Ed Lacy - Lead With Your Left
I let him work me over with his eyes, then he washed the food down with the cold coffee, tossed the container in the wastebasket, spilling some on the gray rug. He hid his mouth with a pudgy hand as he belched. “Goddamn coffee, worse than the cigarette habit, kills a man's stomach.” He brushed crumbs from his mustache, said, “You're just a kid with a badge.” His voice wasn't nasty, just weary.
“Which would you rather see, my birth certificate or my badge?”
“Aren't you overdoing things, Mr. Wintino?” he asked, putting on his glasses. They were powerful lenses and made his eyes look large and soft, what they say a cow's eyes look like.
“I don't know, what am I overdoing?”
“I commend your thoroughness in tracing me, but as the Data men told you yesterday, we haven't broken any laws and the whole business of this silly girl writing a—”
“I'm not here about that,” I cut in, surprised the Data lads yelled to a client. “I'm here to ask about a $4000.75 check you made out to a Francis Parker on April 2.”
The eyes got even bigger behind the glasses. The only sound in the office was the slight squeak of his chair as he rocked. I like catching a guy off balance, watching him rolling a mental log. But when he asked, “And why is the Police Department interested in that?” his voice was almost asleep. He fumbled in a desk drawer, took out a large pipe and a pouch, packed the pipe.
“You tell me, Mr. Wren,” I told him, trying to sound just as casual. “I traced the check to you through a bank account under the phony name of Francis Parker. His picture has been in the papers—you certainly know that Parker is a retired cop who was murdered a few days ago.”
Wren puffed on his pipe and nodded. The tobacco had a nutty smell that wasn't bad at all. He said, “I barely glance at the papers but I did see a minor headline about a shooting. Still, exactly why are you here, why is a business check of mine official police business?”
“I'm doing this on my own time, Mr. Wren, so I would appreciate if you'd stop fencing. An ex-cop is murdered, we find four thousand in cash in his house and a bankbook. You gave the dead man the four grand. You read about the killing. Why haven't you come forward to tell us about the money, the phony name?”
“Because I had hired this ex-cop to do some work for me. He did it and I paid him. That was some six or seven weeks ago. I still fail to see how that is any concern of the police.”
“What sort of work did he do for you?”
Wren lit his pipe again before he said, “Detective work. We'd heard rumors of Miss Henderson's article and we wanted to learn who the author was, where she lived, various details. Frankly at that stage we didn't even want a known private agency on the case. One night I met this retired policeman in a bar, we got to talking over some beers. It occurred to me he was the man for our job. I hired him on the spot.”
“He didn't have a license for private work.”
Wren smiled. “That didn't seem to upset either of us.”
“And he found Miss Henderson for you?”
“Yes.”
“You paid him four grand for that? What the hell was the seventy-five cents for?”
Wren puffed hard on his pipe, said over the smoke, “I'm afraid the entire transaction ended on a sour note. Mr. Parker—he insisted he be called and paid under that name, to avoid taxes I suppose, although I never asked him—anyway, Mr. Parker located the writer within a few days. We had agreed upon payment of one thousand dollars plus modest expenses, if any. I then suggested to Mr. Parker he start—let's use the word harass—that he start harassing Miss Henderson. He refused. The truth is he turned about and bluntly threatened me with outright blackmail: he wanted four thousand dollars or he would sell his story to Miss Henderson and this lousy Weekly Spectator. I had no choice, I paid.” Wren slipped me a quick smile. “Mr. Parker was not without a sense of humor, he insisted seventy-five cents be added for 'expenses'—three subway fares and three phone calls. I am aware what I am telling you leaves me open to more blackmail, but I have confidence in your honest young face.”
“Cut the sarcasm. The word 'honest' has a hollow ring coming from you,” I said. I didn't know enough about Owens to figure him for blackmail or not. Maybe he saw this as the last chance to dig into the cracker barrel.
Wren stared at me, those large soft eyes behind the glasses twin pictures of pity. “Pretty strong language, young man.”
“Your clowns have been giving Miss Henderson a strong pushing around, a real bad time.”
“My handling of Miss Henderson may not have been entirely ethical but it wasn't dishonest. You should pay more attention to your choice of words. The young lady is fired with ideals and a chance to make a name for herself. An act is dishonest or 'wrong' only when it is something not being done by the majority. To put it clearer, wrong is perversion and a pervert is somebody out of step. However once he is in step, or the others are in step with him, it ceases to be perversion or wrong. Do you follow me?”
“Should I? What's all this talk add up to?”
“Simply that I take objection to your slur about my honesty. We're businessmen who—”
“Who Miss Henderson says are breaking the law.”
He shook his head. “That's her opinion. It's true that by... uh... monopolizing this particular item we will keep the price up, but at the same time we would be able to control the quality, keep that up too.”
“Okay, you're public benefactors. What has this to do with the check?”
“Don't be so brash, young man. I want you to see the whole picture, including the check. What we are doing is being done all the time and by the most respected people. To give you a broad example: there's a strict control on diamonds, the supply is kept down to keep prices pegged high. The whole world knows that. If you should discover new diamond mines, be in a position to undersell, and refuse to join the syndicate, they would ruin you. At the risk of sounding cynical let me remind you that most of the people in this syndicate have titles and are considered the height of respectability in their various countries.”
“Let's get back to the check.”
“This bears upon it indirectly,” he said slowly, as if he'd been waiting all day for a good listener. “I'm merely proving Miss Henderson is wrong, that what we are doing is neither criminal nor even wrong. Let me ask you this: suppose tomorrow you hit upon a new soft drink that sweeps the country. You can make this sugar water for a penny, market it for two cents and thus make a neat profit. However since you control it, if you find you can sell it for ten cents, make a 900 per cent profit, which would you do?”
“Sell it for a dime. Mr. Wren, all this talk is getting us away from Parker and why you didn't come to the police.”
“On the contrary, if I can make you understand that Miss Henderson is a crackpot, out to make her own type of fast dollar, then you can understand why I had to pay off Mr. Parker. Why I haven't gone to the police and don't want any publicity about the matter, if it can be helped. I had a business deal with a man, weeks later he is shot. That obviously had nothing to do with me. Once I paid off, I was done with the matter, I never saw him again.”
“There are three other concerns in this, do they all...?”
“I handled this myself.”
“Why?”
Wren lit his pipe again. “A good question. I met up with this former cop, I made the deal. When it turned sour I took full and sole responsibility. There's also the matter of pride. I didn't—and don't—want the others to know I'd been taken in.”
“So you shelled out four grand, just like that?”
“Not just like that,” he said, pointing his pipe at me. “This goes down as a business expense, taxes will absorb most of the loss. I got the information I wanted but I paid more than I expected. That's it in a nutshell.”
“If you report this as a tax loss, what about the phony name of Parker, which he was using to escape taxes?”
Wren shrugged. “I don't fool with taxes. If he wanted to, that was his business.”
“Where is this bar and when did you meet him?”
“See here, Detective Wintino, I resent this questioning, as though I was a suspect or something. You're making a mountain out of a mole hill.”
“I never said you were a suspect, and a dead man isn't a mole hill. I'm asking you these questions because it may lead to somebody, and so on, until we hit the right one.”
“Then I can be of little help. We first met at some bar on Sixth Avenue, I don't remember exactly. I'd dropped in for a quick beer and we started talking about some show we were watching on the TV. I can probably recognize the place if I pass it again. That was around the middle of March. After our first meeting, due to the nature of our business, we thought it best to meet on the street, usually at the corner of Fifty-fourth Street and... As you can see all this has nothing to do with any shooting and it would be darn embarrassing, to say the least, if it came to light. I certainly want to co-operate with the police but I don't wish to make an ass of myself, or to hurt my business. I expect intelligent co-operation from you. If I'm not involved don't drag me in.”
“That isn't up to me to decide.”
“I believe you said you're doing this on your own time. Same situation when you invaded the Data office. I don't know what you fancy yourself, but common sense has to be a factor in things too. I once had a minor business deal with a man later found dead. That's all there is to it. Period.”
“This isn't exactly my own time, a cop is on duty twenty-four hours. A retired cop has been killed; we're not leaving anything to chance.”
“Fine, I'm for you. You're a Very young man, Detective Wintino, and you must be very capable to have risen so high at your age. But as you grow older, get to be an old coot like me, you'll find there's one basic rule to life—live and let live. I've given you all I know. If this has any bearing on the case I'm glad I could be of help. But if it hasn't I don't want to be dragged through any unnecessary publicity, a headline orgy. Do I make myself clear?”
“I only have a few more questions. What address did Parker give you?”
“Don't recall he ever gave me one.”
“A phone number?”
“No. I see what you want—how did we get in touch with each other? He phoned me whenever he had anything. As I told you, the whole thing took a few days, and due to the type of work, it wasn't anything I shouted about or let my office staff in on.”
“Did he ever mention any other person, even while making small talk?” .
“No. Don't you think you've taken up enough of my time? I'm a busy man.” Wren knocked the ashes out of his pipe. “I've given you all the help I can. I'm not sure whether I'd repeat our conversation again, even to your superiors. As I believe the Data people told you, if you become a pest you'll be broken. Now wait, I'm not threatening you, but appealing to your common sense. I thought you were here on this silly Henderson matter and you start questioning me about a murder. I've told you all I know. Please don't put a knife in my business back as a reward.”
I stood up. “No need to worry if the department should call you in for further questioning, that doesn't mean the papers will get wind of it. As for Miss Henderson, just keep your dealings with her on a business level—hot on a goon level.”
Wren got to his feet. “I know when I'm licked. She can publish her damn yarn and the devil with it. We can get around that. Sorry if I sounded as if I was throwing my weight around a second ago, but you must understand my position. The publicity of an article can be handled, but a scandal, being even publicly questioned about a killing—my business would be ruined.” He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes. “I'm under a strain, this new wiring method Miss Henderson must have told you about. I've been going fifteen and sixteen hours a day. That's why I lost my temper before. Well, hope I've been of some help,” He held out his hand.
I shook it. “At least we know where Ed Owens got the four grand from.”
Wren's tan face went ashen, his eyes seemed to pop, get as large as if he had his glasses on. Then he began coughing as he bent over, kneading his belly with his stubby hands.
“What's the matter?” I asked, stepping back in case he was about to be sick. “Need a pill? Water?”
He shook his head and slowly straightened up, ran a crumpled handkerchief over his sweaty face. He whispered, “Excuse me. These quickie lunches—had a gas pain that seemed to stab at my heart. Thought I was going to faint.”
“Ought to have a check-up.”
“Yes, I'm past due. Now, what were you saying about Owens?”
“That we now know how and where Owens got the money, the reason for the false name in the bank. Another piece that may fit into a bigger picture, one of two murders. That's police work.'“ I pulled out the newspaper pictures. “This your Mr. Parker?”
Wren pointed to Owens' snap. “Yes, although it must have been taken many years ago. Yes, I did see something about the other killing—I only skim through the papers. Well, I've helped you. See what you can do to shield me from any possible notoriety,” Wren said, walking me to the door.
“You don't have to worry about that.”
“Well, have to be on the safe side when...” His face screwed up with flushed pain again and he mumbled, “I... uh... have to... sounds silly but... good day, Detective Wintino, I have to go!”
I'd thought his coughing and the rest of it was part of an act to get rid of me, most people get nervous when around a cop for any length of time, but Wren actually did run by me, across the reception room and through another door.
The girl at the desk just shook her head, said, “He never listens, his wife keeps telling him to slow down, see a doctor. He'll get himself an ulcer yet.”
“An executive-type one, I suppose,” I said, walking out.
Friday Afternoon
It was 1:43 p.m. and I was hungry. For a while I didn't want to think of Wren, the frightened businessman, but let my thoughts cook for a few minutes. I had a bright idea: long as I was downtown I might as well see Uncle Frank and stick him for lunch, save some dough. I phoned and he asked, “Davie, you coming to see me?”
“Yes. I'm downtown, thought we might have a bite together.” Although if Uncle Frank didn't reach for the tab first, I'd be in a fine spot.
