A Deadly Affair

by Ed Lacy

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “Want a drink of water?”

  I shook my head. I was wise to him, the old con, the change-up pitch … the big blanco bastard was putting on the friendly act … as he called me Chico. But at least my eyes were no longer on fire.

  Artie shrugged his big shoulders, his white shirt damp under the armpits, lit a butt for himself. He said gently, “Joe, you must think we’re a couple of hard guys, but you have to realize it’s only our job. London tells me you may become a police officer yourself. I’ll give you some advice: like any other job, it has its good and bad sides. Depends from which side you’re looking at it. Suppose a drunk was annoying your wife, you’d want her to call the police. Right?”

  “Yes.” I didn’t know what he was talking about but he expected me to say yes. And the blessed coolness on my eyes.

  “Okay, now suppose you were the drunk, out for a little fun, but not meaning any harm. When the police came you’d say, ‘Those lousy cops, giving me a hard time.’ That’s like now. We have to question you because it is part of our job. Nothing personal against you, ya understand, we’d question whoever was the last to see Harry. But you’re making the job tougher for us, and for yourself. You be easy with us, we give you a break, too. For example, there’s such a thing as the unwritten law, a killing that is justified. Say, like self-defense. You come clean with us, maybe we can work something out for you.”

  “I have come clean, told you all that happened.”

  Smiling, he shook his head. Damn, an outsider seeing his smile would think we were discussing a ball game! He said easily, “Joey, let’s cut the crap and level with each other. We have you, sewed up tight. What’s the sense of lying? We could take you into court this second, with what we have, and get a conviction. Now Harry was a no-good, small-time hustler, and I don’t give a fat damn that he’s dead. But you look like a nice, hardworking kid, smart. Think smart. No jury would ever believe that silly handball story you been handing us. It would have been impossible for Harry to have vanished from the fenced-in court. You never played handball with him yesterday.”

  “The sun-bather, Rastello saw us. Why do you believe his lies?”

  “Joey, Joey, we ain’t looking for work in the middle of the night. Believe me, it was a cinch to check him out. He’s telling the truth: he never saw you or Harry. I know, I know—his wallet. But what does that prove? You could have picked it up anyplace in town, in the subway. Rastello admits he lost his wallet, but that’s all.”

  “You saw the … body. Harry still had his handball gloves on?” I said, almost taken in by the warmth of his voice, wanting to grasp at any straw of friendliness in this evil room.

  Artie leaned closer, put his hand on my shoulder, pressed it. I wondered if he was a queer. I could smell the stale tobacco on his breath. “Joey boy, be sensible. Harry could have been wearing a snorkel up on that roof, what would it prove? Why keep handing us this fantastic yarn? Honest, it isn’t even a decent lie. Kid, I know you think you’re the smartest cookie out, but you’re old stuff to us … a fact you’ll learn if you ever go to the Police Academy. All amateur killers think they can cook up the perfect crime, that we cops are a bunch of dopes. But crime is our business, what we’re good at. Like you’re good at cars. Look, if for no other reason, we’d suspect you because by your own admission you’re the last person to have seen Harry alive.”

  “But I had no reason to kill Harry, or anybody else!” I said, talking into his face, feeling most uncomfortable with him so close.

  He chuckled softly. “Reason? Joey, we’ve had cases where some clown merely thought another guy had looked at him wrong, and that was reason enough for him to slice the other guy’s heart in two. Kid, don’t be dumb, use reason now. You’re in a bad spot, a very bad spot, and I can help you. I may even be able to get you off free. Don’t you want to go back to that fine looking wife of yours, your kid?”

  I nodded.

  His hand pressed harder on my shoulder. “Joey, you keep going for dumb, the least you’ll get is jail. Know what that will mean? The old cons will fight over a piece of young boy-ass like you. You want that, for the next ten years?”

  I couldn’t keep from shaking. I whispered, “What did you mean by getting me off free?”

  He blew some smoke in my face, waved the pack in front of me as if the butts were magic wands. His face was closer—I could faintly smell the after-shaving lotion he had used. “What I was telling you before, the unwritten law. Wise up, son. I’m with you, Joey, but in order to help you, I have to know exactly what happened.”

  “I’ve told you and told you what happened.”

  “Come on, Joey, let me help you. Tell me.” His voice was so soft, if I closed my eyes I could almost believe a girl was sweet-talking me. “Let’s start with a small detail: how did you get Harry up on that warehouse roof?”

  “I tell you I didn’t go up there, never….”

  “Aw Joey, why make this rough for both of us? We have to work together. Let’s start again: you saw Harry’s body … how do you think he was killed?”

  “I don’t know. Looked a little like he was run over by a tank.”

  Artie straightened up. “Yeah? You ever see anybody hit by a tank?”

  I nodded. “Some dead guys in Korea. And once on maneuvers a frightened kid jumped out of a trench too soon … he was a mess. Something like Harry.”

  “Say, clean forgot about you being a vet,” Artie said, pacing the little room slowly. “Hear you got the Silver Star, too. That may help you. I saw combat in the Normandy invasion myself, as an M.P. Had quite a few Spics in our company, and all good soldiers, too.”

  I wanted lo laugh, to cry: how stupid can a blanco get? This fool didn’t even know he was insulting me.

  “Joey, I see how you worked it. You got Harry into your garage, ran him over a couple of times with a big truck. You must have been real crazy with anger, huh?”

  “Policeman, to my knowledge Harry was never in the garage. Mr. Jones is very strict about allowing non-employees inside.”

  London must have been listening outside the door, for he suddenly busted into the dreaded room and said, “We talked to Jones. He says you’re on your own there, most of the time.”

  “Jack, leave the kid alone,” Artie said, almost pushing London against a wall. “I been telling Joey how we’ll help him get free, if he’ll help us. You agree to that, Jack?”

  “Sure, if he opens up, tells us all, we’ll do our best for him.”

  Artie was bending over me again, his voice a warm hiss as he asked me, “Whatcha say to that, kid?”

  “You haven’t said yet how I can be free of here,” I said, knowing I was a fool for asking.

  Artie was so close, the cigarette pasted to his lower lip was nearly burning my forehead as he said, “It’s like I told you before, Joey, the unwritten law. Everybody knows how jealous you Spics are about your dames. So here’s Harry forcing your cousin Louisa to love him because she needed food for her kids. You did the right thing, acted the man, you warned Harry to lay off. Jack says this Louisa is a plump piece too, so Harry couldn’t let go of her. When you warned him for the last time, he laughed at you, maybe even punched you … so you went crazy, flipped, and killed him. Nice combo: a vet nuts with anger over the honor of his women. Hey London, doesn’t that sound like a sure walk-away before a jury?”

  “Could be at that. They love a sob story,” London said from somewheres outside the circle of light still around me, if not directly in my sore eyes.

  “Sure, we can even make it rape. Harry ain’t here to quibble. Get the picture, Joey? Your dear cousin, hardly more than a big child herself, is being raped by this fat bastard, Harry. When you beg him to stop, he treats it all like a joke, so you go nuts. Being Louisa is only a cousin, it might not be considered a justified type killing, but once we get your story straight, we’ll rush you down to Bellevue for a mental exam. Worst that can happen, you’ll spend a few months in a nut ward.
Plenty of rest and you’ll eat better than you’re doing now. Now you got the picture, tell me, what happened yesterday, from the start?”

  “I have. We were playing handball—”

  “You goddamn dumb black greaseball!” he yelled, and backhanded me across the neck. It didn’t hurt much … nothing really does in a nightmare, I suppose.

  Now London came in, like a guy in a wrestling tag team match. He asked with a sneer on his big face, “Did Harry demand to sleep with your Indian wife, Jose? She’s a fine looking hunk of trim.”

  For a split second my anger rose and blinded me to all but one very clear thing: even if it meant my death I was going to belt that sneer off his damn face. But a split second isn’t much time—the feeling of pure hate passed. I almost laughed for I knew this was but another trick, like a fellow I once boxed who kept stepping on my feet in the ring, also to blind me with anger. I said to London, my voice cold, “Harry never said one word about loving up his wife, my wife, or even your’s.”

  For a bit London too seemed ready to explode, then he shook his head and laughed. “You’re a tough one, Jose. It’s a shame you’re in a jam, you really would make a top police officer. If you’ll only work with us, it may not be too late for that.”

  “What can I say but the truth? How else can I help you, or myself? I fail to see why you are not questioning this Rastello. The way he had his money folded was perhaps a signal for something.”

  “I told you, we been to see Rastello. His reason for keeping his folding money just so has nothing to do with either you or Harry. He’s out of this; that I’m certain of. Were you angry at Harry because he was stalling on selling you his house and you wanted to get things settled before you lost your job?”

  “Lost what job? I’m a good mechanic. Ask Mr. Jones.”

  London lit his pipe, puffed on it for a moment and the sweet smell seemed the only thing real and alive in the dreaded room. Then he said casually, “I did. He says he was about to fire you, that you considered yourself too good to grease trucks.”

  “Fire me? Mr. Jones wouldn’t have said that! Why he once told me I would have his job when he moved up, to the main garage downtown.” But I heard my voice as in a whisper, and for a moment the nightmare stopped. Was London lying, baiting me? Or had Mr. Jones known about me bringing my lunch in, extending my lunch hour five or ten minutes? True, I did feel greasing trucks was not up to my ability, but had I ever openly told Mr. Jones that? If not, how did London know? My tired mind was mixed up now. I wanted time to think; even in a dream things can get too bad. But London was back at firing the rapid questions at me, the light in my eyes. Always the old questions: Where was the murder weapon? What was it? How had I got Harry up to the roof?

  I kept to my story, not because I was tough or smart, but there was nothing else I could tell him. But it was hard, for I’d practically been up around the clock and my weary mind wandered. At times I even questioned myself, like a crazy man, for in my own mind I could not understand how Harry had ever left the handball courts.

  Even clinging to my story, I began falling over my own words and London made a big thing of it. Once I said I thought Harry had taken off his gloves as he ran around the court—we often did that to cool our sweaty hands. I don’t know why I said it, but London took off on that, as excited as if he’d found uranium, since the gloves had been on when Harry’s body was found. So I had to fight to get my mental second wind, keep my guard up. We fenced around with the gloves thing for a while until I screamed I wasn’t sure if his gloves had been on or off, and what the hell difference did it make—I still didn’t kill Harry or have the smallest idea who had!

  I was so exhausted at that point, I think if London had come at me, I would have said anything he wanted me to, in payment for a little rest. But he too was tired, and let it go; perhaps knowing the gloves were of no importance. While there wasn’t any window in the hot room, I figured it had to be morning. Cops had been coming in with reports or whispered messages for London or Artie. The last ones looked freshly shaved and very awake, so they must have been a new shift. There was also another sign—in the midst of all my great fear there was a feeling so routine I was almost ashamed of it: I was hungry.

  From the little I could hear of the whispered conversations, they had checked to see if I’d had a police record—even in the island—and if Louisa or her husband had ever been in police trouble. Once London said in a loud whisper, “See what we have on his wife. She’s an Indian from upstate, with some pair of headlights.”

  The dirty sonofabitch even glanced at me as he said it. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting, on the outside. London went out and Artie came in sipping a container of coffee. He offered me some, and it smelled as fine as Puerto Rican coffee (which is the very best in the world). Much as I wanted it, I shook my head, wary of his friendship act. He then made with his great fat gift of a cigarette, which I didn’t want. Artie carefully finished a thick sugared doughnut I could practically taste, before he put his arm on my shoulder—friendly as a queer—and asked, “Joey, do you know the score? You look like a smart one.”

  A smart one! “What score?”

  Artie’s voice never became hoarse as did London’s. He said softly, “About life and things. You got to separate the crap from the clouds. There’s a crock of bull going around—they teach us American kids the courts work for all, that everybody has an equal chance before the law. The theory is okay, but democracy is a slow machine to work, takes time for all the bugs to be worked out—hundreds of years of time. That’s knowing the score.”

  He waited for me to say something. I didn’t know what to answer, although I could tell him a few scores!

  “I’m telling you the facts of life, Chico,” Artie went on, his voice as normal as if we were having a chat over a beer, his hand fondling my shoulder again. “Like we say a white man and a colored boy are equal before a jury, that their color isn’t supposed to matter. That’s crap, we know it does sway a jury, they’ll rook the colored boy every time. Don’t we know that, Joey?”

  “I am Spanish, not colored.”

  He laughed gently. “Joey, I know the score, don’t give me sunshine talk. Up here you know what you are—black. And a dirty Spic too. I’m not saying it, merely stating the score. You have to read between the lines to know the score. Like all the books say any citizen can be president of the U.S.A. You and I, we know that’s a bucket of bull, don’t we, Joey? A gal can’t be president. You can’t, and neither can I because I’m Catholic. London can’t because he’s a Jew-boy. Same goes for the courts. It just isn’t true everybody has their day in court—only a rich man can really have that. You rich, son?”

  “You know I’m not,” I told him, wondering where all this was leading to, and so tired I hardly cared. But long as he didn’t talk about me killing Harry, his talk was restful, like between the rounds. But now long was this horror of a nightmare to last? Wasn’t it time to awake to Helen’s arms?

  His hand dug into my shoulder, awakening me. “Chico, I’m going to give you some straight advice: you haven’t a chance of a spit in hell. That’s a fact, no matter which way you face it. Suppose you don’t confess, what will happen to you in court? You’ve stuck yourself with a lousy impossible story, a jury will laugh you into the chair. Plus right this second we have twenty men fine-combing the area, and sooner or later we’ll come up with a witness to break even your silly story. How much …”

  “I tell the truth!”

  “Kid, listen to me, you say truth as if it’s a flag to wave. It’s only a word, one small word. Go in to court shouting the “truth.” How much lawyer do you think you’ll be able to hire with the few bucks you may have in the bank? You think many lawyers give a hoot about defending a black kid? Or suppose the court appoints a lawyer for you, then what: is he going to break his back working to free you, or merely go through the motions to pick up his check? The jury listens to your crazy story and finds you guilty. Now the law says a guilty
verdict can be appealed and appealed, up to our highest court. Pure sunshine talk. The trouble is, the law don’t say where you’re supposed to get the money from. Costs like hell to appeal. Meantime, the newspapers will spread you and your wife all over the headlines, and into everybody’s mind. What’s the end result of you being stubborn, making our work harder for us? London and me don’t end up with the big kick in the ass—you do. This money your wife may get, it will go for the first appeal. The papers will make a big thing of your wife being an Indian, they’ll all give her address. She’ll be broke and open to propositions from all kinds of characters. Louisa had to get on her back to feed her kids, do you want your Helen to …”

  “Keep still about her!” A shrill scream seemed to echo in the small room … and it took me time to realize it was my own voice.

  Artie’s hand worked my shoulder muscles, but now it felt almost as relaxing as a second working in my corner. “Chico, listen to me, I’m not a bad guy. I wouldn’t want that to happen to your wife, or even an enemy’s wife. That’s why I’m showing you what a jerk you are. It’s all up to you: make it easy for us and we’ll help you, your wife and kid. Like I said, you must of had a good reason for killing Harry. Tell me what it was, how you did it. Come clean with us and we’ll see what we can work out for you on this self-defense, or the insanity deal. Here, take some of this cold coffee and think it over.”

  Soon as his voice stopped, I gathered my strength to go out for the next round, try to be sharp … even if my mind was dragging. “I can only say what I know. Not who killed Harry or why he was killed. I am a simple man, without imagination to make up such a story.”

  He sighed and walked away. “Kid, you’re a fool. Soon you will be a dead fool and your wife a whore.” There was such a real note of sadness in his voice, I became more frightened than ever. Perhaps he was trying to help me….