Ed Lacy - Breathe No More My Lady
“You mean he offered to bribe you?”
“Naw. I never gave him a chance to. I pinned him one-two-three. Bastards like him operate like amateurs, think they can fool a professional investigator.”
“What does that mean?” he mouthed 'investigator' as if it was a piece of cake he was tasting.
All that fat settled back in the chair. “What I was telling you about it being a business. The guy that's been doing it for years knows the ropes; the newcomer don't know his ass from his elbow. See, I been a cop for a lot of years, most of them a big city cop. Sonofabitch like Anthony, all this police crap he's been writing, guess he figured himself for a sharp cop. But it boils down to being a business. Like this: you got a store and the store across the street runs a sale on coffee. Well, what the hell, it's like a rule, then you got to run a sale, too. Ain't no doubt about it. They got rules in my business, too. When a guy threatens to kill somebody, in this case his wife, and a couple hours later she's dead—and I don't care if they say a friggin flying saucer dropped out of the sky on her —I know damn well this guy killed his wife! That's what I told Anthony, told him this wasn't no crappy book, that I knew he'd done it and was there to bag 'im. Maybe in detective stories it ain't so, but in this business 99% of the time a suspect is guilty. Or he wouldn't be a suspect. Follow me?”
I had a time keeping a straight face. “The law states a man is innocent until proven...?” I began.
“The law my ass,” Kolcicki cut in flatly. “I know the law. It's my job to enforce it. Look, if a car is stolen and then I come upon you sitting in it, or even leaning against it— that's enough for me. I bag you. Sure, this big bastard Anthony started giving me the bunko about his wife having an accident, and all that. You know all I said?”
I shook my head.
“Every time he tried giving me the sauce I just said, 'Bull.' That's all, one word. It done the trick.”
He waited for me to say anything. I didn't say a word. Kolcicki suddenly didn't seem comical, just as a moron behind a wheel or a gun ceases to be funny. If anything, he somehow seemed evil.
“That works when you're interrogating certain kind of jokers. He got all flustered after I told him that a couple times, kept changing his story. Then he didn't talk and I says, 'Anthony, you're a big writer, why don't you stop handing me this baby shit?' So he looks kind of sick for a second, then he says, 'I suppose you're right. Yes, I'll tell you how it really happened.' So I listened and since he was sitting in front of a typewriter, I told him to say it again and I typed it up. He read it and signed it. Easy, huh?”
“Sounds that way.”
“That's from years of knowing my business.”
“Then you believe he hit his wife and she fell against the side of the boat... as he confessed?”
“Of course, I believe it. I just told you how he confessed. What's there not to believe?”
I wanted to ask if he thought Matt was guilty but it would have sounded silly. Perhaps he read my mind, for he sucked on the cigar for a long second, said, “Mister, he was arrested, wasn't he? That means he's guilty. Sure, he's still got to stand trial. But they'll find him guilty. Once a bastard gets himself bagged, he's sure as hell guilty.”
I wondered if everybody who was arrested became a bastard in Kolcicki's tiny mind. I stood up. “Thanks for your time.”
“Think nothing of it, part of my job. Mister, I can tell my saying he's guilty if he's arrested didn't set with you. Maybe you think I'm a hick cop only out to get a conviction. Part of that is right, I am out to get a conviction. But I don't collar nobody unless I'm sure. Why I say, once he's bagged, he's guilty. I ain't perfect, maybe I make a mistake now and then, but in this business when you find 99% of suspects turn out guilty, you're batting pretty goddamn good. And it ain't only me. Take your big corporations, they think the same way.”
My face must have been an absolute blank. He gave me a thick grin as he added, “That's a fact. You ever see an employment questionnaire for a big company?”
“Not recently.”
“Look one over. Know what they ask? Was you ever arrested? Get it? They don't ask if you were found guilty or innocent, just if you were ever collared. Well, a big company knows all the business rules, of course, and they use the same rule I do—because it is a rule—if you're arrested you're guilty. Any business goes by rules. Like, you can be pretty damn certain the last person to see the victim killed 'im. I'm not kidding, if I threatened to kill you and tonight you was found dead, I'd arrest myself. Get what I mean? If you write me up, don't make me out no friggin wonderman, but just an investigator who knows his business, goes by the rules. Don't worry, that confession will stand up in court Must have been fifty photographers taking his picture the same night I brought him in—and not a mark on the smart bastard, either. He just saw I was on to him.” He raised his arms to his head and yawned—even his teeth were stubby. “Is there any chance of my seeing Anthony?”
“How long you been a reporter, bud? Ought to know you can't see no prisoner without a special okay.”
I thanked him again and walked out—fast. I headed for New York and it took a long time for the sun to warm me up.
Joel Hunter
I was back in New York before one, feeling absolutely wretched. I still had no idea as to what I should do about Wilma, yet I had the feeling I should be doing something. I dropped into the apartment to change my suit and shave. The apartment gave me an acute guilt feeling, and I found myself doing such dopey things as suddenly trying to decide where I'd put the crib.
I made a few calls. Miss Park said she had received my card and how did I like Montauk? There wasn't anything happening at the office. Frank had returned the galley proofs that morning. Marty Kelly asked me to phone. I told Miss Park I'd be in touch and phoned Kelly, who wanted me to okay space in a couple of literary quarterlies for one of our books. Marty looked like a woman chaser, and I was tempted to ask him for the name of a doctor but didn't.
Phoning the school, I talked to this Edith, the teacher who had the house, and told her I wanted to buy it. “Have you been up to see it?”
“No, but... you know Michele had to go to Paris, her folks are ill, and I want to give it to her as a surprise when she returns.”
“If you want to drive up, I can get the keys over to you and—”
“Michele saw it. And I'm pretty busy.”
“As you wish. I think it's a good house. I don't know about deeds and titles and the rest. Suppose I phone my lawyer and have him call you to settle the details?”
“That will be fine. I'll be is the office tomorrow. Let me send you a check as a binder.”
“Oh, that won't be necessary, Mr. Connor. It's yours.”
After I hung up I mixed some tobacco and finally told myself to stop stalling: I phoned Wilma. A deep man's voice answered, said she was out. “This is Joel Hunter. Who's calling?”
“Norman Connor. I merely wanted to—”
“Say now, this is something. I phoned your office less than an hour ago, and they said you were out of town. I'm ready to talk to you, Mr. Connor.”
The last person I wanted to talk with was Joel Hunter, but I had to ask, “When are you free?”
“My hours are my own. Name the time.”
“Well... eh... how about now?”
“Splendid.”
“I'll be over in a half hour.” I felt lousy: facing the cuckolded husband, or whatever the expression—I had never had cause to use it before. Still, I did want to see what Joel was like. Wilma might be in later and... what the devil would I say to her?
As I left the house I phoned Jackson Clair. His secretary told me I could see him at four. The whole damn ad campaign seemed so unimportant now.
I don't know what I expected but Joel Hunter didn't fill the picture. He opened the door wearing narrow, black dungarees, brushed-ivory loafers and a deep blue Italian pull-over. His white hair was crew-cut so short it seemed etched on his dome. He wore thick, black-framed glasses and his face was a furious pink, but his eyes said he wasn't an albino. Hunter was built like an actor; small, narrow shoulders, his face and head the largest part of him. He reminded me of the young men taking over the midtown bars on Second and Third avenues: it takes one a little time to decide if they are fags or not—if that matters.
We shook hands hard and for some reason I felt relieved upon seeing him. Whatever Wilma and I decided to do, well, we wouldn't have to bother consulting Joel.
I followed him down the narrow hall of an old fashioned apartment with all the small rooms opening on the hallway. The walls had a few colorful travel posters and bullfight signs on them. I passed one room painted an unbelievable deep purple, had a fast glimpse of an old fashioned stuffed couch and a small hi-fi on a table. The living room had the proper foam-rubber, wrought-iron furniture, an interesting wall rug and several masks on the walls. As we sat down he asked if I wanted a shot and I said it was too early, which seemed to amuse Joel. He certainly had a deep voice for such a slight frame. I wanted to get the conversation around to Wilma, not sure what I'd ask, but felt it would be a jerky thing to do.
He smiled, said, “Sorry I missed you the other day. I suppose Wilma has told you about my little journeys out of time.”
“I think she mentioned it.”
“It makes her furious because it's the sort of thing one has to do alone. Really, it's quite good for me. You'd be astonished at the mood, the heady drunk, one can get into by listening all day to Peggy Lee or Billy. How lost you get in Artie Shaw, the Duke... the lift it can give you. After a day or two you come out completely refreshed.”
“Sounds interesting,” I said, thinking I could sure use something like that myself.
“Now, Norman—you don't mind my calling you that? I think last names are ridiculous.”
“I don't mind, Joel.”
“Of course, Wilma has told me what you want. I'd like to help Matt but I must warn you, I can't get any more involved than I am. You know about such things, will this publicity hurt my books?”
“I don't see how.”
“Well, a killing and a radical professor aren't the best notices for a writer of juveniles.”
“I imagine your name will be lost in the shuffle. After all, you were only a guest.”
“I hope to God you're right. I only write these lousy kid books to get some security and now this has to come along. It upset me frightfully. But you're not here to talk about my troubles. Wilma said you want to get the background of the thing. Fire away.”
For some reason Joel, the awful apartment, even hearing Wilma's name, depressed the hell out of me. I kept wondering how I'd ever got mixed up in all this. “Well, Norman?”
“Sorry, I've been driving all morning—I was out to Riverside—and I'm a little pooped. Well... eh... just tell me anything you want about Matt. How long have you known Matt and Francine?”
“Four or five years. Poor Fran, I still expect to wake up and be happy that it's only a nightmare, that it isn't real.”
“Do you think he murdered her?”
Joel gave me a slightly pop-eyed stare. “Lord, man, he's confessed it! Oh, oh, you mean whether it's murder or manslaughter. Wilma said you asked her that, too. I'll tell you this, Matt had a bitch of a temper and often he was very crude. I've seen him blow his nose—into his hand—then rub all that into the hair on his chest. Or urinate in a sink. What I'm trying to say, that type of man is capable of anything.”
“Do you think he planned to kill Francine?”
“How could I possibly know that?”
“I want your opinion—off the record.”
“I really can't say. There's no doubt he did it—Lord, you should have seen the look on his face when he threatened her. The way he grabbed her arm—why, he could have broken it off. I think it was an accident, I mean, he lost hit temper and hit her. But then, why did he trick me with the time bit? I don't know what to say. You put me in a difficult position, they were both my friends. Matt has done a lot for me, a great deal, indeed.”
“What sort of help?”
“When I was practically a beginner in this racket—and Lord knows I still am—Matt showed me the ropes. Although you're in the publishing end, I doubt if you realize the insecurity writers face. Frankly, I'm constantly amazed I make a modest living at it. It isn't like any other profession—actually we're gamblers. We live by our wits. It's frightening. Of course, I've been writing for a number of years, but up till five years ago it was an avocation with me—I was the manager of a gift shop. A weekend writer, publishing in the 'little magazines,' working on the novel. Did you ever read my first book, Little Boy Little?”
“I'm afraid not.” Should I have it out with Wilma, see what she wanted to do? Or would I be jumping the gun—she could hardly know she was pregnant, it was too soon.
He laughed, showing well-kept teeth. “Very few people have. I had this naive idea that when the book was published it would make me. It did—it damn near made me a bum. Sold a big fat 1100 copies. All I got out of it was the $500 advance—for three years' work. Oh, it received a nice press. It was a fragile story of a boy's growing up, fighting the silver cord stuff. But as Matt says, good reviews and a token will get you into the subway.” He grinned.
I smiled politely. The tension left me. I was being an ass. If it was too soon for Wilma to know if she was knocked-up, hunch or no hunch, why should I talk about it? Even be so damn sure?
Joel said, “You must be wondering where Matt fits into all this. Wilma said you're after background and I'm trying to show how I fitted into Matt's. Or vice versa. Now there's a good title—vice versa. Excuse my horsing around, Norman, but I'm feeling rather gay this morning. Things are working out, in a personal way, that is. Now, where was I?”
“You had a book out,” I said, deciding he wasn't a queer— for no reason—and beginning to be a little bored with his chatter.
“Yes, yes. On the strength of a book being published, I gave up my job, became a full-time writer. I took the full plunge—Wilma and I were married at the same time. I soon found out what a crazy business writing is—as a business. A merchant knows his stock, his worth. A man on a salary can put a little aside each payday, make plans. With a writer, every time he opens his mailbox it's like going to the pari-mutuel window; you can't plan on a damn thing.”
“What happened, you had to return to the gift shop?” Joel rubbed his slim hands together, as if he was cold. “Indeed not. I was a flash in the pan. One of the big women's slick mags took a chapter of my book, and I landed two shorts with another slick. In the space of two weeks I'd made nearly $2000. You know how you start thinking, a thousand a week, fifty grand a year. Wilma and I moved into a new apartment—we still have a few of the furnishings around here—and I settled down to write more shorts like mad. I think, even now, they were good, yet I've never sold another story for more than a hundred dollars since. Crazy business, no?”
