. I’ve had it.”

  But where could Harry be?

  Chapter 4

  I LEFT THE garage at 5:45, only a half hour past my usual quitting time. I wasted some minutes walking by Harry’s store—still closed. I also wanted to ask Louisa if she knew where he was, but that would take an hour and there was no way I could call Helen, who worries so if I am not home by six.

  I rode the subway downtown and then crossing Broadway was kicks because it seems full of life and movement—so many of the people islanders like me. There are often a few hostile stares, but I had long since stopped paying them any mind. This Upper West Side was an odd place, the rich and the poor sandwiched together. Because of the expensive apartment houses I doubt the area will ever become all Spanish, like el barrio Latino in East Harlem, and for the same reason the building owners will never let it become completely rundown, either. Man, I like the neighborhood. Often passing a street full of our people I would feel pride that in time of great housing shortage we are able to push out hundreds of blancos. True, as Helen says, both the landlords’ greed and the hatred of the North Americans for us, helped send them fleeing. But it still gave me a sense of the strength of my people.

  And the warm, busy smell of too many people living in one house hit me, as usual, the moment I stepped into the Royal Residence Hotel. Somebody sure had a sense of humor naming this dump “Royal.” It had formerly been an old walk-up apartment house with 4 flats to a floor. They could get about $75 a month for a five room apartment now, but by throwing in a few sticks of second-hand furniture and calling it a hotel … they had me paying $18 a week for one room. It had formerly been a high-ceilinged large living room, and I have lived in worse rooms up here. Truthfully, before the baby came, I didn’t mind it—except for the high price. Helen and I were both working then, and out of the room most of the time. But now with the baby, the room is too confining, too much used—like the rest of the house.

  Helen wants us to move into a project if possible, and she can not understand why I am against it. You see in a project I would be “colored” and not Spanish as I am here. I can never properly explain this to Helen because about some matters she has a very bad temper—like my father—nor does she understand the role of a Spanish man’s wife. But then, if she were less independent I might not love her so much. Anyway, that is why we were both so interested in Harry’s house.

  Eric was sprawled over the lobby desk, gasping in the heat like a dying fish. He said, “Good evening, Mister Jose.” He was talking English tonight.

  Waving at him, I started up the stairs, keeping an eye out for banana peels and other trash. Eric wore a short-sleeved shirt and I could see the faint tattooed blue numbers on his fat left forearm. His head was a completely bald, an uneven lump—they had busted his head and his nerves in a Nazi concentration camp. Some days Eric could barely walk. He got a small salary and a smaller room behind the desk, seemed to be on duty 24 hours a day. I can’t recall ever seeing Eric leave the hotel. Most days he wouldn’t speak at all, merely grunt, and if he wanted to, he could speak good Castilian Spanish.

  There was a constant war between Eric and us: he stood for the landlord. He was the one who took our weekly rent. Only my Helen felt sorry for Eric, which did not make her popular with the other wives. True, they also dislike her because she is not Spanish, does not have to work … and also because my wife is a busybody. Man, she will raise hell at Latino mothers feeding their babies light coffee, for example, not understanding this comes from habit: the lack of milk in Puerto Rico. Anyway, Helen claims the bank which owns the hotel purposely put an Eric in—as a safety valve against our bitter anger at being rooked. She may be right, for it is very easy when something breaks—as happens all the time—to say, “No light in the hall for two days now; that Jew Eric grows fat on our accidents.”

  There was a drunken Negro who took care of our hotel and another one—an even bigger dump—down the block. When sober he was good with tools, but he never had any help except for winos he’d pick off the Drive now and then, so the halls were rarely cleaned. We easily blamed Jew Eric or the black one (who was actually not as dark as some of us Hispanos). Eric was cursed to his face, but the janitor only called names behind his broad back.

  The curses had no effect on Eric; he remained polite, no doubt also politely hating us. But he never looked at our women with desire, he called us “mister,” often gave the kids candies, and he rarely had the police in. He smoothly handled the bribes to the various inspectors, too. (We were all in terror of the house being condemned: where could we move to?)

  I had our bed and Henry’s crib on one side of the room; then the dresser, the table, TV set: then the stroller, and our tiny sink and two burner hot-plate; the tin “icebox” hung out our one window. From the street it could almost be mistaken for an air conditioner. It used to be quite a joke between us. The room was cut in half by the usual line with Henry’s diapers and other stuff drying. I didn’t like it, but we once took the laundry up to the roof and two of my shirts were stolen.

  As I crossed the room to look at Henry, naked except for his rubber panties and smiling at me in his sleep, I blew a kiss at Helen. She was wearing her black hair in a long pony tail and not much under the thin house dress. Helen’s long face with the high cheek bones and sharp nose may seem beautiful only to me, but her figure is better than any movie star’s, and the very sight of her fills me daily with pride.

  She started putting a salad on the table and as I kissed her, I knew she was upset. For a split second she clung to me and there was a wonderfully cool smell to her skin. Before I could say a word about Harry, Helen said, “Joe, this place is impossible.”

  “Was it ever any paradise?” I asked, kissing her ear.

  “That pig, Miguel, is drunk again and threw up all over the bathroom. Three hours ago. I told Eric but the mess is still there. And also still no curtains for the window.”

  I sat down to put on my slippers. “So buy curtains and …”

  “No! It is up to the house to supply curtains. I’m going to the rent office tomorrow. But the bathroom—Joe we simply have to move. Henry will get sick. The way families are packed in each room, it’s a wonder an epidemic doesn’t kill us all. How long will that mess remain in the bathroom?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” I said, touching her breast with my little finger as I headed for the door.

  “But it is not your job.”

  “I’ll get Miguel to clean it up.”

  “Let Eric—”

  “You will never make a good Spanish wife, for you do not realize it is not the wife’s task to argue with a husband who has had a hard d
ay,” I said, teasing her. “I have to go to the john, anyway.”

  The bathroom stunk: of everything: including a sweet wine smell reminding me of the detective’s tobacco. The window was stuck and after nearly rupturing myself trying to open it, I gave up and went down the hall to Miguel’s room. He lived in what had been a kitchen. At $10 a week it was the cheapest room in our hotel, and while it had the advantage of a real gas stove and a sink, there was little space. As I opened the door, a bell tinkled—Miguel was a dope who still believed in spirits. In fact, although he insisted he came from Cabo Rojo, had worked in the great salt beds there, I had a sneaking suspicion he was a Cuban trying to pass as a Puerto Rican and an American citizen.

  Miguel was a thin man, about 35, with skin the color of tea, and a wispy line of a moustache. He was a bus boy in some cafeteria and had many troubles, which he loved to talk about. For one thing, he was lonely for his family. For a second trouble, although he had always considered himself an Indio, up here he was greatly unhappy and puzzled at finding himself being plain “colored.” Being dark skinned myself, I never had his problems; I knew I was “colored” down in the island—even if it did not matter much there.

  The dim, overhead light was on and I saw a empty bottle of sherry on the floor. Near it an army of roaches fought over an open box of crackers. Miguel was snoring on his cot peacefully, despite the shut window and the hot room full of the sharp, stinging, odor of insecticide. Stepping on a squad of roaches, I shook him awake. He tried to kick but calmed down when he finally got me in focus. Sitting up he said, “Ah Jose, my good friend, the jibaro from Luquillo. You wish a drink? I have wine someplace….”

  “Some other evening we drink,” I said in English. “Now you must clean up the bathroom. Nobody can use it.”

  “Me? What have I to do with the mess in there? I come from a …”

  “Miguel, stop it.”

  He nodded, then held his head as if in pain. “It is true, I got sick from swilling the wine. But let the dark porter clean …”