A Deadly Affair

by Ed Lacy

  “He could not have done all that … to himself. What about his trouble with the numbers syndicate?”

  “All hot air. Harry often talked about the dough to be made in the digits, so when does he go into the racket? When the people are gone from the houses, when they start knocking down the buildings, then he takes the step. In a matter of days there weren’t enough people left to play numbers or buy meat. Some of the goons threatened him, that’s a fact, but they also realized it was all a tempest in an empty teacup. No, somehow he killed himself; took out.”

  “Why do you keep saying that? He was in a good mood when I saw him last … alive. Full of pep.”

  “He talked about suicide a couple of times, going to do me the big favor, so I made him cancel his insurance policies and—”

  “He has no insurance?”

  “Not a nickel. I took care of it myself, to get suicide out of his mind. He took the little money we got from the policies and threw it into the damn store. That’s exactly how things have gone with us all along—two months after we cash his policies, he’s dead.”

  I tried to think. I wanted to ask where she was yesterday around lunchtime, but that was silly, she couldn’t have smashed Harry up so. Nor could I picture any man wanting May enough to kill for her. I asked, “If he was a … ladies man, might not some husbands have been after him?”

  She shook her head fast, lit another cigarette before she said, “The cops asked that too. Harry was a careful and small time lover boy. A woman owed a few bucks and was a deadbeat, Harry took it out of her hide, that sort of petty stuff.”

  “Did he ever mention a man named Frank Rastello?”

  “Jose, I’ve been through all this with the cops. I never heard the name before they asked me. They told me about the wallet. Don’t worry, Harry wasn’t going to give back the money.”

  “Have you any idea why the bills were folded in odd ways?”

  “No. As I told the police, he had no enemies and while I don’t know how, in my heart I feel he killed himself.”

  • • •

  I stood up. My head hurt from trying to think, and lack of sleep. If he had no enemies I was wasting time here. I had to find Rastello. Harry probably didn’t tell his wife all his interests; no man does. I said, “I have to go. I hope you will not be bothered with the mobs anymore.”

  “I won’t. Anyway, I have already told the neighbors I wasn’t going to sell you the house. I’ll just pack up and leave it to the bank.”

  “You think I will dirty up this great lily-white block?” I couldn’t keep the bitterness from my voice.

  Some life came back into her eyes as she stared up at me. “Oh no, Joey, you don’t understand. I wouldn’t stand for you being stuck.”

  “Sure!”

  “Listen to me, Harry the smart one was crowing over the big deal he made when we bought this house. Most of the money was mine, too, that I’d saved up working before I met Harry. Harry was so happy, we had the only “different” house around. As you see, it’s sunk in a hollow instead of raised like the others. Every time we have a good rain or snow, the celler is flooded, the house sinks a bit more, and the goddamn foundation rots a little more. One day it will all crumble. We can’t sell the house to anybody. But when he heard about the money your wife is coming into, Harry thought if he could get ahold of the two grand, we’d move in with my folks and use the dough to keep the store going. Harry said it would only be for a short time—living with my folks—you’d certainly fall behind on the bank payments and repairs, and then we’d take the house back. Sure, it was a lousy thing but Harry wasn’t a bad one, so you can see how desperate he was for money. I was against it. Be different if you were rich, at least … well, no matter how hard up a person is, you have to draw the line someplace.”

  My mind was dizzy with many emotions: shock at Harry being another blanco bastard: anger at myself for misjudging May: and wondering if she had also told the police this—it could be considered a real motive against me. I mumbled, “Thank you, Mrs. Simmons.”

  “Don’t think too badly of Harry. Money will drive anybody down long roads. He would often tell me about how bad things are for you people, how sorry he was about it. It upset him. ‘May,’ he’d say, ‘the landlords are rooking the Spics … the Puerto Ricans, with both hands. What a profit they must be making from those lousy rooming houses! Must be big shmearing with housing inspectors, cops. It’s a damn shame.’ But he needed money and if there hadn’t been any other way, he would have robbed with a gun, like a common—”

  I walked out while she was talking; talking to the table, perhaps to herself. I reached the corner before I realized I hadn’t been on the lookout for the cops, that I had also forgotten my delivery box and hat. I couldn’t go back to that house for them. The hell with the house—which had seemed like a great dream to us—and the hell with wondering what made Harry a Harry: a blanco, a mean lousy blanco!

  I had no time for such deep thoughts. I was not like my father. I had to find a killer or be railroaded to death myself. In one sense things were now easier: it had narrowed down to one name—Rastello.

  Chapter 7

  I TOOK THE bus cross-town to Broadway. I was afraid to ride the subway without my “order.” The cops might be looking for me in the subways, but it would be impossible to place a cop on every bus. I sat in the middle of the bus, near the door, and shut my eyes—not so much to rest them, but to visualize Frank Rastello’s wallet: the folded money, and especially his Social Security card. I was trying hard to see again his address. I knew it was Riverside Drive and the number a high up, above 500. But from 500 up took in miles. Then I saw Rastello sitting in the playgrounds again, his evil face resting on the silver collar which was the reflector, his bright clothes, the bad dark wig perched on his head.

  But with my eyes closed I had to fight off sleep. I forced my mind to work, to think clearly. I would first try the Drive near the playground block—he would walk from his place. But if he lived on the Drive, why walk all the way to a playground to get the sun? Also, if I found him, then what? If he was involved in this he either would be in hiding or have since left town. The dumb police—baiting me all night instead of watching the railroad stations and air fields. I bet they were watching the planes now, thinking I might be headed for San Juan! But even if I came upon Rastello, he would surely remember me and try to kill me. But unless he had a gang or got the drop on me with a gun, I could handle him, and would get the truth out of him. Still, that was a very large “unless.”

  Then I began to worry what reason I would give if I, as a Latino, was stopped while looking for him in his house? And if he was with his gang, how would I get him alone? I worried over that all the way to Broadway, where I took a bus going downtown, sitting sideways so the light breeze would cool my sweaty back.

  At times I could think only in a dizzy whirl of my desire for Helen, sleep, food, a bath. Then I would snap out of it and try to make a plan. At last I had one. I would say I have a message from Harry’s wife. She can not be mixed up in this and the gang will at least wait to hear what I have to say. Then I will tell Rastello she wants to see him at once, alone. I know nothing about it, except I am acting as an errand boy. Perhaps that will work. But could I be sending Rastello up to harm May? No, she wants to see him alone and only I can take him to where she waits. That’s good. In any event, I will see the way things fall, make up a story as I go along. Worst comes to worst, I will talk only Spanish while I think. I can do no more in my tired state. I must be growing old: in Korea I was up many a night and never felt this bad. But I was never wanted for murder in Korea!

  Of course I stayed away from the playground and was cautious as I headed for the Drive, which was many blocks. Maybe Rastello was the type who took a long walk each day. The numbers on this end of the Drive were far too high, so I walked downtown, my hunger increasing. Mostly I passed the tall apartment houses of the rich and somehow I did not think Rastello lived in any of these—although they say
the big gangsters live in only the best houses these days. After I had walked about 40 blocks I came to a part of the Drive where the houses were older and much smaller. I stared at each house number and passing a modest house of about a half a dozen apartments, a seedy house without an elevator … the number hit me right. I was sure this was the address on the Social Security card.

  With my heart doing a rhumba I went by the house, stopped to fix my shoe laces. Once more, and I decided nobody was guarding the place. I went back and walked into the would-be lobby, read the names over the six ancient bells. No Rastello, but then most of the bells were nameless. The door was open and I walked in, found the mailboxes. If I was stopped here I might ask about an apartment. The placed seemed rundown enough to be open to “us.”

  The mailboxes had names but still no Rastello. Of course, as a gangster he could be using an alias. Also, some of the boxes instead of names merely held neatly printed cards reading: Apartment 4 … Apartment 2. Now I was not sure what to do. I still had a feeling this was the right house; but would it be risky seeing the janitor? I had been refused apartments so often I held a special dislike—and fear—of building supers. But now I could not afford the luxury of petty fears.

  I opened a door at the rear side of the hall, saw a short flight of broken stairs going down to an inside court dirty with papers and other garbage. I went down and pressed a bell on a door covered with bars, like a jail. After a moment of thick silence I realized the bell wasn’t working—probably never had worked—and knocked on the door. On my second knock the door opened and the biggest young woman I ever saw in my life asked, “Yeah?” She had wild but wonderful copper-colored hair on top of a pink round face with fine blue eyes. Her face had a scrubbed-healthy look. She was wearing an old sweat shirt which struggled with her cow-like breasts and heavy shoulders, while a pair of faded blue jeans were skin tight on her thick legs and great hips. She seemed about twenty or twenty-five and must have weighed all of three hundred pounds. Actually, for her size she was well proportioned … but what a size.

  It took me a few seconds to run my eyes over all of her and it seemed to give her pleasure. Then I got my wits together, asked, “Does Mr. Frank Rastello live here?”

  “Who?” A whiff of whiskey traveled with the word.

  “Rastello,” I repeated, growing nervous. Now she was working her eyes slowly over me. All a drunken blanco had to do when speaking to a Hispano was scream, and people would immediately think the worst. Only what could be worse than a murder charge? “He’s a thin little man. Wears very bright clothes, and I think a wig.”

  “You think? I seen better jobs on a cheap mop.” She sort of screwed her fat face and squinted those blue eyes as she said, “You sure got bum eyes. I never seen any so red.”

  “Where does Mr. Rastello live?”

  “In apartment 4, with the others.”

  “Thank you,” I said, turning away. Did the “others” mean the rest of the gang?

  The woman giant asked, “Where you going? He ain’t home now. He’s working.” The whiskey smell seemed to cover me like a spray. “Hey, is he going to get you a job?”

  “Yes … yes, said he would try,” I said quickly, facing her. “Can you please tell me where he works?”

  A skinny man of about fifty with uncombed dirty-grey hair hanging over his face like a poodle, wearing torn underwear tops and bottoms which showed his skinny arms and legs, suddenly appeared in the doorway at her side. He looked funny next to her bulk. He peered at me through the crazy hair over his eyes, asked the big woman, “What’s the trouble, Marie?” Then he blew some hair my way as his thin dirty lips said to me, “We ain’t got no empties. We ain’t had a vacant one since—”

  “I’ll handle this, Jerome,” this Marie said, without even looking his way.

  “Well it’s a fact. I ain’t had an empty since the—”

  “Oh button your goddamn lip and get back to bed,” Marie said, giving him a playful push with her shoulder and hip. He flew from the doorway like a puppet yanked off a stage. Marie gave me a big grin, her fat lips naturally a nice red. “He’s always treating me as if I was a dummy. And him starched with wine all the time. Now what was it you asked? Yeah, yeah. Frankie works at the Flatts Processing Labs on Moore Place. You know where that is?”

  I nodded. Moore Place was a block or so above the playgrounds.

  “He’s there until about three, so you’d best hustle up there now. Fifty-two Moore Place, in the basement. Gee, your eyes are sure bad red.”

  “I’ll go see him at once. Thank you.”

  “I like that, you don’t mind a joke on yourself.”

  I didn’t know what that meant and as I turned away, she said, “Wait up, be careful on these steps. Here, let me help you.”

  Damn if she did not take my arm, as if I was a babe, and lead me up the stairs to the hall: her big wide feet in torn slippers … and all that jelly movement in the tight jeans simply unbelievable. She must spend an hour, at least, each morning, getting into the pants. I never saw so much woman, and all of her bouncing ahead of me. At the top of the stairs she panted, “Now just go straight across the hall, that’s the street door. Then head right on the Drive. Hey, how come all you guys are so small? But I ain’t seen none as young and strong as you, handsome. Have yourself a nice build … real nice, man.” Mixed in with the whiskey from her mouth was an unwashed smell about her which was exciting, for some reason.

  Of course I did not know what to answer to all this, and merely smiled up at her blue eyes and copper hair. This was not a dye job. She suddenly took my hand and ran it down into the deep valley of her breasts, giggled loudly. She asked, “Hey, you going to live here with the others?”

  “Well … I will see.”

  “Bet you’re full of pep. Live here, cutey!” she said with another burst of giggles, then ran back down the steps, her heavy movement not without grace—although I expected the steps to cave in.

  To save carfare I walked up to Moore Place, my weary mind more puzzled than ever. The girl giant talked as if there indeed was a gang. But what did a “processing lab” mean? Was Rastello in with a bunch of counterfeiters? Queer bills might account for the way his money had been folded. But what was Harry doing with such a gang? Still, had not May said he would do anything for money? I flexed my muscles. One thing gave me cheer: at long last I had found Rastello, and would shortly be on the path to clearing myself … if I could handle his gang.

  I do not think Moore Place, even in its best days, had ever been anything but a dreary dead-end street of very old tenements, and a few shops now used for small factories. Although it was well beyond the project area and the houses not meant to be torn down, most of them were boarded up. Number fifty-two was closed, all the windows covered with old tin. But there was a small new brass sign reading: FLATTS PROCESSING LABS., Inc., and the steps down to the basement were in good shape. I walked down quietly and heard the faint sound of music, although the windows were painted black and there was no sign of light. I thought I also heard men’s voices in the basement. Fumbling in the dim doorway for a door, I felt of a thick cloth covering the entrance. Pushing this aside, I stepped into complete blackness.

  Hesitating, I listened hard, hearing radio music, men talking in low voices, and even the hum of a fan. Opening and closing my eyes a few times, I still saw only darkness. My hand touched another blanket hanging across the hallway. Pushing this aside, I took a few steps … afraid of the darkness. The music sounded very near but there was not even the tiny light of a radio dial. The talking had stopped but I felt the presence of several people.

  A deep voice at my left asked, “George? Back so soon. Any trouble buying the stuff?”

  I neither knew what to answer and my mouth was dry with fear. I heard movement on my right. Then the same voice asked, “Who is it?”

  Turning, I tried to push through the blankets over the entrance. The deep voice shouted, “Hey! Don’t do that!” Then many hands were on me, from al
l sides. I wrestled but the hands were too much, pinned my arms to my chest. I was half-carried and rushed past the first blanket, and then I was outside, at the foot of the steps coming down from the street, surrounded by five old men—all of them bare to the waist. One was Rastello, an apron over his neat blue slacks. I shouted at him, “What is this? Why did you lie to the police about not seeing me in the playgrounds yesterday? I am going to knock your—”

  “Who are you?” the man with the deep voice asked. He had very thick bushy hair and a pot belly. He let go of me to put on a pair of very heavy glasses which gave his eyes a distorted look. One of the others looked like a brunet—with blanco features and olive skin, his soft straight hair carefully combed.

  “My business is with him,” I said jerking my head toward Rastello. “And take your hands off me before I flatten all of you.

  “Now, now, no rough stuff,” the deep voice with the great eyes behind the glasses told me. “What’s the matter with you? One bit of light in there could cost me hundreds of dollars. Today we’re cutting film stock to various sizes.

  “There will not be any rough stuff, if Rastello talks the truth!”

  “Can’t you see we are all blind? No need to act tough.”

  “Blind?” I repeated like a fool. For the first time I noticed some of the men had a white cloudy film over their sunken eyes.

  They took their hands from me and Rastello said, “I recognize your voice. You are one of the handball players.”

  “Then why in hell did you not inform the police you saw me there?”

  “But I did tell the cops I heard two men playing ball, before the noise of the drilling started. Of course, I couldn’t see you.”

  I waved my hand in front of his pale face. He drew back. I yelled, “What are you handing me? You can see! You walked into the playgrounds without a cane. What did you do with Harry?”

  The one with the thick glasses and deep voice cut in with, “I assure you Frank is blind. Oh, most of us can recognize vague shapes, degrees of light. Frank is fortunate to have enough sight to walk unaided … if he is careful. Also, we have normal hearing, so you do not have to shout. There is lots of ignorance about the blind—about eighty per cent of those classed as legally blind have some sight. For example, with these glasses I can read, but legally I am considered blind. As it happens, in our work, which calls for no light, lack of sight might even be considered an asset.” He stuck his face nearer to mine. “Are you Spanish? Jimmy, perhaps you can explain to him.”