by Ed Lacy
“Is it? Suppose he's in a tight financial hole—and remember when these big boys lose they drop a big chip. Let's say he needs a million to cover up. So he arranges a 'kidnapping' and —”
“And kills his own kid?”
“It would explain his not wanting the police around. As for the kid, she's adopted, and he could have been faced with doing time or...”
I got up from the table. “That's stupid talk. Don't you know folks love adopted kids better than their own flesh and blood? Let's get out of here.”
Late in the afternoon Doc said, “I'm bushed, and so are you. We'll knock off for a few hours and see Betty. Maybe she can make us a decent meal.”
“This isn't the time for goofing off.”
“Bucky, we're like a dog chasing his tail. I've seen my stoolies. They'd be glad to help, but they don't know a thing. A change of pace might help our thinking.”
“No.”
“Don't be a glory-hound, son. What more can we do? You think these slobs are going to be living it up at a bar, buying drinks on the house? I'm pooped and you're on edge; remember what happened at the station house this morning. We—”
“That runt Sunday-punched me. I didn't hit him.”
“That's what I mean. You tried to but didn't. Proves you're stale. Let me get some Canadian bacon, duck eggs, and cook a fine chow while you and Betty watch TV.” Doc let me have a corny wink.
“Stop it.”
“Bucky, I'm tired. I have to rest. My legs are killing me. Besides, we haven't seen her for days. Betty may need us.”
“I've been phoning. Spoke to her yesterday. She's okay.”
“Have it your way. You keep looking for them under a beer glass. I'll go up and see Betty.”
Doc did look peaked and it wouldn't hurt to see Betty for a few minutes. I said okay and Doc drove downtown to a fancy delicatessen to buy the damn duck eggs. When we reached Betty's house, Doc double-parked and we went in. Ringing for the self-service elevator, I told him, “You must be bushed. You shouldn't have double-parked. No sense in explaining things to the beat bull.”
“He ought to recognize a squad car.”
“That makes it better?”
Doc sighed. “You have a point. I'll hunt a parking space.” He handed me the bag of groceries along with a mock grin. “But don't you two get comfortable up there. I can't cook out in the hallway.”
“That's the last thing on my mind.”
Opening the outside door, Doc called back, “Tell Betty to leave the food alone. Cooking isn't one of her talents.”
Betty took so long opening the door I used my key. And the second I saw her I knew something was wrong. She looked upset. As I put the bag down and took her in my arms, she jerked her head toward the closed bedroom door. I asked, “Somebody in there?”
She nodded. “A queer oscar. He's been here since last night. Not doing anything—had me sleeping on the couch. Doesn't even talk much. I'm afraid of him.”
“Why didn't you phone me?”
“Phone you where? Guess I shouldn't complain; he gave me two hundred dollars and said to leave him alone. But looks like he's moved in. He has his bags with him.”
“Bags? What does he look like?” I asked, a strong hunch making me tremble. “Tall and skinny?”
“Tall, but not too thin.”
I saw the bedroom door open a crack. I pushed Betty aside, loosened my gun in its holster as I made for the door. I kicked it open to see this tall man with a head as bald as an egg. He was dressed in a dark, conservative suit, and there was a big mole on one cheek. He was leaning against the dresser, three big suitcases beside him. He had his hands at his sides—long, thin hands that twitched a little. His face was pale and his features almost delicate, except for a nose that must have been busted long ago. But his eyes were hard and shifty. I asked, “What are you doing here, Mac?”
He gave me a sickly smile. “What a man usually does here. I... eh... hired the young lady. Who are you?” He spoke in a soft, smooth voice.
“A police officer. Open those bags! Do it slowly and keep your mitts in sight.” I was so keyed up I could hardly get the words out.
“Now see here, officer, this is all a mistake. I can explain. I'm a salesman and I usually spend the night in a...” He began crossing the room, toward me, as he talked.
He raised his hand to his bald head. It could have been an act, the act of a shiv man quick with a sleeve knife—he had the hands for it. Nothing else checked, but he had the hands!
I wanted to tell him to stand still, but the words never came out. It was almost a jittery reflex action on my part: His hand hadn't reached his ear when I yanked my gun out, fired three shots into him, all around his heart. He had stopped at the sight of the gun, but I couldn't stop my trigger finger.
His eyes blinked with horrible astonishment. His mouth opened into an ugly circle. I knew from the awkward way his legs crumpled under him as he hit the floor that he was dead. A long, thin throwing knife showed at the end of his coat sleeve.
Betty said, “Bucky!” It was a gasp, or maybe a small scream. She came to me and I shoved her away, ran over and opened one of the bags. It was full of neat bundles of money, a sea of green!
This time Betty really did scream, or maybe it was me sobbing with joy—I'd made the biggest collar in police history! Betty stood beside me, both of us staring down at the money. Then she whispered, “Oh, my God, Bucky. He... must be d-dead!”
The front door opened and I spun around to see Doc rushing in, his gun out. He said, “I thought I heard... shots.”
I was too excited to talk. I didn't have to: The dead man and the open suitcase full of money told Doc the story. All I could do was give him an idiotic smile. Doc drew in his breath, a kind of soft whistle. He slapped me on the back with his free hand, started to say something. Then his face went tight. He turned on Betty. “You dumb tramp!”
“Me? I never saw him before, honest! He came up last night, said the bartender at the Golden Elm had sent him. He paid me and I... I... knew he was a queer but... Well, what could I do? He didn't go in for rough stuff or...” She rubbed her hands together, looked away, her face suddenly flushing. Her eyes got very large as she looked down at the money, mumbled, “Oh, God! Why he... must... must... must be the...!”
Doc slapped her savagely across the face, sending her reeling toward the living room. “You stupid whore, what do you think you're pulling? This is the kidnapper, a murder rap!” Doc's voice was like a whip.
“Murder?” Betty looked around wildly; then her eyes found mine. “Bucky, you mean he's... the... man?” Her voice died and she put a little hand to the flaming red streak across her pale face.
“Honey, you're in big trouble—the worst. You have to come clean with us. Fast!” I started for her, wanting to hold her in my arms, as I slipped my gun back in its holster.
Doc stopped me by snapping in a low voice, “Clean? They'll sweat and third-degree her to pieces. With him dead, they'll pin the whole kidnapping on her!”
Betty started to shake. She looked away from me, whimpered. “I don't know what... what this is all about. How could I be mixed up in... in...?”
“Take it slow, honey,” I began. “Well work out—”
“We're in a hell of a jam ourselves, Bucky,” Doc cut in.
The words hit me like a baseball bat across the head. Instead of being a hero, I'd end up a patsy. I stared at Betty, feeling terribly tired. I don't know what to do, couldn't think.
She said, “Bucky, don't look like that. I don't know a thing about... that man. And no matter what they do, I won't tell them about you—us!”
“They'll rubber-hose your skin off until...” Doc ran across the room toward her. “Damn you, Betty, tell us what your connection is with the kidnapping! We have to know where we stand!”
“Connection?” she whispered.
“Did you set us up from the go? Talk, you dumb...!”
She glanced at me. “Bucky, you know me. You must believe I couldn't
have...”
Doc drew back his hand to slap her again, and Betty and I both moved. I started for Doc, not really sure what I was going to do. Betty moaned with terror, suddenly turned and ran for the front door. Doc's gun barked once—the sound short and lean and lost in the silence of the room. Betty frantically tried to reach behind her back, as if she had a bad itch there, staggered like a drunk, then crashed to the floor. It was a hammy fall. The whole thing was so unreal, like a bad dream. Except where she'd been trying to “scratch” was slowly turning into a bloody spot.
For a long second I stood there, as if my feet were nailed to the floor, too amazed to move. Yeah, at that second I was amazed rather than sorry. Somehow I couldn't believe Betty was dead, expected her to get up. I mean, a dozen things were slowly going around in my head. The short sound Doc's gun had made—such a small sound to take a life, Betty's life. No Miami palm trees to show her now, no more arguing about perfumes, where we'd open our shop. And finally, as if I was backward, my brain got the message: no more Betty.
Doc had raced across the room, felt of her wrist. Then he opened the door, looked up and down the hall, locked the door, using both its locks.
I moved toward Betty, knelt beside her, sick to my stomach and heart at the bloody cold sight that had once been warm, simple Betty. I suppose if I knew how to pray I would have said something then. Instead I stared up at Doc: I seemed to be looking into his gun. “You getting trigger-happy? Why did you shoot her?” My voice sounded like a strange growl, very hard and tight, and miles away.
“Easy, Bucky. She was trying to escape,” Doc said softly. And I was still looking smack into his gun: I could almost see the barrel grooves and markings.
“Escape? Where could she have run to?” My voice was still a long way off.
“To some other police officer, for instance,” Doc said, staring down at me. “That would have been embarrassing, to say the least.”
“Yeah.” My voice was right beside me now.
“Bucky, didn't she tell you she'd been married?”
“Sort of.”
“Could that tall, dead number in the bedroom be her husband? Perhaps they were in this together.”
I didn't answer. I touched Betty's hair. It was still soft. A pool of bright-red blood was slowly seeping out from under her body. I touched her blood with my little finger—I don't know why. It felt icy. I whispered, “Damn it, Doc, you shouldn't have shot her!”
“Look at it this way: She's better off dead. Understand?”
The back of Betty's neck was already waxen-looking. I shut my eyes. Mixed with the anger and sorrow I felt, another thought was coming through. I understood: It was a lucky thing the brass couldn't question Betty. There was the barkeep at the Golden Elm. If he'd really sent the guy, I'd have to shut the bartender's trap. Be a snap. My story would be Betty was merely a gal friend, I had no idea what she was working at. I only dropped in to use her bathroom and... Yeah, I just might come out of this with full sails yet, a hero. I plugged the kidnapper, let Doc do his own explaining about gunning Betty. It would work out. Doc and his influence. Only it was too bad Betty was dead. A sweet kid who never said no to me or...
Doc said, “Snap out of it, son. We've work to do.”
I nodded. He poked my shoulder with his gun. “Bucky, get off the dime. Don't you realize what this collar means? We're the tops, the... Get up!”
I got to my feet, shook myself. “I'll phone the squad room.”
“In a minute. Watch the door. Anybody knocks, open the door on the chain, flash your potsy. Tell 'em to take a walk, that everything is under control. That goes for the beat cop, too. Since we're making the collar, I want time to get all the strings tied up here. Understand, Bucky boy?”
I nodded as Doc walked into the bedroom. I understood perfectly. From the look on Doc's sharp face, he was set to operate. I leaned against the door, still in a daze. I knew what Doc was doing: searching for anything that might connect us with Betty. I looked up at the ceiling, didn't want to see her body. I had a vague idea of covering her with a rug, but I didn't want to touch anything. The truth is, I didn't know what to do. So I stared at the ceiling like that for a second, or maybe it was a brace of minutes. Suddenly Doc stuck his lean face out of the bedroom door, asked, “Anybody at the door?”
I shook myself. “No.”
“Come here.”
He had the three suitcases open on the bed. For a moment I didn't see the stacks of green bills—only the bed, Betty's bed. Then the sight of all that salting money hit me. It was one fascinating sight.
Doc asked gently, “Do you know what a million dollars can do, son?”
“A lot,” I said, sounding like a moron.
“Do you realize that not more than one out of a hundred thousand people even see this much money in their lifetime?”
“Yeah?” The fog left my noggin. I kept wondering what Doc had in mind.
“Feast your eyes on it, Bucky. Let your eyes caress every stack of big money. They're all good bills, no bait money, nothing that can be traced,” Doc said, walking around the bed, stepping on the dead man's outstretched hand, the lean fingers. (Did he play the piano?) “I heard that was one of the conditions set by this louse.” Doc pointed a shined shoe at the dead clown's head. “Look at the money, hard, kid.”
“I see it. Want me to take a picture and hang it on my wall, Doc?”
“The Chinese say a picture is worth a thousand words, but nobody ever said a picture was worth one million dollars,” Doc said slowly, his eyes watching me. I knew him well enough to know this was a sales pitch of some kind. “Bucky, you're staring at what can be our gravy train for the rest of our lives!”
My belly turned into a cold knot of fear. “How could we get away with any of this?”
There was a faint, hard smile on Doc's tight lips. But he didn't say a word.
I swallowed twice, managed to ask, “You're thinking of... of... us holding out part of this? We'd never get away with it.”
“We certainly wouldn't.”
Doc gave me his superior smile again. The silence got on my nerves. I said, “Let me out of the isolation booth; what's on your mind, Doc?”
“As you said, we'd never get away with keeping some of this bundle, but we might make it if we take it all! Not one person in fifty million ever gets a chance at a million bucks. Here we have it smack in our laps, cold turkey. Kid, this is our big chance!”
“Some chance. Stop joking, Doc, and let's get on with...”
Doc pointed at the bed full of money with his gun as he said softly, “Bucky, I was never more serious in my life.”
And I realized he was! I said, “Doc, talk sense. Why... we couldn't possibly get away with it. They'd be on us like rust on iron.”
Doc shook his head slowly. “Listen to me carefully, son. It will probably take a day or more before anybody finds the bodies. We could use those few days trying to skip the country with the money. Maybe we'd make it. But that's the obvious move. And if the bodies should be discovered in the next few hours, we'd be trapped on the run. Also, soon after we fail to report back to the squad room, Bill Smith will certainly get interested—he has a suspicious mind—and start an investigation, and sooner or later put a nation-wide alarm out for us on the wires. I think—”
I cut in with, “That's what I'm trying to tell you, this money is red hot and we're—”
“Shut up and listen, Bucky. Taking off would be, as I said, the obvious thing, and very risky. I have a better idea, something that will throw them completely off our tracks. Now, for sure, we have at least a few hours of safe time. Over on the Northside there's an ancient rum-runner and gangster hide-out, a real old-fashioned affair with false walls. It hasn't been used for years and years. Everybody has forgotten about it—except me. The house is run by a hag who will do anything for a quick buck. We merely—”
“Jeez, Doc, we can't steal a million!”
Doc laughed quietly in my face. “Why not? Probably turn o
ut to be simpler than swiping a dime off a newsstand. Bucky, try to get the full picture of the opportunity in our hands. The important fact is that we have the million. All we have to do is hole up for a few weeks and then think of a way of getting the money, and ourselves, out of town. But time is on our side, and so is luck.”
“But Doc, this is the... the... ransom money!”
“So what? It's as green as any other bucks to me. Poppa is rich; he can afford it. And whether we take the money or not won't bring his Joanie back to life. Look at it this way: This is our reward; we bagged the kidnappers, killed them both, so—”
“I still don't believe Betty was in on it.”
“This punk certainly was!” Doc said, kicking the dead man's leg. “Kid, remember you risked your life. Suppose he had knifed you, then what? When the headlines had finished heaping praises on your grave, Elma would be working like those other widows we saw, cleaning and sweeping, because your little pension wouldn't be sufficient to support her. No, this is our reward, this is ours!”
