A Deadly Affair

by Ed Lacy

  I managed to get a pack of matches out of my pocket, lit one. The slight wind blew it out at once. The same thing happened with the next match. Taking a match, I lit the whole pack. The resulting light was so unexpectedly bright I could see the rough ground far below me, and the boom of the crane a dozen feet away. All that I saw in a split second and what made me forget my terror and pain, laugh aloud with joy … was the sight of a thick, darkish stain, on the very point of the hook, running down toward the curve of the hook bottom! It looked like a gravy stain. I had to let go of the matches, they were burning my torn finger tips. They fell to the ground; a midget shooting star. Bending backwards and reaching far down again I managed to touch the tip of the hook, run my hand around it. I felt bits of stringy softness sticking here and there. I pulled a bit away, rubbed it between my fingers. Was this a part of Harry’s guts or skin?

  I sat up again and put the bit of softness to my nose, but what does human flesh smell like? I stuck it in my pocket, which was wet with sweat, cursed my dumbness in not bringing a little bottle, or something in which to put the ‘evidence.’ Or could this be only thick rust and bits of the woolen waste they probably rubbed the grease away with?

  There was no time for a debate with myself. I decided to scrape off some of the stain, then if I could climb back up, or somehow swing myself over to the boom, I would take the stuff to a doctor or a drugstore, in the morning, learn if it was blood. Suddenly I nearly cried with anger at my hard head—I had not even brought a knife or a nail with me. I had nothing to scrape the ‘blood’ with except my keys. Perhaps I could tear off a hunk of my shirt, rub off enough of the stain with that for a doc to know if it was blood.

  I jockeyed about on the coupling which was sticking like a sharp tooth into my insides. I tried to rip off a piece of my collar and for some reason it had to turn out to be very good material, so tough I was choking myself trying to tear it. I hugged the cable with my face and elbows, yanked at the shirt with my bloody fingers. There was a chilling sound in the darkness, a sound I—of all people—knew only too well: the cough of the powerful Deisel motor in the crane cab being started … then a brief flash and roar lost in the night as the motor backfired!

  I strained to look through the darkness into the cab so far below. From the dim light of the dashboard I could see a big white hand on a lever, but that was all. I wanted to call out, but hesitated … wondering in a daze if I would be giving myself away, and the big thought: Who would be running the crane in the middle of the night? Even that simple answer didn’t reach my numbed brain. This time the motor caught and the cable started to reel in, me and the coupling rushing up toward the wheel. With a frantic scream I tried to slide down into the hook before I was smashed up against the wheel.

  My suddenly strong-as-steel-belt was holding me up. Clawing at it until it finally broke, I scrambled over the coupling, slid down until I was sitting with the curve of the hook between my legs—not even worrying where the hook point was. I bent my head sideways and far down as possible. All this took maybe a half a second: then the coupling hit the wheel above with a great jar, a crashing sound.

  I was flung swimming in the dark air before I grabbed the hook with both hands again, my body and legs straight out in space. Although my arms were about jerked from their sockets, somehow I held on, my bloody fingers digging into the steel of the hook. I screamed again, for the watchman … if he wasn’t working the crane. The night swallowed my yells.

  The guy working the crane let out some cable—the hand on the gear lever seemed far too big to be the watchman’s—then banged the coupling against the wheel once more. I expected either the coupling or the wheel to break. I was still swinging from the hook, my feet straight down now. Knowing I could not hold on after another such jerk, as if working out on the horizontal bar in a gym, I tried getting my feet up around the hook. I finally made it, ripping my pants and skin on the point.

  I started to yell again, but did not. It was useless. Whoever was working the crane had certainly taken care of the old watchman first. Perhaps the wino might hear the racket if he was still in the cellar and not lushed up. Otherwise I was done for: nobody would be passing a playground or leveled buildings at night, and no one else could possibly hear the crash the coupling made against the wheel….

  I thought I saw car headlights on the other side of the project area, but if they were lights, I did not see them again. The man in the cab shifted gears and the coupling started up for the wheel once more. Then the cable stopped: I saw light fan out from the open door of the watchman’s shack. The crane operator must have seen it too and stopped the cable. For a hot second I thought I was saved, the watchman was coming … although what could an old man do against the big hand in the cab? For a crazy second I wondered if the hand could be that of the big girl in Rastello’s house….

  The door of the shack was still open and I guess both me and whoever was down in the cab realized at the same second what had happened—the wind had merely opened the door. Nobody came out.

  I was now hanging from the hook like a sloth, hugging it with my hands and feet. The crane engine was in good shape, it barely made a sound as it idled. The guy in the cab was still waiting, listening. Being near the wheel, I put out a hand and could just touch the boom. I tried to grab hold of it but could not. I tried swinging the hook nearer but didn’t have the strength. For a moment I considered making a jump for the boom, but that would be impossible in my upside down position. I thought I saw a tiny light like a firefly, or a cigarette glow, moving among the bricks and rubble.

  Before I had time to be certain of that, the motor coughed gently as he threw in the gear. The cable dropped a dozen feet to a sudden halt—my insides nearly going out my back—then came banging up against the wheel with a sound of metallic thunder. I don’t know how I held on. My jaw slammed into the shank of the hook and I felt blood in my mouth as I fought against passing out.

  The cable was not moving and in my daze I had an idea the driver was staring out the cab window to see if I was still hanging on, still alive. In Spanish I yelled, “You murdering bastard!” But I swallowed so much blood I barely made a sound. I turned my head sideways and gave up blood.

  I told myself to be still … if he thought I was dead he might give up. Now there was a new motion, the whole crane swung around. The cable dropped and I felt as if I was on the parachute jump in Coney Island … the way Helen had screamed and held on to me, who was as frightened as she.

  I braced myself for the shock when the coupling would be sent smack up against the wheel again. But for a long moment nothing happened. Did the guy think I was dead? Would he come up, or lower me to the ground?

  Then the whole crane began turning back and forth and I started swinging through the night in ever larger arcs. For a short second I did not get it, then I yelled. The sound really came tearing out of my throat as I brushed up against the factory wall across the street! It was so close my shirt ripped on the rough brick. I closed my eyes, knowing the next swing would crush me….

  Things happened below. There was the clear bark of an automatic and I opened my eyes to see the flash of a gun back of the crane. Almost at the same second a car came turning into the street with screaming rubber, its lights chasing the darkness from the street. The crane stopped: the hook and I were still swinging, but in shorter arcs this time. I saw London crouching behind part of the old-door-fence, calling out something at the crane cab, then firing again. Another big man—Artie—jumped out of the car and dashed toward the front of the crane. Despite his beef, Artie managed to jump up on the tracks. As he reached the cab a thick bare arm shot out with a wrench at one end and hit the side of his head. Artie fired; both the arm and he crumpled.

  London came on the run, as Artie fell to the ground, blood on his face. London climbed up on the tracks and looked into the cab, gun ready. Then he jumped down and said something to Artie. Cupping his hands, London looked up at me and shouted, in Spanish and English, “Jose, can
you hold on up there? We’ll get you down in a moment.”

  I tried shouting back I could hold, but my voice was lost as two radio cars came racing into the block. But I could hold … Mother of God how I could hold on now! Even if la jara below were waiting to send me to the electric chair, I was happy to see them!

  The street was filling with uniformed cops. One was climbing up the boom while others were doing something to the body in the cab. For a terrible second the cable began to move up, then it stopped abruptly. I heard London yell, “… then stay the hell away from there! Move him again and we’ll be liable to start this damn thing. Did you call for the fire boys? Yeah, of course, the Emergency Squad too!”

  The cop on the boom was now as high as I was on the hook. He was a young fellow with very red hair. He had torn his uniform in climbing. He tried to reach out and grab the cable, pull me to the boom, but I was too far away. He called out, “Give me your hand.”

  I tried but my blood had turned to glue: my hands were stuck to the hook. The young policeman told me, “Okay, don’t attempt to move. Just hold on and we’ll have you down.” He pulled a roll of rope from some place behind him, like a magician. Tying one end to the boom, he threw the rope at me.

  It struck me a sharp crack on the side but I simply could not move my hands to grab it. Watching it fall to the ground made my head hurt, or perhaps it was the blood rushing to the rear of my skull from hanging upside down so long.

  The young cop called down for a long stick. There seemed to be a lull below. The police were all standing around idly. A car braked to a bad stop and a man rushed out and began taking pictures of me. I watched his flash going off like small firecrackers on Three Kings Day. I doubted if he had enough light to take the pictures.

  London called up in Spanish, “Hold on, Jose. Ladder will be here any second!”

  I whispered, “Talk English.”

  Heralded by the sad wail of a siren, a long hook and ladder truck turned into the street, its powerful headlights making the scene all yellow. There was a moment of confusion—until they moved the photographer’s car. But firemen came racing under me and then a dark circle appeared like magic: they were holding a net.

  London called up in Spanish, “Do not let go or jump, if you can help it, Jose. This is but a safety measure. The ladder is coming.”

  The big truck moved under me on one side of the street, going up on the sidewalk, and a long ladder began rising, like a grey helping hand. A fireman with a red face was coming up the ladder at the same time. I let go of the hook with my feet and touched only air … then my shoes hit the sweet rung of the ladder. The fireman called out, “Don’t move yet, boy!”

  I wanted to laugh. Despite all the big efforts they were making for me, I was still a “boy” to them. I told him, my voice suddenly strong, “I can make it okay.”

  He was directly under me now, I felt his fingers around my waist. He said, “Not with them hands of yours.”

  I tried to let go of the hook but could not. Gathering what was left of my strength, I yanked my hands from the hook, leaving blood and skin sticking to the steel. For a flash of a second, over the pain shooting down my arms, I wondered if after all this I had now ruined the “evidence.”

  The fireman was hugging me against the ladder, his red face next to mine. He said, “Go down slow and don’t worry.”

  The movement of my legs brought sharp pain to my hips. I said, “I can make it. Let go of me.” Somehow it was important to show all these blancos, with their lights and cameras on me, I did not have to be carried down like a captured monkey.

  The fireman told me, “Now take it easy, boy, let me do it.”

  My crotch and left leg went aflame. I knew we were going down the ladder … and then I drifted away, alone, into the gentle night. I felt myself being floated along on a sea of many hands.

  Chapter 10

  THINGS HAPPENED SO fast when I came to, I truly did not know which end was up. First, I was lying in an ambulance, and there was Helen’s anxious and sweet tan face at my side. I felt numb and stiff all over. A man with bushy hair and a sort of odd, pushed-in face, with his white coat open at the collar and showing a lot of hair on his little chest—a doctor—was telling Helen, “You bring him to the hospital tomorrow for another check, and maybe I’ll take the stitches from his lip then. While I’m fairly sure he hasn’t any internal injuries, he is suffering from intense shock and loss of blood. Keep the bandages on until he comes to the hospital and see they don’t get wet. Now, as soon as he reaches his bed, give him one of these pills, and let him sleep as long as possible. Even around the clock, and wait another day to bring him to the hospital. As for food—”

  “Where is Henry?” I cut in and my own voice sounded strange, my lower lip no longer seemed a part of me.

  Helen bent down and kissed me, my skin coming alive where her hot lips touched it. She said, “He is waiting at the police station, with Louisa and a woman cop. Everything is fine. They caught the killer—although it was all an accident …”

  “Please, talking tires him,” the doctor said.

  “I want to hear … It does not tire me that much,” I began, but I really did drift off into sleep.

  When I next opened my eyes I was still lying on a stretcher, but in the police station. My hands were thickly bandaged, so were my arms and part of my face. The same doctor was there; Helen was holding a sleeping Henry, and Louisa and May Simmons were standing around. I started to stand up but the doctor placed a hand on my shoulder, said, “Better you rest …”

  “No, I want to at least sit up,” I said, in my odd voice, and I did. I felt a pain where my legs meet and saw my underwear and pants were in shreds, my middle and thighs bandaged like a mummy.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Good. Except down there.” I pointed toward my crotch and he said, “Be careful not to touch your hands against anything. Don’t worry, you still have a full set of tools below. Be sore for a while, but otherwise usable.”

  The stretcher was so low it was uncomfortable sitting and I stood up, a slash of pain crossing my middle. The doc said, “Bravo, but don’t overdo things.”

  I turned to Helen. “Am I free to go?”

  “I guess so. Detective London is busy in there.”

  I tried to tuck Henry under his fat chin but Helen drew away, said, “You’re not to touch anything with your hands. I guess we can leave, they know where we are if they want us.”

  “We’ll wait. I want to get this over—forever.” I glanced at Louisa: she was smiling even if her face was damp with tears. May Simmons was fingering her rosary again, her lips moving. Something in her face had changed … a kind of youngness was in it now. The tense lines were still there, but somehow they no longer seemed lines of despair but more of a driving kind of tenseness. In fact, although she still looked terribly tired, I even thought she didn’t seem as stooped as before. I turned back to Louisa. “Why are you here? Who is watching your kids?”

  “A neighbor. Ah, of course you don’t know the news-they found my Leon! He was killed in a truck accident up in Boston eight months ago. Jose, can you imagine, they say I will get about a thousand bucks from Social Security, also a monthly sum until the kids reach eighteen. Mrs. Simons thinks I can even sue the truck firm, since Leon was working there. Anyway, now I’ll move out of the dump; perhaps into a project, if we don’t move in with you.”

  That corny silver lining of the cloud, I thought. In death Leon did what he was unable to do in life—take care of his kids. Louisa’s last words suddenly caught up with my mind. “Move in with me?”

  “That’s if we buy May’s house,” Helen said, but the tone of her voice told me it was something she didn’t want. I prayed Helen would not start arguing here—before the others—about us moving upstate to her land. “May is willing to either sell or rent us the house now, after the cellar is repaired. Lawyers have been around her like flies, say she has a million dollar suit against the house wrecking company…
.”

  A door opened and a man was carried out on another stretcher, a thin dirty blanket up to his pale, unshaven, face. It was a moment before I recognized him: the drunk in the cellar hoping for rain. London and the young cop, his uniform still torn, walked with the stretcher as far as the precinct entrance. Inside the room they had come from I saw Artie at a desk, his head wrapped in bandages. London looked very tired. I wondered if the young cop had to pay for his ripped uniform.

  From the door London came over to me. I raised my bandaged mitts, half expecting a poke in the face. He grinned. “That was a nice Judo chop you hit me. Figured on catching it all on my shoulder, but you were too fast.”

  I still kept my hands up and Helen said, “Stop it, Jose. He’s your friend … understands why you hit him.”

  “I bet.”

  The long expression which means Helen is getting up steam crossed her face. “Jose, it’s time you dropped that worn-out chip on your shoulder against all … you know. As I keep telling you, there are good and bad …”

  “Later you will tell me,” I said, my eyes still on London.

  London said, in Spanish, “She is right, Jose. And you should consider her idea about moving upstate. At least look into it.”

  “My wife and I will discuss that later,” I told him in English, full of a weary fury at Helen for bringing him into our personal business.

  Perhaps he saw what I thought on my face for he said, “If it wasn’t for your smart wife, you’d be dead now. She called us—”