Ed Lacy - Dead End
I figured she went for me because I was young while most of her customers were old clowns. I got along fine with Judy. She was a shrewd babe and smart; had once worked as a physical therapist, or something like that, in a hospital. She never went in for dirty talk, only drank now and then and could handle her liquor. She had books on physical culture, and actually worked out three times a week with a light bar bell. Sometimes we went night-clubbing, and that cost me a bundle. I'm not much of a dancer, but Judy loved it. What she enjoyed most of all was when we went to some hotel pool for a swim. She also liked to have me strike a pose, like a strong man, and she would talk about my “muscular definition.”
There was another reason she went for me. She didn't have a pimp and had a deathly fear of strange men. There's a type of jerk, probably a queer of sorts, usually in his twenties, who, if he happens to find a girl selling it, thinks that makes her open season. They like to slap the girl around, don't hesitate to maim 'em.
Once she phoned me at the squad room that a guy was calling from downstairs, making a pest of himself. Being Judy's customers were a select group, she rarely had that sort of trouble, but this joker claimed he was a friend of one of her regulars. I told her to phone the guy at once and check; I didn't want to get into a jam by beating up some society slob. She phoned me back that the guy indignantly denied he had ever given her name out.
I knew the doorman had to be on her pay-off list, so I parked outside and told him to give me the nod if the character returned. About an hour later a big guy, looking like a college football guard, walked in and the doorman gave me the sign. I waited until he came out again, started walking toward the park. I didn't want to make a fuss in the lobby. I caught up with the guy; he was really a big kid of about nineteen or twenty, with wide shoulders, chain-store clothes, and sort of a freshly scrubbed face. Flashing my badge, I told him, “You've been making a pest of yourself back at that apartment house.”
I flashed my tin fast, so maybe he thought it was a gag, or I was some kind of private operator. Or he might have been going for rough. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he said, walking away.
He had a lot of inches and at least twenty pounds on me. I grabbed his shoulder, spun him around. “Stop annoying the lady, punk.”
“What lady?” He lingered on the word “lady.”
“Buster, you want me to run you in?”
“What's this, the police protecting a call girl?”
“I don't know anything about any call girl. And neither do you. A big mouth like yours can wind up on the wrong end of a libel suit. What's your name?”
“Are you arresting me?”
“I'm a police officer asking you to identify yourself.”
He hesitated. The courts of our city have ruled a person doesn't have to give identification unless caught in a suspicious act. But few people know that. He finally took out his wallet. I took down his name and address—relieved it was an average address. I told him, “If I get another complaint, I'll come and get you. Now get the hell out of here.”
The thing was, I had an itch to tangle with him. I don't know why. Maybe I thought it would impress Judy, maybe I didn't like his being bigger and better built than me. Most of these big muscle boys are clumsy with their hands. His face didn't have a mark, so I was fairly certain he wasn't a pug.
He put his wallet back, started to move away. That would have been the end of it, but he had to turn and sneer, “She got a police pimp?”
I stepped in, fooling with my hands, kicked him on the shin as he threw a wild right. That swinging like a gate was the tip-off. I moved in and to my right, smacked him on the eye, cutting the skin under it. He stood still for a second, fear coming across his face, and I set myself, belted him hard as I could in the belly. He sat down fast staring up at me stupidly, some blood on his baby-skin face.
A couple people stopped to look. A beat cop came on the run, an old cop. I showed him my badge, said, “This dummy thinks the police are pimps.”
The cop rapped him across the back of his shoulders with his night stick as he asked me, “Shall I run him in? Or you want to take him in the park for some exercise?”
I glanced at the people watching us. So did the cop. I told him, “He's not worth working up a sweat. Merely a would-be tough punk.” I put my foot to the jerk's rear. “Get on your feet and scram.”
He stood up, his face full of panic, his bloody eye already puffing. As he walked away the cop gave him a hell of a whack across his can with his club, and the guy ran into the street, hailed a cab. The hackie didn't want to carry him, but I came up, showed my badge, said, “It's all right. He's had a little accident. This is a bad neighborhood for him.”
After telling the cop it wasn't worth making a report on, I circled the block and phoned Judy. She wasn't busy, so I went up, gave her the jerk's name. Several days later she told me he was the brother of some big shot's secretary. Judy bawled out the executive for running his mouth, and he promptly fired the secretary, gave Judy a diamond pin.
The odd thing was, after a few weeks I knew Judy wasn't really passionate. I had a creepy feeling she didn't really go for me. Nothing happened or was said; I simply had this hunch. For a time I tried staying away, but I couldn't stand it. I decided I had to get her something—a mink. You didn't make a dent in a girl like Judy with candy or flowers. It couldn't be a hot coat either, had to come from one of the best shops. Of course I didn't have anything like that kind of money—then—so I kept urging Doc to get us more palm money, but something big. I wouldn't tell him why I needed the money, and not only didn't we know where there was any big money to be had, but Doc warned me that sort of talk and thinking would get us bagged.
I kept figuring how I could get up a few grand, worrying about Judy. Sometimes I thought I was all wet. I knew Judy wasn't stepping out with anybody but me. She seemed happy when we went dancing, or swimming, or to the fights. And at other times I couldn't escape the feeling she was bored with me. I was acting so confused Doc kidded me about being lovesick. With all his smartness he could be a bag of corn, too.
Around February Judy flew down to Miami for two weeks. It was both a vacation and business trip, since several of her best customers were in Florida getting the sun.
The first week she was gone I was jittery. We were working out of a precinct squad, for a few weeks, and I was still on this mink kick. The cushion was nothing, or small time. I didn't like the squad and I missed Judy. When Doc asked what was eating me, and I told him, he said, “We'll be off this squad and on special assignment in a few weeks. As for Judy, why don't you fly down to see her on your off days?”
“That's an idea,” I said, wondering why I'd never thought of going to Miami. “I'll phone her first.”
“Just go down. She'll be glad to see you.”
We had a change of tours coming up, and a fifty-six-hour swing, so I long-distanced her the next day, told her how nuts I was, and she said to fly down for the night.
It was great. The plane was first-class and Judy was living in a lush couple of rooms that seemed a movie set. I gave her a fifty-dollar bottle of perfume and she was happy to see me. Judy looked terrific, nicely tanned except in a few places—all very sexy. We had a good afternoon on the beach and I felt like a wheel. But I got too much sun and was unable to go out that night. We had supper in her rooms, then I sent down for a bottle and we started to tie one on.
One of the things I liked about Judy was that she never got sloppy drunk. But now the stuff seemed to get to her. After we had exhausted all the small talk, she sat on the edge of a big chair, staring at me, listening to some radio jazz. I was stretched out on the bed, fanning my furious-red skin. I studied the creamy white of her trim breasts against her tan, thought what a perfect body she had. My skin was so sore I would have screamed if she'd touched me. I said, “Come over here.” No.
“You were a nurse, or some damn thing; can't you do something for my burn?”
“Yes.”
She took a tube of oil from the bathroom, began spreading it on my skin. It was wonderful; the oil was cool and her fingers so gentle. Suddenly she did something to a muscle in my shoulder that sent such a sharp pain through my whole body I sat up gasping. It felt like a cramp and I punched the air a few times to get rid of the knotty feeling. My back was to her as I said, “What happened there?”
She gave out with a drunken laugh. “See, muscles, I'm good with my hands, too.”
I turned on the bed to face her. “You...? What's the idea? That hurt.”
“I know. I wanted it to hurt.”
“Why? You must be crocked to—”
“I'm very sober. You couldn't leave me alone, even down here!”
“What are you talking about? You said you wanted me to—”
“Wanted you? Bucky, you scare me crazy!” Her voice was high with hate. Her eyes made me look away.
“Scare you? Why?”
“You're a cop, that's why! A cop that shakes you down will shoot you down!”
“How can you talk like that? I never took a cent from you.”
“No? What do you call seeing me for free?”
I spun off the bed fast, my burnt knees almost making me fall. Or maybe I was sick enough to be dizzy. Judy backed away from me—seemed to shrink into a corner of the room. She moaned, “I know you're going to beat the slop out of me. Well, I don't care—it was worth saying it!”
I dressed in seconds. She was still crouched in the corner, her hands raised before her face and breasts like a helpless pug on the ropes. Opening the door, I told her, “You must be out of your living mind. You should damn well know I'd never hit you, Judy.”
The last I saw of her she had dropped her hands, her mouth slack with astonishment. All the naked tan and white skin didn't seem pretty nor exciting. It added up to an icy pile of nothing.
My luck wasn't all bad; I was able to get a plane back that night. I went home to change my clothes, oil my skin. I told Elma I'd gone south to pick up a fugitive. I spent the rest of the day walking around town, trying to understand it, my miserable burn not letting me forget things. By supper I was beat enough to get a sound night's sleep.
The next day, as Doc and I were lunching at the zoo outdoor cafeteria, I still felt crummy. Doc was in fine talking form and off on another of his favorite subjects—that a good heavyweight could flatten a gorilla. The gorillas must have had something for Doc; he spent plenty of time staring at the two they had in the zoo, seriously studying them—low-rating them. Along about the second cup of coffee Doc got around to Judy and my lobster-red face. I told him what had happened, how glad I was now that I hadn't been able to buy her a mink. Talking about it made me feel much better.
Doc said sadly, “It's a shame. The way you hit it off with her. I considered you the ideal couple, the—”
“You told me—several times: Punch and Judy. So the devil with her.”
“Seriously, Bucky, she's a—A mink!” He suddenly roared with laughter; laughed like a kid. Then, as he sailed a hunk of toast at a pigeon on the railing, he said, “So that accounts for your itchy palms recently. Bucky, you fool, don't you know all whores are frigid fakes? They never give you the real thing. Although I'll grant you Judy can certainly put on a first-rate imitation. But, son—even the real thing is never worth a mink!”
8—
I sat up with a start. Doc was bending over me, gently shaking me awake. He said, “Let's go, Bucky. It's time.”
Up close now, Doc looked awful. The stubble on his face had patches of gray-white and his breath stunk. “Okay. In a second.” I yawned and stretched out on the dirty cot again.
“I'll get the hair dye ready,” Doc said, opening the false wall and leaving the room.
I closed my eyes for a moment to blot out the light bulb, the cracked walls. Lucky Judy. Beautiful, cold Judy. If she hadn't told me off, would we still be together? Would she be dead now? It seemed she was right: A cop that shakes you down will shoot you down. Betty was dead. And Doc was so wrong—Betty was a real fine kid. Gunning Molly and the thin guy didn't matter, but Betty... Sometimes I thought we were in love. Real, storybook love. Even wondered what I was going to do about it. Well, that was sure taken care of.
Maybe I wasn't half the detective Doc was, but I knew enough not to believe in coincidences, and the whole deal with Betty seemed like a setup. Of course, I had nothing definite to go on; still, it was one of the things needling the back of my brain.
I opened my eyes and glanced at the suitcases. Three bags and three dead people. The new arithmetic: How many corpses equal a million bucks?
I heard Doc returning and watched him through almost-closed eyes. He stopped a foot or two away from my cot, holding a pot of something in his hand, and a big wad of cotton. He grinned, then shook his head, touched my shoulder. “Get up, Bucky boy. We'll have plenty of time for sleep.”
I sat up, poked a finger in his lean gut as I yawned again to cover my nervousness. “Sure, I know; an army can't fight on an empty stomach. Who said that, Doc?”
“Who cares? Let's get working on your hair first,” Doc said, putting the pot on the chair and taking my razor from his pocket. “Bucky the blond. I imagine Betty would be real frantic for you as a blond.”
“Would she?” I asked, seeing her dead eyes starting up at me again. How easily I could remember when those same cold eyes had been soft with pleasure every time I walked into the apartment. Had I let her down? I don't know, it wasn't the money: I hadn't known about taking the money then or... I jumped to my feet. “Let's get on with this.”
