Ed Lacy - Lead With Your Left
“I didn't even say I was here as a police officer. You pulled a badge first. Matter of fact I'm off duty. Let's say I'm here, at the moment, as a citizen who is a friend of Miss Henderson.”
Tasman suddenly spoke up, grunted, “Don't you know she's a Spick, her real name is Hondura?”
“Lardy, I don't like my friends called Spicks. And for a girl you claim you never saw before you certainly know a lot about her.” I stood up. “Let's stop the chatter. This isn't an official visit, although Miss Henderson has made a complaint with the precinct. If you annoy her once more I'll return and run you both in for disorderly conduct and/or jostling—let a judge determine the law.”
“The law states—” Flatts began. “You've already hit a cop.”
“In self-defense,” Flatts chimed in fast. “And I have a witness.”
“Even in self-defense it might not be healthy for you and your witness around the precinct house. I'm giving it to you straight: Stick to your phone taps and the rest of your 'legitimate' crap. Lay off Miss Henderson or I'll scramble your features.” I started for the door.
“Are you threatening me, Wintino?” Flatts called out. “Yeah. I'm telling you both to stop it or I'll work you over.”
Flatts cupped one ear. “What did you say?” “That I'll beat the slop out of you if you keep annoying Miss Henderson. Did you hear that or do you want a free sample?”
I turned toward him and he flicked his hand at the desk, must have turned on a switch, that cold smile engraved on his wise-guy face. The office was suddenly filled with a playback of our conversation. I was astonished at how shrill my voice sounded. I said loudly, above the recording, “It still goes. You'll be listening to that in a hospital!”
I headed for the door again as Flatts cut the playback, said, “I trust you have strong arches, Wintino.”
Tasman got to his feet as I passed him. I put my open hand against his big face and pushed, sending him back into his chair. I told him, “Don't bother to get up,” and walked out.
I was so angry I couldn't think straight—falling for a clumsy feint like that right hand. It wasn't two yet so I took the subway down to the moldy-domed monstrosity they call Headquarters Building, went up to Criminal Identification and got a yellow sheet on Sal Kahn. He didn't have much of a record. Collared in a raid on a dice joint in '26 and spent two months on Rikers Island. He'd been pinched once for simple assault, charge dismissed for lack of evidence. In '29 he'd been picked up as the owner of a speedboat riddled during a rumrunning chase up the Hudson, but never came up for trial. Of course the last rap was the shooting in 1930.
I walked along Centre Market Place, the narrow block behind Headquarters, window-shopped the gunsmith and police tailor stores in the ground floor of the tenements. Then just to say I'd been there, I went across the street to have coffee and a sandwich in Flanagan's, where the brass eats. There was a beefy-acting lieutenant who'd given us lectures on narcotics at Detective Training School sitting by himself. He motioned for me to come over. I was surprised he remembered my name—I couldn't think of his.
We chewed the fat for a while. I asked what was new on Wales and he said far as he knew nothing, they hadn't been able to pick up a single decent lead or even a thin motive. I asked if he'd ever heard of Data, Inc. and he hadn't. I told him a little about the run-in I had with them, but didn't mention hitting them.
He took a toothpick from his vest pocket and as he jabbed at his teeth he said, “Got to be careful with these birds, Dave. In their line they need pull, and not only around City Hall, but up in Albany and in Washington. You see, there isn't much work in the private snoop racket, so the ones that are able to get something going have to be able to supply all kinds of inside information or close shop. That means they must have connections. But you don't have to worry, the last thing these guys want is publicity. Be different if you belted the guy, but from what you tell me he's bluffing you. What you got there, a boil on your cheek?”
When I left Flanagan's I thought about visiting Uncle Frank, asking him to talk to his “rabbi,” as the boys called the club leaders—and I've never been able to figure if the slang name has an anti-Semitic whack or not. But I wasn't in any mood to argue with Frank about his job offer. In fact I didn't know what to do with myself: this Flatts guy made me restless—I had a feeling he might be able to put me back in uniform. My big mouth and that tape recording. Wales said I talked too much.
Wales—I had started out in the morning like a ball of fire and that had petered out. His watching the garage all those years had to mean something but I was stopped. Now if I could really shakedown his room, talk to everybody in the rooming house, I might come up with a lead. Fat chance of downtown letting me stick my nose in. Hell, maybe they hadn't even gone through Owens' house yet. Nuts, who was I to tell Central Bureau how to work? I'd really be acting like a kid.
I took the subway uptown and rang Rose's bell. After giving me the eye through the door peeper she let me in She was wearing a kind of purple cotton slack outfit that could have passed for pajamas. As always she gave me the feeling of a firecracker waiting for a match. We both sat on the couch and she asked if I'd seen what had happened and I told her about following the guy to Data, Inc., and that I thought she wouldn't be bothered any more. The couch was comfortable and I thought it was nice of Rose to dress for me, wear this faint perfume. And suddenly I felt very tired, all that silly roadwork, then rushing around Brooklyn, then running downtown. My head was tired from worrying so much, about Wales and about Mary and now about my job. I wanted to stop thinking for a while.
Rose fingered the cut on my cheek, her hands light and soothing as she washed it with some stuff. I told her not to bother and I was so comfortable I damn near dozed off. She told me, “Don't ever take chances like that again. You look so small, although I imagine you're tough enough to take care of yourself.”
“Don't worry, I can take care of myself.”
“I can't tell you how much I appreciate this. I don't know why I called you at home. But I was so angry and when they said you weren't at the police station, why I—”
“This is my day off,” I said, closing my eyes. Her perfume made Rose seem very close.
“Oh, I'm sorry. Why didn't you tell me? I never would have asked you to work.”
“Doesn't matter, I was stewing around the house anyway, wanted to get out,” I said, half-aloud. “Getting so I can't stand our place. My wife is always hitting on me. She doesn't like my being a cop.”
“She must be afraid you'll get hurt.”
“Guess that's part of it. But she doesn't like the hours, the pay, the kind of work. She wants me to have some hot-air office job. What she doesn't understand is my job has a kind of purpose and value no other job has. Even the cop just standing on the corner is doing something, a symbol, a warning. But maybe she's right, it hasn't a big future. She still thinks if you work hard you get ahead, make the big buck.”
Rose laughed. “And as the old joke goes, marry the boss's daughter.”
I tried to nod, but it was too much effort. “In my case I've already married the boss's niece. Her uncle has some crummy job for me in his joint. The thing is, Mary and me, we can't even talk about it without clawing. I don't know...” I kept mumbling on and on, sitting there with my head against the wall in a daydream, telling Rose about how I met Mary, her family, and all the rest of it. Must have been something I'd wanted to get off my chest, I talked and talked.
The next thing I knew she was shaking me gently. I sat up and opened my eyes. She was giving me the big eyes, an almost sad smile on her cute face. “Would you like something to drink?”
I shook my head and yawned, reached up to straighten my hair. “Heat must have me. Have I been dozing long?” My coat was wrinkled.
“About ten minutes. I have some beer, or would you rather have orange juice?”
“Orange juice will do the trick. I feel like a slob, spilling my troubles all over you.”
She went to her tiny refrigerator and poured two glasses of juice, squeezed a lime in them. “I don't mind. As a writer I'm curious about such problems.... The truth is we all actually enjoy hearing the other person's troubles. That enjoyment is the root of all gossip. I wish I could help you, could give you advice, but I'm hardly the one.”
Handing me a glass she sat down again. I said, “I didn't mean to-talk about it. Slipped out.”
“I'm not married, never have been, yet I can't understand what you told me. I suppose I have naive and romantic ideas about marriage, but for me a husband and a wife should be a separate little world of their own. Nothing on the outside should be able to touch that world. I'm not that simple I don't know poverty can shatter anything, but aside from real poverty, I can't picture anything penetrating this inner world of understanding. But to start with it has to be two-sided, a complete sense of give and take.”
I drank most of the juice. It was cold and the lime hit me like a shot, woke me up. “I think I get what you mean. And at times I tell myself I am inconsiderate, but then so is she. All boils down to my job. Maybe she's right about it not being the best job in the world for me, maybe I would be a whiz-bang at something else. But still, it's my job, it's the only thing I know and I like it. That's what she can't understand: it's more than a job to me, it's something I like. Would you care if your husband was a cop?”
She shook her head and leaned against the wall, resting the juice glass on that fine curve of her belly. “I wouldn't like him to.”
“Why?”
She was looking at me through half-shut eyes as she said, “Let's not go into my reasons now. But that wouldn't matter. This private world of understanding I think of, it would have to be a world of small compromises too. In short, he has to be the only man I want and I must be the only woman he wants, and I truly mean want. For such prizes one must make concessions. No, I wouldn't want my husband to be a hunter of men, a walking club, but if that is what he honestly wants and feels, well... there's that wonderful saying about we all can't be in step and each of us must march to the music he hears.”
“What makes you think cops are walking clubs?” I asked, finishing the juice and getting up.
“Let's not talk about that, we'll just get into an argument. I didn't mean it as anything personal—and I hate that stupid phrase. But to a colonial the police usually are...” She stood up and gave me the smile. “I don't want to argue with you. It would be rude; you've been so very nice to me—and nice is another bland word. But I honestly do appreciate all you've done for me.”
“I told those Data jerks I was acting as a friend not as a cop. That's for true—and don't think I'm making a pass—we are friends,” I said, thinking how much I'd like to make a pass at her.
“Thank you. All peoples should be friends and—” “All peoples is a crowd, I want to be your friend.” “I hope we will always be friends, truly. Only... I should warn you... life has been simple for you, but for me, raised in a colony, even though I was fortunate enough to be island-rich, my father was the editor of an island newspaper, I am full of many frustrations and deep hatreds you cannot understand or... God, don't let me get started on that. And not with you. You have been wonderful. Yes, we can be friends.”
“Okay. And my first friendly act will be to shove off. I'll keep in touch, and if you have any more trouble, phone me at once.”
“All right. And thank you again—my friend.” We shook hands at the door. Downstairs I started walking toward the precinct house. I wanted to get the latest dope on Wales, tell Reed the stuff I'd dug up in Brooklyn. I'd slipped Rose this big speech about what a swell deal it was being a cop—and if these Data clowns had pull I could be on my way out as of now. Bet Mary would love it if I had to come to Uncle Frank. Forget all that.... Rose, a sweet bundle of fire, living by herself, maybe waiting for a— “Hey, Junior.”
I turned to see a squad car at the curb, Landon and Wilson grinning at me. I didn't realize it was after four already. Walking over I asked, “What's the action?”
“Nothing too much. Crazy storekeeper phoned in he'd been stuck with a couple of queer ones. Stupid bastard never saw one of the old-fashioned, large-size dollar bills before. Somebody must have found an old sock treasure. What happened to your face?”
“Nicked myself while shaving. Anything on Wales new?”
Landon shook his head. “What you shave with, a broken bottle?”
“You mean there's another way to shave? What's on Wales?”
“Nothing new that I've heard of. Seems to be one of those tough ones, no witnesses, just a lot of nothing. Reed's been calling your house.”
Wilson said, “I did hear something—the Brooklyn cops don't think you're old enough to shave.”
“Must be tough on this heap having to ride your dead weight around.” I turned to Landon. “Know what Reed wants?”
“Something to do with Mrs. Owens. We'll drive you to the precinct.”
I wasn't going to face, any more ribbing on my own time. “I'll phone him, if he's still there.”
“He's there,” Landon said, giving Wilson the nod to drive on and the big jerk had to call out as a parting shot, “Next time you want to go to Brooklyn, let me know and I'll go along to vouch for your age.”
I phoned Reed from a drugstore, told him, “This is Dave Wintino, Lieutenant. Landon says you've been calling my house. Sorry I wasn't there. I've been out—”
“What's to be sorry about? You're off duty, you can be any place you want. Mrs. Owens called, said she wants you to call her.”
“Me?”
“That's what she said. Must be something personal. Dave, if you speak to her, don't say anything about Wales' gun having killed her husband. Central Office Bureau hasn't let that out yet. Landon said he told you.”
“I understand. Lieutenant, on the Owens-Wales murders, I was out in Brooklyn and—”
“I know you were out in Brooklyn,'“ Reed said, and I could feel the grin on his face.
“The point is, I think if we dig into the Sal Kahn murder rap, we'll find that—”
“Dave,” Reed cut in, his voice tired, “Central has the best men on the force, they say so themselves. This is their wagon and they'll know how to pull it, without any free advice.”
