The Best That Ever Did It

by Ed Lacy

  “Not necessary. Tell me more about Turner.”

  “Not much to tell. Sometimes he'd be here every day, then I might not see him for weeks.”

  “When did you first meet him?”

  “This has been going on for about... nine or ten months. He was so funny. Sometimes we'd go to bed and he wouldn't touch me. And at times he'd wake up in the middle of the night and start bawling, mostly about the deal he was giving his wife. Some guys enjoy two-timing their wife; with others, it tears them up. One afternoon he took sixty-two bucks I had and tore out of here to buy a modernistic lamp for his wife—brought it back to show me, as though I cared. It was some crappy palm-tree idea with an ebony trunk and lights where the coconuts should be, only it was all zigzag angles and funny looking. See, he thought he was hurting me, bringing the lamp back to show me, but I couldn't care less—except for the dough. Two nights later he was back with the diamond ring as a gift. Expensive, I got almost a hundred on it in hock.”

  She stopped talking and I sat there, trying to think, knowing I had something, but not sure what it was. “What's Cliffs alibi?”

  Louise put a hand on my knee, said firmly, “Don't start talking or thinking that. I'm leveling with you, Mr. Harris, and you promised me no trouble. You got an honest face, level with me. Don't tell the cops about Cliff.”

  “You can't expect me to keep a thing like this quiet. Hell, Cliff has a motive, a ...”

  “No, no, Mr. Harris. Believe me, Cliff didn't do it. He talks tough, but the sight of blood makes him sick. And he has a real alibi. Cliff is smart. Most pimps get sent away because they don't have no visible means of support. Cliff works as a waiter, from eight to midnight, in a downtown night club. He was working that night, honest he was, I checked myself. You can check too. You know what will happen, the cops will find his alibi holds, but in the meantime they'll work him over. And I'll be in a jam. I don't hurt nobody. I'm not a nuisance. I've never been sick. Only got in this racket because I was hungry. Now it's all I can do. If you...”

  “But Cliff hated Turner, that's the missing motive. Probably shot Andersun by mistake, or maybe he was trying to talk Cliff out of killing.”

  “No, no, don't think that. Not so,” she said in that low steady voice, her eyes on mine. “I trust you. I didn't have to tell you a thing. Cliff is a bunch of bluff, never cut or hurt anybody. Take him to a shooting gallery. I saw it out at Coney Island— being around guns makes him sick. The smell or something makes him vomit. Check his alibi. There was a wedding party that night and all the waiters were working. Believe me, if Cliff was the killer I'd be the first to blow the whistle on him, I'd run a million miles from here. If Cliff did it they'd throw the book at me for nothing. Cliff didn't do it, he couldn't have. I tell you because you look like a man who doesn't think I'm dirt, a freak, because I'm whoring. I can trust you.”

  Her dark eyes kept staring into mine until I looked away, felt uncomfortable. “Okay. I believe you, but I can't promise I won't have to tell the cops.”

  “If they would only check his alibi and leave us alone, I'd have gone to them myself, but you know what they'll do. Why must you tell them? Sure, Ed was here that night. He was here plenty of nights. But we have nothing to do with what he does, what happens, when he leaves.”

  I was still looking away from her eyes. There was no doubt what the cops would do to Cliff—hell, he was the only one who even knew both victims. They'd have to sweat him. I looked into her warm, intensely sincere eyes and asked, “Where were you at the time of the shootings?”

  She sat up straight as though I'd turned into a rattlesnake. “Me? Why, you lousy... Don't try to pin it on me!”

  “I'm not pinning anything on you. Look, as far as we know Turner and Andersun were complete strangers. Now we have two people who knew them both—two links—maybe the only two we'll have. You claim Cliff has an alibi. What's yours?”

  “I was right here. Why else would Ed be parked outside?”

  “Louise, right outside of here is where the murders took place. Puts you at the scene of the crime, as they say. Unless you have a ...”

  “I had a girl friend with me. Ed'd come busting in that night, fighting mad. He'd had some kind of scrap with his wife and was all set for trouble. Said if he ever saw Cliff again he'd pistol-whip him. I wasn't feeling too well that night anyway— as though I didn't have enough troubles, that was starting. So when Ed left, I got the jitters, called this girl and she kept me company till one, when Cliff came in.”

  “What's her name and address?”

  “Comes to an arrest, I'll give it, but she's in the business too and I don't want to bring the cops down on her. Mr. Harris, please swear you won't do anything to get Cliff hurt. This is a lonely racket. Every man you meet can't wait to leave you. When a Cliff comes along, even though I'm his meal ticket, or when an Ed comes by, despite all their nasty tricks, you want them around because they're about the only people stay around you. Promise me...”

  “I can't promise anything. Ever know a red-haired joker named Brown? He's been in the Grand Cafe a couple of times, talked to Andersun once.”

  “Never heard of him. I'm no two-bit hustler working a dump like the Grand. Please, Mr. Harris, with Cliff...”

  I stood up. “Honey, I don't hurt people, if I can help it. Not even a Cliff. I have to beat it.”

  “I like you, Mr. Harris, and that's no sales talk,” Louise said, walking me to the door.

  “You're an exciting woman—in a lot of ways. I like talking to you.”

  She gave me that big hot smile. “You're an all-right guy.”

  “What's the name of the place where Cliff works? And what's his last name?”

  The smile fled.

  “You told me to check his alibi, didn't you?”

  “The Pigalle on West Forty-third Street. Cliff Parker. Don't make me any trouble. Please!”

  “One more thing—take Ed's picture out of here. Been in the papers and somebody might recognize it, get curious. And if it isn't violating any ethical rules—how was Ed Turner in bed?”

  “Lousy—kid stuff. What makes you ask?”

  “Never know what makes for a clue,” I said, as if I knew what I was talking about. “Maybe see you again, Louise.”

  When I drove up to the school Ruthie was waiting, with another kid and her Mama, and the mother gave me that you-poor-noble-bastard smile as she said, “I thought I'd stay around with Ruth till you came. I know how hard it must be for you to come here from business.” This was followed by another sickly grin. I said thanks and Ruthie thanked her and rushed into the car and kissed me, whispered, “I didn't ask her to stay with me. I'm not afraid.”

  “Of course not. Only a few minutes late,” I said, driving away.

  “Where are we going for a ride—Yonkers or over in New Jersey, Daddy?”

  “Downtown. Maybe we'll eat out. Like that?”

  “Chinese food?”

  “Okay.”

  “I like that. You going to train tonight?”

  “No, darling, have to go out.”

  “Oh, Daddy, not May Weiss again?”

  “Guess so. Daddy is on some case.”

  I drove down to the Times Building but had to park seven blocks away. However Ruthie got a bang out of walking through the Times Square rush hour. We went downstairs to a back-issue newsstand and I bought a copy of the April eleventh paper. We drove up to One Hundred and Twenty-fifth Street and Broadway to a small Chinese restaurant that astonishes people by serving real Chinese food. First Ruthie messed up the table trying to use chopsticks. Then she had learned a story about a family of bunnies in school, and kept telling it to me till bunnies, Cliff, Louise, and Ed Turner's gold-framed picture kept blurring my mind like a runaway movie film.

  May Weiss's father had to give me a lot of talk, wanted to know if this was going to be another all-night job, because if it was... I assured him I'd be home before eleven. Then Ruthie got sore because it was Friday night and she usually stayed up an
d I read to her. It was seven o'clock as I walked to a drugstore, wondering how come the movie dicks never are troubled with reading to their kids at night, making supper... or even having kids.

  Over some orange juice I read the back issue of the Times— the little publicity plant about Andersun winning the thousand dollars—an item a person would miss unless they read the paper thoroughly. Turning to the marriage announcements, I got a break—there were only seven of them. I got some change and worked the phone book. I squeezed into a booth and called the first one—said I was the manager of the Pigalle and a green fedora hat had been left and I wondered if it belonged to anybody in their wedding party on the night of April eleventh. It was crude but on the third call a Mr. Worth assured me nobody at his party lost a hat, certainly not a green fedora, and if anyone had, he would have gladly sued the Pigalle since we were thieves and had grossly overcharged him. He almost busted my eardrum when he hung up.

  I dialed the manager of the Pigalle, told him, “I'm Paul Worth, uncle of the Worth boy. Remember me, I was the one at the wedding party who had quite a toot on, did all the singing?”

  “I remember you, Mr. Worth,” the voice at the other end of the wire said, lying cautiously. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “Have a silly favor to ask. I have some pictures of the affair and I was just pasting them in our family album.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, in one picture there's a waiter in the background. In years to come I want to tell the children—and I hope they'll have a flock of little ones—exactly who was at the wedding. I have the names of each person printed under the photo. The waiter is tall, might say handsome, mouth like a girl, and shiny dark hair that...”

  “Name is Cliff Parker, Mr. Worth.”

  “I'm very exact about these things. Spell that p-a-r-k-e-r?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And you're sure that's the man, that he was waiting on us that night?”

  “Yes sir, those lips belong to Cliff. And he's the only waiter we got with a full head of hair.”

  I thanked him and hung up. It wasn't airtight, but it was better than coming out and asking the manager—in case Cliff had told him what to say. Of course I was certain Cliff hadn't done it—if he had Louise would never have had Ed's picture around, or talked. If she hadn't told me, there wasn't a thing to connect her with Turner.

  Still, the smart and safe thing to do was tell the police. They could put enough men on Cliff to tail every person he saw, know every time he breathed... could be some of Cliff's pals had done it. Maybe Turner was shaking down other pimps? After all, my thinking Cliff wasn't guilty didn't mean a thing.

  But telling the cops would mean giving Louise a hard time and... The case was making less and less sense—now I was shielding a pimp!

  I got to Mrs. Turner's house at exactly eight o'clock, but I waited around for ten minutes—didn't want her to think I was running around like her office boy—then went up.

  She was dressed up again, a blue semi-evening gown that showed off her strong shoulders, the rise of her breast. The vermouth bottle was still on the table, but her breath said she'd been sipping stronger stuff. But she wasn't crocked.

  “Good evening, Barney. You're late.”

  “That's right, Mrs. Turner.”

  I sat down on the hassock and glanced around the room. The coconut tree lamp wasn't much—a long ebony stem that made an uneven curve up to thin gold leaves, and the tiny bulbs arranged to give indirect lighting—if the whole mess gave off any light.

  She took her seat on the couch, lit a cigarette, pushed the cigarette box toward me, gave me the half-closed-eyes look, as she asked, “Any luck today?”

  “Glad you said luck—that's what we'll need in this case, all the luck we can stumble upon, the...”

  “Find out anything?”

  I nodded. “But I'm not any closer to the big answers. Talked to the Andersun family—nothing there to go on. But I did come across something... a little something.”

  She blew a good smoke ring which we both watched till it faded. As I lit a cigarette, she said, “Is this some sort of a game? What did you find out?”

  “That maybe it is a game. Somebody has been holding out on me.”

  “Who?”

  “You, Mrs. Turner.”

  Her cheeks turned a becoming pink, like a spreading drop of water color. “What am I supposed to say to that?”

  “Anything you want,” I said. “You came to me and you weren't too much concerned about your husband's being dead, but only if it was suicide. Then you've been giving me a series of small lies. Like you only drink wine now and then, only you stink of whiskey at the moment. That you were so very very happy with your husband, that you two were so happy in the hay. Then last night you casually mentioned that you and Mr. Turner had a little spat, in fact, you two were not doing so well in bed, but you had this pip of an idea that it was all because he got his kicks out of third-degreeing people. These were small lies, didn't detour me much, but I want to know why you've been stringing me. Hell, I work for you.”

  “Are you quite finished?” Her voice was pure ice and if her eyes were any sharper I would have been bleeding.

  “I don't know. Am I, Mrs. Turner? You're paying me good money to find out the facts related to your husband's death. Yet, you've been giving me a bunko story from the start.”

  “If this is some kind of a riddle, I wish you'd come to the point. I said Ed and I were very happy when we married, that being on the force changed him some, but we were still happy.”

  I shrugged. “Okay, that's what you told me. I stumbled on something that will hurt, so if you want to skip it, go on playing...”

  “What is it?”

  “Mr. Turner has for many months been seeing a lady named Louise, a prostitute. The reason Mr. Turner was parked near the Grand Cafe on the night of the killings—he was jealous of one Cliff Parker, a pimp. This too seems to be a feud of several months' standing. Louise claims Mr. Turner was in her bed so often, he was something of a pest. End of report, Mrs. Turner.”

  She sat up, as though pulled by her head. Her eyes got very large and bright and she gasped, “I see, I see... Ed with a... a ...” Then the tears came, a flood of them. She bawled hysterically, her whole body shaking.

  I waited for a long second—I can't stand seeing people cry. I went over and sat beside her, tried to dry her face with my torn handkerchief. She fell against me, sobbing on my shirt. I held her and liked the solid feel of her, the softness of her hair against my chin. “Easy, Mrs. Turner, easy. It's over and crying won't help. From what Louise says, Ed was a little... nuts about sex. If you didn't make a go of it, it wasn't your fault. Sorry this is a shock, but I had to tell you, know if ...”

  She looked up at me, a face full of fat tears. “Barney, you think it wasn't my fault.”

  “'Fault' is probably the wrong word to use about something like this, but for whatever it's worth,” I said, “I'm sure it wasn't your fault.” In fact I was having a hard time holding my arms around her—in a casual manner. But I kept telling myself that would be the dumbest move I ever made.

  She said through the tears, “Oh God, I was so happy when we were married. An end to the loneliness, the feeling of not being wanted. Marriage was so wonderful—at first—and then so awfully empty; and that hurt worse than being lonely.”

  “Perhaps you expected too much from marriage. It's a relationship, not a snake oil,” I said, sounding like Dorothy Dix with whiskers.

  “I only wanted a small share of happiness, but as time went on... you don't know what it was like, this always feeling guilty, that it must be my fault and going crazy wondering how and why. You've had a happy marriage, love...”

  “Love is another magic word, a movie word.”

  “Didn't you love your wife?”

  “We never tried to label it, that's why we got along. You've seen Lieutenant Swan, always bucking his way through life. Vi—my wife—had a lot of that too. B
ig career woman. She and Al, scrambling and pushing to 'get someplace'—more would-be magic words. They looked down their noses at me for being a schnook. Me, I believe in taking it easy; you only live to die, so make it an interesting ride. When Vi and I understood what the other was like, we didn't try changing each other; we got along fine. Maybe that's love—getting along.”

  “You never had any arguments?”

  “Sure we did. Sometimes Vi would nag me and I suppose I wasn't any dilly to live with either. She'd call me lazy and I'd sneer at her stumbling over the fast buck. I even gave in and let Vi get me a job as a car dick with an insurance company. But the main thing was, we never tried to push each other around. When she called me a bum and I said she was a hustler, and when we could both laugh at that, we got married.”