Ed Lacy - The Men From the Boys
“All right. With the housing shortage, hotels are making out.”
He nodded, as though he was interested. “What's all this about ptomaine? Upset stomach? According to my records you're a typical hard rock. An interesting specimen, a throwback, as I kept telling you, a ...”
“All right, cut the big words. So I'm a specimen, pickled in alcohol, and all that. Art, I think I have a case of the old G.l.'s. Been that way, off and on—and that's no pun—for the last few weeks. Nothing seems to help. Also, I have a lousy taste in my mouth, like something died in me a long time ago.”
“Any fever or chills?”
“Nope, I don't think so. I sweat, but that's because of the dog days we've been having. I belch a lot.”
“Still drinking?”
“Nope. Funny thing, haven't had a desire for a shot, or for a cigarette either.”
“According to my records you haven't had anything worse than an acid stomach in the last five years. You look like your usual burly gorilla self. Though what's left of your hair is turning gray. Marty, you worrying about anything?”
“Me? I never worried in my life.”
He stood up. “I'd say you're in good shape—for an old man.”
“I'm only fifty-four, you punk.”
“Okay, pops, take off your shirt and I'll give you the works.”
The boy really gave me a thorough examination, worked me over with several gadgets, put me in front of a fluoroscope... all the time asking questions about what I liked to eat and what I didn't, the color and shape of my bowels, any pains, and other exciting remarks.
At first we were wisecracking a lot, but after a while I knew he was putting on an act with the gags—Art was really damn serious, even frightened.
After about an hour he told me to dress and we sat down at his desk. Art asked,. “Marty, you say you're always tired, weak, not much of an appetite, lost weight and...”
“All right, Art, stop stalling, what's wrong with me?”
“Well,” he said slowly, “I think you have a tumor, a growth next to your intestines... far as I can make out. You may need an operation. I'm sending you to a specialist for a gastric X ray. He'll know much more about it than I do.”
“I have a tumor in my gut?” I repeated.
“I thinly you have one.”
“Can't penicillin, one of these new wonder drugs, do the trick?”
“Perhaps. We'll see what the specialist says. You may not even require surgery. But I think it will be best to take a sample of the growth. Merely routine...”
“A sample? You mean it might be cancer?” The words seemed to sting as they tumbled out of my lips.
“Might be anything,” Art said casually. “Marty, I'm only a pill-and-temperature man, wait till we hear what the big shot says. I can be all wrong about it being a tumor. I'll make an appointment for you.”
I sat like a dummy, hearing Art pick up the phone, make an appointment for 1130 the following afternoon. I couldn't think. All I could do was taste the dry garlic stink on my tongue. There was a horse cop I knew who died of cancer of the gut. He'd been a pro boxer once and we used to work out together. He'd starved to death because the cancer squeezed his intestines tight. I spent a lot of time with him in the hospital, watching him become a bag of bones.
As Art put the phone down I told him, “I was never afraid of dying because if you don't fear death you got the world by the tail. But this... what a crummy way of going out.”
“Stop it. It could be an ulcer, an inflated stomach, a hundred and one things besides ...”
“Don't talk a hole in my head, Art!”
He stared at me for a second, then pulled a pipe out of a drawer, carefully packed and lit it. “Marty, this isn't something you can lick with hard talk or slugging, so don't be a goddam amateur doctor. Every growth isn't cancer, just as every headache isn't a nervous breakdown. If it is a tumor they cut it out and in a few weeks you're good as new. It's that simple.”
I shook my head. “It'll be cancer.”
“Oh for—How do you know? I...”
“Hell, I just know!”
“You're spouting sheer nonsense. Wait till you hear what the specialist tells you tomorrow before starting the dramatics and self-pity. Not like you, I always thought you were too tough for fear.” Art smiled. “That's hot air I'm handing you, Marty. I don't blame you for being frightened, but if I don't know what it is, you certainly don't. Let me know what the specialist tells you tomorrow.”
“As if he won't call you. Art, if it should be cancer, how much time ...?”
“I refuse to answer that, even think of it.”
“I once knew a guy that had it, right in the gut too. Lay in bed for over three months before he finally kicked off, looked like a goddam skeleton.”
“Marty, let me give it to you straight. If it is cancer you may die. I said if and may. Not every cancer patient dies, most of them live. As for dying, you know the old bromide— a car may splatter your brains all over the street the second you leave this office.”
“Hell, that's quick.”
Art came around the desk, slapped me on the shoulder. “Marty, you make me ashamed of myself for being such a bad doctor, scaring a patient. Wouldn't have told you except I thought you were such a tough bastard. I don't have the knowledge or equipment to diagnose this, so if it turns out to be a gas pocket, something as silly as that, don't try to whip my head. Now, here's the specialist's name and address. Be on time and be ready to shell out about fifty bucks. Need any money?”
I got up. “No. What do I owe you?”
“I enjoyed your company.”
I dropped a five spot on his desk. “This do it?”
“I told you...”
I shoved his hand away. “I've heard that north wind before. So long, Art.”
“Marty, let's have supper together. I never see you except when you're sick. How about making it for Friday...?”
“Sure. I'll call you.”
I walked out, passed by the receptionist, and the lousy taste was strong in my mouth. The taste of death, the greasy crummy taste of death. I stood on the sidewalk for a few minutes trying to swallow, clear my mouth. The sun was making me sweat. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to talk to somebody, go home. But home was a flea-bag hotel room.
I had a sudden desire to see Flo, to be with her in the flashy four-room apartment we used to have, the little bar and bar stools like in the movies. There was the bedroom with Flo's dolls....
Dolls made me snap out of it. I had no time for dolls or for much of anything else. I walked to a corner drugstore, bought some mints and drank two glasses of orangeade that I damn near threw up.
I took a cab down to Hamilton Square. Bill Ash had been my boon buddy for a lot of years. He was a good listener, a guy with a level brain. I crossed the Square and headed toward the station house. Bill and I had been attached to a precinct uptown for almost six years before we were sent... The white-haired lady with the red tin can came over to me. “Will you help fight...? Oh...” Her mechanical smile vanished and she turned away.
Grabbing her arm, I jerked her to me. “What's the matter? You see something on my face?”
“Why... mister... My God, you're hurting my arm!”
“Tell me what you see on my face?”
“See? Nothing. I don't see anything!” she said, hysteria loud in her voice. “I remembered that you contributed before, this morning. That's all.”
People were staring at us. I let go of her arm. “Excuse me. I was... uh... thinking of something else. Here.” I dumped a handful of change in the can.
“Thank you so much.” She recovered herself, clumsily tried to pin one of the red buttons on my lapel.
I shoved her hand away. “I already got my badge, the real one.”
Walking toward the precinct house I told myself I had to watch it, I damn near hurt the woman. And tomorrow, this smart-aleck specialist would probe and ask a lot of stupid questions. Hell, I never had no confidence in docs, except for Art.
As I walked up the steps of the police station, which looked like all New York City police buildings—older than God— I decided I wasn't going to see the specialist. What could he tell me? What point was there in being sliced open, letting them sample the lousy tumor? It always turns out you have it.
The desk man told me Bill was busy but phoned my name in. I stood by the desk and wiped my face, the humidity was as bad as yesterday. I put a couple of mints to work in my mouth and now I could almost see the taste, like I was chewing something misty and black.
There was an air of excitement around the precinct. Nothing noticeable, not a lot of activity, but you could sense it. Every time a couple of guys passed the desk they'd be talking with each other in low voices. And there would be a sort of rush in their steps. I waited long enough to finish a mint, blotted the sweat on my face again, asked, “Is Ash alone?”
“I think so, but Lieutenant Ash is very busy and doesn't...”
I walked back toward the detention cells, past the “Post Condition" board, then up a flight of steps and pushed open Bill's door. He was sitting behind a stack of afternoon papers on his desk, a pair of scissors in his right hand. Although his office only had one small window and Bill was wearing a white-on-white shirt, a brown bow tie, and a double-breasted brown suit, he looked cool. Always a dapper joker, his thin hair was combed back over his almost bald noggin, and he had that youngish look to his puss, like he never had to shave. Except for putting on a little weight and losing a lot of hair, he hadn't changed much in all the years I'd known him.
Looking up from his newspapers, he said, “Hello, Marty. I didn't forget you, I'm busy.”
“I see that,” I said, sitting down in the other chair in his drab office. “You reduced to cutting out paper dolls?”
“You hear the news?”
“Yeah. I heard about all the news I can take for today.” I grinned at him. “So what's new?”
He shook his head slowly. “Marty, I'm in charge of the Detective Squad here. It don't look right for you to be busting in without...”
“If I hadn't busted into a lot of places when we were partners, you'd still be walking a beat now.”
“Maybe,” he said softly. And smugly, I thought, as if thinking, But I'm a lieutenant now and you're just a hotel dick in a fourth-rate dive. “But you know how it is, I have to... well... keep up a front of authority around here.” He waved his hands in the air, as if shoving something aside. “What I mean is, this is a police station, not an old-pals club.”
“Looks kind of clubby to me, Bill,” I said. “Way all these cops off duty wear sport shirts sticking outside their belts. I remember when you had to dress when going off duty.”
“The shirts are cool and they cover a hip holster. That's how the shirt idea started, down in Cuba. Always having revolutions and the lads wore these shirts over their hips to hide the guns they were sporting.”
“Sorry I never went to Cuba. They say the fishing is great down there.”
“What the hell we talking about Cuba for?” Bill jabbed a pile of newspapers with his scissors. “It's the damnedest thing, Bochio swore he'd get Cocky, said it a dozen times we know of, yet the sonofabitch has been in Miami for two weeks, locked in a hotel room with his lawyers. Break that alibi!”
“How's Marge and the girls?”
He put the scissors down and stared at me like I was nuts. “They're fine, except Selma has a virus. Look, Marty ...”
“I remember Selma, she's the youngest. Had blond hair, didn't...?”
“Look, Marty, I'm busy—busy on a murder, so if all you dropped in for was to ask about Marge and the kids, okay, I'll tell them you asked. Now, let me work. Whole damn force is upside down on this one.”
“Which one?” I asked, considering making a crack about Bill's pay-off—maybe he thought I came with dough. But he was very touchy about it, blew up if I even talked about it.
Bill sighed. “Wish I was like you, could just ask 'Which one?' Thought you said you heard the news? They found Cocky Anderson's body up in the Bronx this morning, with a .38 slug through his left ear. You know what that means?”
“What?” I asked as if I cared.
“When Bochio first started out as a strong-arm punk, he ran with a gang that used a slug through the left ear as their trademark for people who knew too much. Also, it's an open secret that old Albert swore he'd get Cocky after the jerk made a pass at Bochio's daughter—tried to rape her is the way I heard it. Should be an open-and-shut case, only nothing shuts, nothing even moves. Damn, a tough one has to break in a hot spell like this—I was set to drive the kids up to Orchard Beach this afternoon for a swim.”
“If he was killed in the Bronx, where do you come in down here?”
“Your brains die when you buried yourself in that hotel? Marty, you know Cocky Anderson had 'interests' on the docks here. For the love of tears, I have every man I can get my hands on out snooping, canceled all vacations.”
“Bochio ain't no hood, and anyway he's been in Miami as you said. Ask me, he's out of the picture. Even that daughter angle is bunk. Cocky was getting too big for the syndicate and they took him out. But the hell with that. I didn't come to talk about rats and punks.”
“Just what did you come about, Marty?”
“Oh... nothing special. Just dropped in to talk.”
“About what?”
“What do you mean, about what? Bill, you're the oldest friend I got. Can't a guy drop in to chat with a buddy?”
“Marty, are you sick?”
“Why? Do I look sick?” I asked, and couldn't stop my voice from shaking.
Bill stood up. Except for the little pot belly he was as lean and wiry as ever. “Marty, I don't like to give you a short answer, but I'm up to my eyeballs in work and you breeze in and talk about Cuba, then about the wife and girls, and then you just want to talk. Damnit, Marty, the pressure is on me, real pressure. Some other time we'll talk about old times.”
“All right, Bill,” I said getting up. “I didn't know you were so busy. Matter of fact I did drop in to talk about Lawrence. He wants to be a cop and I don't want him to have a bad time of it because of me.”
