THE SEVEN YEAR KILL For seven long years Rocca had been down. And he was almost out when the beautiful brunette wound up in his closet×and started him on a trip that would lead through a terrifying maze of bodies both hot and cold. At the end of the road lay the biggest surprise of all×a surprise that could prove fatal to an ordinary guy. From far off in the heat and sea of sweat I heard the noise and the voices. The gloom of the room was split by a shaft of light that stretched across my face from the partly opened door. It was from there that the voice kept saying, ÓOpen this damn door, buddy.Ô I rolled off the cot and finally got to the door, pushed it shut, slipped off the chain, then backed off when it almost knocked me down swinging open. Both the hoods were big. The snub-nose jobs in their hands made them even bigger. But they didnÒt come that big. I said, ÓWhat the hell you want?Ô Without even looking, one swung and last night came boiling out of me all over the floor and I crouched there on my hands and knees trying to keep from dying. The other guy said, ÓShe ainÒt here. This joker was drunk on the cot with the chain on. How could she get in here?Ô Neither one said anything, but when I raised my head the guy with the long face and bloody shoe was looking at me. I started to grin at him. Not mean. Just a big, friendly grin like I knew how it was and I kept it going until the guy shrugged and said to the other. ÓHeÒs nuts. Come on.Ô It was five minutes before I could get up, and another five before I could reach the sink. I ran it cold and splashed it over my face and head, washing the blood down the drain. I didnÒt bother looking in the mirror. I felt my way back inside, reached the cot, and flopped out on it, suddenly grateful for the heat of the wall that sucked at the vast pain that was my head. When I knew I was ready I said, ÓOkay, come on out of there.Ô Across the room the panelled closet door that seemed to be part of the wall swung open. For a moment there was only the darkness, then a shadow detached itself from the deeper black, took a step forward with a harsh, shuddering sob, and stood there, rigid. I reached behind me and turned on the night lamp. It gave off a dull reddish glow, but it was enough. She was beautiful. There was something Indian-like about her, maybe the black hair or the high planes of her face. Sweat had plastered her dress across her body, her breasts in high, bold relief, the muscular flatness of her belly moving as she breathed. Sudden fear of the hunted had drained her face so that her lips made a full red splash in contrast. She stood there watching me, saying nothing, a quiver in her flanks as in a mare about to bolt. Spraddle-legged like that I could see the sweep of her thighs and liked what I saw. I said, ÓTheyÒre gone.Ô ÓI never chain that door,Ô I said. ÓNever. And that closetÒs the only place to hide in here. Cleverly made, that.Ô Her tongue flicked out and wet her lips. ÓWhen did you. . . realize.Ô ÓRight away.Ô The words had blood on them and I wiped it away with my sleeve. She was staring at my face. ÓYou could have told. Then they . . .Ô ÓI wouldnÒt tell them punks if their legs were on fire.Ô ÓThank you.Ô ÓSure. ItÒs just a helluva way to get waked up, thatÒs all.Ô For the first time she started to smile. No, not quite smile ... a grin, sort of. It changed her whole face and somehow there was no heat and no hangover and no pain in my head and everything was different and I was different. But it was like a flash flood, suddenly there and suddenly gone, leaving behind it only damage from another broken memory. ÓCan I do anything for you?Ô ÓNobody can do anything for me, kid,Ô She looked around, the grin gone now. ÓI ... was running. This was the first place I came to. Your door was open.Ô I shaded the light with my hand. ÓWho were they?Ô The fear touched her eyes. ÓI donÒt know,Ô she finally said. ÓThey werenÒt just playing around, kid.Ô She nodded as if it were a familiar thing to her, then she took a few quick steps across the room and looked over me through the window to the street below. Close now, I could see she was more lovely than I realized, bigger, and more scared. She was intent on the street below, and when I slipped my hand around hers and squeezed it; she squeezed back involuntarily without realizing it until I let go. Then she gave a sudden start and stepped back quickly, a frown crossing her face. ÓI just kissed you,Ô I said. ÓWhat?Ô softly. ÓWhen we were kids we called it sneak kissing, hand kissing. It meant you wanted to do more but somebody might be looking.Ô I laughed at the expression on her face, but it hurt my head and I stopped. But it was worth it. I saw the trace of the grin again before the fear came back. Once more she scanned the street, then said, ÓIÒll have to go now.Ô ÓYouÒre crazy if you do. You didnÒt know those two. How will you know any others who make a try for you. And right now youÒre a beautiful, sweaty, wet target. In this neighborhood you couldnÒt be missed.Ô She sucked her breath in through her teeth, and moved back from the window. I pointed to the chair at the foot of the couch and she sat down, hugging herself as though * she were cold. ÓWhen did it happen before?Ô I asked. For a moment she stared past me, then shook her head. ÓI... donÒt know what you mean.Ô I bit the words out. ÓYouÒre lying.Ô The anger came slowly, her folded arms pushing her breasts taut. ÓWhy am I, then?Ô ÓIf you didnÒt know them and didnÒt expect them to hit, they would have nailed you. They were pros.Ô The anger receded and it was like losing her outer defenses. I had made her think and correlate and whatever the answers were put her on edge like a great big animal. ÓAll right. It had happened before. Twice.Ô ÓWhen?Ô ÓTuesday. A car almost ran me down in front of my house. Then the day before yesterday I was followed.Ô ÓHowÒd you know? Pros arenÒt easy to spot.Ô Without hesitating she said, ÓI shopped in the lingerie department of three stores. You donÒt see many men there and when you do theyÒre noticeable and uncomfortable. I saw this particular one in all three places. I left, made two cab changes, and went into the subway.Ô She paused, took a deep shuddering breath. Then with a small choking sob, buried her face in her hands and tried to keep from screaming. I pushed myself up from the cot, my head a sudden spinning ball of pain. I reached over and took her hands down. She wasnÒt hysterical. She was just on the deep edge momentarily and now she was coming out of it. ÓSay it,Ô I told her. She nodded. ÓThe train was coming in the station.Ô ÓGo on.Ô ÓI ... felt his hands at my back and he pushed and I was falling and that train was coming on and I could hear the screams and the yells and the train trying to stop and my head hit something and it was like falling into a blessed sleep.Ô She closed her eyes, rubbing at her temples to ease the pain of the thought. ÓI woke up and they were still yelling and hammering and lights were like fingers poking at me and I didnÒt know where I was. Terrible. It was terrible.Ô Then it was my turn to remember. ÓI saw the pictures. You fell between the tracks in the drainage well. Contusions and abrasions.Ô ÓI was very lucky.Ô ÓYou told them you slipped off the edge.Ô ÓI know.Ô ÓWhy?Ô ÓSome silly woman said I tried to kill myself. She said I jumped. I explained that when I felt myself go I did launch myself out to fall between the tracks.Ô ÓThey accepted it?Ô ÓYes. Otherwise I would have been held for observation.Ô ÓSmart thinking. Why didnÒt you say you were pushed?Ô She looked up slowly. ÓI ... was afraid. It isnÒt always easy to do certain things when youÒre afraid.Ô ÓYeah,Ô I said. ÓI know. What name did you give out?Ô ÓAnn Lowry,Ô she told me, and her eyes were squinting now. ÓYouÒre asking an awful lot of questions about me. Who are you?Ô ÓPhil Rocca, kid. IÒm a nothing.Ô When a long moment had gone by, she asked quietly, ÓAll right, then. Who were you?Ô All of it came back like a breath of fresh air. The old days. The long time ago. The quick excitement of life and the feeling of accomplishment. The spicy competition that was in reality a constant war of nerves with all the intrigue and action of actual conflict. Then maybe RooneyÒs or PattyÒs for supper, to gloat or sulk depending on who won. I said, ÓI was a police reporter on a now defunct journal, a guy who once had a great story. But an editor and a publisher were too cowardly to print it and because I had it I had to be removed. So I was framed into prison. Nobody went to bat for me. I took seven years in the can and the paper and the story is no more. So here I am.Ô ÓIÒm sorry. Who did a thing like that?Ô ÓA guy I dream about killing every day but never will be able to because heÒs already
dead.Ô , She took in the squalor of the room. ÓDoes it have to be this way?Ô ÓUh-huh. It does. This is all there is, there ainÒt no more. Not for me. And as for you, kid, thereÒs only one question more. The BIG WHY. SomebodyÒs trying to finger you out, and the last time theyÒre playing guns. It doesnÒt get that big without a reason. YouÒre a money dame with money clothes and you wind up in the tenement district in front of two guns. Where were you headed?Ô She had to tell somebody. Some things are just too big to hold in long. ÓI was going to meet my father. I had . . . never seen him.Ô ÓMeet him here? In this neighborhood!Ô ÓIt was his idea. I think it was because ... he was down and out. Not that it would have mattered. All my life he took good care of me and my mother. He set up a trust fund for us both even before I was born.Ô ÓWhy didnÒt you. ever see him?Ô ÓMother divorced him a year after they were married. She took me to California and never returned. She died there two months ago.Ô ÓIÒm sorry.Ô Her shrug was peculiar. ÓPerhaps I should be too. IÒm not. Mother was strange. She was always wrapped up in herself, and her ailments with nothing left over for anybody else, not even me. She would never speak to me about my father. It was as if he had never even existed. If it werenÒt that I found some of her private papers, IÒd never have known what my real name was.Ô ÓOh? What was it?Ô She squinted again. ÓMassley. Terry Massley.Ô That terrible thing in my stomach uncoiled and pulled at my intestines up into the hollow. I seemed to glow from the sudden flush of blood that a heart gone suddenly berserk threw at a mad pace into the far reaches of its system. I was so tight and eager again it almost made me sick. I got up, made another trip back to the sink, and ran the bowl brim full with cold water, washed down, and soaked my head clear. Then when the pounding had stopped I pulled in a deep breath and looked at myself in the mirror. Dirty, unshaven, eyes red with too much whiskey and not enough sleep, cheekbones prominent from not enough to eat. And I could smell myself. I stank. But in a way I felt good. Over my shoulder I saw her. Woman-big and beautiful. Her name was Terry Massley. And Rhino Massley was the guy who had me socked away for seven years. Rhino had been a smart mobster with millions in loot. He was supposed to be dead, but things like that could be arranged, especially when you have millions. And now Terry Massley was going to meet her father and, from the kill bits that had been pulled, there was mob action going on and that pointed to a big, wonderful possibility. Rhino was alive and I could kill him myself! / stared at my eyes, watching them change. Coincidence, I thought, ah, sweet, lovely coincidence. How IÒve cursed you and scorned you and declaimed you in the name of objective news reporting. And here you are now knocking at my door. Thanks. Thanks a bunch. She was puzzled. ÓDo you feel all right?Ô ÓI feel great,Ô I said. ÓWould you like me to help you find your father. Coming from the coast you donÒt know anyone else, do you?Ô She shook her head. ÓOkay, I know the neighborhood. IÒm part of this sewer life and I can move around. I even know tricks that could make me king of this garbage heap, if I wanted it. If your old man is here, IÒll find him for you. IÒll be glad to. YouÒll never know how glad IÒll be to do it.Ô She didnÒt move quickly at all. It was with a deliberate slowness as if she were afraid of herself. She stood up, took a step toward me and slowly sank to her knees. Then she reached up and took my head between her hands and her mouth was a sudden wild, wet fire I had never tasted before and was burning a madness into me I had never wanted to feel again. I pushed her away and looked at her closely. There was no lie in what she was saying to me. She was saying thanks because I was going to help her find her father. But I had to be sure. After all this time I couldnÒt afford to lose a chance at what I wanted by taking one. I said, ÓWhat brought you to this neighborhood to start with?Ô The letter she handed me had been typewritten, addressed to her Los Angeles home. It read: Dear Terry, I have just learned of your motherÒs death. Although we have never met, it is imperative we do so now. Take your motherÒs personal effects with you and stay at the Sherman the week of the 9th. I will contact you there. Your Father ÓHe didnÒt even sign his name,Ô I said. ÓI know. Businessmen do that when their secretary isnÒt around.Ô ÓThis isnÒt the neighborhood to meet businessmen with secretaries,Ô I reminded her. ÓSo he contacted you. How?Ô ÓA note was waiting for me when I got there.Ô ÓHowÒd you sign the register?Ô ÓAnn Lowry.Ô She paused. ÓIt . . . was the name I had had all my life.Ô ÓSure. Then howÒd you get the note?Ô ÓA man at the desk asked if anything had been left for him. When the clerk leafed through the casual mail I saw the one with Terry Massley on it.Ô ÓWhat did it say?Ô ÓThat today at 11 oÒclock in the morning I was to walk from Eighth Avenue westward on this block and he would pick me up on the way in a cab.Ô ÓHow would he recognize you?Ô ÓHe left a cheap white suitcase with a red and black college pennant paÒsted on either side. It was extremely conspicuous. I was to carry it on my curb side.Ô ÓI suppose it was empty.Ô ÓOf anything important . . . yes. To give it a little bulk there were a bunch of week-old newspapers in it.Ô ÓThe letter,Ô I asked, Óthat was straight mail?Ô ÓYes.Ô ÓThen how did the suitcase get there?Ô ÓAll the clerk knew was that it came by messenger. There hadnÒt been anything irregular about it, so he didnÒt remember anything special about the delivery. After I looked into the suitcase I carried out instructions. I waited until it was time, took the suitcase with me, and walked over to Eighth and started down here.Ô I had to turn my head so she couldnÒt see the look of hungry expectation in my face. The cab pick-up was another ragged edge bit that spelled hood, and I knew that some place Rhino would be waiting alive×so I could kill him. Man, it was a great feeling! ÓWhat happened?Ô I asked. ÓI was almost at Ninth when two men turned the corner. They walked toward me and I knew they both saw me and I saw what they wanted. I crossed the street and they did too. Then I started back and began to run. So did they. I ran in here.Ô ÓAny cabs pass at all?Ô ÓYes.Ô She looked out the window, thinking back. ÓNone stopped. He could have come by after I ran and thought I never showed up.Ô ÓHeÒll contact you again. DonÒt worry.Ô There was a pathetic eagerness in her voice. ÓYou really think so?Ô ÓIÒm sure of it.Ô She glanced at me again, worried. ÓI ... dropped the suitcase. How will... he know?Ô ÓHeÒll find a way,Ô I said. I let her sit there while I showered and shaved. I found a shirt that hadnÒt been worn too often and put it on. There was still an unwrinkled tie and the sports jacket Vinnie insisted I hold for the fin I lent him fit as long as I didnÒt try to button it. ÓWhat are you going to do?Ô ÓIÒm going to walk across town a mile or so. See some people I know. YouÒre going to stay here, kitten. It isnÒt the finest, but itÒs the best for the moment. Leave the snaplock on, no chain, and if anybody tries to get in, duck in the closet. I donÒt think anybody will be back again, but just to be sure, when I get here IÒll knock four times twice and you wonÒt have to break a leg getting lost.Ô ÓAll right.Ô The nervousness faded away in a small smile. ÓI donÒt know why youÒre doing all this . . . but thanks, Phil.Ô ÓForget it. ItÒs doing me more good than it is you.Ô I walked to the door and she stopped me. She came over, took my hand and pressed something into it. ÓTake a cab,Ô she said. In my palm was a twenty. It was warm and silky-feeling in my fingers and I could smell the perfume smell it had picked up from her pocketbook. I held it out to her. ÓWith that in my pocket I wouldnÒt get past the first bar. IÒd drink half of it and get rolled for the rest and never get back here for three four days maybe. Here, put it back.Ô She made no move to take it. ÓThat wonÒt happen,Ô she said softly. ÓGive it a try.Ô I didnÒt take a cab and I got by the first bar. But I walked across town anyway and passed a lot of bars on the way and wondered what the hell had happened to me in just a couple of hours. When I reached RooneyÒs the lunch crowd had cleared out. But, as I expected, the west corner of the back room was still noisy with half the eighth-floor staff of the great paper up the street marking tune between editions. I slid into a booth along the wall, ordered a sandwich and coffee, and borrowed the waiterÒs pad and pencil. When he brought the lunch I handed him the note. ÓYou know Dan Litvak?Ô His eyes indicated the back ro
om. I handed him the note and he walked away with it. Dan was a tall, thin guy who seemed eternally bored unless you could read the awareness in his eyes. He had always moved slowly, not seeming to care what he did or what happened to anybody. He was never a man you could surprise with anything and when he walked up to my booth he studied me a moment, his face expressionless, then said, ÓHello, Phil,Ô and sat down. His eyes didnÒt miss a thing. With that one look he could have read down my last 10 years in detail. I gave him a break, though. I let him look at the twenty under my bill so he wouldnÒt have to suffer the embarrassment of thinking he was sitting through a touch. I said, ÓHello, Dan. Have some coffee?Ô He waved a sign to the waiter, then sat back. ÓLooking for a job?Ô ÓHello, no. Who would hire me?Ô ÓYou donÒt have to go back to the same business.Ô ÓYou know better than that, Dan. Anything else IÒd go nuts in.Ô ÓI know. Now letÒs get to the point of why youÒre here.Ô I nodded. ÓThree years after I got sent up, word reached me about Rhino Massley dying. I never bothered finding out why or how. I want to know.Ô Dan toyed with the handle of his cup, turning it around in the saucer. ÓThe date, if youÒre interested, was August 10, Ñ68. ItÒs the kind of date you donÒt forget very easily. Rhino was hit with polio in that epidemic we had that summer. He was one of 20 some adults who had it. He was in an iron lung up at Mayberry for a couple of months, then the one he ordered came through and he was shipped in it to that ranch he owns near Phoenix. He was still handling all his business from the lung and, although he wasnÒt going to get any better physically, he was still the rackets boss hands down.Ô ÓHe died of polio?Ô ÓNo. A violent storm knocked out the power and the lung failed. The nurse on hand couldnÒt get the motor kicking over that ran the stand-by generator and she tried to get into town to get help. When they got back it was too late. Rhino was dead. He was buried out there.Ô ÓWhat happened to his estate?Ô ÓThisÒll kill you. What he had, which wasnÒt much, only about a half million, went to polio research. Two hospitals.Ô ÓHe had more than that,Ô I said. ÓSure, but you know the mob. TheyÒre set up for that contingency. If Rhino had cash, it was ground-buried who knows where. Oh, he had plenty more, all right, and itÒs still wherever he put it. He couldnÒt take it with him after all.Ô Dan looked at me again, a flicker of interest in his eyes. ÓWhatÒs your angle?Ô ÓYou know why I got sent to the can?Ô ÓI covered the case,Ô Dan said flatly. ÓAnd saw me convicted for attempting to extort money from an elected official.Ô ÓThe D.A. had a good case.Ô ÓI know. The evidence was absolutely conclusive. It was black and white and open and shut. It was perhaps the most solid of any case the D.A. ever was presented with.Ô Dan grinned for a change. ÓThatÒs right. So solid he gave it over to his newest assistant to handle who won it with ease. Your former inquisitor, by the way, is now our current D.A.Ô ÓGood for him.Ô His eyebrows went up. ÓNo recriminations?Ô ÓHe wasnÒt in on it.Ô ÓOh?Ô ÓNearly every con says he was framed.Ô ÓSo I hear.Ô ÓSo I was framed.Ô The grin came back again. ÓYeah, I know.Ô Words didnÒt want to form in my mouth. I waited until my breathing was right again and I could think. ÓHow did you know, Dan?Ô There was an edge on my voice. He didnÒt wipe the grin off at all. ÓHell, man, this is my racket, too. Nobody in our business would ever have pulled the things off they said you did. Not unless they were crazy. But now youÒre out and you can answer me one thing you ought to know.Ô ÓWhat?Ô ÓWho did it and why?Ô ÓRhino, buddy. I found his protection wasnÒt the long green to the right people, but information he collected on them that could lay them out. I let it be known I was going after the same information and make it public and was doing pretty well when the boom came down. They sacrificed the first guy I was after, probably for a bundle paying for his chagrin of exposure, then they worked it airtight against me.Ô ÓRough.Ô ÓThat lousy sheet could have stood behind me.Ô ÓYou had them on a spot.Ô ÓNuts. TheyÒd been on other spots before. That stinking publisher Gates . . .Ô ÓDonÒt talk ill of the dead.Ô It was my turn to be surprised. ÓWhen?Ô Dan shrugged. ÓA year ago. He was an editor over af Best and Hines. His heart gave out. He never did recover from losing the paper. Anyway, weÒre back to the first question. Why all the reminiscing?Ô I looked at him across the table. ÓI donÒt think Rhino Massley is dead, friend.Ô He didnÒt say anything. He waved the waiter over, handed him my check and a buck for his back-room bill, waited until I got the change and nodded me out. We walked down the street to his office, went through the lobby to the elevators and he called off a floor. Except for several offices and the photo lab on the north side, the picture morgue with its aisle after aisle of files took up the entire area. Dan checked at a cross file cabinet and from a big drawer brought out what he was looking for and handed it to me. It was a four-by-four positive of Rhino Massley stretched out in a coffin ringed with bank after bank of flowers. To erase all doubt Dan handed me an eight-by-ten blowup so I could see the dead bastard in all his final glory. When I handed it back he said, ÓEnough? I can get some clips from the file if you want.Ô I shook my head. ÓDonÒt bother.Ô ÓWhy?Ô ÓDanny boy, IÒm only just starting and you donÒt get the short stop blues at the beginning, yÒknow? Photos can be faked. Rhino could have laid real still in a box for a dead shot and from here you couldnÒt tell the difference. Who took Ñem, Dan?Ô He glanced at the back of the smaller one. ÓGifford,Ô he said. ÓUnimpeachable.Ô He rode me downstairs and walked to the street. This time I did take a cab. I got out at the corner of the block and picked up some cold cuts at the delicatessen and started toward the house. I started to say hello to Mr. Crosetti, my neighbor, then stopped and gave him my package to hold for a minute and felt my teeth all showing in a crazy kind of grin, because across the street holding down a post where they were still looking for Terry were the two hoods who had worked me over that morning. I held my head down and the first guy didnÒt even bother to give me a glance. I timed the step and the swing just right and slammed my fist into his stomach just over his belt line and the immediate spasmodic folding of his body sprayed puke over everything, and when he hit the sidewalk his mouth was a wide-open hole in a frantic, twisted face. His partner went for his gun instead of jumping me, and that was his mistake. My foot caught him in the crotch and he tried to scream and claw at his genitals and yell for help and beg for mercy all at the same tune. But IÒm lousy. Real lousy. This sportsmanship crap is for TV heroes. I like it the lousy way where the hoods donÒt get the wrong idea about you and about coming back to get you and that kind of stuff. I kicked each oneÒs face into a terrible bloody mess, then went back across the street, and thanked Mr. Crosetti for holding my groceries. He didnÒt look like he was going to be able to hold his. I knocked four times twice and she opened the door. I stepped in quickly, closing the door with my foot, feeling suddenly breathless because she was still wet, but this tune from the shower and the water droplets were like little jewels sparkling all around her, the midnight of her hair longer now, out of its soft wave and sucked tightly against her skin. The towel she held around her was too brief. Beautifully too brief. She was wider in the shoulders than I thought. Lovely round dancerÒs legs were a song of motion when she stepped away. She smiled and I smiled back, then the bottom fell out of the grocery bag and when everything began to tumble she reached out instinctively and then the towel went too. I shook my head so sheÒd know the groceries wouldnÒt matter at all and I watched while she picked up the towel, smiled once more, and walked back to the shower. At 8 that night I got a sweater and skirt combination from Jeannie McDonald upstairs and Terry got dressed. Jeannie passed on the information that the two hoods had been picked up that afternoon by a new Buick sedan occupied by another pair of hard guys and as yet there were no repercussions. Terry had 300 bucks in her bag and we used part of it to sign her into the Enfield Hotel just off Seventh in the Times Square area. She used the name of Ann Spencer and paid a week in advance in lieu of luggage. Luckily, she had her hotel key with her so I took it to get some of her stuff out of the Sherman. There was no doubt about her movements having been spotted and most likely the hotel was staked
out, but it wasnÒt likely that there would be anybody on the floor. I was right. I packed one large bag with the things she asked for and brought along the smaller over-nighter. When I got back to the Enfield, I had her call the Sherman to ask if there were any messages for Terry Massley or Ann Lowry. The clerk said there werenÒt. She put the phone down, concern deep on her face. I said, ÓDonÒt worry, heÒll get in touch.Ô ÓIÒm sure he will.Ô She spun around and strode to the window. That she sensed something was evident. She walked over and sat down opposite me. ÓYou know my father, donÒt you?Ô I tried to keep my face blank. ÓIf heÒs the same Mass-ley I knew once, then I do.Ô ÓWhat do you know about him?Ô ÓYou wonÒt like it if I tell you.Ô ÓPerhaps not, but IÒll listen.Ô ÓAll right. The Massley I knew was a hood,Ô I said. ÓHe was the East Coast wheel for the syndicate and quite possibly head man there. He was a thief and a killer with two early falls against him, one in Chicago and one in San Francisco. A check on the back issues of any paper can verify this and, if you like, IÒll be glad to supply the datelines.Ô She knew I wasnÒt lying. She said simply. ÓNever mind. It couldnÒt be the same one.Ô I gave her back the possibility. I said, ÓThe Massley I knew is supposed to be dead. IÒve even seen pictures of him in his coffin.Ô ÓThis Massley you knew,Ô she asked, Ówhat was his full name?Ô ÓJohn Lacy Massley. He was known as Rhino.Ô The frown between her eyes smoothed and a smile touched her mouth. ÓMy father was Jean Stuart Massley. So they arenÒt the same after all.Ô Then the obvious finally got through to her and her hands squeezed together again. ÓSomebody thinks my father ... is the . . . one you mentioned.Ô ÓPerhaps.Ô She held the side of her hand against her mouth and bit into her finger. I said, ÓWhat personal effects did your mother have that might be important?Ô She shook her head vacantly. ÓNothing. Her marriage license, divorce papers, insurance, and bank books.Ô ÓLetters?Ô ÓOnly correspondence from the legal firm that handled the trust fund.Ô ÓCan I see all this?Ô She pointed to the still unopened over-nighter. ÓItÒs all there. Do as you please.Ô I snapped the case open and laid the contents out on the coffee table. I went through each item, but nothing there had anything of seeming importance. All it did was make more indelible the simple fact that Terry was so sure of ×I had the wrong Massley in mind. When I turned around, I was caught in the direct stare from her eyes. She said, ÓYou thought my father was this other Massley, didnÒt you?Ô I didnÒt try to lie out. I nodded. ÓYou were going to help me find him, if it had been the other one.Ô I nodded again, uncomfortable. ÓAnd now that youÒre wrong?Ô I grinned at her. She didnÒt waste tune trying to fool you and, no matter how big and beautiful she was, she was still a dame caught alone with the shadows closing in behind her. I said, ÓIÒm with you, Terry. I wonÒt bug out. You just got one hell of a slob in your corner though.Ô She uncurled from the chair, standing almost as tall as I was. There were lights in her eyes and when she came closer I saw they were wet. Her arms reached out and touched me, and then she was all the way there, warm and close, pressing so tightly I could feel every curve of her body melting into mine. Very softly, she said, ÓYouÒre no slob,Ô and then her mouth opened on mine and I tasted that crazy excitement again so bad I crushed her hard and tight until she threw her head back to breathe with a small, moaning sob. I had to leave before there was more. I was finding myself with limits and inhibitions again and wondered briefly if it was going to be worth while coming back into society again. Then I knew it was and the thought passed. Terry smiled lazily when I left and I wanted to kiss her again. But what I had in mind wouldnÒt make a kiss easy to take ... or give. I was thinking louse thoughts once more. There were two J. Massleys involved and if there ever had been a name switch it would be following the common pattern to keep at least the first initial of the original name. It only took a few minutes to locate Gifford. He was still in his office finishing off a picture series that had to be up tomorrow. He said heÒd be glad to meet me for coffee in 15 minutes and named a Sixth Avenue automat for the contact. When he arrived I called to him from a table, waited while he got his tray, then introduced myself over the coffee. Although we had never met before, I knew of his work and he remembered me. When I told him about seeing his shots of Rhino, he screwed up his face, remembering back. I said, ÓWhatÒs wrong with it?Ô ÓLousy shots, thatÒs all. No class.Ô ÓYou went all the way to Phoenix for them?Ô Gifford shook his head. ÓHell no, I was there in a private sanatorium.Ô He tapped his chest with a thumb. ÓTouch of T.B. I was there four months when Rhino died.Ô ÓYou ever see him around?Ô ÓNot me. He lived on a ranch 20, maybe 30 miles off. Oh, I knew he was out there and running his business with that lung and all, but thatÒs it.Ô ÓThen you had a good look at the body.Ô ÓSure. It was hurried, but there he was.Ô I squinted and shook my head impatiently. ÓLike how? Tell me.Ô ÓWhatÒs to tell? I got a call from the paper at the time to get a body shot of Rhino for the night edition. At the time it was pretty big news and I was at the spot, so it wasnÒt unreasonable to ask. I went over the day they were having the funeral, managed to get by the professional criers and found this woman who was in charge of things. She didnÒt like it, but she let me into the room where the casket was for a quick shot.Ô ÓWho was this woman, family?Ô ÓNo, Rhino left no family except for some cousins who werenÒt there. She had been his nurse as I remember. Quite a looker.Ô ÓThen who were the mourners?Ô ÓHell, you can imagine. Hoods, politicians who wanted to stay in with the next-in-line, whoever it would be, the usual business. You know.Ô ÓSure.Ô Gifford studied me. ÓAnything special in this? Like with pictures?Ô ÓI donÒt know. IÒm groping. Tell me, what did the body look like?Ô He made a gesture with his shoulders. ÓWhat do they all look like? Dead. Waxy. Only difference here was the coffin wasnÒt the kind that opened down to the waist. RhinoÒs body was so twisted they kept him covered to the neck. All you could see was his face and the tips of his ringers where they crossed on his chest.Ô He paused, fingered his mouth thoughtfully, then added, ÓAs I remember, they only opened the casket for a short time so the public could have one last, quick look. Rhino had been pretty sensitive about his condition and had left orders to that effect.Ô ÓHe was buried there?Ô ÓYup. Cemetery out near the hills. They didnÒt keep him around long, either. He was planted two days after he died.Ô ÓOh?Ô Gifford drummed on the table top with his fingers. ÓHow come all the interest?Ô ÓI had the idea Rhino Massley could still be alive.Ô For a moment his face took on a thoughtful look, then he shook his head. ÓIÒve seen dead men before.Ô ÓAnybody in a coffin automatically looks dead,Ô I told him. ÓGood assumption. Go on.Ô ÓSome makeup, total immobilization, easy to achieve in a three-quartersÒ casket, only allow a quick, unstudied look, and live men can seem pretty damn dead.Ô ÓReasonable, but thatÒs assuming something else.Ô ÓWhat?Ô ÓHis motive.Ô And that was that. There wasnÒt any damn motive in the world. He was already on top, he had no place to go that an iron lung couldnÒt be spotted, and no reason to fake his death anyway. I thanked Gifford and broke up the party. I turned south on Sixth, walking aimlessly back to the Enfield. Overhead a low rumble shook the night and I could smell the rain in the air. It started before I reached the end of the block and it felt good. Anything was better than that down-the-drain feeling of knowing your grand hopes had been washed right out of existence. Damn that Rhino anyway, why the hell couldnÒt he have stayed alive! I would have choked him as he lay in that lung of his and laughed in his face when he died. I would have given anything to have been there the night the power blew out. Man, I could have watched him die by inches in his cell like I did in mine. I could have watched his face in that mirror over his head beg for me to do something and, while he kicked off inch by inch, I could have toasted his passing with a cold brew. I stood there on the corner waiting for the light to change, and then just as suddenly as it had turned sour it turned sweet again. In a way it was reaching for straws, but it made me feel good and light-headed like before when there was a purpose left in life yet, and this started with an assumption too. Assuming that TerryÒs father was Rhino Massley, then somehow
he did have a reason for playing dead. And with that the big second assumption was laid right out in front of me. If Rhino was alive, then he had not only been assumed dead, but assumed sick too. No polio victim in a lung could hide out long anywhere, far less travel around! I grinned at the night and held my face up to the rain. I was going against all logic and flying in the face of the classic objectiveness we had been taught to observe. It was a crazy Don Quixote move, only on the other end there might possibly be a real giant. I opened the door of my flat and switched on the light. The two boys sitting together on the couch and pointing the cold round noses of the automatics at me stood up. They were, different ones, these. Neither smiled. The taller one said ÓTurn around and letÒs go.Ô ÓWhere?Ô ÓYou talk too much,Ô he told me. His hand gave an easy push, a hint, but it was enough. I turned around and headed outside again. The car was there at the curb, the back door open. I got in with one on either side. In a way it was funny. Ten years of being alone, hating every minute of it. Now when I wanted it, what did I get . . . togetherness. I started to laugh and the hood on my right looked at me like I had spilled a few marbles. On the East Side thereÒs a steak house known as RubyÒs and from the back room, across a platterful of T-bone, Mannie Waller did his business. His side was a private little niche with a phone, a walnut humidor of cigars and a shelf of light wine that was all he would drink. He was a big heavy pig of a guy who ate himself into obesity but in doing it kept out of the line of fire and inherited a fat hunk of the underworld business when the others knocked themselves off. Nobody knew just where Mannie stood, but nobody was trying to push him out, either. Talk had it that Mannie was a Syndicate man, a paymaster for the uptown boys. He was part of a new quiet mob that had moved in and taken over after the Appalachin fiasco. And now Mannie was looking up at me, wiping the grease from his chin. He said, ÓSit down.Ô I took too long. The hood beside me gave me a cut in the gut with the edge of his hand and I folded into the chair. Mannie said, ÓNo hands, Joe. You know what he did to Jolly and Hal.Ô ÓThat why you dragged me down here?Ô He hunched his fat shoulders and grinned again. ÓNot entirely, but still I got to keep telling you little guys. One gets tough, the others try it, and then I got trouble. We like to keep things quiet. The boys were only doing a job.Ô He belched and settled back in his chair. ÓThey look for a girl. She ran in your place. You know something about this?Ô ÓYou know what I know. Them idiots bust in and looked around. They know what they saw.Ô ÓSure. Nothing. They look all through that tenement and find the same thing. Only trouble is she donÒt get out on the roof or through the cellar and she donÒt have time to get any place else but to your joint.Ô ÓSo?Ô ÓSo she knows where sheÒs going.Ô ÓYouÒre nuts.Ô JoeÒs gun muzzle slashed the top of my head open. It turned my skull into a white hot sheet of flame that took too long to subside. Mannie was nodding approvingly, waiting. Mannie said, ÓMaybe IÒm wrong. Me, I got to be sure. You know where this dame is, you tell me. I got a C waiting. You want to hold out ... so itÒs your funeral. Maybe later we find out weÒre wrong and you got to take a beating for no reason. I send you a C anyway. IÒm a good guy. Meantime, you gotta hurt a little. You know how it is.Ô ÓYeah,Ô I said, ÓI know how it is, but since when are you playing it stupid?Ô His brows twitched and rose in a slow gesture of surprise. ÓYou think I am that, eh?Ô ÓYouÒre sure showing all the signs. What would anybody want with me?Ô Mannie enjoyed his moment. He scraped his chair back from the table, folded his hands over his stomach, and smiled. ÓNow, that is something to think about, hey? So IÒll tell you.Ô He licked his lips with contentment and rumbled a laugh like Sidney Greenstreet used to in the Humphrey Bogart movies. ÓThe girl she runs in and donÒt come out. She donÒt have time to go anywhere but your place. Now, if youÒre a nothing, then she comes out. But if youÒre a something, then maybe not. So we ask around about you and find out some funny things. Used to be a big shot, hey? Reporter, and a hot one. You laid out Anthony SmithÒs bunch after the war and you was the guy who went to town on the Petersen snatch. You sure was a big one until you held out the wrong hand.Ô ÓSo what?Ô ÓSo youÒre big two ways. This girl, when she runs she ones straight to the only big brain around who at the same time is muscle enough to take care of things the hard way. In all the block thereÒs nobody but bums and punks and hookers. YouÒre the only big one . . .Ô he pointed a finger at me to make his point Ó. . . and to you she goes.Ô ÓLook . . .Ô ÓNo,Ô Mannie said. ÓYou talk to me and I listen, but I wonÒt look. Where is the girl?Ô I spit on the floor in front of his feet. ÓDrop dead,Ô I told him. Mannie smiled indulgently again, his thick lips wetly red like fresh opened meat. ÓTake him upstairs, Joe,Ô he said. The rod went in my ribs again, a cold round rudder that showed me the way to the back, the iron staircase going to the third floor, the steel fire door, and the big room inside. It steered me toward the wall where the packing cases were and sensed when I was going to make my move because it beat me to the trick with a quick downward slash and I was all sobbing pain again, trying to yell out against the fire in my head and the insistent drumming of heavy feet on my ribs. There were tunes when they would stop and ask about the girl and twice I almost told them but they didnÒt let me get my breath and after that I couldnÒt tell them. Then the feet and the hands and even the things they used stopped hurting and started to be nothing more than a nuisance and far-away sounds, and I drifted off into the deep black thatÒs at the end of time. They had used wire on my wrists and ankles and just left me there on the floor. I stared at the bare wood, tasted the dirt that had been ground into my mouth, and saw the dark red of the splotches my blood had made. Any movement was pure torture and, when I managed to turn over, my breathing became a series of convulsive sobs that tried to tear my chest out. Somehow I got on my knees, my hands behind my back, fighting the terrible cramps that racked at pounded and beaten muscle tissue. To one side, the heavily-barred window was showing a brighter gray now. Somewhere beyond the apartments and office buildings the sun was rising and soon the city would too. There wasnÒt much time left. Near me was a spool of baling wire. The two lengths I had been wrapped in came from that reel and seeing it there burned a little hole in my brain until I realized what it meant. There had to be cutters around somewhere. I had to roll over completely three times to reach the packing crate. I lay on my side and lashed out with my feet until I had the crate rocking and finally tilted up against the wall. The next kick brought it over and with it the cutters that had been lying on top. It was almost impossible to force life into my hands, but somehow it happened. I knelt there, fingering the cutters, and finally cut through the strands around my legs. It made life more bearable for a while and made it easier to recover the tool when I dropped it trying to free my hands. Then it was done and the sun was a bright thing laying a wide band of light across the floor while it brought to life the city outside. There was a toilet and a basin in a cubicle in the corner and I soaked myself down, washing the cuts and cleaning the grime and dried blood from my face. It was bad, but I had awakened other times when it had been just as bad. The band of sunlight was touching the far wall when I heard them coming. They stopped several times because Mannie Waller couldnÒt make the stairs all at once. Near the top, one got impatient as I knew he would and came on ahead. I laid the hunk of piping I had picked up across his head and caught him before he fell. I had him out of the way and his .38 in my hand before the other came ha. The other one tried to yell before the pipe came down but it never reached his lips. The pipe smashed his forehead into a bloody mess and he tumbled into my arms and slid to the floor. When Mannie came in the white sickness showed on his face and he stood still, absolutely still, trying hard to take his eyes off the two on the floor. He knew I had to be behind him. He knew IÒd have a rod and he knew he was real close to being dead. Touching the back of his skull with the muzzle of the .38 was only a gesture, but the effect was beautiful. Big Mannie, the Boss, the Head Man, went into a violent fit of trembling, making whimpering sounds that had a pleading tone to them. I used the wire on all of
them, twisted hard into the flesh so that you could barely see it. When Joe moaned and opened his eyes I kicked him insensible and let Mannie see it. Then I squatted down beside the fat man, the clippers in my hand opening and shutting suggestively, and in that movement and metallic sound he read all the terrible things that could possibly happen to him and his eyes rolled in his head. I said, ÓYouÒre going to talk, Mannie. I heard some things so I know whatÒs going on, and if you he IÒll know it and it will be the last lie youÒll tell me. You understand?Ô He couldnÒt talk. Spit ran out of his mouth as he bobbed his head, never taking his eyes from the clippers. ÓWho is the girl?Ô Mannie wet his lips, trying desperately to say something. He finally made it. ÓMassleyÒs kid.Ô ÓRhinoÒs?Ô His jowls shook again with the nod. ÓYeah, Rhino.Ô I paused, savoring the next moment. ÓHeÒs alive then?Ô The expression on his face made me wish I hadnÒt asked it. Even in his fear he was completely puzzled by it. He shook his head, swallowed hard, and said, ÓRhino . . .heÒs dead.Ô ÓThen why do you want the girl?Ô He tried not to say it, but when I moved those clippers toward his mouth he couldnÒt keep it in at all. ÓRhino left papers ... his wife had them.Ô ÓWhat kind of papers?Ô ÓBig papers. They could send up lots of guys. They were . . . RhinoÒs cover ... his protection. He even could break up ... the organization with them.Ô ÓWhy didnÒt you get them before this?Ô ÓHis woman. She knew where he kept them but she disappeared. Nobody knows until she dies where she is.Ô ÓWhat about the girl?Ô ÓSo she gets the papers, donÒt she? She comes east, what for if not to make contacts and use them. SheÒs big trouble to everybody. She will die.Ô ÓAnd you were elected to kill her?Ô He blubbered softly until I touched him with the clippers again. ÓI get orders . . . you know,Ô he whimpered. ÓFrom who?Ô His eyes tried to bug out and his tongue was even too dry to dampen his mouth. ÓHow . . . can I know. ItÒs by phone. I get the word . . . then I do it.Ô I ÓNames, Mannie.Ô You could smell the fear coming from his pores. He tried to talk and couldnÒt. ÓOkay,Ô I said with a fat grin, Óso maybe you donÒt know, but let me put in a word, too. If she dies, so will you, fatty.Ô ÓNo! No ... anybody will kill this girl. She is dangerous to many big people.Ô ÓBut if she dies, youÒll be right behind her, understand?Ô He knew I wasnÒt going to kill him then. He nodded quickly, eager to please, then I gave him a boot that wiped all the eagerness off. I did it enough, so he knew what it was like to play it like back in the old days, and walked out. Only they wouldnÒt have it so easy. I still had the clippers in my back pocket. I took another cab and waited until I got back to my place again before I let it all come through to me, bit by bit. I cleaned up right, shaved, and spoke to myself in the mirror. All the bits and pieces were starting to pull together and show signs of belonging to an orderly whole. It made a nice, satisfying picture with only one ugly blot in the middle. Perhaps Rhino wasnÒt alive, but Terry still came from his loins. It was going to be hard to tell her that. But at the moment the prime thing was to keep her hidden. She was the target in the game from every angle. Orders were for the mob to take her. On top of that somebody else was dealing himself into the game. Somebody who said he was her father. At the corner I called Dan Litvak and asked him to meet me in RosarioÒs in an hour. He got there right after I did, raised his eyebrows a little when he saw my face, but made no comment at all. I said, ÓI need another favor, Dan. Check through the files and run down a Jean Stuart Massley.Ô ÓStill on that kick?Ô ÓItÒs looking up.Ô ÓAnything you can tell me?Ô I brought him up to date with all the details. His face never changed, but in back of his eyes strange things were happening. He let me finish, then said, ÓYou think both Massleys were the same?Ô ÓCould be.Ô ÓAnd if Rhino Massley is, as he seems to be ... dead?Ô I shrugged, ÓThen I want his papers. This whole thing started over those documents. I lost seven years because of them and now I want some kicks.Ô ÓHave you tried being sensible about the bit?Ô ÓLike how?Ô ÓLike how, if you handle this right, you can throw it back in a lot of faces the right way and maybe get back on top again. Make a story of it and every sheet in the country will want you on the staff.Ô ÓNuts.Ô ÓThink it over anyway.Ô He swilled the coffee down and climbed out of the booth. ÓAnything else you want?Ô ÓYes. Find out who the doctor was who handled RhinoÒs case. If you can get his medical history, so much the better.Ô ÓThat shouldnÒt be hard.Ô I called from the Enfield Hotel lobby and she sounded a little breathless. It was as if she had been expecting me and all the anticipation showed in a few husky words. It was a heady feeling, thinking there was someone waiting. It had been a long tune since there had been anything like that. And now it was only a thought and a foolish one at that. Who the hell was I to invite such thoughts at all? Phil Rocca, ex-con, the big nothing. Sweaty underwear, dirty shut and somebody elseÒs coat. Great. Upstairs was a lovely woman. She was waiting, all right, because I might have some news about her old man. When I told her what I had, she wouldnÒt be waiting any more. So forget it, idiot boy. Let her just be something that happened and nothing more. LetÒs not get hurt again. But it didnÒt happen like that. She was a smiling Valkyrie standing in the doorway, hair like a black waterfall on her shoulders and her hands out to take mine. Her eyes were laughing and her mouth told me she missed me. She laid her cheek against mine and squeezed my arm, then suddenly realized that there was a difference and her eyes went wide and she traced the shoe marks on my face with the tips of her fingers. She asked, ÓAgain?Ô and when I nodded she dropped her face into her hand and remained that way until I tilted her chin up. ÓThey were the same persons?Ô ÓNo, but the same outfit.Ô ÓWhat. . . did they want?Ô I told her a half truth. ÓTo teach me a lesson. They didnÒt like me roughing up the hoods who started this party rolling.Ô She studied me, then said, ÓItÒs my father, isnÒt it?Ô ÓIÒm not sure yet.Ô ÓWhen will you be sure?Ô ÓSoon.Ô There wasnÒt long to wait. The phone rang sharply twice and when I picked it up Dan said, ÓPhil?Ô ÓHere, Dan.Ô ÓI have that dope you wanted. ÓJean Stuart Massley was RhinoÒs real name, but the guy had a phobia about effeminate names and changed it some place along the line. Apparently he hated women and this is what led to his divorce. His early record includes assault raps, mainly brought by women. He wouldnÒt even employ a female secretary. So he changed his name. Jean Stuart was pretty frilly to him. The John Lacy tag he used was the name of a fighter back in the old days, so he went along with that.Ô ÓGot the other?Ô ÓSure. The doctor was Thomas Hoyt. If you remember, he was the one the mob used back during the war. He was an alcoholic, but they straightened him out and put him back in business.Ô ÓWhere is he?Ô ÓStill in Phoenix, I imagine. HeÒs not licensed in New York any longer. I couldnÒt pick up that medical history. It went with Hoyt from Mayberry to Phoenix and is probably still there. One of the old dames at Mayberry said it was a pretty quiet affair all the way around. Hoyt brought in a nurse from outside and nobody was allowed near Rhino at all while he was there. She supposed they were afraid of someone coming in and knocking Rhino off and itÒs a pretty good guess.Ô ÓWho was the nurse?Ô ÓI didnÒt ask. Want me to check?Ô ÓNever mind.Ô I hung up the phone and turned around. Terry hadnÒt moved. ÓNow you know,Ô she said. ÓThatÒs right. Now I know.Ô ÓYouÒll tell me?Ô I nodded. ÓRhino Massley was your father.Ô A shadow crossed her face. ÓYou said he was dead.Ô ÓI said I thought he was dead. ItÒs beginning to look like there isnÒt any other answer.Ô ÓBut youÒre not sure.Ô ÓI will be.Ô ÓIf he is dead, then, who is pretending to be my father?Ô There wasnÒt any other way except to spell it out. I said, ÓYour father was a hood. He had documentary evidence that kept the right people in line and used it to stay on top. Your mother either lifted that stuff from him or he gave it to her to hold.Ô ÓBut she never . . .Ô ÓHe might have had that much contact with her. She could still be useful even if she was divorced. DonÒt forget that Rhino was a louse.Ô Her mouth pulled tight. ÓSorry, kid, but thatÒs the way it was.Ô ÓI understand.Ô ÓWhen it came out who your mother was, the mob assumed those documents would come to light, most likely in the inheritorÒs hands, which was you. They slapped a tai
l on you, not willing to move in until they knew where you were keeping the stuff. ÓThen when they got wind of somebody else trying to con in on the deal they had to scratch off fast. They couldnÒt take a chance on anyone else getting it. If they could pick you up, they could squeeze out the information. If necessary, you were expendable. Knock you off and they could have time to search out what they wanted.Ô ÓBut Phil...Ô ÓWhat?Ô ÓThere isnÒt anything. You saw what mother left.Ô Her eyebrows drew together in a puzzled frown. ÓThere never has been anything. Surely she would have told me if there had been.Ô ÓPerhaps not. I want to look at that stuff again.Ô ÓGo ahead. I havenÒt touched it.Ô This time I dumped the lot on the bed and spread it out. I went over the papers searching for answers, but there was no more now than there had been. To myself I said, ÓThere has to be something else.Ô Terry heard me, came over and stood beside me and reached into her pocket-book. She handed me a leather folder. ÓMotherÒs wallet. She never carried a purse.Ô I took it from her fingers, opened the snap and leafed through the plastic card holders inside. There was her driverÒs license, membership cards in local clubs, several gas credit cards, and two from L.A. restaurants. One folder held several news clippings, brittle and yellow, reporting events Terry had participated in in school. There were photos of her as a girl, two winter clothes storage receipts, a season ticket for the L.A. Dodger games, and a dune-thin ten-dollar gold piece. ÓDid it help?Ô ÓI canÒt see how,Ô I told her. I put everything back where it was and handed it to her. ÓPhil . . .Ô Without realizing it, I had my arms around her, only now it was as if we had known each other a long, long tune and I wasnÒt what I was at all. Her hair had the fragrance of some wild flower that I could pick whenever I wanted to. She lifted her head, her eyes going over my face. I kissed her gently, her eyes closing when our mouths touched. It was only for a moment, then I held her close and wondered where all the crazy hate went that I felt when I first saw her. And how long ago was it to then . . . years? She said, ÓWhat shall I do?Ô ÓWhat do you want to do?Ô ÓIf I stay somebody might ... be hurt. It ... might be you, Phil.Ô ÓIÒm nobody. It wouldnÒt matter at all.Ô ÓTo me it would.Ô My fingers tightened on her arms and she winced, but didnÒt try to pull away. ÓDonÒt talk like that. We havenÒt anything in common at all.Ô For a moment her face was blank, then shame and sudden shock touched her as with a strange hand, and the wetness that welled into her eyes overflowed to her cheeks and I could feel the sob working in her chest. ÓBecause my father . . . was this man . . . IÒm no good. ThatÒs why, isnÒt it?Ô Amazement pulled my face tight. ÓAre you crazy?Ô I said. ÓSugar, I donÒt give a fat damn what your father was. YouÒre class, kitten. YouÒre a big, lovely woman with more class than a guy hardly ever gets to see at all.Ô ÓPhil . . .Ô ÓNo, just listen. IÒm a bum, a slob. I did time, even if it was a bad rap, and things like that change a guy and stick with him a long while. All I had in my head in the beginning was to get the chance to knock off your old man and that one hope kept me going. For a while I thought I had it again. I was all geared up to kill and no matter what it cost I was ready for it. Knocking Rhino over would have been the happiest day of my life. ÓNot now. You spoiled the picture for me. I could still hate him with everything inside me, but because you wanted him I couldnÒt touch him. ThatÒs what youÒve done to me. You got me all crazy gone and I canÒt even look at you without wanting to put my hands on you and IÒm thinking all kinds of things I thought I had forgotten. ÓBut IÒm not letting it rub off on you, girl. One touch of me and youÒd be dirtied too, and the best thing I can do is to go back where I belong and let you alone. IÒm going to run this bit down. IÒm going to get it straight so nobody will be holding a sword over your head ever, and when I do it itÒs going to be so-long all the way and thatÒs that.Ô Her hair shimmered with motion when she shook her head. ÓYou canÒt do that, Phil.Ô ÓThe hell I canÒt. Maybe another time it would have been different, but this is here and now and thatÒs how itÒs going to be. Look at me. IÒm lousy and dirty and a couple of days ago I was scrubbing for handouts so I could buy a jug. I run with the sewer rats now because thereÒs no place else to go. I donÒt even care any more, canÒt you tell? I like it this way. I can sit back and spit on the world and thereÒs not a thing it can take away from me because I havenÒt got anything. So take a good look, kid, and you can see why I donÒt want anything rubbing off.Ô The tears were still there in eyes that were large and dark. ÓI donÒt see all those things at all,Ô she said simply. I took her hands away and held them. ÓYouÒre all mixed up. So I did you a favor. IÒll do one more. Keep it that way. Just say thanks and let it go.Ô She smiled, wiped back the tears that stained her cheeks, and said, ÓYouÒre mixed up. If you think IÒm going to let go of you just when I found you, then youÒre really mixed up.Ô Her hand came up and lightly stroked the side of my face. ÓThere isnÒt any more past for either one of us. There is only now and later. Alone neither of us will be anything. Together we can be much. I want you, Phil.Ô This time I didnÒt try to keep her off. Softly, she said, ÓPhil... I love you.Ô There wasnÒt any need to answer her. She knew. . . . The Mayberry Sanatorium was a private institution 30 miles outside the city. It was a two-story, brick building set in the center of 15 acres and had been the private retreat of the wealthy for the past half century. I had been up there a few times interviewing patients for the paper, and as far as I knew it had an excellent reputation. The head nurse was a Miss Mulligan, a good 60 years a spinster lady, but quick as a roach on her feet and with eyes that could snap the tail off a cat across a stone stoop. For a moment I thought she remembered me, but the curiosity in her face passed and she acknowledged our introduction with a nod. I said, ÓA Mr. Litvak called here earlier for some information on a former patient.Ô ÓThatÒs right. A police matter about Massley. That was some time ago.Ô ÓYou gave him the information.Ô ÓI did.Ô ÓI see. Perhaps you can add a few points. Mr. Litvak said that the case had been handled very quietly.Ô ÓSecretly would be more like it.Ô ÓDid you see the patient?Ô ÓSeveral times.Ô ÓHe was ... sick?Ô This time her eyebrows shot up, then she saw what I meant. ÓWe do get patients doing nothing more than recovering from prolonged drunkenness, or merely escaping from an unattractive home life or unpleasant business, but Mr. Massley certainly wasnÒt like that.Ô ÓWhy not?Ô ÓIf youÒre going to feign sickness, there are easier and less expensive ways than faking polio.Ô ÓUh-huh. Could be. Did you see him out of the lung?Ô ÓYes. I passed by when he was being handled. He was able to stay out a maximum of 30 minutes. However, neither I nor any staff nurse handled him. He had his own nurse.Ô ÓWho was she, do you remember?Ô She rose, went to a wall cabinet, and opened the top drawer. From it she drew a folder, checked it, then handed it to me. ÓEverything is here.Ô The name at the top was Elena Harris. The hospital form she had filled out listed her age as 32, her address in the East 70s, and stated that she had graduated from a southern university and served at six different hospitals since. A letter of recommendation was included, written on Dr. HoytÒs stationery. At the bottom was a 2 X 2 photo of Nurse Harris that was typical of identification photographs in all respects except one. No camera and no uniform could make her anything else than beautiful. ÓPretty,Ô I said. ÓThat was her trouble.Ô There was no malice in her statement, merely indifference. I tapped the photo. ÓShe seems familiar.Ô ÓPossibly. She was a type.Ô ÓLike how?Ô ÓOne to turn menÒs heads. She was a distracting influence while she was here.Ô ÓThat was her trouble you mentioned?Ô Miss MulliganÒs nod was curt, again without any seeming malice. ÓShe caused . . . well, rivalries, especially among the younger doctors.Ô ÓDeliberately?Ô ÓNo, I wouldnÒt say it was deliberate.Ô ÓWas she efficient?Ô ÓI found no cause for complaint. Certainly Mr. Mass-ley was satisfied. She scarcely ever left him. In fact, she was more than nurse to him.Ô ÓOh?Ô I looked at her and waited. ÓShe took care of all his correspondence and seemed to be the intermediary between him and his business contacts. There were times when she acted rather the secretary than the nurse.Ô ÓYou checked on her, of course.Ô ÓNaturally. In fact
, she had an excellent scholastic record. As you notice, however, Mr. Massley was her first case in four years, although that isnÒt anything unusual. Quite often one returns to practice for private patients.Ô ÓI see. Can I keep this picture?Ô ÓYes. We have a duplicate upstairs.Ô ÓThanks. Now, if itÒs within the realm of professional ethics, you might add something.Ô ÓWeÒll see.Ô ÓWhat is your personal opinion of Miss Harris?Ô At first I thought she would ignore the question entirely, then she said, ÓCould you give me a practical reason for your inquiry?Ô Her eyes had seen a little too much of the world to be fooled by a lie or taken in by half truths. I said, ÓMassley was a hood. When he died he left behind information dangerous to certain persons. They think MassleyÒs daughter has his documents and sheÒs in line to be killed unless I can find them first. ItÒs possible that anyone who was close to Massley could come up with something.Ô I paused for a deep breath. ÓNow, what about her?Ô Miss MulliganÒs mouth tightened into a thin line, her nostrils pinched tight above it. ÓI see. Then perhaps my opinion wonÒt be unethical. I mentioned that Harris was first, a nurse. Secondly, she was a confidante of a sort. Third, in her personal relationship with Mr. Massley I had the impression that he had been, or was, her lover.Ô ÓHow did you determine that?Ô For the first time Miss Mulligan showed the dull flush of emotion kept well under control. Her blush was faint, but definite. Her eyes left mine and sought her desk top. ÓOur rooms do not have locks on the doors,Ô she said a little breathlessly. ÓI see. Were they aware that you happened on their . . . intimacies?Ô A gentle whisper of a shudder touched MulliganÒs shoulders and with a far away gesture her tongue touched her lips, almost wistfully. ÓNo,Ô she said hesitantly. ÓThey were . . . engrossed.Ô ÓBut the lung . . . ?Ô ÓWhat they ... the lung didnÒt . . .Ô Then the deep red flooded up from her starched collar and she turned away quickly. I let it stay there. Whatever could bring a flush to her face needed little further explanation. I thanked her, but I donÒt think she heard me. I slipped the picture of Elena Harris in my jacket pocket, picked up my hat, and left. There was still a half hour before train time back into Manhattan, so I wasted it over coffee at the station diner. From Grand Central I called Terry and had her meet me for supper at Lum FongÒs. The junior executive crowd was there at the bar as usual, the deliberately casual eyes that scanned us via the big mirror showing almost professional consternation because they couldnÒt figure how a guy like me had a dame like her. ÓYouÒre lovely, doll,Ô I told her. ÓEverybody here has eyes for you.Ô ÓYou like it that way?Ô She smiled, but now it was to hide the concern that came back again. ÓIs the trouble still big?Ô ÓItÒs big.Ô I told her most of the details of my visit with Miss Mulligan, then. ÓIt could get bigger. Look, how much money can you get hold of fast?Ô ÓI have $1,500 in travelerÒs checks at the hotel. Why?Ô ÓI want to go to Phoenix. Phoenix is where your father . . . supposedly died. There may be some answers there. Now, do I get financed?Ô ÓOn one condition.Ô I raised my eyebrows and waited. ÓThat I go along,Ô she said. ÓForget it. This wonÒt be a fun trip and I can travel faster alone. Besides, I have something for you to do.Ô ÓLike what?Ô I took Elena HarrisÒ photo out of my pocket and handed it to her. ÓItÒs a little thought I have,Ô I said. ÓBeautiful women usually make a stab at show business some time or another. In the process they leave their pictures around. Do you think you could comb the agencies who might know something? I could ...Ô She didnÒt let me finish. She grinned and said, ÓI know the ropes. All of them. Many was the time I made the rounds. But canÒt I do this and go with you too?Ô ÓNo, because I want you to stick around to see about that contact at the Sherman.Ô The sudden stricken look of an animal caught off guard touched her face with fine taut lines. She was remembering the happy thought she had had in the beginning, the thought of seeing her father, and now, once again, she was being reminded that she never really had one. ÓIs it... really necessary now?Ô ÓSomehow that contact is a key to all this. It has to be run down.Ô ÓPhil . . .Ô Whoever it was is dangerous. The stakes are high in this game and you make up the rules as you go along. YouÒre a necessary factor in the game because, as far as anybody is concerned, you know old RhinoÒs secret. Keep them in the dark and weÒll have the edge.Ô ÓBut we canÒt fight those people, Phil.Ô ÓI donÒt intend to,Ô I said. ÓI know when to holler for the troops.Ô ÓLike when?Ô ÓLike now.Ô I went to the row of phone booths at the back of the room and put in a call for Dan. When he answered I said, ÓDan, I want to see the D.A. tonight. Can you arrange it?Ô There was the queer sound of silence a second, then incredulously Dan said, ÓCal Porter?Ô I could almost see him shrug. ÓIÒll see what I can do. Give me five minutes.Ô I let him have the tune. When I called back he had the information. ÓPorter is at his desk right now having been called away from a supper party to preside at the questioning of a hot suspect in last nightÒs park kill. He said heÒd see you.Ô When I came back I hurried Terry into a cab and up to the hotel. She cashed $500 in travelerÒs checks, gave me the bundle, a smile, and a kiss for good luck. ÓBe careful, Phil. Please.Ô ÓDonÒt worry about me. YouÒre the one on the spot. IÒm an idiot for letting you stand alone, but there isnÒt anybody else. If you get in trouble, you call Dan Litvak or the cops. DonÒt stop to think it out . . . just call.Ô ÓI will. YouÒll be back soon?Ô ÓTwo days will do it.Ô She smiled, her mouth softly damp, coming closer to mine. ÓIÒll miss you,Ô she said. DanÒs call opened the door for me, not too widely, but enough for five minutes of the big manÒs tune. Cal Porter had turned gray over the years, the leanness of youth lost to the thickening effect of middle age. He stood up when I entered and said, ÓMr. Rocca?Ô It was merely a formal question. I nodded. ÓSit down, please.Ô He turned briefly and smiled at the hawk-faced woman clutching the steno pad. ÓYou neednÒt stay, Miss Marie. WeÒll finish in the morning.Ô Porter didnÒt waste any time. ÓDan Litvak said you have something on your mind.Ô ÓI need some information, Mr. Porter.Ô He reached for a cigarette and lit it without taking his eyes off mine. ÓWhy?Ô ÓBecause it might help me bust a story, thatÒs why.Ô ÓThis has something to do with you personally.Ô Again it was a statement. ÓI wouldnÒt give a damn, otherwise,Ô I told him. ÓI wasnÒt exactly rehabilitated in the can, Mr. Porter. I came out with about as much regard for the human race as I have for malaria and, if I had my choice between the two, IÒd have taken the disease.Ô Porter let a small, grim smile touch his mouth. ÓThat sounds like a former attitude. What is it now?Ô ÓI havenÒt decided yet. IÒm walking the fence.Ô ÓAny preference which way you want to jump?Ô I shrugged. ÓI could be influenced.Ô ÓAll right,Ô he said unexpectedly, Óhow can I help?Ô Before I could speak he took a deep pull on the butt, poked it out in an ash tray, and leaned back in his chair. ÓIÒll tell you why IÒm interested, Rocca. You may not realize it, but I made my reputation prosecuting your case. Secondly, knowing of your past abilities, IÒm quite willing to make use of anything you might have to take another step.Ô ÓLike over my dead body?Ô ÓThatÒs right. If it will take me closer to the tall chair in Albany.Ô ÓNow you want to be governor,Ô I said. I could feel my face start to tighten. ÓYouÒre awfully friendly, Mr. Porter. IÒm a punk, remember? Seven years con time and now a barnacle in tenement row and not a nickelÒs worth of whiskey credit.Ô ÓIÒve kept track.Ô he told me. ÓBesides, Litvak is no fool. He thinks youÒre up to something. Now what do you want to know?Ô Without sparring around I said, ÓWhen Rhino Massley died, what was the condition of the mobs?Ô His expression changed slowly, not so much in his face as in the squint of his eyes and a tightening of his shoulders. He leaned forward on the desk, lacing his fingers together. ÓYou can read the papers.Ô ÓNuts, buddy. You have more than that. It would have come out except that his kicking off left you holding a half-filled bag.Ô He waited a moment, then: ÓVery well. The mobs, letÒs say, were in good condition. Their activities increased ten times while law enforcement agencies remained at the same level. Crime of every sort has been on the increase about 15 per cent or better each year. When Massley died it was, like now, at a peak. The cost of living index has gone u
p on all fronts, you see.Ô ÓGood. Now did MassleyÒs death put any kind of a dent in mob activities?Ô His fingers were showing white now and there were taut lines around his mouth. For a moment I thought he would hedge, then he looked at me seriously. ÓAt the time nobody was willing to admit that there was such a thing as a Syndicate. The Mafia was active, but under control, and organized gangs seemed to have only local prominence. ÓHowever, we found out later that in the face of increased activity on the part of such gangs, a close liaison was necessary for obvious business reasons. A large scale pseudo-legitimate setup was necessary to front for criminal deals and an underworld bank sort of thing required to have ready funds for any new enterprise. ÓMassley, we believe, was the banker. When he died there was quite a bit of consternation in various quarters and certain phases of action we had been alerted against failed to come off. The conclusion was that the money wasnÒt available for it.Ô ÓWhat happened to it?Ô Porter shrugged. ÓFrankly, we donÒt know.Ô ÓCan you guess?Ô The frown came back again. ÓI can,Ô he said. He paused, unlaced his fingers, and folded his arms across his chest. ÓThe ÑbankÒ wasnÒt really big yet ... it was in the trial stage, so to speak. My guess is that whoever took over after Massley had access to the money.Ô I shook my head. ÓYouÒre playing games with me now. You want me to try?Ô Porter nodded and sat there waiting. I said, ÓThat was hidden money. Massley alone knew where it was. He didnÒt expect to die, so he wasnÒt setting himself up as a target for some outside operator to shoot at by making its whereabouts common knowledge or even putting it on paper. Massley was right at his job when he died and that loot is still around.Ô I grinned at him. ÓHowÒs that one?Ô PorterÒs face had a courtroom look now. ÓAnd you know where it is?Ô ÓNo.Ô ÓYou think you might have a lead?Ô ÓMaybe. To even bigger things.Ô ÓExplain.Ô This tune I laughed at him. ÓNo, not now, buddy. I have some pretty wild ideas that IÒm going to make pay off one way or another. If IÒm right and you go along, they can even get you that tall chair in Albany. If IÒm wrong nobody gets hurt but me.Ô ÓI see.Ô ÓI donÒt think you do, but thanks for talking to me. It was good to see you again after all these years.Ô He scowled but didnÒt say anything. I stood up and put on my hat. ÓThereÒs one more thing IÒd like you to know, Mr. Porter. It doesnÒt make any difference any more, but IÒd just like to get things straight.Ô ÓOh?Ô I grinned at his expression. ÓThe rap you got your reputation on was a bum one, buddy. Massley had me framed like a Van Gogh original and you went the route to make it stick. ThatÒs water over the falls now and I just donÒt give a damn about it any more. But itÒs just something IÒd like you to keep in mind, okay?Ô He knew then. He knew it as well as I knew it, but with him it came too quickly and the thought of it was a little too big to swallow all at once. His face got a pasty white color that was a wordless apology and a soundless attempt at explaining away the naivete that comes with boundless ambition in public service. I grinned again and left his office. Things were looking up again. One of his news items, properly placed in the scheme of things, pointed to an answer. That is, if certain other items fell properly into place. I didnÒt bother with any baggage. I had been a slob too long to let a change of drawers bother me when I was in a hurry. I grabbed the bus out to Kennedy and picked up a ticket at the desk. I neednÒt have hurried because no flight was leaving until 7:50 and that gave me three hours to wait. Two newspapers and a magazine later I still had an hour to kill and wandered to the menÒs room. That took care of 15 minutes. I unlocked the door to my dime booth, took one step out and thought, in the tiny second I could still think, that my brains went all over the room. That took care of another 30 minutes. I was able to convince the two cops that I fell, but the doctor wasnÒt buying it. He said nothing, but I knew what he was thinking. The cops were all for throwing me out until I produced my ticket, then they helped me to a bench outside where I could wait until plane tune. The 30 bucks I had loose in my side pocket were gone. The rest of the bundle was safe way back under my shirt and for once it paid to have a few bindle stiff habits. I cursed silently at the pain in my skull and wondered what kind of an artist was shrewd enough to spot dough riding with a seedy looking character like me. When the flight was announced, I got on, took two of the pills the doctor gave me, and didnÒt wake up until we hit Phoenix. It was hot in Phoenix. I took a taxi to town, had a large bowl of chili at the counter in the bus terminal, then found the address of the Board of Health in the phone directory. The girl at the desk was a lovely tanned kid, in an off-the-shoulder Mexican blouse, with a quick smile, who said hello in a breathless way that made me wonder what she was doing working for the city. She took one look at my clothes and said, ÓVisitor?Ô I said, ÓIÒm trying to find a doctor.Ô ÓYou donÒt look sick.Ô Her mouth hid a smile. ÓWhat I got a doctor wonÒt cure, sugar.Ô She blushed a little and made a face at me. ÓThe doctor I want is a Thomas Hoyt. He was out here several years ago.Ô ÓHoyt.Ô She put a knuckle to her teeth, thought a moment, then said, ÓI know who you mean. Let me find out.Ô It didnÒt take long. She came back with two cards she had scribbled notations on. She glanced at me, then asked, ÓFriend?Ô ÓNo.Ô She seemed relieved somehow. ÓOh. Well . . . Dr. Hoyt is dead. HeÒs been dead quite a few years.Ô ÓWhat happened?Ô ÓI really donÒt know, but he died. October second, 1965.Ô The cold feeling hit me again. Inside, everything seems to drop out momentarily and it never does go back into place right. ÓYouÒre sure? There wouldnÒt be two Dr. Hoyts?Ô She shook her head. ÓIÒm positive.Ô Outside I had the cabby take me down to the newspaper offices and I paid him off there. Everybody was friendly in Phoenix. They all smiled and were all glad to help. The young fellow I asked about seeing back issues of the sheet took personal charge and brought back the issue I wanted. I sat down at a table, spread out the paper, and found the story about Dr. Thomas Hoyt on an inside page. It was all very simple, very cut and dried. He and a friend by the name of Leo Grant were coming back from a hunting trip in the mountains, tried to take a turn too fast in their jeep, and hurtled off the road. Both were killed and it was several days before the wreck or the bodies were found. I just started on the interesting part when the tall fellow in a short-sleeved sport shirt sat down beside me and said, ÓHowdy.Ô I said hello as politely as I could. ÓMy name is Stack. Joe Stack,Ô he told me. ÓI handle police stuff.Ô ÓReally?Ô ÓMind telling me whatÒs so interesting?Ô he motioned toward the paper with his thumb. I got the pitch right away. ÓSomebody else been reading up?Ô He nodded, his face expressionless. There are ways you can play people and ways you canÒt and this one I decided to play straight. I said, ÓIÒm Phil Rocca. You might have heard of me. I took a big fall eight years ago and right now IÒm trying to catch up.Ô His eyebrows furrowed. ÓRocca,Ô he mused. ÓRocca . . . sure, I remember that trial. I was with a sheet in Boston then. Hell, yes, I remember you. What are you doing here?Ô ÓIt was a bum rap, friend. IÒm out to prove it. It might seem silly, but IÒd like to get back in the field again and the only way I can do it is to shove that rap where it belongs. That whole deal was wrapped up in Rhino Massley and IÒm trying to pick it apart. RhinoÒs big club that kept him on top was some damn hot evidence that kept key people in line. When Rhino died he left it somewhere, and that, buddy, IÒd like to come up with.Ô I grinned at him and let him have some more. Oh, not too much. If it ever broke it was going to be my story, or at least something I could sell or bargain with. But I leaked enough to make StackÒs eyes go a little bright at the thought of what could come out of the thing. When I finished I asked, ÓWho else was after the paper?Ô ÓA local boy. HeÒs new in town and hasnÒt got a record, but word came in that heÒs a representative for the big ones on either coast. We donÒt know whatÒs in the works, but we know heÒs got something going for him. As soon as two people asked for the same issue, Carey over there buzzed me upstairs. Now, whatÒs the poop?Ô ÓHoyt was Rhino MassleyÒs personal physician.Ô ÓYeah, I remember. He has some mob connections back east. He never had an outside practice here at all.Ô Then I pointed to the interesting part. ÓThe friend who was killed in the s
ame wreck is listed as having been a prominent mortician here in town.Ô Stack pulled the paper over to him and scanned the item. ÓUh-huh. I knew him slightly. Close-mouthed guy who started up after the war. What about him?Ô ÓAny way of finding out who did the embalming on RhinoÒs body?Ô His eyes pulled tight, then he nodded and got up. He spent a few minutes at the phone down the end then came back and sat down. ÓIt was him. Leo Grant. RhinoÒs doctor and mortician were both killed in the same wreck.Ô ÓUnusual?Ô He shrugged. ÓNot so. Their fields are related, they worked together with the same patient, they could have been friends.Ô ÓAny way of finding out?Ô ÓPossibly. IÒll try. How does it matter?Ô ÓLetÒs say that you come up with the answer, and IÒll tell you how it matters. Fair enough?Ô He flipped a card from his pocket and handed it to me. ÓYou can get me at any of those three numbers. And look, where are you staying?Ô ÓNo place yet, but IÒll find a flop.Ô ÓThen try the Blue Sky Motel. Harry Coleman is a friend of mine and will treat you right. You on wheels?Ô ÓNo.Ô He picked the card from my hand, scribbled something on it, and handed it back. ÓTake it to the Mermak garage. TheyÒll rent you wheels without breaking your back.Ô ÓThanks.Ô There was no hitch in getting a car. I picked a two-year-old Ford, paid out three days in advance, got directions from the clerk to the Blue Sky Motel, and drove out to meet Harry Coleman. He was a big, genial guy tanned to his elbows and neck, but otherwise, like most of the natives, a sun-dodger. He put me in a duplex all the way down the row of buildings, brought me a paper, a cold can of beer, and some ice. I wondered if I could do it or not. One lousy drink could have set me off anytime a week ago. Somehow now it was different, and sooner or later I was going to have to find out. It went down just right. It tasted good and was just enough. I looked at myself in the mirror and winked. Then I flopped down on the bed and let the sleep ooze over me. When I woke up I called the desk and found out that it was 7:30 and that I had wasted the whole afternoon. Before I left I got the operator and gave her TerryÒs hotel in New York. We got right through and she answered on the second ring with a querulous ÓYes?Ô ÓPhil, honey.Ô ÓOh, Phil!Ô She caressed my name the way no one else ever had. ÓAre you in Phoenix?Ô ÓHere and working, kitten.Ô ÓWhat did you find out?Ô She said it almost breathlessly and waited for my answer. ÓNothing I can put in logical sequence yet. IÒve got some ideas but theyÒll have to keep.Ô ÓPhilÔ . . . and now she sounded worried, Óyou will be careful, wonÒt you?Ô ÓDonÒt worry about me, kid. Now, how did you make out? Anything on Harris?Ô ÓWell, I went to several places and in three of them she was recognized at once. She had had a stage career right after high school, went through nurseÒs training and, instead of going into a hospital, went back to the stage. She had numerous small Broadway parts, several minor Hollywood things, and some TV work. Between engagements she served as a nurse in several hospitals but would give up nursing immediately for a stage part.Ô ÓDid anyone know where she could be found?Ô ÓNo, the last address they had on her was Phoenix. In fact, one agency wanted her very badly for a part. I even tried the unions and a press agent from Hollywood who was here in town, but sheÒs dropped completely out of sight.Ô I let it run through my mind for a minute, then said, ÓOkay, kid, you did fine. Now stay put until I get back and keep checking on that contact at the Sherman.Ô ÓHow long will you be there, Phil?Ô ÓAnother day at least. Can you hang on?Ô ÓAs long as I know I have you.Ô I grinned at the phone and threw her a kiss. ÓYou have me, baby. I just hope you know what youÒre doing.Ô She said so-long with a kiss of her own and hung up. I had a fine Mexican supper at the Sign of the Gaudy Parrot and found out what I needed to know by asking just one question . . . where Rhino MassleyÒs old place was. In a small way he was a local legend for having left his place to a polio research foundation. His old ranch was in the long shadows of the mountains, a compact group of buildings built to give a western touch to modern design. At the main building I blew my horn until lights came on from inside, then went up on the porch and waited. The man who opened the door was bald and in his 70s and not at all friendly like the bunch back in town. He looked me up and down and in no uncertain voice said, ÓWhat the hell you want?Ô I let a laugh rumble around in my throat, then pushed the door open and squeezed inside, ÓHello, Buster,Ô I said. The gun he was trying to clear from the back of his pants came loose and dangled from his hand. The skin on his face pulled tight until wrinkles showed in his scalp. ÓHow come you make me?Ô ÓEasy enough, Buster. You want the whole rundown just to show you how much I know?Ô ÓKnock it off.Ô His voice was real uncertain this tune. Buster Lafarge was one of the old-time killers from the roaring Ñ20s. He was wanted by three states and the Feds and I personally knew five people who would pay 100 grand to have old Buster delivered alive to their private basements for old timesÒ sake. I held out my hand. ÓThe heater, friend.Ô It was strictly his kind of rod, a big blue Army .45 that could knock a horse down. He laid it in my hand and I could feel him shaking when he touched me. All the toughness has gone out of him long ago. He was old now, too old to fight and just old enough to want to hang on to the last inch life had to give him. He said, ÓPal. . . look, I. . . I. . .Ô ÓWhatÒre you doing here, Buster?Ô ÓPal.. . .Ô ÓI can make money on you, you know that,Ô I said. ÓI could drop you now and take a payoff or bring you in still kicking.Ô Ñ This time his voice came out in a dry rasp. ÓJeez, pal, whatÒd I do? I donÒt know you. Look, pal . . .Ô ÓWhatÒre you doing here?Ô I repeated. BusterÒs shoulders sagged with the weight of the load he carried. ÓRhino ... he gimme the job here. They got to keep me on here. ItÒs in his will. Jeez, pal. . . .Ô ÓWhat do you do?Ô ÓNothing. What the hell can I do? I canÒt go no place. So I sweep up and paint some and keep the yard clean and make sure RhinoÒs grave is okay and thatÒs all.Ô ÓWhereÒs this grave you take care of?Ô ÓWest. About a quarter of a mile. By the palm grove.Ô ÓGood. Get a couple of shovels, Buster.Ô ÓWhat for?Ô ÓWeÒre going to dig old Rhino up, thatÒs what for.Ô Very slowly he backed away from me, his eyes wide. ÓMan, youÒre plain crazy. Nuts. You got bats!Ô ÓOut,Ô I said. ÓShovels.Ô A thick cluster of palms smothered the grave with a protective apron, screening it from casual eyes. The ground was flat, like a putting green and, instead of the ornate headstone I expected, a small bronze plaque on a marble backing nestled in the grass. The inscription was as simple as the setting. From overhead the light of night filtered through the gently moving fronds of the palms giving the place a peculiar life of its own. I made Lafarge spread-eagle himself on the ground while I dug so I could keep him in sight, and when I was halfway down I threw him the shovel and made him get into the hole. He was caught between me on top and Rhino below and with every shovel full of dirt he tossed up came a whining moan broken with an occasional sob. He was a miserable slob, but in his time he had put enough people into the same kind of hole he was in now, and I wasnÒt wasting any sympathy on him at all. He was completely out of sight, handing me the shovel with every stroke to throw the dirt up, when he hit the coffin. Even in the darkness I could sense what came over him, a sudden terror too great to call out, too big to run away from. He turned his head up slowly, the whites of his eyes almost fluorescent in the black pit of the grave. I said, ÓScrape it clean.Ô Mechanically, he went to clearing off the box-like affair that covered the casket, each motion forced, each moment bringing Lafarge closer to that one second of supreme terror. In a way it was laughable. Lafarge who had been afraid of no man and who had killed many with his own hand was shaking with fear of meeting one who could do nothing to him at all. Nothing. I had to jump in the hole to help him tear the boards off to expose the coffin. They were pulpy rotten with time, smelling of mold, and came up easily. Then there was old Rhino MassleyÒs last bed and I had the point of the shovel banging into the edge until it broke loose. And now IÒd know the answer. I carved a niche into the wall and made Lafarge stand in it while I climbed out. He looked like a shrunken-up gnome standing there, shivering silently at the thought of what I was going to make him do. ÓOpen it,Ô I said. His voice was barely audible. ÓNo. Plea
se, Mac . . . no.Ô He heard the hammer of the .45 come back and it was enough. His whine turned into jerky sobs and he reached for the lid of the coffin. Twice it slipped from his fingers, then with a convulsive heave he had it open and when I struck the match he took one look at what was inside, gagged with sheer fright, and collapsed in a faint that jammed the lid wide open. Rhino MassleyÒs body was a bag of sand. It was a heady feeling knowing I had been right. The excitement was pounding in my chest and head, making my ears ring. I laughed out loud right where I stood and the sound of it was just enough to cover up the sudden rush of feet until it was too late. The first one got me across the back of the neck, then struck again across the skull. I yelled, tried to get up, but there were others on me then. I was half over the edge of the open grave when a gun roared in my ears and below me somebody let out a pitiful wail. Then it was my head again and I was falling into the pit myself, the one I helped dig with my own hands. It hit across the thing in the bottom without feeling, a strange and new sensation like being dead, I thought. I could still hear sounds, the yells of men, and twice the hollow reverberations like far off thunder. Then as suddenly as it happened the numbness of that brief half life was swept away on a sea of pain. Above me somebody said, ÓRocca . . . hey, Roc-ca . . .Ô and a shaft of fight flooded the grave. It hurt, but I propped an arm under me and pushed up. ÓHeÒs okay. Can you take care of those two, Johnny?Ô Another voice said, ÓTheyÒre not going any place.Ô There was a scrambling into the hole, a long drawn-out whistle as the person realized what was there, then hands hooked under my armpits and dragged me to my feet. ÓYou all right?Ô The light swept over me and in its beam I saw Joe Stack, the front of him covered with dirt and blood trickling down one side of his face. I nodded. ÓIÒm okay.Ô I spit out the taste of mold and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. ÓLafarge?Ô Joe turned the light on the open end of the coffin. It was partially filled now by a sandbag and a man, and there was no difference between either because all both were, was dirt. A bullet had nearly taken the top of LafargeÒs head off and the cycle for him was complete. The .45 was half covered by dirt and I didnÒt leave it there. I picked it up, and without bothering to clean it, shoved it under my belt out of sight. Joe said, ÓReady to go up?Ô ÓSure.Ô He gave me a hoist and I sprawled on the mound of dirt we had thrown up, the sudden, stunning pain in the back of my head tearing down the muscles of my back and into my legs. Another light was going over me, taking in every detail, the reflection of it bouncing off the one who held it, a tall, heavyset guy with blood on his face. ÓThis is the one?Ô I heard Joe answer, ÓThatÒs him.Ô ÓHeÒs got plenty to talk about.Ô My head was clearing again. I managed to get to my knees, then on my feet. I felt myself grinning foolishly at the big guy. ÓWhoÒre you?Ô ÓPolice. You were lucky, mister.Ô He flashed the light down beside him. The two motionless shadows I had assumed to be mounds of dirt turned into men, handcuffed back to back. ÓThere was another one,Ô the cop said. ÓHe got away.Ô ÓPut your light back on them.Ô The beam of the flash traced a path to their heads. ÓKnow them?Ô I nodded. ÓOne. HeÒs a hood named Joe Coon who works for Mannie Waller in New York. The other one is new to me.Ô ÓHeÒs local. Been here for a couple of years. Tough punk who has a small record but a big reputation. WeÒve always pegged him for a hired gun for the L.A. bunch.Ô ÓWhat about the other one?Ô I felt the cop shrug. ÓWe heard his car. He took off.Ô ÓThatÒs great.Ô ÓWhy sweat. These two will talk. WeÒll pick him up.Ô Joe Stack said, ÓLetÒs not make it easy for him. Suppose I get back to town with Rocca here and get your office to work.Ô The cop hesitated and I saw him scowl. ÓI donÒt like it.Ô ÓListen, Johnny, you wouldnÒt have tied into this one at all if I didnÒt steer you to it. I tried to tell you this was different and you should have seen enough to know this is hot. Now throw it through channels and youÒll blow the ass right off the bit. Either play it the way I suggested or lose it and look like a fool. I know what RoccaÒs bumping. DonÒt louse him up or he wonÒt be telling you or anybody else anything and, as far as IÒm concerned, I donÒt blame him.Ô ÓDamn it, Stack, heÒll talk too, if I want him to!Ô JoeÒs breath came in with a hiss. ÓDonÒt rub me, Johnny. IÒm from the Fourth Estate, remember?Ô ÓHeÒs not.Ô ÓLike hell. He is as of right now. If he wants, IÒm putting him on my staff. How do you like them apples?Ô The cop grunted, shook his head, and scowled. ÓOkay, Chief Bigheart, IÒll go along. Sometimes itÒs better this way. Take the car and send out Aldridge and Garcia. How much time are you going to need?Ô Stack glanced in my direction. I said, ÓWhat time is it?Ô ÓAlmost 10:30.Ô ÓWeÒll have something in the morning.Ô ÓIt better be something for me, friend.Ô ÓYou arenÒt alone,Ô I told him. ÓThis isnÒt local.Ô ÓOkay, IÒm a sucker. IÒm lucky I have 20 years in without any strikes. This could cost me.Ô Stack took my arm. ÓLetÒs go. Can you make it to the house?Ô ÓIf we donÒt run.Ô ÓJokes yet he tells,Ô the cop said. Stack made the call to Aldridge and Garcia from his own office. When he hung up I put down the almost-finished highball he made up for me and took the towel off my head. ÓFine. Now cut me in,Ô I said. ÓYou were there at the grave like gangbusters.Ô ÓI gave you the Mermak and the Blue Sky Motel so I could stay with you. Man, I was on your tail ever since you left the building here. Now letÒs hear your side. Where did the boys come from?Ô ÓI thought about it all the way back. Before I left New York I got creamed in the menÒs room of the airfield. I thought it was for some loot, but that was a cover. Somebody sapped me, took a look at my airline ticket in tune to get on the same plane. That was buddy Joe Coon. He was the one I told you about.Ô ÓThat Mannie Waller deal?Ô I nodded. ÓBack in New York the word is going out fast. Rhino Massley isnÒt dead at all. His grave is empty. Ten to one the lad who got away put in a fast phone call to the office.Ô ÓSo whatÒs the next step?Ô I pointed to his desk. ÓCan I use the phone?Ô ÓBe my guest.Ô I picked up the receiver, dialed the operator and gave her the number of the Enfield Hotel, person-to-person to Terry. The hotel PBX rang for a full minute, then gave me a DA. Nobody answered. I cancelled the call and put in another to Dan Litvak, at RooneyÒs. ÓWhere are you?Ô he asked. ÓPhoenix.Ô ÓOh? WhatÒs with Rhino Massley?Ô ÓRhinoÒs grave was empty. HeÒs not dead.Ô ÓItÒs your deal, kid. Go on.Ô ÓSwell! Now do you think you can influence Cal Porter to start some action on this thing?Ô ÓLike how?Ô I told him what happened back at RhinoÒs old place and listened to him let out a long low hiss. I said, ÓGive it to Porter straight, but donÒt let him start blowing any whistles. First have him check the State Department and steamship lines for anything on Elena Harris, RhinoÒs former nurse. The date would be shortly after he supposedly died. Okay. Then see if you can run down the Harris dame wherever she is. The paper ought to foot the phone calls.Ô ÓThatÒs it then?Ô ÓMaybe you can lean on Porter a little bit. Make sure he has somebody on Waller from here on in. If thereÒs a political rub, he might want to play it cool.Ô I hung up. Stack was looking at me with a little grin. ÓDonÒt be giving anything away, friend. YouÒre on the staff now, remember?Ô He handed me a fresh drink across the table and I took it mechanically. Without realizing it I held it in my hand a long minute before raising it to my mouth and when I did it was the full realization that the old compulsion was gone completely. I said, ÓJoe, this story has two ends. One in New York and one here. ItÒs an old story and IÒve been in it since the beginning. I want in on it at the end. The story is big enough for a couple of papers, but IÒm not doing it for the sake of a news scoop. IÒve been a patsy long enough. There are a lot of eyes IÒd like to have look my way again. Until now I havenÒt realized how much IÒd like to have my integrity restored and proven.Ô ÓI have something to show you.Ô He slid a folder across the desk. ÓFile on Massley. Most of itÒs local. What was this thing he had about dames?Ô ÓBeats me. He didnÒt take to anybody except his nurse.Ô ÓYouÒre not kidding. You know he had three assault charges brought against him by three different housekeepers?Ô ÓWhen he was in the lung?Ô ÓOn two occasions, when he was out of it for the few minutes necessary, he took the time to belt one woman with an
ash tray and hit the other with a bottle of rubbing alcohol. After all the verbal abuse they took from Rhino that finished it. Both of them dropped the charges after an out-of-court settlement.Ô ÓWho was the third?Ô ÓA newspaper woman. She was outside his window with a camera and he fired right through the window at her.Ô ÓWhatÒs your point?Ô ÓItÒs an old story. HeÒs had charges like these flung at Mm a dozen times. Anything there?Ô I shrugged, took another small pull at the drink and pushed it away from me. It was no trouble to do it at all. ÓNothing I can touch at the moment. ItÒs a peculiar facet of his personality I found out about back home. Why this interest?Ô ÓBecause on everything else he was clean. Massley apparently went to every extent to keep in the background. He was legal, at least on the surface. He ran a neat, efficient organization and let as little trouble touch him as possible. Then this stuff pops up. HeÒs gone after more dames with his hands or anything available than you can count. Each time he has to go out of his way to clear the deal with a handful of dough.Ô ÓSo he hates dames.Ô ÓNot his nurse.Ô ÓThere is always the exception,Ô I said. I stood up and pushed the phone at him. ÓCall the airport and see who you know. I want a flight out.Ô He made a tight face. ÓThe cops are going to want to talk to you.Ô ÓYou talk for me.Ô ÓYouÒre the one with the story. What can I say?Ô ÓMaybe something about how peculiar it was that the doctor who signed MassleyÒs death certificate and the mortician who embalmed him died in a supposed accident together right after the funeral that was held for a bag of sand. Hell, they ought to be glad they got the two who creamed Lafarge.Ô ÓThatÒs one story theyÒll want everything on.Ô ÓGuardian of a buried sandbag,Ô I told him. ÓAs long as nobody dug the coffin up, Rhino was safe some place. Those hoods who jumped me got the idea real fast and didnÒt want the information spread around. If you didnÒt show up, Lafarge and I would have filled that hole and if they handled it right nobody would have been wised up.Ô The DC8B landed short, slowed up on its brakes and turned into the first taxi strip. As it swung onto the apron I saw them, the unmistakables, men stamped by their jobs. The pair of two-tone patrol cars would not have been the giveaway, if they hadnÒt backed up the black sedan with the small mid-roof antenna. Cops. Liaison between Phoenix and New York must have been excellent. Cal Porter wasnÒt taking any chances on me running off with a hatful of information that could make him governor. At least I should have expected it. You donÒt keep murder quiet. At least not too inexpensively. The cop met me at the foot of the ramp, took my arm, and tried to steer me. I said, ÓLay off.Ô For a second it looked like he was going to have fun, then Cal Porter was there, smiling pleasantly just in case, another plainclothesman behind him. ÓPhoenix called, Rocca.Ô ÓItÒs what I expected, Porter.Ô The cop nudged me. ÓSay mister.Ô I gave him the old two words and turned to the D.A. ÓLay off me, Porter. Treat me like a slob and itÒs going to look like you fell through the crapper. IÒm past being pushed, especially by you. From now on you stay on the safe side, not me. You pulled the cork eight years ago, but it wonÒt happen now.Ò I looked around at the nice assemblage, well-trained and efficient, all there to do it the way the book said, no matter what it cost anybody else. I said, ÓYou got one stinking chance to play it smart, Porter. I wonÒt give you two at all. If you spoke to Phoenix, you know thereÒs a press working on my side this time without a publisher like Gates who let his men get thrown to the dogs. ÓMaybe you know that I got tune working for me and, if I donÒt talk, then youÒll look like the most stupid idiot that ever faced a court and, brother, will I call the names out. In fact, come to think of it, you havenÒt got a damn thing to say at all. Not a god damn thing. So toss me in the slammer and IÒll wait it out. IÒll wait until itÒs over with, then shove it into you and break it off.Ô The plainclothesman said, ÓWant me to calm him down, Mr. Porter?Ô Cal was white. His nostrils were pinched and turning green from pressure, but he shook his head. He waved his hand absently at the cops. ÓYou men go back. Mr. Rocca here will go with me.Ô He let the rage seep out of his face slowly. ÓThat all right with you, Mr. Rocca?Ô ÓCertainly, Mr. Porter,Ô I said. ÓHas Dan filled you in on the details?Ô ÓHe has. Now weÒll see what you have to say, Mr. Rocca.Ô We met Dan Litvak in RooneyÒs. He was alone in a booth, the ash tray littered with souvenirs of his wait. His face was carefully expressionless, but I knew what he was thinking. When Cal Porter sat down opposite him, he said, ÓYou didnÒt play it wisely, Cal.Ô ÓSo I learned. Maybe I can still smarten up.Ô Dan glanced up, thought about it, and smiled slowly. He reached in his pocket and took out a folded sheaf of papers covered with his own type of shorthand. ÓBetween Cal and me, we have that information on Elena Harris.Ô I tried to keep the quaver out of my voice when I told him to spill it. ÓElena Harris booked passage for Rio two weeks after Rhino died.Ô ÓSupposedly died,Ô I cut in He nodded. ÓSupposedly. She has been in Rio since and has been the constant companion of an unidentified gentleman known only as Richard Castor. This man joined her about the tune she arrived and until a few months ago . . . well, you know how it gets.Ô ÓYeah. . .sure.Ô ÓSo Castor dropped out of sight. Meantime the Harris woman has been cutting a wide swath through local Latin society. SheÒs a blonde and they go for blondes there, especially the ones with class.Ô ÓAnd Castor . . .Ô ÓAt this point, is missing,Ô Dan said. ÓNo history at all?Ô Dan shrugged. ÓAll this came over the phone, but he had a beard, was distinguished, and had plenty of loot. The only trouble he got into was when he had a brawl with a couple of women. He beat both of them up pretty badly.Ô ÓRhino,Ô I said quietly. ÓItÒs him.Ô Cal Porter tapped the table with his fingers. ÓWe caught the business with the women too.Ô His ringers stopped the tapping and he looked at me. ÓAre you ready to talk?Ô ÓIn a minute. WhatÒs with Mannie Waller?Ô ÓWe canÒt locate him . . . yet. Several of his men are under surveillance and all his known hangouts are covered.Ô He paused, coughed into his hand, and said, ÓHeÒs pretty big now.Ô ÓHow big?Ô ÓOutsized. We didnÒt realize to what extent until we went to town on him. Mannie Waller, for all his crass-ness, is probably the SyndicateÒs Mr. Big. Since Appa-lachin theyÒve played it plenty cute.Ô ÓAnd he disappeared right after I opened RhinoÒs grave.Ô ÓApparently.Ô ÓThe call got through then.Ô ÓThatÒs right. Now supposing, since weÒre all in this nice informal atmosphere, you say whatÒs on your mind. If I didnÒt feel like you had a possibility of being right, and on top of that, that it could have been me who sent you away for seven years on a bum rap, you wouldnÒt be getting this opportunity to make me look like a fool. And if Dan didnÒt go along with you, I donÒt think I would have either. But now youÒre getting your chance. Just lay it out so we can see what it is.Ô I sat back, put the pieces together the way it looked best and gave them the picture. ÓBefore I was sent up I made a project out of Rhino Massley, intending to get hold of the documented evidence that determined his position inside the organization he ran and the outside loot to go with it. You know what happened. I took too big a bite. Rhino managed a neatly setup frame and I took a dive behind bars. And with me gone Rhino was riding high . . . nobody big enough to push or cut him out. He had it made, but then came a time when he wanted out of the organization and things like this just donÒt happen unless you kick off. ÓBuddy Rhino met Elena Harris and fell like a ton of bricks. She had show-girl looks, was educated, had everything Rhino ever wanted, and he went off the deep end. She had one other thing, too. She was a nurse, and this could have given him the idea. He cooked up a way to get out of the mob, without a sword hanging over his neck, and open up a new life for himself. ÓSo he fakes this polio thing. He went through the whole iron lung act because who the hell would think anybody would fake that? Suicide or murder maybe, but never anything like that. He even waited until a storm cut the power on the lung to make it look real. His nurse couldnÒt get the auxiliary power started in time. ÓThe doctor was fixed, of course. So was the mortician. They both thought they were made for life for their part in it and in a way they were. Rhino bumped them himself and made it look like an accident. He even managed to hold still in a casket for some pho
tos and made it look good. ÓHe was the Syndicate paymaster and he had a bundle. He was supposed to keep it well hidden, so when he died suddenly and the bank was never uncovered, the mob simply felt that he had done his job a little too well, discounted the loss, and started fresh. At that point Rhino and Elena took off for Rio, he under an assumed name and properly disguised.Ô I paused there and waited. Dan was doodling idly on the edge of paper. Cal Porter said, ÓItÒs making sense. Go on.Ô ÓNow I speculate. Rio was a little too rich. Elena got out of hand. Those millionaires down there have an income at least. All of RhinoÒs loot was going out. It wouldnÒt take too many bad turns of the card to have that happen. Finally Rhino was wiped out and Elena wasnÒt holding still for it. She dumped Rhino for somebody else and the big act was all for nothing.Ô I could feel the scowl on PorterÒs face as he reached for the events and tried to sift them. I said, ÓBut to get back . . . RhinoÒs original hold on the mob itself and its outside agencies was his Ñblack bundle,Ò the stuff that could crucify plenty of big ones in and out of government. If it were a buried secret like the mob presumed the money to be, everything was all right. ÓAfter all, during the time Rhino was gone it never turned up and it could be counted as being out of existence. In a way, it was almost like that. He had that hidden well ... it had gone with his ex-wife so completely nobody could run it down. Then one day the ex-wife died and it came out quite inadvertently who she was and the mob was onto a new lead. There was the possibility that Rhino had separated the money and his Ñpackage,Ò leaving the latter where it was accessible yet hidden. ÓThe mob couldnÒt afford not to follow up this idea. They suspected that RhinoÒs black bundle could have been among her effects. The survivor was RhinoÒs daughter, Terry, and as such inherited. The mob watched and waited and when Terry suddenly came to New York, they thought they had it pinned down. . . . Terry Massley had RhinoÒs stuff and was coming in to make a sale. Like father, like daughter, they figured. They laid for her, most likely figuring to make her talk, or if she wouldnÒt, knock her off and conduct a search themselves. By coincidence, I got involved.Ô The D.A.Òs face seemed frozen. ÓBy sheer coincidence,Ô he repeated. ÓDrop dead,Ô I said. ÓThis coincidence is pretty far fetched,Ô Porter remarked sourly. ÓThis black bundle of MassleyÒs was the invisible factor in RoccaÒs trial. Now suddenly by coincidence the girl runs into him.Ô Dan laughed. ÓYou know what you should call this coincidence, Cal?Ô Reluctantly, Porter asked, ÓWhat?Ô ÓLuck. ItÒs going to make you governor.Ô Then it was my turn. ÓThat is,Ô I said, Óif I donÒt squawk about that bum rap I took back there.Ô The knuckles of PorterÒs fingers showed white. ÓIÒm not making any deals. All I want to do is play it right.Ô ÓMe too, Mr. Porter, me too. I want it right. ItÒs just that I have something coming to me for those seven years and I intend to get it.Ô ÓWeÒll talk about it. What do you want?Ô ÓLegwork. You have everything going for you, so you might be able to get L.A. to process RhinoÒs ex-wifeÒs effects. She left something behind that hasnÒt been uncovered and we have to find it first.Ô Porter scribbled something on a pad and nodded. I waved for the waiter, told him to bring a phone, and dialed the Enfield Hotel. After a minute the operator informed me that Terry wasnÒt in her room. I hung up scowling and Dan wanted to know what the matter was. ÓTerryÒs not around. She wasnÒt there when I called from Phoenix.Ô ÓYou know how dames are.Ô ÓI told her to stay put.Ô ÓFor two days? YouÒre nuts. SheÒs around the hotel some place. Have her paged.Ô ÓNo,Ô I said, ÓIÒm going up there myself. I donÒt want to broadcast anything.Ô I looked at Cal Porter. ÓOkay with you ... or did Phoenix put a hold order on me?Ô For the first time Cal let a smile show. ÓThey would have liked to. In fact, over somebodyÒs protestations out there, they suggested it. You stirred up a big one.Ô ÓYouÒll do the stirring if you can get somebody to really shake down the late Mrs. MassleyÒs effects out there.Ô Dan flipped another cigarette into his mouth. ÓAnd what do I do, boss man?Ô he grinned. ÓMore legwork. See if you can get anybody to identify Richard Castor as having shipped out of Rio bound for the States. I doubt if he would have travelled first class.Ô Both of them were watching me closely now. I said, ÓI think Rhino Massley slipped back here intending to pick up his old documents in order to finance another bankroll to buy Elena Harris back with. I think it was Massley who contacted Terry, knowing that somewhere in her motherÒs effects was his big hope.Ô Porter nodded curtly. ÓThereÒs only one hole.Ô We both waited for it. ÓRhinoÒs got a crazy fixation against women. Then suddenly heÒs all gone over this Harris girl?Ô It was something that had bothered me too, but I dismissed it with the only thing I could think of. ÓThereÒs an exception to every rule, Mr. Porter. Meanwhile, itÒs the only line of reasoning we have.Ô I let them think about it, told them IÒd call back later and walked out. The maid was a short, doughty old woman, and she was certain about it. She didnÒt quibble or hedge and the fin I had given her hadnÒt bought a story. The girl in my room who had registered in as my wife wasnÒt there and hadnÒt been all day. Previously she wouldnÒt let anyone in, even to make up the room. Twice the day before, room service had brought in a tray, but that was all. However, this morning when the maid had tried the door with her master key since there was no Do Not Disturb sign out and the door was not locked from inside, she went in, cleaned up, and went out. Then, for some oblique reason of her own, she asked, ÓYour wife, was it?Ô and when I nodded curtly she made a universal grimace, the superior smile of those who know. She thought, too, she knew why the fin and why my questions and said quickly, ÓShe gave quite a party, mister, IÒll say that. There were cigar butts around and the room was all pulled apart.Ô I said thanks and let it drop there. I couldnÒt have said more because my throat was tight with a cold fear. I went back inside and opened the drawers of the dresser. Her things were there, carelessly thrown around, showing all the signs of having been hurriedly searched. Deliberately, I checked every spot in the room, but the things I was looking for, her motherÒs personal effects, werenÒt there. Terry was gone. Why? There had been men here. Why? Yet, I knew some of these things. Like the men. ItÒs surprising how great a force the unlawful comprise. They had men to do the legwork, money to buy pieces of knowledge, experience to follow up the slightest detail. And they had a motive. Mannie WallerÒs men had been here, all right. I let the picture of it run through my mind, then it stopped being quite so grim. They were here and left, but not with Terry, otherwise there would have been no cigar butts or careless searches. I picked up the phone, settled the whole thing on my lap, and lifted the receiver. And even as I was giving the desk clerk Dan LitvakÒs number I saw the note. She had stuck it under the phone base itself and all that time it had stayed there, hidden until now. Very simply it read: Darling, I was contacted at the Sherman and the arrangement is almost the same as before. This time I was to carry motherÒs personal items in the identifying suitcase, but rather than that IÒm leaving them in your hole in the wall. DonÒt worry. IÒll be all right. Love you. Terry. The idiot? What the hell gets into women that they think they can walk head-on into men playing guns and walk right out again! My hands shook so that I could hardly hold the phone and when Dan finally came on the same shake was back in my voice. I said, ÓTerryÒs gone. Rhino made his contact.Ô ÓYou sure it was Rhino?Ô ÓThatÒs what IÒm calling for. You have anything on Castor?Ô ÓNot yet. Now what about Terry?Ô I gave him the picture quickly as far as I saw it. ÓSuppose I pass this on to Cal. HeÒll want to go all out on it.Ô ÓGo to it. IÒll see if I can find Terry.Ô ÓHow?Ô ÓShe said the arrangements were almost the same as before. Rhino is some place in my neighborhood and sheÒs to meet him there. ThereÒs nobody I donÒt know around home plate and, if Terry has been there, somebody would have spotted her. If she goes through with this contact and comes out of it, sheÒll try to reach me either here or at my pad on the street. Give me two hours and weÒll all meet at my place. Got that?Ô ÓYeah, but how about you taking some help along.Ô ÓNo dice, kid. A team would be spotted too fast. Me those people will talk to. Anybody else, nix. And if they think IÒm working
with cops theyÒll clam up on me, too. We have to play it like this.Ô ÓOkay then. If thatÒs how you call it. See you later. Watch it.Ô I said I would and hung up. Once it began, night came on with a desperate rush. Over the city the belly-rumbling of the storm to the west closed the shops early. I had walked the street from Seventh to the river, then back again, questioning those who would know if anyone would, asking them, in turn, to question others. Yes, Terry had been seen, all right, by two persons next to my own building. She came to my place, stayed a few minutes, and left. Where she went to, or where she was now, nobody could tell me. There wasnÒt any sense going to my apartment now. All she did was leave those meaningless things of her motherÒs in my trick closet, the hole in the wall she first hid in. How long ago? Years . . . months? It hardly seemed like days. So I kept on asking, people in doorways, the paperman on the corner, the kids, the hack drivers waiting just off the avenues. They were nice, they were sympathetic, but they couldnÒt help. And when the rain started I turned up my collar and gave up. Inside me I had that terrible disjointed feeling that comes with a hangover and your nervous signals get all crossed until youÒre ready to scream with despair. I walked back to my apartment, went in, closed the door and reached to switch on the light. I neednÒt have bothered. Somebody else did it for me. Mannie Waller, fat and ugly looking, squatting on the couch, said, ÓWe only had to wait, wise guy. Sooner or later youÒd come back to your hole in the wall, all right.Ô The three with him just smiled. Big smiles. He glanced around, his nose wrinkled in disgust. I followed his eyes, looking at the wreckage of the place, the broken chairs, the upturned drawers, the litter from the pillow and mattress. I couldnÒt help grinning, though. It was a lousy joke, but still a joke. Mannie was thinking about the wrong hole in the wall. What a sucker I turned out to be. Sure, Mannie had seen TerryÒs note. He had even left it there for me to see too, and if I had, I would have come roaring over like a white knight and been roasted in my own armor. The cleaning woman in the hotel had probably covered up TerryÒs note inadvertently, and I had assumed that only I saw it. ÓItÒs funny?Ô Mannie asked. ÓShow him it ainÒt funny, Ruby.Ô I tried to cover up but I wasnÒt quick enough. A gun barrel raked the back of my scalp and I went down on my knees with the sticky warmth of blood soaking into my collar. ÓWhere is it, wise guy?Ô ÓLike. . .what . . .Ô Mannie nodded sagely. ÓI spell it out just once. What the kid has. The stuff. RhinoÒs stuff. She left it here.Ô My breath was coming in hard. The guy called Ruby nudged me with a toe and said, ÓAnother one, Mannie?Ô I shook my head. ÓWait: IÒll... tell you.Ô ÓGive him a minute, Ruby.Ô How long? How long did I have? I managed to get a foot under me and poised there breathing deeply, in a runnerÒs stance. The blood from my head ran down and dripped off my chin making it look better still. Then when I had milked it as long as I could I came off the floor with a wild shriek stinging my own ears. My fist caught Mannie flush in the face and I felt bone and teeth go into a splintery mess. The one beside him reached for me as I turned and I almost put my foot through his genitals. Someone swung a gun again and missed, smashing it into my shoulder. My entire side went numb, my knees collapsed, and even on the way down the fists and the feet started their torture. I rolled on one side, gagging on the blood in my mouth, the sudden retching clearing my head, and for one second I cursed myself for a damn fool because all that tune I had La-fargeÒs gun stuck under my belt and never thought to use it. But thinking of it then was enough. The one hand under me snaked it out of its own volition and when I rolled over my face was exposed and the one called Ruby laughed and brought his foot back to kick it off. Then I pulled the trigger and it was RubyÒs face that disappeared and the last thing I saw was his hat flying toward the ceiling as his head exploded. A foot shocked me almost senseless and my eyes closed. MannieÒs voice was far away, a horrible mumbling, swearing at the other two. Dimly, I heard one say, ÓHow the hell could we know?Ô ÓYou jerks,Ô Mannie sobbed. ÓI should kill you. Look at Ruby.Ô ÓWho figures him for rods, Mannie. Hell, Mannie . . .Ô ÓShut up. You take care of him. Right now, you hear? Then we blow. You get yours later, you jerks!Ô ÓSure, Mannie, sure.Ô The metallic click of the hammer of a gun coming back was louder than all the other sounds. It was like a crashing cymbal stroke next to my ear. The guy said, ÓIÒll put him in cold storage, good, Mannie.Ô Too late the warmth of knowledge reached me. Too late, from those few words, did the answer stand out, stark and simple. Too late did I finally understand the reasoning of a woman, untrained in the devious, thinking only in her natural manner. How much blood, how many dead, how much more to go because the entire affair was overly simplified? I could feel myself trying to withdraw from what was coming, my brain pleading for a numbed body to move, to hide. But the body could do neither. The brain heard the smashing thunder of the shots and with a terrible effort forced the body to twitch, to feel out the pain. There were more rolling thunders and loud voices and again the brain cried out to move . . . MOVE! When I did hands went under me, sat me up, and a voice I knew was DanÒs said, ÓPhil! Phil! You all right?Ô My eyes came open, focused, and I nodded. Behind him was Cal Porter and two plainclothesmen, each with a gun in his hand. Cal had gone white and I knew he was ready to be sick. Ruby was dead where I had shot him, two more sprawled out lifelessly across him. Mannie was blubbering insanely on the couch, his eyes huge and wild, his voice trying to come through a swollen mass of flesh that was his mouth. Dan said, ÓWhat happened . . . but donÒt talk if youÒre hurt.Ô ÓIÒm . . . okay.Ô I pointed to the closet and told Porter to open it. He found the catch, swung the door out, and picked up the box from the floor. He found the wallet, emptied it into his hands and looked at me. I said, ÓReceipts for clothes ... in cold storage. Look at ... the date. TheyÒve been there for ... years.Ô ÓGo on.Ô ÓRhinoÒs wife . . . hid the stuff there. A damn womanÒs . . . trick. Get to a phone. Check on it . . . and youÒll be governor, Mr. Porter.Ô Dan hoisted me to my feet. ÓI have to call this story in. We canÒt keep it quiet now.Ô He looked at the door and nodded. The crowd had already gathered, staring, gasping, speculating. The two cops were having a job keeping them out. I said, ÓA favor, friend. I hate to make you share your scoop, but you know my buddy in Phoenix?Ô ÓOkay,Ô Dan laughed. ÓHeÒll get it the same tune.Ô Porter had gotten his color back. He seemed different now, the softness gone from his face, the old determination back again. ÓWhereÒs the nearest phone?Ô ÓStore on the corner.Ô ÓIÒll check this out.Ô He smiled gently, trying for a degree of friendliness. ÓI have a feeling, you know what I mean?Ô ÓI know. The stuff will be there.Ô I put my hand on his arm. ÓLook,Ô I told him. ÓNo hard feelings. Things go wrong sometimes.Ô Outside a siren wailed, stopped in front of the buildings, and two uniformed cops came in with guns drawn. Porter gave Mannie over to them, left instructions with the others, and he turned to me with a final wave. I went out in the hall behind him. The cops had squeezed everybody out the front door and were standing there waving them off. The little Gomez boy didnÒt bother coming in that way. He came up through the cellar and said very softly from behind me, ÓMeestair Phil?Ô I turned around. ÓOh, hello, kid.Ô ÓYou look for the nice lady. Pretty lady with black hair? She who was here?Ô My mouth was suddenly dry and I nodded. ÓI see something, Meestair Phil. I donÒt tell nobody before. I no want trouble.Ô ÓWhat was it, kid?Ô ÓYou know LeavyÒs store?Ô ÓSure.Ô ÓBy the side an alley?Ô I nodded, remembering the place. ÓIt was boarded up.Ô ÓNo. Not boards. Somebody take down soon ago.Ô ÓOkay, no boards.Ô The kid looked around as though he were fearful of being overheard. ÓThees pretty lady. She has bag.Ô He stretched his hands apart showing me how big it was. ÓLike so. She walk down street and man come out. Thees man he very mad and he pull her inside. I hear her yell.Ô Without knowing it I had the kid by the shoulder shaking him. ÓDamn it, what happened?Ô Sudden fear came into his eyes and he stiffened. I let him go, forced a smile and waited. He shrugged, swallowed, and said, ÓI do not go in there, Meestair Phil. I no want trouble.Ô ÓNo trouble, kid.Ô I reached in my pocket and took out a bill.
The kid clutched at it like a miracle come true, grinned broadly, and darted off toward the darkness of the cellar. I walked back to the room where the bodies were, found LafargeÒs .45 on the floor and shoved it back under my belt. Then I went out the way the kid had gone out, past the cops, the curious, onto a street whose occupants were all clustered in front of one building. It was raining again, the dehydrated smells of the city being activated again into a foul soup of human essence. I walked through it to the corner, thinking of how Terry had run across this same street into the same room where so much had happened only minutes ago. And now there were only a few steps left. Like the Gomez kid said, the boards werenÒt there any more. I went through the gap into the blackness of an alley, my hands touching the rough brick of the building walls on either side of me. I walked slowly, feeling for debris with my feet, not knowing where I was or where I was going, knowing only that some place this alley ended and there I would find Terry. Alive, if I werenÒt too late. The alley was longer than I expected. Twice I felt the steel grilling from cellar windows under my feet and tried them, but they were rusted shut and impossible to budge. The litter of years, cans and papers and junk thrown off rooftops was thick, but curiously enough not scattered underfoot. It was as though a path had been kicked through the stuff. ThatÒs how I knew when I reached the end of the path. A knee-high pile of garbage stopped me and when I felt the walls, in the one on my left I touched a door. I had the .45 in my fist when I shoved it open. Unexpectedly it swung soundlessly and I stepped inside, my guts half ready to stop a bullet. My eyes were well-adjusted to the darkness and I could see as well as sense the incredible pile of junk that filled the room. It was an old storeroom of some kind, long unused. Very faintly a yellow tinge showed me the way, a path between stacked crates. I walked quietly, carefully, followed the bend in the aisle to the other door through whose time-grimed window came the pale glow of a lamp. Inside there was the rhythmic clap of flesh on flesh and the steady cursing of a deep chested voice saying vile things over and over again. The door was locked. Momentarily. I kicked the damn thing open and went in with a roar and in that small fraction of time saw Terry, bloody and bruised in the chair, her eyes open without seeing and the face of Rhino Mass-ley coming at me with a hoarse yell of maniacal fury. I should have shot him then. I shouldnÒt have waited. I shouldnÒt have let all the pent-up things boil out of my mind into my fists because he slammed into me and the gun flew out of my hand to the floor and Rhino was on top of me clawing for my throat. There was nothing left in me, nothing at all. I was a complete fool, dead weak from the terrible things that happened to me at the apartment and I couldnÒt tear him off. If Terry hadnÒt moaned softly then, he would have killed me. Instead he cursed her with a hiss, climbed off me, and took a step toward the table. When he turned around, he had a gun in his hand, his eyes lit up so that the white showed all around the iris and I realized that Massley was mad, completely mad. I looked up at him, my breath coming in great sucking gasps. ÓYouÒre part of this, arenÒt you?Ô he said. Instead of answering him I lifted my hand and pointed to Terry. ÓSheÒs . . . your daughter. You did that to ... your daughter?Ô His teeth shone in the yellow light, lips bared so that his face was a lined mask of hate. ÓI have no daughter. Somewhere I have a son. A son. A son.Ô I shook my head. ÓTerry is. . . .Ô ÓTerry is my son!Ô he shouted. ÓSomewhere I have a son. Damn them all. Damn all women for what they are. I have only a son, do you understand! She left me a son and named him Terry. It was he who should have carried that suitcase. Damn you both! Damn you and that woman there. What have you done with him?Ô He was quieter this time, a little more rational for the moment. ÓYou know what it is I want, otherwise you wouldnÒt be here.Ô I let my head drop with a nod of assent. ÓDo you tell me or do I simply kill you and look for myself. It wonÒt be too hard to do.Ô ÓLet her go,Ô I whispered. He shrugged. ÓWhy not? She really doesnÒt matter.Ô ÓMy apartment. Down the street. Third house from the corner. Downstairs left apartment.Ô ÓI see.Ô He looked toward Terry, smiling peculiarly. She was breathing heavily, a trickle of blood running from her nose, but now her eyes were closed. Without looking at me, knowing I was too far away to be able to do a thing, he said, ÓYou like this . . . woman?Ô Once again, I nodded dumbly, sensing full well what he was going to do. He still watched Terry, still smiled that terrible way. And while he watched I moved my eyes and saw the .45 where it had fallen and sobbed deeply and let myself collapse again. When I got up this time Rhino Massley was smiling, the gun in his hand pointed at TerryÒs head and to me he said, ÓThen watch her die.Ô I let him smile for the last time and squeezed the trigger of the .45 and watched it cave in his chest. The gun he held went off into the ceiling then flew out of his hand, but I didnÒt let that stop me. I disintegrated RhinoÒs face into a crazy welter of bits and pieces and when the last slug was gone threw the empty rod at his body and stood there yelling my head off with a panic that lasted only a minute. The soft cry of TerryÒs voice spun me around. She was sitting up, the shock of the gunshots jerking her into consciousness, eyes wide with terror and one hand over her mouth covering a soundless scream. I took her in my arms, cradled her, and let her bury her face against me. Outside I could hear the whistles and the yells and voices shouting directions. I said, ÓItÒs all right, baby, itÒs all over now.Ô ÓPhil?Ô It was a childÒs question, asking for a touch of security. ÓItÒs me, kitten. He wonÒt hurt you ever again. ItÒs all right.Ô I kissed her gently, softly, knowing that now she was hurt. Later I would tell her what happened. Not all of it, nor would anyone else. There was no reason for any to know. As far as the world was concerned, Rhino was buried back there in Phoenix. Cal Porter would see to that. What he had to work with now gave him a lever big enough to pull it off or even jack himself into the big chair in Albany. It would be an easy story to tell. Simple. Rhino MassleyÒs black bundle had been found. Certain hoods tried to beat the law to it and were killed. She opened her eyes, drew back, and looked at me. She smiled through the pain she felt and touched my face. Across the room she could see the huddled lump of Mass-ley. ÓThat man, Phil. He wasnÒt my father.Ô Her voice had a note of surety. ÓYouÒre right, Terry. He was just another hood. He had a gimmick he thought could get you to lead him to something. HeÒs dead.Ô ÓBut my father . . . ?Ô ÓHe died a long time ago, sugar. You never knew him.Ô I kissed her again. ÓLetÒs go home,Ô I said. And we did------
Mickey Spillane - The Tough Guys Page 2
