by Ed Lacy
“Who the hell do you think makes me go with that nitwit!” Flo said savagely.
That figured, I didn't think the tin badge would be quite enough to hold the creep. I got out of the car. “Sorry, Flo, but I have my own troubles.”
She said, “Matt, look at me, I've been feeling... dirty... for months. Just seeing you makes me feel all fresh, and wanting you so damn much I have a pain in my guts.”
“Take some Turns,” I said like a dope and she began to cry. I reached in and squeezed her hand. “Didn't mean the corny crack, Flo. You're as pretty as ever and all that but... I can't explain it, baby, but it's over for us. Has to be that way. I don't want to hurt you but that's...”
She bent down and kissed my hand and I yanked it away, said, “Goodbye, Flo.”
“No, we'll talk some more about this. Matt, there isn't any other chick?”
“Nothing like that, it's merely that...”
“Then we'll talk more about us.”
“Maybe.” I waved and walked into the station, looking at the lipstick and spit on the back of my hand, wondering what it would show under a microscope. The desk sergeant was a cop I didn't know and I asked. “Captain Max Daniels in?”
“Who's calling?”
“Matt Ranzino.”
He glanced at me with mild interest and picked up the phone. I asked, “Where's the can?”
He pointed toward a door I should have seen and I went in and washed off her spit, carefully washed my face and hands with strong soap. I was taking out one of my pills when I heard Max's hoarse, “Where is he?” and then he came barging into the John, slapped me twice on the back with his right—knocking the pill out of my hand—and threw a left at my shoulder. I stepped inside the punch and pushed him away, said, “Still carrying your left too low.”
We shook hands like mad and Max said, “You old miserable unbathed bastard, it's great to see you!”
He'd changed a little—his hair was graying along the edges and his face was fatter. But his clothes were still crumpled, he still didn't know how to shave—there were little patches of stubble on his face—and of course there was a big dent where I'd broken his nose.
He gave me the old double slap on the back again, asked, “What we standing here for? Come into my office—not that it looks any better than this craphouse.”
Max's office was a plain room with a battered and butt-burned desk, two chairs—one of them with a broken back—and on his desk were framed snapshots of his fat wife and the two little girls. On one of the green walls there was a small picture of Max in a fighting pose, cut out of the papers when he'd won the Golden Gloves heavyweight title. Max had been riding the gravy train as police department boxing champ for several years till I came along and beat his brains out. It was the start of a real friendship.
Max bent down to get his pint out—why do they always keep it in the bottom drawer? The top would be more convenient—and I said, “Not for me.”
He kicked the drawer shut, tilted his chair, the good one, against the wall. “Matt, I've missed your ugly puss. Going into the agency racket again? You want, I can get you back on the force, being a vet of two wars and all that. Hell, you're only 33, still retire before you're 50.”
“You mean retire to one of these two-bit night watchmen or messenger jobs so I could live on my pension?”
Max sent an oyster of spit into the tin wastebasket. “Going to get your license again?”
I stared at the wastebasket. Max? I'd never thought of that, could be.
He asked, “What's the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“What's your plans, champ?”
“To do a lot of nothing. Get a quiet room on the ocean front, take care of myself.”
Max looked at me with troubled eyes, rocked his chair. “Matt, what's wrong? You talk like a washed-up old man. You're still a kid, and you used to be tough as...”
“That's it, Maxie... used to be. They took all the toughness out of me in Korea, and in the hospital. I lay there for months, sweating out dying, losing a lung, fighting with them not to cut away my ribs... give me air.... I don't know, Maxie, I've always had confidence in myself, in my body, but now... I have to treat myself like I was made of delicate glass from now on. I can't risk...”
“What crap! I was in touch with the docs at the hospital; all you have is a scar on your lungs. Why half the people in the world have a scar on their lungs, had TB at some time and never even knew it. For all I know, maybe I have. And I heard about your running out on that goon Tops Anderson today. For Christsakes, what's happened, Matt, lost your grip?”
“Could be. Now I have to figure things like this: if I swing on a Tops, get into a brawl, I might open the scar again, really fix my wagon. Another thing, the docs said I probably got the germ in my lung before Korea—everybody has the germs inside them. So when I look at a Tops, or even you, I keep wondering if this is where I got it, if this bastard is the one who...”
“You've turned soft, sound like a dizzy hypochondriac. Why two years ago you would have slapped Tops loose from his teeth for even looking at you wrong!”
“That was two years ago. Max, why do we make such a big deal of being tough? All we see on the screen, the radio or TV is some joker bragging how tough and rugged he is. I didn't have much to think about in the hospital, so I figured out toughness. It's for the birds. Unless a guy is ready to take a stand—and that means ready to die—on anything, even getting called a louse or a SOB, then being tough is all a bluff, being a coward. And if you're really tough, ready to kill or be killed over a hard look—then you're stupid.”
“Sweet God, you talk like you're half dead, a...”
“That's what I am, half dead. And I don't give a damn about anything but seeing I don't become all dead. That's why I'm here—besides wanting to see you again —want you to do me a favor—get me a pistol permit.”
“Your hands are the best weapons you'll ever have. What you need a rod for?”
“You want me to make it formal? As a citizen I'm asking for a gun permit for protection. From time to time I'm going to run into other slap-happy characters like Tops, guys I once slugged, and this running is tough on my lungs. With a rod I could bluff my way...”
I stopped, for Max's fat face was twisted up as though he was going to cry. He shook his head sadly. “What's wrong with you? Running!... And you know I can't give you a permit on those grounds. Also you damn well know there's no point in packing a rod unless you're going to use it. That'd be great, getting sent up for knocking off a slob like Tops because you're scared to...”
“You won't get me the permit?” .
“No!”
“Okay. I'll make application for one at police headquarters, anyway.” I stood up. “Say hello to Libby and the kids....”
Max got to his feet. “Wait a minute, can't we talk? For crying out loud, we're old friends and...”
“Sure we are, always will be friends. Only we each have to play things the way we see them. I...”
His phone rang and he waved a big hand at me, snapped at the receiver, “Yeah?... When? Headquarters... the bastards! 241 Hilldale Drive... Beatrice Wilson... Mrs. Get me a car, right away!” He slammed the receiver down, told me, “Got a juicy murder in my precinct. Come over with me.”
I glanced at my watch. It was almost three. “No, time for me to take my afternoon nap. I'll see you some...”
“Nap?” Max growled, grabbing his hat and then my arm, rushing me toward the door. “We can talk while in the car. What the hell, maybe the sight of a stiff will get you in harness again.'”
I didn't want to waste energy wrestling Max. I turned my head away from his, wanted to tell him I'd done my share of killing recently, seen too many bodies—mass murder. But I didn't say a word, and we picked up a young cop and jumped into the car waiting at the curb.
Max put the siren on and started cutting through traffic. The cop asked, “What's up, Captain?”
“Found a dame out on Hilldale Drive with
her head bashed in.”
“Hilldale?” the cop repeated. “Ritzy neighborhood. What is it, robbery?”
“How the hell do I know? I got a phone, not a crystal ball!”
Max raced through the streets—although he was careful to slow down at the crossings when we didn't have the light—and within a few minutes he pulled up in front of a fairly new brick house—one of these expensive picture-window jobs set back on a well-kept lawn. There were several radio cars there and a cop keeping back a curious crowd of housewives and kids.
The cop next to me muttered, “Headquarters already here.”
We went inside and a fat cop pointed up a short flight of stairs. We rushed up and I said, “Take it slow, Maxie,” and we came into a large bedroom full of detectives and cops. The fingerprint men and photographers were already busy.
It was a nice bedroom, with pink drapes and candy-striped wallpaper. The bed had been slept in, the sheets were mussed, a dressing table and a couple of chairs were overturned and the dressing mirror smashed. The corpse lay on the bed, clothed in a blue silk negligee, a good deal of her naked, dead body showing—it had been a fairly interesting body, firm thighs. She was lying on her back and from what I could see, she'd been average pretty, maybe cute, for a dame in her late thirties. The back of her head was smashed in, her thick blonde hair messy with matted blood. A little metal table lamp lying near the head had evidently been the skull-cracker.
One of the detectives was standing by the bed, apparently measuring the setup with his eyes. He started to take off his coat, then, his eye catching something red, suddenly dropped to the floor on his hands and knees and peered under the bed. But it was only a pair of fuzzy red bedroom slippers. I guess he was disappointed.
Looking at the woman, I thought it had been years since I'd seen a dead white woman... but I'd seen so many yellow and brown dead women. In death, as in life,, they all looked the same except for the color of their skin. There was a joke that went something like that, Harry would know it. The only difference was this woman had died in her lush bedroom, the others I'd seen—you found dead yellow women along the roads, in the bombed and burned-out huts, or in the grotesque positions of those frozen to death. There'd been the one without any...
I was starting to feel uneasy again and I went into the adjoining bathroom, with its black tile and striped shower curtain and took my pill, cupping my hand under the faucet for water.
I came back into the room and stood around, and a guy from homicide talked to Max who seemed more interested in learning why headquarters had been notified before the local precinct. The homicide man said, “Who knows why? The maid, a Mrs. Florence Samuels, came in at noon. Thought Mrs. Wilson was out, started her work downstairs. When she came up here to clean, she found the body—looked up headquarters in the phone book.”
“Funny she didn't just ask the operator for the cops,” Max said. “And how come she starts at noon?”
“Seems Henry Wilson, husband of the victim, has been missing for a couple days. Mrs. Wilson was up late, worrying, and the maid didn't go home till after eleven. Claims Mrs. Wilson told her not to come in till noon on account of working late.”
“What's with the missing husband?”
“We haven't anything on him, yet. Evidently they had some kind of fuss, and he returned last night and knocked her off. Neighbors says the light was on all night in the bedroom, and they heard the sounds of a man arguing with Mrs. Wilson.”
Max said, “That doesn't mean it was the husband, could have been another John who...”
“One moment, sir!” a voice boomed and this heavy-set joker who had been sitting in one corner of the room, holding his head in his hands, came over. “I won't have you talking about my sister like that. There wasn't any man in her life except her husband. She was my sister, not a tart. And why must she be left half exposed like this?” He stooped to straighten out her robe and Max yanked him up hard, said, “Cut that! Who the hell are you?”
“Her brother,” the headquarters man said. “Mr. William Saxton, III.” He said it like he had big dough.
Saxton's meaty face broke into tears as he told Max, “Excuse me, I didn't mean to hinder you. It's simply that this... has been more than a terrible shock, the impossible thing one never expects to happen to his own. Poor Beatrice, I...” He burst into quiet sobs.
Max said, “Sure, this is tough on you, Mr. Saxton, a hell of a strain, but I want some info—and now. Where's Henry Wilson?”
“He couldn't have done this. Good Lord, he and Beatrice had a beautiful life, seven years of happiness and devotion, wonderful...”
“Nobody said he did it,” Max cut in. “Where is he?”
“I don't know where Henry is. I spent all day yesterday looking for him. Simply vanished two days ago— Friday night after he left the office—with two thousand dollars of the firm's money. Henry and I are partners in the manufacture...”
I wasn't interested in Max's or Saxton's troubles and the woman's limp dead arm reminded me of the arm of a guy in the hospital whose lung had suddenly collapsed on him during the night—his dead arm was hanging from the bed in the morning... like the woman's. I'd missed my nap and felt tired, and it was time for my milk.
I went downstairs and there was a swinging door leading into the kitchen, only the damn thing was warped and I had to put my shoulder to it before it opened. The maid was a thin, dark-skinned colored woman, maybe fifty, maybe older. She had a towel wrapped around her hair, was wearing a plain house dress, her stockings too big for bony legs that disappeared into a pair of old slippers. It was pretty unusual for a person to bother looking up the police number in a phone book when calling in a murder.
She was cleaning the gas stove and two young cops were sitting at the white kitchen table, smoking. One of them said, “Come on, Aunty, make us a cup of coffee. Got any doughnuts handy?”
“I'll Aunty you!” the maid told them in a high voice. “Get out of my kitchen!” ..
“Don't get tough, you old bag,” the cop said. “You may be in our kitchen soon—we do a special hose job on shines. All I'm asking is for a cup of Java and...”
“Shines! You have your filthy nerve! And don't you call me a bag, don't even speak to me! Sitting there so big, cluttering up my place and all because you got a badge, a...”
“Watch it,” the second cop said, “or you'll get that fresh mouth of yours slapped shut. Make us some coffee!”
“I'll make you some lye first!” the woman said, on the verge of tears.
“You're asking for a boot in the ass,” the first cop said. “Now get that...”
I said, “Captain Daniels didn't bring you here for coffee, or to be hanging around the kitchen.”
The two of them looked me over, trying to figure who I was, if I was from headquarters. They both crushed their cigarettes on the kitchen table and shuffled out.
The maid took a rag and wiped the table, muttering, “Pigs!”
I sat down and she said, “What do you want? Ain't no murder been done in my kitchen—stay upstairs where you belong!”
“I wonder if I could get a glass of milk, Miss Samuels?”
She looked at me for a moment, then said, “At least you got enough manners to call me Miss. And it's Mrs.”
She took a container of milk out of the big spotless icebox, poured me a glass. I sipped it slowly so as not to chill my guts. She asked, “You a detective?”
“The detectives are upstairs.”
“Hump! lot of good they'll do. Even if they find the killer—lot of good that will do. They won't touch him.”
“If they find him, they'll take care of him,” I said, thinking how sure she was it was a “him,” wondering why she had hesitated before phoning the police.
“Will they?”
“They usually do. Cops like convictions.”
She grunted, turned on me and said fiercely, “They'll do nothing, not a mumbling thing—you'll see!”
I finished my milk and wonde
red if I could leave, go back to my hotel and get my nap. Waiting around the house would only get me a ride back to town, and more of Max's pep talk.
Mrs. Samuels kept puttering around the stove, mumbling, “Them asking me all sorts of fool questions. As though I wanted Miss Beatrice to die. Or hinting Mr. Henry murdered his wife. Like asking the earth if it killed a seed. Say that to say this, wasn't a sweeter, more lovey-dovey couple than them two. Fine people, good to work for. Woman keep her dignity working for them. Why I wouldn't do nothing to...”
“Yeah. Well, thanks for the milk,” I said, getting up. The door wasn't stuck from the kitchen side.
My timing was lousy. I was crossing the hallway when Max and this Saxton came down the stairs. Max said, “Matt, have something for you.” And I didn't like the happy note in his hoarse voice.
