The Men From the Boys

by Ed Lacy

  “Never added it up—maybe fifteen years. We were a good team. Used to say I was the brawn and he was the brains. Yeah, Bill Ash knows his business... I guess.”

  There was another silence and the more I stared at the kid the more he looked like his father, except the senior Lawrence had been beefy. I never knew him—he'd walked into a stick-up and with a gun in his back had gone for his own revolver. I was pounding a beat then, and when the boys passed the hat for the widow, I was elected to bring the money to her. I often thought of Dot, the four years our marriage held up. She was a sweet girl, a real homebody. And Lawrence had been a quiet stringbean who thought I was the greatest thing ever.

  I must have been daydreaming for quite a time, for suddenly he said, “Look, Marty, I've wanted to see you for a long time. But it was only when I talked to Lieutenant Ash that I even knew where you were. However I've also come to you for advice. A queer... uh... incident happened on my post a couple of hours ago and nobody at the precinct house is interested.”

  I laughed. “I know how it is, your first collar always seems the greatest crime.... Wait a minute, can you volunteer cops make an arrest?”

  “Yes, while we're on duty. Technically we're peace officers while in uniform. It's true this is the first... case... or trouble I've had, but I don't think that's a factor,” Lawrence said seriously.

  I could hardly keep from smiling. Maybe he was twenty-one or twenty-two, but he still acted like a kid with a box-top badge. “What was the arrest?”

  “There wasn't any arrest. You see, we do patrol duty in pairs and I was walking along Barren Street with my partner, an older man named John Breet. Well, the truth is he stopped at a bar to see if he could get a drink on the cuff. I don't go for that nonsense so I was standing outside the bar. A few doors down there's a small wholesale butcher, the Lande Meat Company. Not much, a double store with the windows painted black. The fact is, Wilhelm Lande, the owner, has had the place closed for the past several weeks. Willie, that's what they call Mr. Lande, says he had a stroke and his doctor advised him to take it easy. He's rather a nervous type.”

  “What did he want you to do, steady his hand?” I corn-balled, thinking how batty a joker has to be to do police work for free.

  “Marty, this isn't any joking matter. I have a feeling there's something seriously wrong here.”

  “All right, you haven't even told me what the beef is.”

  “Well, you see, they have to give us night tours, but they try to keep them during the light hours as much as possible. It was a little after 7 p.m. when a kid ran up and told me somebody had just broken the window of the butcher shop—from the inside. I didn't wait for Breet. I ran over to the shop and the door wasn't locked, and inside there's Lande the butcher tied up. He'd been robbed and trussed up around 6 p.m. according to his first statement, had finally managed to get ahold of a stapling machine, threw it at the window. I should say he was hysterical, almost in a state of shock as I untied him. He yelled he had been robbed of fifty thousand dollars by two teen-age kids.”

  “Fifty grand? He must have a big insurance cover,” I said.

  “That's one aspect of the case that has a false ring,” Lawrence said. “While I was taking down the details, and he gave me a fairly clear description of the kids, he suddenly shut up. Might call it abrupt, the way he did it. Said he had to make a phone call. Now, he has a little office in the store and a desk outside the office with a phone, and he dialed a number, whispered something about the holdup. I think I heard him say, Tm not sure, they knocked me out.' I wouldn't swear to that, but I thought he said that. The point is, he must have mentioned that a cop was there—you see, he thought I was a real policeman—for I saw him glance at me and nod as he said 'Yes, yes.' He listened for a couple of minutes, then hung up. When he came back to me, Lande was a new man, very calm, all one big smile. This will amaze you, he did a complete about-face in his story! He said the robbery had been something he dreamed, went to his icebox and brought out a canned ham, offered it to me, telling me there never was any fifty thousand, nor any two holdup men. Told me to forget the whole thing.”

  I asked, “Where's the ham?”

  “Marty, the man was trying to bribe me!”

  “All right, all right, so you passed up a ham. How did he explain his being tied up?”

  Lawrence pulled out a pack of butts, offered me one. I hadn't been able to smoke a cigarette all week, made me gag. I shook my head and as he lit one, sent a cloud of smoke out of his nose, the kid said, “That's the very first thing I asked about. He couldn't think very fast, gave me some clumsy cock-and-bull story about he'd seen an actor in a movie tie himself up, and he was trying it when he had an attack, felt he was choking, had thrown the stapling machine at the window to get help. He kept changing his story after the phone call. I wanted him to come to the station house with me, but he kept telling me to forget it, not to make a report. That's it. Like to see my on-the-spot notes?”

  “No. What's the beef? He claims there wasn't any holdup.”

  “But...”

  “Lawrence, far as you're concerned it's over. Don't go looking for work, even when you're playing at being a cop.”

  The kid flushed. “I don't consider this exactly playing— while I'm on duty I am a peace officer with certain powers.”

  “All I meant was, don't stick your neck out unless you have to.”

  “Wait till you hear the rest of it, Marty. I was in there about three-quarters of an hour. When I came out Breet wasn't in sight. I phoned the station house and the sergeant—our sergeant—bawled me out. Said Breet had returned and what the hell was I doing on patrol alone, all that. Our sergeant is a bit of a pompous old jerk, had me return to the precinct, wouldn't pay any attention to my story. So I went over his head, told Lieutenant Ash—he told me to forget it, too.”

  “But of course you didn't?” I almost felt sorry for the kid, he was so badge-happy it was comical.

  “No, I didn't. Truth is when we were dismissed I went back there—about an hour ago—and Lande was still in his shop. As I told you, he's nervous, talks a blue streak. Well, he made a slip. In his chatter he said, 'I got the money back.' I distinctly heard him say that although he denied it when I questioned him. He made a joke of it, asked where in the devil would he get fifty grand. As it happens, when I was returning to the station house I made a few casual inquiries in the neighborhood, at a bar and at a restaurant—Lande has been selling meat there for the last seven or eight years, does his own butchering, but has a small panel delivery truck and employs a driver. Everybody agrees he was lucky to clear five thousand dollars a year and...”

  “Lawrence, you told him you were an auxiliary cop, didn't you?”

  The kid nodded. “He noticed my shoulder patch when I returned, practically ordered me out of the store. I explained that...”

  “You use your stick on him?”

  Lawrence looked astonished. “Hit him? Certainly not.”

  “Then he can't make any complaints, so what's troubling you? And even if you got bounced off this volunteer force, so what?”

  “I don't have a 'so what' attitude. I plan to make the force my career and therefore ...”

  “You talk like a bad cops-and-robbers movie, like a jerk.”

  The kid went white and stood up. “Marty, you were a great cop, a top detective. I bring you a case, a crime, and all you can say is ...”

  “Sit down, Lawrence,” I said, trying to make my voice soft. I slipped him a grin. “It's a hot night and we haven't seen each other for a lot of years. All right, maybe this is important to you, but as for me—one thing I learned while I was a kid—never work for free.” He sort of slumped in his chair and I added, “Seems to me you're making a fuss over nothing—the butcher isn't making any charges. And he could even jam you up—when you went back there you weren't on duty, had no police powers—not even as a peace officer, whatever that is.”

  “I know that,” Lawrence said. “But if you could only ha
ve seen how hysterical he was at first—I believe he was robbed of fifty thousand dollars and that for some reason the money was returned to him.”

  “Aren't you getting a little... uh... hysterical, kid? You said yourself he doesn't do a business to have that kind of cash around, and if he was robbed, why would it be returned to him? And in a few hours' time, too? It doesn't make sense. Far as you're concerned, forget it.”

  The kid stared at me for a second, his eyes thoughtful. “Marty, I'm certain there was a robbery.”

  “So what? You're not involved.”

  “Not involved? It happened on my beat, and if for no other reason I'm involved because as a citizen it's my duty to report any crime I ...”

  “You really believe this slop you're handing me?”

  “I certainly do!”

  “You better forget trying to become a cop, then. Kid, I'm going to give you some advice I'm sure you won't pay no attention to, but just in case you do become a cop, or even this part-time stuff you're doing, I don't want to see you make a fool of yourself. There's hardly...”

  “I fail to understand your attitude toward the law, Marty!”

  “Relax, and listen to me. There's hardly a day goes by in which the average citizen doesn't break some law—maybe letting his dog off a leash or spitting on the sidewalk. Also, there's hundreds of laws, maybe thousands, that don't make sense and shouldn't be on the books. For example, a girl can be hustling ever since she's thirteen, selling it a dozen times a day, yet until she's eighteen every one of her customers is guilty of statutory rape. Isn't that something, raping a whore!”

  “A prostitute has rights, the protection of the law. The very fact that she may be under age proves...”

  “Damn it, Lawrence, stop talking like a schoolboy reciting his lessons,” I said. “You dream of being a cop, then remember this—a cop only enforces the laws he has to, otherwise he'd go nuts—looks the other way whenever he can. Maybe this...”

  “That's not my idea of law enforcement. At all times the...”

  “Shut up! Maybe your butcher was robbed, maybe he wasn't. He says he wasn't. Maybe he also exceeded the speed limit driving to his shop today. Lawrence, what I'm trying to say is, don't be an eager beaver. Here you're only a volunteer cop for a couple hours a week, and you're already in an uproar over something that's none of your business. And don't hand me that honest-citizen crap. Lande's story is so wacky it can be true. He's robbed of fifty grand he says he hasn't, then an hour later the punks return the dough all tied in pink ribbons—probably said they were bad boys. Forget it.”

  “I can't, there's too many weird angles. If only for curiosity's sake, I'm going to keep looking into this.”

  “The cemeteries are full of curious people.”

  “Marty, you've slowed down.”

  “Maybe. And maybe if you were a stranger I'd knock you through the wall, badge, club, and all. Maybe that's what Lande should have done. Lawrence, I can't tell you what to do, but don't make a horse's rear out of yourself, especially if you might get on the force someday.”

  “Marty, I'm not a kid looking for a thrill. I think there's something wrong here. I have a feeling, a hunch—and Lande's cockeyed story.”

  I shrugged, dug for another mint. I was all out of the damn things. “Told you—you wouldn't take my advice. Do what you want, only try not to make a fool of yourself.”

  He got to his feet. “Anyway, it's good to see you. I'll drop in to see you again, if you don't mind.”

  I stood up and squeezed his shoulder. He didn't have much meat on him. “Where do you get that if-you-don't-mind slop? Drop in any time. Maybe we'll have supper together when my gut is hitting on all cylinders. You see Dot much?”

  “Of course. I'm living at home.”

  “Tell her I asked for her. Ain't you kind of old for still living at home? What's the name of your girl and are you sleeping with her?”

  “That's none of your business, but we have been intimate. Name is Helen Samuels.”

  “Sounds like a Jew.”

  “She is. Why are you so bigoted, Marty?”

  “You really going to marry a Jew-girl?”

  “Why not?”

  I shrugged. “I'm hardly the one to give advice on marriage. Also I'm not bigoted. I've known some pretty good nigger cops and Jew-boys. And Bill Ash is a Roman. I don't know, as a cop you got to start off by hating a lot of people, most people. Makes it easier to hate 'em if you hate their skin, their religion.”

  He sort of laughed at me, punched my arm. It was odd, all of him was a kid except his eyes and his voice. He said, “You're like a rock, Marty, unchangeable. Remember when you gave me boxing lessons? I was a fair bantamweight in the army.”

  We walked toward the door. “If I'd known you were going to be such a busybody, I would have given you lessons in kneeing and kicking.”

  I walked the kid out to the lobby and said good-by. It was a few minutes past midnight on the clock behind the desk when I grabbed a morning paper, told Dewey, “Maybe I can get some shut-eye now.”

  Dewey was a retired postal clerk, a moonface with watery eyes, and the veins on his fat nose like a complicated map—from the barrels of wine he'd guzzled during his sixty-eight years.

  He said, “Too hot for sleep. The boy badge have his hand out?”

  “No—merely dropped in to see me.”

  “Funny-looking cop. He's too young to have been on the force with you.”

  “He was my son—for a few years,” I said, walking toward my room. Dewey never even blinked.

  I washed my teeth and took a shower, felt pretty good. Then I stretched out on my bed and read the paper, starting backward from the sporting page.

  There wasn't a damn thing in the paper: the Giants' shortstop turned his ankle, the Dodgers still had a “mathematical” chance of getting the pennant, and the comics weren't funny. There was a cheesecake picture of some lush babe asking for a divorce because her marriage was “kissless.” A mild-looking guy named Mudd was accused of taking a bank for forty-five thousand dollars with a toy gun, and Albert Bochio, the syndicate treasurer, was still barricaded in a Miami hotel daring the authorities to boot him out, talking out of both sides of his mouth about suing the city of Miami for calling him a “gangster.” And the front page had the usual war scare. One of the columnists hinted that the fight game was crooked, and also commented on the fact Bochio was never so headline-brave before. There was a standard item about a Hollywood busted marriage “which will spill dirt all over the papers when it comes to court.”

  I tossed the paper on the floor and turned off the light. Somehow the promised dirt never came out and I wondered if the columnists ran these items when they were short of material. And a guy has to have more courage than people think to use a toy gun in a stick-up. But they were right about Bochio—one of those unknown big shots. He was rapped once for assault when he was twenty-three, then dropped out of the gang picture till a Senate television show spotlighted him as the pillar of a swank New Jersey community, son at Yale, daughter in some finishing school... and holder of the purse strings of the biggest crime mob in the country.

  I turned over a couple of times, got comfortable. Wondered how soon Lawrence would find out about me and the hotel. As a part-time cop he wouldn't know the score. And what did I care if he did?

  It turned a bit cool and I covered myself with the sheet and dropped off. I awoke just before six, sweating like a pig, the dream still with me. Crazy, I hadn't had that dream in years... this Mrs. DeCosta's face screwed up with hate, screaming at me, “You thug with a badge!” I could see her plainly, as if she was next to me—and that wouldn't have been bad either, she was a fine-looking chick. What the hell she want to marry that crippled spick artist for?

  Probably dreamed of her because I'd been thinking of Dot. Women... Now, why did Dot have to leave me because of that? The beatings were none of her business. And what finally became of the DeCosta blonde, or was she still in the loony bin?


  I stretched and sat up, the stink still in my mouth. I was all done with sleep so I turned on the radio and then I got to thinking about Mudd who'd taken the bank with a toy rod. How did they know his name? Turning on the light I picked up the paper, read the whole piece this time. Amateur crooks are dumb as hell.... Mudd had been a depositor in the very bank he held up. By this time the cops would have him for sure.

  I got up and showered. Except for my breath I felt pretty good. Not eating or drinking much, being on the run this last week, along with the heat, had taken about ten pounds off me. My muscles were showing again.

  Dressing in a tropical blue suit that proved “bargains” aren't for big men, I walked through the lobby. One of the maids was starting to clean up, still half asleep, and Dewey was pounding his ear in the big chair behind the desk—his favorite bed. As I went through the doorway, Lawson the day clerk (and elevator pilot and bellhop) was coming in.