Ed Lacy - The Men From the Boys
“That's none of your business, but we have been intimate. Name is Helen Samuels.”
“Sounds like a Jew.”
“She is. Why are you so bigoted, Marty?”
“You really going to marry a Jew-girl?”
“Why not?”
I shrugged. “I'm hardly the one to give advice on marriage. Also I'm not bigoted. I've known some pretty good nigger cops and Jew-boys. And Bill Ash is a Roman. I don't know, as a cop you got to start off by hating a lot of people, most people. Makes it easier to hate 'em if you hate their skin, their religion.”
He sort of laughed at me, punched my arm. It was odd, all of him was a kid except his eyes and his voice. He said, “You're like a rock, Marty, unchangeable. Remember when you gave me boxing lessons? I was a fair bantamweight in the army.”
We walked toward the door. “If I'd known you were going to be such a busybody, I would have given you lessons in kneeing and kicking.”
I walked the kid out to the lobby and said good-by. It was a few minutes past midnight on the clock behind the desk when I grabbed a morning paper, told Dewey, “Maybe I can get some shut-eye now.”
Dewey was a retired postal clerk, a moonface with watery eyes, and the veins on his fat nose like a complicated map—from the barrels of wine he'd guzzled during his sixty-eight years.
He said, “Too hot for sleep. The boy badge have his hand out?”
“No—merely dropped in to see me.”
“Funny-looking cop. He's too young to have been on the force with you.”
“He was my son—for a few years,” I said, walking toward my room. Dewey never even blinked.
I washed my teeth and took a shower, felt pretty good. Then I stretched out on my bed and read the paper, starting backward from the sporting page.
There wasn't a damn thing in the paper: the Giants' shortstop turned his ankle, the Dodgers still had a “mathematical” chance of getting the pennant, and the comics weren't funny. There was a cheesecake picture of some lush babe asking for a divorce because her marriage was “kissless.” A mild-looking guy named Mudd was accused of taking a bank for forty-five thousand dollars with a toy gun, and Albert Bochio, the syndicate treasurer, was still barricaded in a Miami hotel daring the authorities to boot him out, talking out of both sides of his mouth about suing the city of Miami for calling him a “gangster.” And the front page had the usual war scare. One of the columnists hinted that the fight game was crooked, and also commented on the fact Bochio was never so headline-brave before. There was a standard item about a Hollywood busted marriage “which will spill dirt all over the papers when it comes to court.”
I tossed the paper on the floor and turned off the light. Somehow the promised dirt never came out and I wondered if the columnists ran these items when they were short of material. And a guy has to have more courage than people think to use a toy gun in a stick-up. But they were right about Bochio—one of those unknown big shots. He was rapped once for assault when he was twenty-three, then dropped out of the gang picture till a Senate television show spotlighted him as the pillar of a swank New Jersey community, son at Yale, daughter in some finishing school... and holder of the purse strings of the biggest crime mob in the country.
I turned over a couple of times, got comfortable. Wondered how soon Lawrence would find out about me and the hotel. As a part-time cop he wouldn't know the score. And what did I care if he did?
It turned a bit cool and I covered myself with the sheet and dropped off. I awoke just before six, sweating like a pig, the dream still with me. Crazy, I hadn't had that dream in years... this Mrs. DeCosta's face screwed up with hate, screaming at me, “You thug with a badge!” I could see her plainly, as if she was next to me—and that wouldn't have been bad either, she was a fine-looking chick. What the hell she want to marry that crippled spick artist for?
Probably dreamed of her because I'd been thinking of Dot. Women... Now, why did Dot have to leave me because of that? The beatings were none of her business. And what finally became of the DeCosta blonde, or was she still in the loony bin?
I stretched and sat up, the stink still in my mouth. I was all done with sleep so I turned on the radio and then I got to thinking about Mudd who'd taken the bank with a toy rod. How did they know his name? Turning on the light I picked up the paper, read the whole piece this time. Amateur crooks are dumb as hell.... Mudd had been a depositor in the very bank he held up. By this time the cops would have him for sure.
I got up and showered. Except for my breath I felt pretty good. Not eating or drinking much, being on the run this last week, along with the heat, had taken about ten pounds off me. My muscles were showing again.
Dressing in a tropical blue suit that proved “bargains” aren't for big men, I walked through the lobby. One of the maids was starting to clean up, still half asleep, and Dewey was pounding his ear in the big chair behind the desk—his favorite bed. As I went through the doorway, Lawson the day clerk (and elevator pilot and bellhop) was coming in.
He was sporting a silk polo shirt and a crew cut, a big book under his arm. He was always reading, and was probably a fag—went around with the Village artists. He glanced at the way my suit hung on me, asked, “A circus come with that tent?”
“Why? You want a job as a fire-eater? Probably the only thing you don't eat.”
“Your humor is like your suit—it doesn't fit you. Up early, aren't you, Mr. Bond?”
“Yeah, I'm checking on your time.”
His thin lips gave me what passed for a sneer. “They got a nerve, with the twelve-hour day I put in.”
“You going for a union here?” Wouldn't surprise me if the smart bastard was a radical. We all put in long hours, but the gravy was worth it. And Lawson didn't do a damn thing but read. We never got busy till late afternoon and Dewey was on then.
I walked over to Hamilton Square and had coffee and toast, got hungry and knocked off a stack of pancakes, a hunk of pie, and more coffee. It was only seven and I had nothing to do.
Walking over to Washington Park, I sat around for a while watching some old nut open a bag of crumbs and feed the pigeons. When a couple of them hopped up on his hands, he glanced at me proudly. I decided to take a bus ride uptown, buy some socks and a couple of shirts. I rode up to Fifty-seventh Street and then down to Macy's, but the store wasn't open yet. I had a glass of iced coffee and tried smoking a cigarette.
A lot of gas hit my stomach and I began belching, so I took an Alka-Seltzer and bought a pack of mints. The pain in my gut hit me and I forgot about shopping.
I phoned Art Dupre's office and got one of these answering services. I found his home phone in the Bronx book. He answered with “Dr. Dupre speaking.”
“Doctor, I'm in trouble,” I said in a gal's voice.
“Who is this?”
“Oh, doctor, I'm in trouble and I ain't married and the druggist said you'd fix it for me.”
“Who is this? What doctor do you want?”
“Oh, you a doctor? I want Sergeant Dupre!” I said in my regular voice.
Art said, “Marty Bond—you and your lousy gags. How are you?”
“Got a touch of ptomaine poisoning, or something, Art. My belly is acting up. Can you work on me sometime this morning?”
“Of course. How about eleven?”
“All right.”
“How sick are you, Marty? Vomiting?”
“Naw, but I feel like it at times. Mostly the runs and an upset gut. I'll live till eleven—the question is, Will I live after you work on me?”
“That's a bright question, the enlisted man's dream come true—having his C.O. coming to him for help. See you at eleven, and don't drink anything cold or strong in the meantime.”
“Okay, boy.”
I still had a couple of hours to kill so I took the bus downtown. The sun was already out strong, another scorcher. I took off my coat and thought about going to Coney Island, or surf casting at Jones Beach. But I was looking forward to seeing Art. He'd been a medic in my M.P. outfit and saved me from a lot of grief over in England when I nearly killed a cocky A.W.O.L. wop.
That kid Art had the stuff, he wanted to be a doc and he'd made it. G.I. Bill was something, except for us older guys. I would have looked silly going to college. And what could I learn — you never needed no bill to go to my college, the University of Hard Knocks.
I got off at Hamilton Square and headed for the precinct. Some white-haired bag was standing on the corner, rattling a red tin can. Pushing it up in my face, she gave me the pitch-smile as she asked, “Please help fight cancer?”
“Let the government shell out the dough for it. They're always spending dough like water.”
“We must all chip in and do our part,” she said sweetly. She probably worked for a percentage of the take.
“Your sexy smile does it, sister,” I said, dropping a couple of dimes in the can.
“Thank you. Like to put this on your coat?” She held up a red tin button shaped like a sword.
“They giving medals for being a sucker now?” I asked, winking at her and walking on.
It was a big morning for me. When I asked the desk man for Lieutenant Ash he said, “The lieutenant isn't in yet. What do you want to see him about?”
He was another of these slim cops, young too — under forty. “Just dropped in for some chatter. When do you expect him?”
“About noon.”
“I'll be back. Tell him Marty Bond called.”
“I'll tell him.” He gave me a mild stare.
“Yeah, Marty Bond the ex-cop,” I said, walking out. I dropped in at the Grover and Lawson said, “Mr. King is in the office.”
“So what?”
“Just thought you'd like to know. Room 703 checked out leaving the room a mess. The rug will have to be cleaned.”
“It's about time.”
“Mr. King was miffed about it.”
“He miffs too easy.” I took the elevator up to the seventh floor. Lilly, one of the old colored chambermaids, was cleaning 703. She said, “Look at this mess. It's disgusting.”
“Couple of drunks. I had to quiet them last night. By the way, Lilly, they left this as a tip for you.” I handed her five bucks. “Clean up the room good before King comes sniffing up here.”
She pocketed the fin quickly. “I'll take care of it. That was nice of them to think of me.”
“I sort of suggested it. Put it all on a number and you can retire—maybe. What do you like for today?”
“I usually stick along with my house number, 506.”
“All right, play a buck for me.”
“I'll get it in. Where's the money?”
“Lilly, out of the five. Wasn't for me you wouldn't have nothing.”
I went down to my room, considered shaving, dabbed some after-shave lotion under my armpits, put on a fresh shirt, and went out. Art had his offices on East Fifty-eighth Street—pretty swank. I took a bus to Fifty-second Street and walked through the ratty section between Sixth and Fifth Avenues that's full of night spots. I knew Flo was stripping in one of the joints and for no reason I wanted to see her picture.
She wasn't the feature strip; they only had an 8” x 10” of Flo, one of her old snaps. I stared at the strong long legs, the hard body, the hard beautiful face, the small, perfect breasts. This snap was taken nine years ago, but Flo hadn't changed much. Whenever she worked one of the burleycue houses in New Jersey, I'd go over to watch her. Almost gave me a queer bang to see the clowns gaping at her, recalling all the times I'd had what they were eyeballing.
Although I never really had Flo. I was tough, but she was tougher. She was about the toughest babe I ever knew. She knew what she had, and her only aim in life was to make it pay off in folding dough. I remembered the first time I saw her, in the chorus of a crummy Broadway musical. Guess she went with me for a resting period. My salary gave her a chance to hunt around for a feature role, study up on her dancing and acting. Everything she did was part of this drive to “get to the top.” You couldn't even beat this drive out of her—I tried it a couple of times.
Maybe one of the reasons I got a kick out of seeing Flo do her act, these last couple of years, was the satisfaction in knowing she'd never made the top. She left me for a bastard who took her out to Hollywood. Flo had all the whistle stops, enough ability, but she must have slept with the wrong jokers. Over the years I'd see her in a few bit parts, then in '48 she started doing burlesque work, night clubs. Flo had to be hitting thirty-eight or thirty-nine now, just sticking around for the crumbs.
I walked slowly toward Madison Avenue thinking of Flo. If only she had had something in her blood besides ambition we might have hit things off—for a short time we had it pretty good. I used to wake up in the middle of the night, light a match and stare at her, wondering how a slob like me ever got so lucky. Dot had the brains and the warmth, Flo had the body. Although Dot could surprise the hell out of you—sometimes.
Art was sharing the first floor of a brownstone with two other doctors. I gave the nurse at the reception desk my name and she told me to sit down. I slipped a mint in my mouth and watched her legs under the desk, wondered why I was looking—Barbara had better stems. And in any event what good would...?
I belched and watched her face to see if she'd heard. She hadn't. I glanced around the office, all the modern furniture. The last time I had Art work on me was a year ago. He had a modest office up on Eighty-third Street then. The boy was climbing fast.
After a couple of minutes Art came in, looking fine in his white jacket. Although he wasn't a ladies' man, he could be—had one of these lean, homely maps that women go for, like Gary Cooper. And Art was big and fairly muscular although he never did any physical work or exercise. Once in the army when we were swimming in Venice, I asked him how he stayed in shape and he'd said, “I don't know, lieutenant. I suppose I was just born this way.” Art never called me “sir,” always “lieutenant,” which was okay with me.
After the usual hard handshake and cracks about neither of us looking a day older, I followed him into his neat office, sat down in a chair that looked like a giant ice-cream cone and which turned out to be comfortable. “How's the hotel business, Marty?” he asked, taking out my file.
