Death of a Pusher

by Deming, Richard

  One reason for this, aside from Goodie’s popularity, was the prices, which were all out of line with the glittering atmosphere. Bar whiskey in the richly furnished cocktail lounge was thirty cents, draft beer a dime. In the dining room you could get half a fried chicken, spaghetti and meat balls, or a roast beef plate for sixty cents, a passable steak for a dollar and a quarter. Goodie probably broke about even on food and drink, banking on the income from fifty bowling lanes for his profit.

  During bowling season all fifty lanes were packed with league bowlers seven nights a week. Once when I had nothing else to do I figured out that the gross take from this operation amounted to twenty-one hundred dollars a week, and that didn’t include the take from afternoon open bowling. Why this wasn’t enough to get by on without seeking additional income from wholesaling narcotics was a little beyond me.

  In midsummer, of course, there was no league bowling. Only about a half dozen lanes were in use when we walked in.

  Jack Carr, Goodie White’s immediate assistant in everything from running the White Bowl to running ward politics, was behind the lane-reservation desk. He was a squat, powerfully built man with hairy arms and, as disclosed by an open-necked sport shirt, an equally hairy chest. He seemed to have thick hair everywhere except on top of his head, which was nearly bald.

  We stopped in front of the desk and I said, “Hi, Jack. Goodie around?”

  “Evening, Sarge,” he said. “I think he’s having dinner in the dining room.”

  Then he recognized Wynn and pretended to do a double take. “Hey, Lieutenant, I hope you’re not here on official business.”

  “Why?” Wynn inquired.

  Carr grinned. “Vice cops don’t bother me because we run a clean place. Homicide cops scare me.”

  “You got a guilty conscience?” Wynn asked unsmilingly.

  Carr gave me a pained look. “This guy’s got no sense of humor, has he?”

  “He only laughs at funny jokes,” I said. “Shall we try the dining room, Lieutenant?”

  As we walked together toward the dining room, Wynn said, “Why do you think Captain Spangler wants you to do the talking to White, Sergeant?”

  “I don’t know, sir,” I said. “I never question a superior officer’s orders.”

  He gave me a suspicious look, but he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t, without disagreeing with his own philosophy.

  Councilman Goodman White was a plump, hearty man with a full head of gray-flecked hair. He was seated alone at a table drinking coffee.

  He glanced up as we neared his table, threw us a vote-catching smile, and rose with outstretched hand. “How are you, Matt? Evening, Lieutenant.”

  Even civilians didn’t call Robert Wynn by his first name, I noted. There was something about the man which prevented any sort of familiarity.

  “Hello, Goodie,” I said, shaking the proffered hand. “Keep your seat. We don’t want to disturb your meal.”

  “I’ve finished, Matt. I’m just having coffee.” He waved us to chairs. “Join me?”

  I took a chair across from him, and Wynn sat between us. White, ever the gracious host, waited until we were both seated before reseating himself.

  “Have you gentlemen had dinner?” he inquired.

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  “Like some coffee? Or an after-dinner drink?”

  I shook my head. “We can’t have a drink, Goodie. We’re on duty.”

  “Oh? Is this an official visit?”

  “Let’s say semiofficial. Captain Spangler asked us to stop by.”

  The plump councilman smiled. “Well. How is my old friend Spangler?”

  “Chipper as ever. This is kind of embarrassing, Goodie, because the captain regards you as a personal friend. And he hates to involve personal friends in criminal investigations. That’s why he sent us over to have a quiet talk with you instead of dragging you down to headquarters like a common criminal.”

  Goodie White looked amazed. “Dragging me down to headquarters! What the hell for?”

  “Spangler said he was sure the lieutenant and I could straighten the matter out by having a personal talk with you, and that way the newspapers wouldn’t have to know a thing about it.”

  Glancing at Wynn, I saw his face was dark red. He couldn’t understand this coddling of a murder suspect. But he was a good soldier. Captain Spangler had told him to let me do the talking, and the lieutenant was incapable of violating instructions.

  White looked both puzzled and gratified. “I appreciate the captain’s thoughtfulness, but what’s it all about?”

  “Know a fellow named Benjamin Polacek?”

  “Sure. Somebody shot him last night. I heard it on the air. Kind of shook me up, because he was due here tonight to make a buy.”

  He said it so casually, I was momentarily speechless. The last thing I expected was an admission from White that he was Benny’s wholesale supplier. Particularly without us even asking.

  It jolted Wynn too, enough to make him insert a spontaneous question. In a squeaky voice he said, “What do you mean, a buy?”

  “The guy phoned me a week ago wanting five extra-large, left-handed bowling gloves. We sell bowling supplies, you know. I didn’t know the guy, but Jack Carr said he bowled with one of the leagues and was a regular customer. So I had them ordered special. They came in the day before yesterday and I phoned him they were here. He said he couldn’t come after them until tonight at seven o’clock. Now he’s dead. What in the devil am I going to do with five extra-large-size, left-handed bowling gloves? They sell for four bucks apiece.”

  Wynn and I stared at the man in fascination. Was he trying to be cute, I wondered? Did he know of Benny’s deal with the Narcotics Squad, and was he hoping this outlandish story would cloud the issue?

  “What did he want with five left-handed bowling gloves?” I finally asked.

  “Said he was getting up a new team of all left-handers. It seemed unlikely, because not one bowler in fifty wears a glove, and it struck me as odd that everybody on one team would want one. Odder yet that they all had extra-large hands. But it wasn’t any of my business why he wanted them.”

  “You say these gloves came in?” I inquired.

  He nodded. “Couple of days ago.”

  “Mind letting us see them?”

  He shrugged. “If you want to. But what’s this about me being involved in an investigation?”

  “It’ll keep until we see the gloves.”

  Shrugging again, White took a last sip of his coffee and rose to his feet.

  “They’re over at the lane-reservation desk,” he said. “Follow me.”

  CHAPTER 11

  We followed him into the bowling alley section of the building and over to the desk behind which Jack Carr stood. To the left of the desk was a long showcase displaying bowling balls, bags, and shoes. Atop it were assorted bowling accessories, such as laces and ball-cleaning fluid. Among them was a wire rack containing fingerless bowling gloves in small cellophane bags.

  Goodie White said to Carr, “Give me that box of gloves Benny Polacek ordered.”

  Jack Carr looked at his employer blankly. “Huh?”

  “Those left-handed gloves,” White said. “You told me two days ago they were in.”

  Carr said with an air of puzzlement, “Our regular stock order of gloves came in the day before yesterday. I told you that.” He indicated the wire rack atop the showcase. “They’re right there. There’s a couple of left-handed ones.”

  Goodie White frowned. “Didn’t you say Polacek’s order was in?”

  His assistant gave his head a definite shake. “You must of misunderstood me.”

  White’s frown deepened. “Well, then get Polacek’s order out of the file.”

  “What order?”

  In an exasperated tone White said, “Don’t tell me you never ordered those gloves. You sounded awake when I told you to.”

  An expression of comprehension grew in Jack Carr’s eyes. He gave the impression
that he suddenly realized his employer wanted him to go along with the act for our benefit.

  “I remember now, Goodie,” he said. “I guess I goofed. I forgot all about it until just now.”

  After staring at him for a moment, White abruptly turned his back and strolled toward the cocktail lounge. We trailed after him. When he seated himself in a corner booth, Wynn and I sat across from him. A waitress instantly came over.

  “Martell with water behind it,” White told her. “Sure you gentlemen won’t have anything?”

  When we both shook our heads, the waitress moved away.

  “You’ll have to excuse my dumb assistant,” White said. “He made me look like an idiot, didn’t he?”

  I shrugged. Wynn didn’t even do that. He merely regarded the plump councilman contemplatively.

  “It was Jack who said we ought to take the order,” White said. “I’d never even heard of this Polacek before he phoned. Jack called me out to the bar, said Polacek was on the phone, and explained he was a league bowler and a regular customer. He said the guy wanted us to order him some special gear, and he thought we ought to go along. Then he forgot to put in the order when I told him to.”

  “Maybe he’s got a weak memory,” I said.

  White made an impatient gesture. “It’s hardly important, except it makes me sound like a psychopathic liar. But why would I make up a screwy story like that?”

  “Hard to figure,” I agreed.

  The waitress brought White’s drink and went away again.

  The councilman said, “Now what’s all this about a criminal investigation? I assume it involves this Polacek man’s murder.”

  “Uh-huh. Know what Benny Polacek’s business was?”

  White shook his head. “I told you I didn’t know the man. I don’t even know what he looked like. Our two phone conversations were the only contacts I ever had with him.”

  “Well, he was a pusher.”

  “A pusher?” White repeated puzzledly.

  “Horse. He retailed heroin.”

  The councilman elevated his eyebrows. “No fooling?” He took a sip of his brandy.

  He was a pretty good actor, I thought. He would have convinced me if I hadn’t heard Benny Polacek accuse him of being his wholesale supplier of heroin.

  I said, “About a week back we knocked Benny over when he made the mistake of selling a pop to an undercover cop. The D.A. offered him a deal if he’d turn in his wholesale supplier. Benny was a three-time loser, so he went along. He agreed to make a buy from his wholesaler tonight while we took movies of the transaction.”

  “I see. But how am I involved?”

  “Benny claimed you were his supplier.”

  Goodie White stared at me with his mouth open.

  I said rapidly, “The D.A. himself was directing the matter, so we couldn’t just forget it. The captain figured you’d be able to explain things to me and Lieutenant Wynn, so here we are.”

  White continued to stare at me for a long time. Presently he said, “I appreciate the captain’s faith, but he’s wrong. I can’t explain a damned thing.”

  “I have to ask you this,” I said. “Were you his supplier?”

  “I was his supplier of left-handed bowling gloves. Period. If you had turned a camera on us tonight, you would have caught me redhanded passing him a box of gloves. The guy must have been trying to make you people look like damn fools.”

  I said, “We’ll never know now what might have happened tonight, because somebody pumped three thirty-two-caliber slugs into him. Some officious Homicide cop suggested it might have been you, in revenge for trying to set you up. The thing was in the record, so again we couldn’t just forget it. Captain Spangler managed to get the homicide investigation lumped together with the narcotics investigation and have the whole case assigned to him. He figured he could handle it more discreetly than Homicide. So if you could explain where you were last night about nine-thirty to ten-thirty, we could put that in the record too, and make it look better for you.”

  Lieutenant Wynn’s face had started to redden again, but he made no comment. He obviously was bursting to take over the interrogation with Homicide Division technique, but he couldn’t bring himself to violate Captain Spangler’s instructions.

  Goodie White’s face had reddened slightly too, but for a different reason. Looking at Wynn, he said, “Who was this officious Homicide cop?”

  “The captain thought you’d ask that,” I said quickly. “So he wouldn’t tell us.”

  White glowered at me for a few moments, then took a sip of his brandy. It seemed to cool him off, because his voice became merely sardonic instead of angry. “You’re sure the suggestion came from a Homicide cop, and not from our distinguished district attorney?”

  I didn’t care if Goodie White got sore at Norm Dollinger. It wouldn’t hurt the district attorney, because the two were political enemies anyway. I said, “That could be. Anyway, Captain Spangler wants this cleared up as quickly and quietly as possible, with nobody getting mad. So if you’ll just give us your alibi, everything will be fine.”

  White considered for a moment, then seemed to decide to cooperate. “Between nine-thirty and ten-thirty, did you say?”

  “Uh-huh. The murder took place about ten.”

  “I was en route to the country club at ten. I belong to Riverside. I left here about nine-forty-five and met my wife at the bar about a quarter after ten. The club is clear at the opposite edge of town, so it takes a full half-hour.”

  Wynn, unable to contain himself any longer, said, “It can’t be more than twenty minutes, even if you creep.”

  White frowned at the lieutenant. “For the actual drive, maybe. I had to get my car off the lot here, then park it on the country club lot and walk a good hundred feet to the clubhouse. If you’re suggesting I might have stopped en route to commit a murder, the place would have had to be directly on the way. Where did this Polacek man five?”

  “Clarkson Boulevard near Talcott,” I said. “Unfortunately it is directly on the way. I assume you’d take Talcott from here clear to Riverside Drive.”

  White gave a rueful nod. “Afraid I did.”

  I said, “This same officious cop checked the gun-registration file and learned you had a thirty-two-caliber revolver registered. Captain Spangler suggested it would be a point in your favor if we took that in for a ballistics test and proved it wasn’t the murder weapon.”

  White gazed at me steadily for a time. Finally he said in a dry tone, “It’s nice to have a friend on the force as concerned about my interests as the captain. I carry it in the glove compartment of my car.”

  Draining the rest of his brandy and following it with a gulp of water, he rose. “Come on out to the lot and I’ll give it to you.”

  We rose also, and followed him outdoors.

  On the parking lot a green Cadillac was parked in a slot near the main entrance to the building. A stake in front of it bore a sign lettered: Reserved. Goodie White unlocked the Cadillac, then unlocked the glove compartment and drew out a snub-nosed thirty-two revolver. He handed it to me.

  “I’ll see that you get it back when we’re finished with it,” I said.

  He smiled without humor. “I’m sure you will, Matt. Now that the interrogation is over, what’s your opinion of my guilt or innocence?”

  “I just collect facts,” I said. “I’ll let the captain form an opinion.”

  “I see,” he said quietly. “In other words, I’m the prime suspect.”

  “I wouldn’t say that, Goodie. We’re questioning a number of other people. We’ll be in touch with you again.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” he said dryly.

  He didn’t offer a good-by handshake. He stood watching as we walked on to the lane where I had parked the felony car. When we drove off, he was still standing there gazing after us.

  As we pulled off the lot onto Talcott, Wynn said, “You certainly bent over backward not to hurt the man’s feelings, Sergeant. Are you alway
s that gutless in grilling suspects?”

  “In our division we call it tact, sir. The captain wants it that way.”

  That shut him up. He wasn’t going to object to a superior officer’s methods.

  It was only eight P.M. when we got back to headquarters. The Crime Lab closed at five P.M., SO we left the gun on George Abbot’s desk with a note attached to it asking him to fire it the next day and run a comparison of the slug against those dug out of Benny Polacek.

  Then we stopped by Records, where Wynn pulled the file on Benny Polacek. He merely glanced at the face sheet, then returned it to the clerk.

  “What was that for, Lieutenant?” I asked as we walked up the hall toward the squadroom.

  “Just checking something, Sergeant. Benny Polacek was right-handed.”

  Hank Carter was on the phone when we entered the squadroom.

  He said, “Just a minute. Here’s the lieutenant now.” Turning to Wynn, he proffered the phone and said, “Corporal Lincoln.”

  Wynn said into the phone, “Yes, Corporal.”

  He listened for a moment, said, “Well, wait until she gets there. I’ll send Rudowski along to join you. We’ve finished our mission.”

  Hanging up, he said, “The French girl works in a floor show at the Palace. Know where that is?”

  “Yes, sir. Up on the north side.”

  “Lincoln’s there now, but she hasn’t shown for work yet. The first show’s at nine, so she should be along soon. Run on over there and join him.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  “There isn’t anything else we can do on the case until you’ve talked to the girl, so Carter and I will be over at Homicide writing up a couple of other cases. Phone me there as soon as you’ve talked to her.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said again.

  Hank Carter gave me an envious look because I was being sent off on an errand while he had to remain with his partner.

  CHAPTER 12

  The Palace was a supper and dance club in the uptown night club and theater district. It consisted of one enormous room with a U-shaped bar in its center. Along the side walls were railed platforms containing tables and chairs. Low steps led down to the bar area at intervals. A stage at the front, elevated to the same level as the platforms, served for the floor show and doubled as a dance floor between shows.