by Ed Lacy
“Yes.”
“Now, in case they should bring you back to testify, you never had an idea Henry Wilson was colored. They'll cross-examine you pretty hard on the witness stand, but you must stick to your story. And don't worry about perjury. After all, you haven't any proof Henry was passing. It's merely an idea of yours. From now on you must think Henry was white.”
“All right... but he wasn't.”
“You just think he wasn't. Tell me, in all good faith, could you swear in court that Henry wasn't white?”
“Shucks, I'm sure... pretty sure... he was passing. I can tell. What you got in mind to do?”
I was afraid to tell her, you never know when and why a person will talk. I said curtly, “You're wrong, I have definite proof he was white.”
“You sure?”
“Are you?”
“Well... if you say...”
“You see, you're really not absolutely positive. The thing to do is convince yourself—from now on—that he was white. I can't tell you what I'm going to do—less you know, better off you are. Understand, I don't mean I don't trust you, but I can't have anybody else in on this. It's my play.”
“I believe you.”
“And if you ever do get on the witness stand, you left town to look for work and you never even suspected Henry of being colored. Chances are you won't be called back, but if you are...”
“I only saw you that one time out at the house and I'm surprised anybody should think Mister Henry wasn't white.”
I grinned. “Fine. And don't write to anyone, not even me, telling them where you are. You have to disappear.”
“Who'm I going to write to? Got a few friends I see in church, that's all. Just Sunday friends.”
I stood up. “How soon you leaving?”
“Tonight. Haven't much to pack. When you work as a maid you don't have no real home. The house you work in is a sort of home, only it isn't. This... this is merely a room.”
We shook hands. I said, “Good-bye, Florence. You're quite a woman.”
“You look mean and nasty, but you're a good white man, Matt. I hope we win.”
“We'll sure give it a good try.”
At the door she asked, “You really got proof Henry was white?”
I winked at her, put a finger across my lips... like a kid.
When I reached the bungalow Mady gave me a big kiss, asked, “Everything all right about... this Harry?”
“Sure. Forget it.”
“We got a gift.” She pointed to two bottles of bonded rye on the table. “Liquor-store kid brought them. Said Saxton called and had them sent over.”
I examined the seals, the bottoms of the bottles. “Don't seem to have been tampered with. Wouldn't put it past that bastard to send you poisoned rye—although that would be too obvious.”
“Think he's going to visit us?”
“No. Probably doing it to annoy me, keep you lushing it up.”
“I'm not a lush. How are you doing with Saxton?”
“Don't know yet.”
She said, “Don't be so clam-mouth about it. What are your plans?”
“Tell you when it's done.”
“Why? Because I'm a woman? Maybe I can help you and here you...”
“I'm tired, baby, don't start that woman line. I don't tell you because you're not a dick. Hell, I haven't told Joe, either. Being a detective, despite the movies, isn't a game; it's a business, a trade.”
“I think you ought to let me try and help you. After all, suppose you were a... a butcher. You'd talk your problems over with me, even though I don't know a lamb shoulder from a hole in the ground.”
“Okay, okay, I can trip Saxton if I locate a certain letter he has. That's it.”
“A letter? This letter will prove he murdered the-Wilsons?”
“No, that's easy to prove. You're not much as an alibi. Then there's the water in the cabin, that was off. And if Max digs a little, he'll find a lot of other things that won't check. But the letter... will make the murder rap stick.”
“I don't get it,” Mady said. “What's in this letter that...?”
“I'm not too sure myself. And forget I ever said anything about a letter. All I have to do now is figure how to get it.”
She thought for a moment. “He sent those bottles, suppose I call him now, say I want to see him. While I'm stalling him, you can look his apartment over.”
“Look, hon, Saxton is a killer—a little off his balance probably—but a killer all the same. I don't want you dead.”
“I can handle him.”
I laughed and kissed her big mouth. “That's what I mean about the layman not knowing what he's talking about. But your idea might work. Maybe he is coming out. After supper I'll leave the house, watch outside. If Saxton should come, I'll flatten him, search him. Can always say I was jealous, and he won't know I hit him to search him. Can't let him know I know about the letter. It either has to be on him, or in his apartment.”—
“Or in a safe-deposit vault?”
I kissed her again. “Then I'm screwed.”
We had supper and listened to the radio for a while and Mady complained about my never taking her dancing and I said maybe next week. And how did I know she loved to dance? At eight I left the house and took a plant in the corner drugstore. Sitting in the phone booth, I could see the front of the cottage down the block. The movies ought to show more of the routine work of a detective, like the dull hours you spend watching a house. I sat there for about a half an hour and the druggist looked at me suspiciously, so I dialed Max's home, talked to Libby for a while, then Max got on the phone. I put in another nickel, asked if he'd found anything about Flo.
“Nothing certain. Remember Slip MacCarthy?”
“No.”
“Guess he was a year or two before your time. Slick con man. We knew he took a sucker for ten grand, using, the old horse-wire gag. We knew and couldn't do a thing—the sucker never pressed charges. Flo was in on that.”
“How? You know how she gabs—never mentioned it to me.”
“She was a kid then, working in a fancy call house. You knew she worked in one for a while?” There seemed to be that nasty delight in Max's voice that all men get when talking about whores.
“I knew. So what?”
“Slip took a fancy to her, kept her for a time. He was one of these old school con men, smooth, polished, big front. His specialty was the horse-wire con. He'd have a buddy, and a store fixed up as a telegraph office... the supposedly crooked telegraph employee giving them the track winners before the bookies got it. You know how it works—they still pull that ancient gag now and then, even these days.”
“I know. Where does Flo fit in?”
“Slip latched on to a sucker, let him win a few bucks —the old come-on, then took him to the cleaners. In this case they put the finishing touch on the mark by having Slip put a bag of chicken blood in his mouth. He let the mark sock him, fell down hard, played dead, blood flowing from his mouth. Old stuff again. Scares the sucker so bad he'll never talk about it, keeps a million miles from the cops... thinks he's a murderer.”
“You still haven't told me about Flo?”
Max laughed. “She was bait for the mark, and of course in on the 'kill,' only they forgot to tell her it was a fake. Slip must have been tired of her and saved her cut by not telling her, skipping town. Technically, she thinks she's a party to a murder.”
“Slip still alive?”
“He's doing five to ten in a Federal pen out in Kansas. That what you want to know?”
I said thanks and hung up. The operator was asking for another jit. I sat there for another half hour and Saxton didn't show. The druggist was looking at me again, so I took a walk around the cottage. There was a little chill in the air and I knocked on the back window, told Mady to give me a shot of rye. It was the first drink I'd had in a long time and it warmed my guts, felt good. Mady said, “Does rye always put that contented smile on your face?” and laughed.
> “Don't let the bottle get too good to you—leave the stuff alone. It gives you a silly expression,” I said, giving her the glass back. She slammed the window and I went back to my prowling.
I sat on the back steps for another hour and nothing happened. I called for another shot; it was really chilly. I walked around some more, then sat on the back steps again, thought about Flo. Harry had sure played her for a fall guy. Poor Flo, if she'd been born plain, or ugly, she would have had a happier life.
A couple of times I heard a car stop, or people walking near by, but it always turned out to be some neighbors coming home.
By midnight I was chilled to the bone and afraid I was getting a cold. I decided Saxton wasn't coming out. I went in through the kitchen door, stopped in the bathroom to take my temperature. It was normal. There was a light in the living room, but Mady didn't call out to me. I figured she was asleep.
I was right... she was sleeping off a load in the big chair—the big history book about Billy's outfit open on her lap, the remains of a bottle on the floor beside the chair. I tried to slap her out of it but all she did was open her eyes, say in that loose way a drunk talks, “You got no right... right... no... order me about. Tell me not to drink. I... I... can... handle it. I...” Then she passed out again.
I have a blind spot about drunks. Don't know why— maybe I need a couple of sessions on the couch. I was so damn mad at her I picked her up and carried her into the bathroom, and she was heavy as hell. I stood her up in the tub, under the shower, but she kept slipping. I got her balanced against the wall for a moment, ran back into the living room and got the thick military history book. Jamming that against the tub and the side of her legs, I had Mady nicely balanced... sleeping standing up. I pulled the curtains and held my arms around them—in case she fell—and turned on the cold water.
For a moment nothing happened, then there was a gasp, a choked cry, and a scream. I grabbed her, turned off the water. I lifted her out of the tub, her clothes sticking to her body, her hair wet and stringy—she looked awful.
Mady sobered up fast, began to cuss me, her voice very clear, her eyes getting angry bright. She came at me, punched me a few times before I pinned her arms down. “What the hell's the idea?” she asked loudly.
“The idea is simply that I don't want you getting loaded and sentimental sloppy every time you smell a cork. I...”,
“You don't! What do you think I am, a pet dog you own and can order around!”
“Get your clothes off before you catch a cold.”
“Suppose I want to get a cold?”
“Stop talking like a child,” I said. “Look, Mady, we'll hit it off swell, and I want us to, but it has to be you and me—not the bottle makes three. You know I can't stand seeing you drunk. It means.... Aren't you happy with me?”
“Yes... only... Matt, sometimes I feel like a total stranger to you. As though you'd withdrawn into that tough shell of yours. Last night you were so... hard... and now, out there, when I gave you the drink, you barked at me not to take a shot like I was your servant. Matt, sometimes I feel you don't need me.”
“Don't think that—ever. I need you badly,” I said, kissing her. I took off her wet clothes and rubbed her down with a big towel and she didn't talk, then she said, “I didn't mean to get high, but I felt so... so... alone and lost when you barked at me, that I...”
“Honey, I was working, watching for Saxton. There wasn't any time for sweet talk.”
“I know but... I took a few to relax me and then...”
“You started mooning over Billy's picture,” I added.
“What else have I to turn to when I feel you don't want...?” For the first time she saw the soggy book at the bottom of the tub, colored inks streaking out of it.
“The book!” she sobbed. “You've ruined it!”
I grabbed her shoulders as she bent to pick it up. “That's right—it's ruined. Now you have nobody to lean on but me. I want it that way, because I haven't anybody but you and all we need is each other!”
“Matt... Matt, don't be so tough... so hard,” Mady said, crying.
I slid my hands off her shoulders, her skin so fresh and cool, as I hugged her, whispered, “Baby, I'm not tough, and I don't want to be. I'm not hard, but you're all I have and I'll hold on to you with everything I've got.”
We kissed each other hungrily, her big lips exciting demanding, as they fiercely covered mine. As we started for the bedroom, I thought I heard a noise at the front door. I told Mady to go to bed and I turned off the lights and went over to the living-room window. There wasn't anything to see. I tried the door and it was locked. Probably the wind rattling the door.
Mady was calling softly and as I passed her chair, I picked up the bottle arid took a quick swig—to cool off this time—and started to undress.
SATURDAY
It was a lousy morning, cold, raining on and off. We stayed in bed till ten, when Joe rang the bell. He was in a good mood, didn't even look with disapproval at Mady and me running around in pajamas. His wife, Ruthie, was feeling fine, wanted us over for Sunday dinner. He had coffee with us, drove me downtown.
In his struggle-buggy he told me, “Matt, I'm sorry about the way I acted the other night... running away, crying. I was a jerk. I still don't like what we did but...”
“But when you play with crap some gets on your hands.”
“Yes. Guess we couldn't help it.”
I said, “We could have if you had a decent union, or whatever you postmen have, to go to bat for you, point out you didn't do anything wrong. That's the big IF. A shake racket is only successful when people are afraid to tell the blackmailer to hump off.”
“I still feel a little guilty about Harry's death, but I suppose that will wear off in time.”
I wanted to laugh. Joe was a comic, his “little guilty” was like being a “little pregnant.” We made small talk till I told him to let me off at the Grace Building and when he looked at me big-eyed, I said, “I'm going up to Harry's old office. See you and Ruthie tomorrow.”
“About one-thirty.”
Thatcher Austin came running out of the building, looking more crazy than usual. Soon as he hit the sidewalk he stopped, looked around wildly, then walked down the street as fast as he could. Joe said, “I know that guy—Mr. Austin.”
“How do you know him?”
“Lives on my route. A sort of Communist.”
“What?” I asked, laughing.
“What's the big joke? I shouldn't go around calling people's politics these days, but a postman can tell how and what a guy thinks—by the mail he receives. Austin now he gets lots of radical papers and magazines, even some from abroad. Along with a lot of jerky flag-waving rags. Always have a heavy load of mail for him.”
I told Joe about the creep and he was shocked. “Always thought he was a little nervous, but a quiet guy like that... behind this crummy stuff. Doesn't seem possible.”
“Just stay away from him,” I said, getting out of the car. As I took the elevator to Flo's office I had an idea to play for laughs—I'd accuse the creep of being Red on the basis of the mail he received. Of course he used the left publications for his files... but it was an amusing angle.
There was a new receptionist—a young redhead with a gay loose mouth and the wrong kind of clothes—lot of frilly stuff that made her look like a worn Christmas tree.
When she buzzed me into Flo's office I asked, “Why the welcome change out there?”
“Got fed up with that snippy-looking bitch. Glad you've come, Matt, I got troubles. Supposed to have the newsletter to the printers tomorrow and I don't know what to write. Had a run-in with Thatcher after you left yesterday. Fired him too. He got so mad he took some of the files with him. Said he burned them to spite me.”
“You can have him arrested,” I suggested.
“Hell with that. Little bastard just was in here,-all sorry, begging me to take him back... wants me to marry him. I told him off. Matt, I'll up your cut to...
”
“I'm not your boy,” I said, thinking that in no time Flo would run this racket into the ground, which was where it belonged, deep underground.
“Please, Matt, for a favor. Take it for a few months—set me straight.
“Flo, I'm not giving you any straight-from-the-shoulder sermon, but this is a wrong racket. One of these days people are going to get sore at you... run you out of town... if they don't shoot you first.”
“What's a good racket?”
“I don't know, but you have to draw the line some place, and you're way over the line. You have a bundle put aside, get more when you sell Harry's stuff. Why don't you forget this dirt, forget this town? Start over in some other town? You can still have that house full of kids.”
