A Deadly Affair

by Ed Lacy

  The one I thought was a brunet stepped forward and asked in Spanish, “Are you Puerto Rican?”

  I said yes in Spanish.

  “No wonder we have a bad name, when fools like you come in with shouting and fighting. This is a business establishment and you must act the clown like …”

  I told him in Spanish to shut up, I was also here on important business.

  Rastello told this Jimmy, “Ask him if he has my wallet and money?”

  Turning to him, I said, “I speak English. The police have your wallet. As for the money, I was not the one who found the wallet. Did you know Harry Simmons?”

  “No. I told the detective. What’s this all about?”

  “Didn’t the police tell you?”

  Jimmy, the Hispano, said in Spanish, “Do not make a scene …”

  “Keep talking and I’ll give you a fat lip!” I had a feeling anger would get me no place, so I added, in Spanish, “I am not here for a fight but for information. Now let me talk to Rastello without you butting in.” I faced Rastello, “Didn’t the police tell you what this is about?”

  “In the middle of the night a cop shakes me awake to ask about a man who’s disappeared, and who had my wallet. I told him exactly what I’m telling you—that I never knew either of you. I know nothing about this, except I’d like my wallet back.”

  I said, “I am sorry I caused this fuss. I didn’t know you were …”

  “Are you from the police, looking for the dead man?”

  “How do you know Harry is dead?”

  Jimmy said, “He is not of the police.”

  With sudden hope I asked Rastello again, “How did you know he was dead?”

  Rastello smiled and his face no longer looked evil. “From the urgency in your voice. The dead always get more attention than the living.”

  The man with the thick glasses asked me, “If you’re not a cop, who are you?”

  “A friend of the missing man, trying to help the police in …”

  The Hispano told me, in Spanish, “I wonder if you are a friend or the …?”

  “Boca abaja—I have heard enough of your running mouth!” I snapped in Spanish and English. To the others I said, “Well, I must go. I am sorry I upset your work.”

  “You didn’t do any harm,” thick-glasses said, as I turned and raced up the steps, before they started asking me questions, or called the police. That running dog, Jimmy, would call the police.

  Walking quickly away from Moore Place I was full of a deep rage. The time and hopes I had wasted! London, that wise bastard, could not simply tell me Rastello was blind! No, he had to play with words, say Rastello hadn’t seen me!

  So screw London, only a fool fights the way the other guy wishes him to. All this time I had been boxing London’s way, instead of leading myself. Now where was I? How did I counter, what should my next move be? May was out, Rastello had been a feint.

  I headed for the playgrounds, walking cautiously, trying to gather my tired wits. The killer had to be somebody around there—this was my correct move. I could go over the area for clues.

  I did not believe it would do me any good, but there was nothing else I could think to do.

  Chapter 8

  I FULLY KNEW going to the playground was risky. The police should be watching it; the criminal returning to the scene of his crime stuff. But I had to go there.

  My belly was screaming for food, as if unaware of the big trouble we were in, and I stopped at a candy store and bought a five-cent chocolate bar, which somehow only seemed to add to my hunger. One part of my mind pictured a plate of tostones, the thin, fried plantain slices that really cling to a man’s guts. Or the lechon asado, the wonderfully sweet roast pig we used to have on Christmas—when my mother had sufficient money. Helen was always arguing with the Spanish women in the hotel about how we ate too much fried food, or canned stuff. Man how I could use a hunk of fried meat or fish this second!

  All these soothing but useless thoughts floated around in my mind as I walked a roundabout way toward the playground. Finally I decided there was no less risk in this than in being bold, so I walked directly to Harry’s store. Naturally it was closed but I didn’t see any cops around. A couple of big kids were pointing at it, with morbid curiosity, so it must have been all in the papers. I walked by the other stores with their FOR RENT signs, walking fast as if I was going someplace, but carefully examining the shops. If Harry was involved in anything, he and whoever else was in it might be using an empty shop. But even the small shoe store that London had asked in was closed.

  Now I made for the playground, circling the few blocks of leveled houses so I approached the handball courts from the other side. I stayed a block away but the playground looked as sunny and empty and innocent as ever. The strike was still on, at least nobody was at work. Squatting on my heels behind the remains of a stoop, and looking across a square two blocks of brick and stone rubble, I had a good view of the empty trucks, the big crane, the shacks which were the temporary offices of the construction company, and the rear of the warehouse. Up on the wall of the vacant factory, here hung a scaffold—some 20 feet higher than the warehouse roof—on which two men were examining a spot on the wall with great care. I could not see exactly what they were doing, or looking for, but this must be what London had mentioned on the phone. So the men would be cops, but I doubted if they could recognize me from way up there. Beside, all their attention was with the wall.

  I sat on my heels, resting: not knowing where to start, or what the start should be. Yet I had this strong hunch the “answer” was someplace here, a needle in a haystack of four square blocks of rubble. There was a makeshift fence of old doors—all of them different shades of mild colors—surrounding part of the area. Ducking under one of the doors, I walked by several bulldozers and some sort of small ditch-digging machine. Now and then I would step on a hunk of white ceilling, or part of a pink wall, and it gave me an uneasy feeling to think I was walking on what had once been part of a warm, happy home. Or an unhappy one, in these old houses. But still a home. It felt like walking on graves.

  Bits of lead pipe lay here and there, it was odd nobody was trying to collect and sell them to a junk dealer for a few bucks. Junk. Harry was hard up enough to try bucking the numbers, could he have been peddling dope, too? Hell, he could have been in a dozen rackets, each of them with a possible death payoff. Somehow I had to go along with May, and believe she would have told me of any rackets. Thank God I did not have May for a wife: she sounded like a partner all right, but a business partner instead of a mate.

  I crossed the area slowly, my eyes searching for any possible clue. Perhaps I would stumble upon the killer’s ring, or a match cover with a convenient address, like I saw in TV murders. The bright sun was making me sweat—possibly also because I was coming closer to the street on which the back of the warehouse and the factory stood. I had to urinate. While I was looking for a likely spot, I damn near slipped on some steps and for a moment I was puzzled. Why steps going down in the midst of this nothing? Then it came to me that this must have been the cellar steps of a house at one time.

  Walking cautiously down the stairs, kicking odd stones and bricks out of my way, I relieved myself in the dark cool dampness. From the general odor, this was hardly an original idea on my part. However the cellar was cool and out of sight from the cops up on the scaffold. I was suddenly aware of another faint stink, a sharp aromatic smell which gave me a bad start—I thought it might be London’s lousy tobacco. But after a bad moment I recognized the smell: the perfumed, spicy odor of gin.

  Studying the darkness when my eyes were used to it, I saw I was in a fairly large and low-ceilinged room. A few ideas began moving in the back of my mind. This would certainly be a fine place for me to hide, at least until the strike was over and the men returned to work. It was a perfect observation post—with a good view of the courts and the warehouse roof. I would be able to see anybody poking around.

  The other idea was
a feeling I wasn’t alone. I took matches out of my pocket and lit one. I saw some broken furniture and old newspapers, or maybe it was ancient garbage. I thought I heard sounds as the match went out. I froze for a second until I realized they must be rat sounds. Bending, I felt among the junk until I found some newspaper. Shaking this out, I rolled it up and lit it. I saw all of the old cellar now. One side of the floor was busted open, a gaping hole where the boiler and furnace must have been. A man walking into that, in the dark, could easily break his neck and … in the opposite corner a man was sleeping with his back to me.

  I nearly shouted because for a short second the man looked like what I remembered of Leon. But then I saw the hair sticking out from under the bebop cap … almost yellow hair. Also he was taller than Leon. Holding my paper torch in my left and picking up a brick with my right, I walked toward him. The gin fumes grew stronger.

  I had a better view now: a tall lean guy in dirty chino pants and a stained work shirt. But he was wearing thick new work shoes—expensive ones. His light hair was matted and the stubble on his face far longer than mine. His loose mouth was wet with spit and he moaned a little in his sleep. He looked a Polish fellow, about thirty-five or so, and judging by the shoes, he could be one of the workers knocking down the buildings. There was an empty fifth of high-priced gin near his head.

  Standing there, I wondered what to do, and then the flame hit a soft spot in the rolled paper, brightened like a photographer’s flash. The drunk came wide awake, sitting up in one fast motion and then shielding his eyes from the light. At least he didn’t go for the bottle, hurl it at me. Something silver flashed on his left hand. I was ready for a knife until I saw it was merely the metal band of his wrist watch. Taking his hands from his eyes he glared up at me. “Whatcha want?” His voice was hoarse.

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t recall seeing you working here. On the bum?”

  “Well … yeah. I was looking for a place to rest.”

  “Go find your own cellar. Ain’t bad, real cool. But never know when the ceiling will crash. All the weight. Hey, buddy boy, is it raining outside?”

  “No.”

  He began to curse, short whispered curses.

  “You can not be a farmer. Why do you wish for rain?”

  He blinked at me, his eyes growing cunning, as if suddenly remembering I was still there. “I tied one on, as you can see. I didn’t make the job this morning. I lay cement sidewalks and if it was raining, the job would be called off for the day and the boss won’t be sore at me goofing. It don’t look like rain at all?”

  “It is a sunny day.” The roll of old paper in my hand was about burning to an end. I backed towards the steps and the daylight.

  “Where you going?” he asked, getting to his feet. He was so tall he had to stoop, but he wasn’t rugged—a slim bag of bones.

  “To get some air.”

  As I dropped the burning paper and stepped on it, he came rushing at me, swinging with a board he picked up on the way. Either the gin or the wide board made him clumsy. I stepped inside the swing and grabbing his hand with my left, I bent forward and used a hip block to toss him over. He hit the cellar floor hard and I dropped the silly brick I was still holding in my right hand. He sat up and began vomiting like a sewer. I went up the steps until my head was out in the good air.

  After a couple of minutes I heard him moving—I went farther up the steps in case he should try for my legs—and then the sound of water. There would be a pipe someplace in the cellar and he was drinking. A moment later he stuck his head into the light, making a face at the brightness. He was sure a wet mess. He got me into focus, asked, “What you hit me for?”

  “You crazy? You rushed me, what did you expect me to do, stand still?”

  “Of course I smacked ya, I’m hep to your kind.”

  “What’s my kind?”

  “Ya see a guy sleeping and try to roll him. Well for the love of Pete, will you just look at the goddamn sun! Bright as fire … going to cause me trouble. On the job, I mean. Damn, not a cloud in the sky.” He sat down hard on the stone steps. The water he had taken seemed to have made him drunk all over again. He was so comical I could no longer be very angry over his “your kind” crack. He shook his head, as if to clear it, before asking, “You got a butt?”

  “I do not smoke.”

  “Come on, give me a drag.”

  “I told you, I do not smoke.”

  For some reason this struck him as a big joke and he began to laugh. But when he threw back his head, the sun caught his eyes and he glared up at the sky like an idiot, tried to spit at it. Then he gave me his cunning glance again. Mumbling something about getting more sleep, he disappeared into the darkness. I called out, “How long have you been here?”

  “Since I finished a bottle, this morning. Why, you ask? Hey you ain’t packing a pint of wine, huh?” he called out from the cellar.

  “I don’t drink.”

  “With them eyes? Who you kidding, Pancho?”

  I told him to go to hell and walked away. He frightened me: I could picture myself on the bum, soon, like this one … sleeping in garbage with the other rats. I kept walking across the bricks and came to a great hole surrounded by piles of dirt, where they were probably starting the foundation. They sure worked fast—but not fast enough for all the new houses needed. Being nearer the warehouse now, I could see the men up on the scaffold clearer. They were scratching the wall—but very delicately as if it was some gem—and collecting the dust in paper bags. I glanced at the street, at the handball courts again, as I crouched near one of the dirt hills. Not counting the men on the scaffold, the street was empty, even of police cars. It was strange they were not watching the scene of the crime. I turned to see if the lush was still in his hole, in case he—

  “You there!”

  I spun about toward the office-shacks to see a grey-haired lean man in pressed grey pants and shirt coming toward me. He was carrying a big nightstick and there was a small black holster on his belt. But he was not wearing a badge or a cap, so I knew he must be one of the watchmen. I made no move: he might use his gun and while I knew it is very difficult to hit anybody with a little pistol unless one is a marksman, the sound of the gun would bring the police.

  I waved at him, to show him I held nothing in my hands. As he came closer he strongly reminded me of someone. I could not think who it was but my brain began clutching at the thought with slippery fingers. When he was about ten feet away I warned him, “I an not here for trouble, do not try to use your club on me, pops.”

  “Don’t you know you’re trespassing? Can’t you read the signs?” He stopped walking and his voice sounded uneasy.

  “I saw no signs. I was only taking a short-cut. I … used to live here, when there were houses. I was merely walking about, trying to figure where our house stood,” I added, the lies sounding smooth on my lips. I glanced at the cops on the scaffold, past the hook on the giant crane standing in the street. The scaffold men were not paying any attention to us or … I suddenly knew who the watchman reminded me of: the fisherman who had put his eel into the tree down on the Drive! “You think I’m trying to steal some of your old bricks?” I mouthed the words without paying attention to what I was saying, for a wild idea hit me.

  “You could be after pipe. The idea is we don’t want nobody walking about and getting hurt. Come with me.”

  “Where?”

  “Follow me and I’ll show ya how to get out of here without breaking your neck. And stay out. I mean, you fall and hurt yourself and I get the blame. It’s my job.”

  “Of course. You are right, I shouldn’t be walking about here,” I said, following him—keeping out of his arm-and-club-length. The holster at his belt merely held several pens and pencils. I asked, “Were you working here yesterday?”

  “I work everyday they let me.”

  “I heard on the radio about some fellow being hurt—in those playground over there, I think. You must have seen it,” I
told him.

  “Not me. I mind my business and keep mostly to my office. But the police questioned me. I told ‘em I didn’t see a thing or anybody.”

  “They stop work for the day here so early?” I asked, to keep him talking.

  “Nope—strike. Some smart aleck truck drivers went out and then everybody else followed them like sheep. When I was coming up if a man made two-bits an hour, he was happy. These drivers with their union make more in two hours than I get for all day, yet they go on strike!”

  We were near the fence and the street and I let him talk. I was thinking too hard to listen to him. I stared up at the hook at the end of a long piece of cable which came from the end of the crane. What really made me think of the fisherman—the old watchman or this hook? I thought I saw something with a dull shine to it on the hook.

  “… these youngsters today, handle buttons and call themselves skilled labor. My saints, they’re just machine tenders, button pushers. In my day a skilled man was somebody who could start with a hunk of metal and make it into a set of gears …”

  “Everybody went out yesterday?” I asked. “How about the guy operating this crane? Was he out yesterday too? All day?”

  “Sure. They never started work. Say, what you asking so many questions for? You a union delegate or something? I don’t know nothing!”

  I knew I had talked too much. I gave him a dumb grin. “You ever see a Spanish union delegate? I was only thinking aloud … as you said, wondering how the men can afford to lose a couple days’ pay. I couldn’t afford to.”