Ed Lacy - Sin In Their Blood
I stood there, thinking about Joe and how he probably had my ten bucks and what a poor slob he was, when I got a cute idea. I went to the phone and changed my mind. Harry was the kind of sharpie who might have his phones tapped and I didn't want the call traced here. Somehow his even knowing about Mady would dirty her. I went down to the corner drugstore and dialed, wondering if he'd be in at this hour. A whining voice said, “America! America!”
It was the creep. “Amen. Harry in?”
“Who's calling?”
“This is personal.”
“Who is this?”
“Mind your own damn business and put Harry on.”
“I will hang up unless you tell me who is calling.”
“Tell him Matt is calling. And be very careful, Thatcher, I've got my eye on you—lots of people are watching you,” I added, knowing it would worry a backward joker like him.
“What do you mean?” There was a pause, then Harry's smooth voice asked, “Hello? Matt?”
“Harry, I'm in a small jam. Can you lend me a hundred?” It tickled me to take some of Joe's dough away from Harry and give it back to Joe.
“Want to work for me, Matt?”
“I only want to put the bite on you.”
“Sorry. Be more than glad to give you the dough, Matt, but the way you act, don't know if you're on the bum or not... might as well put my foot down before you make this a habit. You understand, chum. Now, if you want to work, I'll advance you...”
I cursed him and he giggled like a school girl—it always pleased him to be called certain names. It was an unfortunate giggle—for him—it gave me a real bang-bang idea.
I went back to the house and called Joe, told him to park in front of the house at seven sharp, I wanted to talk to him.
“What about?”
“Tell you then. Don't let Mady know you're parked,” I said. It wasn't impossible Harry was tapping Joe's phone too. You worry about a phone tap and you can go crazy. I said, “You might be able to stop paying off the mutual... eh... friend of ours.”
He said, “Oh,” then, “I'll be there, Matt.”
Mady returned with bags of food and a lot of talk. Some people try to pull themselves together when high by chattering. She was complaining about the high prices of food and I sat in the big chair in the living room and watched her moving about in the kitchen. I felt tired, missed my afternoon nap. I must have dozed off, for the next thing I knew she was shaking me, telling me supper was on.
She wasn't a bad cook—although it's hard to spoil steak—and we ate and she asked, “You find out what you wanted to in town?”
“Nope,” I said, weighing how much to tell her. If Saxton got wind of what I had in mind, he'd kill anybody who was in the know.
She was waiting for me to go on, so I said, “1 suggested to the cops—to my buddy Max—that the Wilson murders ought to be checked over again. He didn't think so.”
“What do you mean, checked over again?”
“As you said, Henry Wilson wasn't the type to kill his wife. I merely thought there were a few angles might be looked into... just to be sure,” I said carefully.
“Well, I still can't believe he did that horrible crime. Why won't the police look into it?”
“Because it's all wrapped in a neat package and they don't want to bother untying the pink ribbons. Too busy with parking tickets.”
“Seems to me if you have ideas about a crime, the police...”
“When a man becomes a cop he changes. They say a criminal is outside the law. Well, a cop is worse off, he's outside everything. He's either hated or sluffed off by the public. Any law enforcement officer is nothing but a human blackjack... and even if a sap is a tool, it's hardly anything you have any love for, or real use.”
“Like a gun...”
“Don't interrupt the professor. No, a gun can be a thing of beauty, a lot of fun at target practice, but a blackjack... you can only use it as a club, and it's always ugly. That's the way a cop gets. His job is so big —if all the laws were enforced—and he knows he's hated, so he does only what he can do the easiest and best in the hours he has. Guess that isn't too clear.”
“No.”
“Well, look at it this way, what I was asking Max involved extra work on his part. Because of the bull and red tape thrown at him, a good cop isn't concerned about justice, but only about closing a case. I don't mean Max would frame an innocent man, although some incompetent cops would, but unless he can see a clear angle.... Here, maybe this will show how a cop's mind works. When Max and I were detectives, we went to a bar one night where some guy claimed a sixteen-year-old whore had rolled him for ten bucks. According to his story, he had picked her up at this Skid-Row bar, gone to her room and given her a half a buck. He had a roll of two hundred bucks on him. While he was sleeping, she took a tenspot.”
“Cheap bastard,” Mady said.
“Exactly what Max said. He was taking advantage of this kid, even if she was peddling it. We'd have to send the girl up to a reform school for whoring, only if we added theft, she'd go to a tougher place. Max looked at the guy and asked, 'Sure you want to press charges against this girl?' And the guy was full of righteousness and said no little bitch could roll him and all that. So Max said, 'Then I hereby arrest you for statutory rape, since this girl is under eighteen.' The guy got a year in the can. That was Max's way of helping the girl, punishing the jerky mug. But it never occurred to him to slap the guy in the mouth, let the kid off.”
“Could have given her another chance.”
“That only works out in the movies. A kid whores only because she's hungry. You don't give her a new shuffle unless you figure a way for her to work and eat. A cop can't change all that. He figures that in a reform school she'll be out of his way, and at least eating regular.”
Mady shivered. “It's the city, too many people live too close, lack decent houses. You ever have any desire to live in the country?”
“The country is as crooked as the city, has all the same vices, only maybe in different shape. And the quiet gives me the jitters—it's too loud. I like being around things, see something happening all the time.”
Mady shook her head. “It's money.”
“Everything's money,” I said brightly.
“But the city is all money, and that causes people to go wrong. You know when you wake up every morning it will cost you a couple of bucks just to be alive. You have to be on the make all the time—for dough—in the city and that scares me. Why, each day before I get out of bed I know it will cost me about three bucks that day for rent, couple dimes to have my dress cleaned, underthings laundered. I must spend two bits for carfare, and even if I eat home, I have to spend at least a buck-fifty for even a scrimpy meal. In the city it costs all the time.”
“And in the country they live on air?”
“Am I talking too much?”
I laughed. “No.”
Mady smiled. “Sometimes how I love to gab! To get to the country that's what I want. A place not too isolated but where we could walk around in wrinkled clothes, pull up our food from the garden, go fishing and hunting. Where, if I feel like it, I can wake up and say, 'Today I don't have to worry about making a dime, I can live around my house, eat and walk and breath— and all for free!' None of that city drive and strain— once you get your house paid for.”
“Living in the country is okay,” I said, “for a weekend now and then. But how about all the other days when you go nuts for lack of something to do? Why I get a bang out of just walking down the main drag, being a part of the crowd, even if I haven't got a place to go. You're practically in the country now, got a backyard here, why don't you raise a garden if you go for that?”
“Isn't the same, got to make money here all the time. Say, I do go surf-casting, catch me a couple fish now and then. Ever try that?”
“No.”
She began counting on her long fingers. “Be the end of the high tide about... 4 a.m. I'll set the alarm. We wear boots—I have several pair around—take a thermos of hot coffee and stand on the edge of the ocean and cast—let the tide take our bait out. First we dig a couple clams for bait—but that's hard. I'll buy some tonight. It's great fun and by daybreak we'll have enough fish for a whopping breakfast, and hungry as... Let's do it tomorrow morning!”
“Well... I never was one for getting up early,” I began. “And standing in water isn't the best...”
“Oh please, Matt. It's such fun.”
She had all the eagerness of a school kid, a wonderful change from the loose, lush look. If I didn't get wet, couldn't do me much harm. “Sure, set the alarm. Now let me help with the dishes and...”
An auto horn sounded outside. The red clock on the kitchen wall said seven. “I have a... eh... kind of business appointment. Be back soon—about a half hour.”
“The Wilson killings?”
“Not exactly—new angle I'm exploring.”
“Don't be long. I'll take care of the dishes. Have some ironing to do. Went through your stuff and washed some shirts and underwear for you. See how domestic I can be?”
“It's frightening. Trying to trap me into marrying you?” I asked with a corny smirk.
“Now that you mention it, I might at that,” Mady said gently.
I stared at her as the horn sounded again and we both smiled. I suddenly realized I'd proposed for the first time in my life—and been accepted. And I liked the idea!
“We'll talk about that some more... maybe soon,” I said, slipping my coat on as I made for the door.
Joe had a light old roadster that hardly seemed big enough for his bulky figure. And when I climbed in beside him I expected the tires to explode. He said, “Let's make this snappy, my wife is sick. What about our mutual friend?”
“He's getting in my hair, via Mady. You worry, she worries and hits the bottle, and I don't like that.”
He grunted, said, “Damn, so it's like that between you and Mady! One, two, three stuff! I warned you...”
“I like you, Joe, so before you run your big mouth, let me tell you it's no jump and run stuff with us. Mady and I have a lot in common, and we'll hit it off.”
“You damn well better. I'm warning you, Matt—I won't see Mady ending up as a tramp. Not only because she's my sister, but somehow it would make Billy's dying in vain and...”
“That's a cracked crock of slop,” I said. “Everybody dies in vain. Once you're dead you're out of it. And whether your death made a better or worse world doesn't make your corpse taste any better or worse to the worms eating it.”
“I don't like that kind of talk. After all, our boys who died...”
“Died because of some old men who didn't know how to make the world run right, played checkers with the other guys' lives. A coffin can hide a fool or a hero. The idea is to stay alive, watch, the show. But let's not get off on that. The only way you can shake Harry Loughlin off your back is to tell him to go to hell.”
“And lose my job? That's a great solution.”
“Other ways of telling him to lay off. You can fight blackmail with blackmail. Harry has a king-size skeleton in his closet.”
“Yeah? How do you know?”
“Used to be his partner couple years back. We had a detective agency.”
Joe was silent for a moment. “I don't like this. You claim you picked out Mady's place—just like that. Then it turns out you worked for Saxton. Now you're Harry Loughlin's partner. You...?”
“Was his partner.”
“You FBI?”
I laughed. “You been to too many movies. Let me straighten you out—I'm only interested in you because it will help Mady. You want to keep paying Harry off— fine. Only don't come whining to us everytime he socks your pocketbook.” I started to open the door and he said, “Wait a minute,” as I knew he would. “What do you want me to do?”
“Harry has a bit of pansy in him and these days a man will do anything to keep that quiet.”
“Doesn't look queer to me.”
“He isn't—all the way. But it's in him, probably come out in the open when he's older. Works that way with some of them. Point is, I know he has his fag moments. Framing a guy as a pansy is about the lowest—and easiest—form of blackmail. First, is there anybody else in the P.O. he's after, a young kid, or anybody else who would be willing to work with us? Somebody we can really trust?”
“What do you mean trust? I don't want to get mixed up in nothing shady.”
“Listen, chances are 99.99% Harry won't run to the cops. Never do in this type of swindle. By trust I mean I don't want to run from one blackmail into another. Got anybody we can use?”
Joe thought for a moment, grunted, “No.”
“Then we'll have to do it ourselves, although you're too old and ugly for queer-bait. Listen to me carefully: tomorrow morning you call Harry, make sure you speak to him personally. Tell him you've been thinking things over, that you know of a slew of P.O. guys that are in the same boat as you—were in favor of that stuff about going on strike—be careful you don't go into any details. All you want to do is talk this over with Harry, but not on the phone. Just tell him enough to get him interested. Understand?”
“Yep.”
“You want to meet him some place for lunch. Tell him you can't take off time, so it must be a bar around the P.O. What we need is a place where you're known, but Harry isn't. Any place where you drop in regular for beers?”
