Ed Lacy - Strip For Violence
“He be home for supper?”
“Oh no, he'll be their guest for supper and...”
“Damn it, this is serious. I must see him. Soon as you hear from him, tell him to call my office at once.”
“You mean you've found something about the stone?”
“Not a damn thing!” I said, dropping the receiver in its cradle.
Bobo said, “How not to win friends and influence clients!”
“Got to stop blowing my top. Come on, let's see the big shot.”
“Maybe I'd better stay here.... I mean, never know what will come up, who'll pay us a visit?”
“Shirley will be okay. Whatever they were looking for, they know it isn't here. And we'll return soon.” But Shirley worried me, we weren't playing with kids in this deal. I told her, “On second thought, best you lock up now, call it a day.”
“I'm not afraid to...” she began.
“Bobo is right. See you tomorrow morning.”
“Suppose this mailman calls?” Bobo asked. “I'd better stay here and...”
“What's wrong with you, Franklin got something on you?”
“Naw, ain't that,” Bobo said, fingering his suit. “I look kind of shabby and...”
“So what?” I asked as Shirley got her hat and I set the lock on the door. We walked her to the subway, then kept on walking toward Fifth Avenue. Bobo puzzled me, seemed frightened. After a few minutes he said, “Hal, Franklin's bodyguard is... is Lefty Wilson.”
“The champ who kayoed you? Thought I'd seen him before.”
“I... eh... just as soon not see him. There was a mess about the rematch, lot of bad feeling.”
“I remember now, your manager held out for 40 per cent of the gate and the whole deal went up in hot air. Shame, would have been a two hundred grand gate at least.”
“Biggest payday in my career. Some managers, you know how greedy they are,” Bobo said. Suddenly he stopped walking and when I turned, he said, “Hal, that's all a lie. I run out on Lefty. I was scared shitless of him!”
“Scared? What you talking about?” I asked, as we started walking slowly again.
“Hard to explain,” Bobo said, his voice shaking a bit. He ran his hand over his worried, tan face, wiped the sweat away. “I wasn't a kid, had over a hundred fights before I met Lefty. My face shows I wasn't punch-shy.”
“Heard you were out front when Wilson tagged you. That must have been a tough one to lose.”
Bobo nodded. “Yeah, southpaws never bothered me much. I was reaching him with my right plenty... it was the best feeling in my life, trying to decide whether to win the title by a kayo, or be careful and win by a decision. Then in the eighth round he slammed one into my guts. Honest to God, Hal, I thought his damn fist was going clean through my stomach, come out my back. Why I was pissing blood for days after. The blow stunned me and then he crossed that left hook of his to my jaw and I went down for the count. That was it.”
“Every pug gets hit by a lucky punch, so why all the fuss?”
“You don't understand,” Bobo said in a low voice. “We signed for a rematch and I started training but every night I'd dream of that wallop to the guts, wake up in a sweat. Two weeks before the bout I couldn't take it no longer —I ran out. Abe Berger, my manager, was a square cookie. He made it seem like he was holding out for more dough, so I wouldn't look like no coward.”
“But why did you stop fighting?” I asked, amazed at Bobo's confession. I'd never questioned his courage before, seen him handle a crowd of drunken dock wallopers at a shindig once, or charge into some hopped-up punks flashing knives and brass knuckles.
“I kept fighting for about a year,” Bobo said, “but it wasn't any good. I could trim most of the other light heavies, but I didn't have the spirit in me. I'd think, what am I trying to win for, another crack at Wilson? That would make me slow down, started losing regular, on my way to becoming just another meathead. Hell of it is, a pug can tell when his opponent goes chicken, and Lefty knows, never forgot I screwed him out of a big payday.”
“Always one guy that has our number. Anyway, it was nine years ago, so forget it. I'm sure Lefty has.”
7
The City Amusement Agency was a large office, many girls banging away at typewriters. I suppose the business end of the dance halls, bowling alleys, bars, Franklin owned really were big business. The receptionist, a tall babe with impersonal eyes and a tight poodle hair-do that looked swell on her, asked, “Is Mr. Franklin expecting you?”
“I think so.”
She glanced through a snappy pigskin-bound datebook. “Sorry, but I don't see any appointment for a Mr. Darling.” She smiled a little when she said the name.
“Still think Franklin wants to see me, so as one darling to another, how about asking him?”
She put through a call, seemed to switch from one office to another before she put the phone down, told me, “Mr. Franklin will see you. I'll have an office boy show you in.”
The “boy” was built like an All-American tackle, and it wasn't only his behind filling the back of his pants—he was packing a rod and a sap. He took us down a long hallway flanked by rooms full of people typing or working adding machines. If the “Cat” had all these people working on his legitimate deals, I wondered how many he had working in out of the way lofts, figuring his bookie business and his rackets.
We stopped before a door and the “boy” pressed a button. There was a moment of waiting, while somebody probably gave us the eye through a concealed peephole, then the door buzzed open and the office boy said, “Gowan in” and left us. When he spoke he showed two rows of dirty teeth that looked like they grew on the mossy side of a swamp tree.
Franklin's office was strictly out of this world; only slightly smaller than Madison Square Garden, it was a study in contrasts. It looked like a business office with “Cat” sitting behind a modern metal desk, a typewriter and a dictaphone near him, the wall behind him full of books. There weren't any windows, but the air conditioning was perfect. The walls were a loud pink with red stripes, the chairs were stuffed banana-shaped couches—the kind that fit the contours of your body. At the other end of the office was a small bar, a tremendous TV set, a fireplace, and several pinball machines. A plush, deep-red carpet covered the entire floor, with a nude woman at least twenty feet long woven into it.
Lefty Wilson, the same gorilla-faced bodyguard I'd seen at the Emerald last night, was sitting at another modern desk. It took us a few seconds to walk across the huge carpet and Franklin stood up, held out his hand. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Darling. Didn't I see you last night, listening at a keyhole?”
“That's right,” I said as we shook hands gingerly.
“Said I wanted to see you? What makes you think I wanted to...?”
“You wouldn't let me in here if you didn't...” I was saying when Lefty recognized Bobo, yelled, “What you chicken-hearted sonofabitch! I been waiting a long time to give you a pasting!”
Lefty came around his desk, adding, “Now you'll get it!” Lefty had a rubber tire around his waist, bags under his eyes. Since Bobo was a physical culture bug and always in top shape, I knew he could take Lefty with little trouble. I had time to glance at Franklin, see if he was going to call off his man. But he was watching it all with an amused look. I glanced at Bobo... he was backing away, hands down, mouth open in panic!
I didn't want to see Bobo beaten up, among other things it would be a wrong start with the “Cat.” As Lefty came at Bobo, I stepped in his way, said, “Cut the clowning, we're here for some talk.” He had a handy neck for grabbing, but I was watching his feet.
He put his weight on his left foot, tried to push me aside with his hand. I ducked, whirling on my left shoe so we were both facing the same direction—then I got my right foot behind his left knee, gave him a kick that added to his own momentum—sent Lefty sprawling on his hands and knees. I called over my shoulder, “Franklin, tell this punk to lay off or I'll have to hurt him.”
“Lefty, take a walk,” Big Ed said.
The ex-champ got to his feet, split a scowl between me and Bobo, walked out of the office. Franklin pointed to one of the odd half-moon shaped chairs, said, “Take a seat, Mr. Darling.” He motioned Bobo to another of the chairs. “You'll find these chairs unusually comfortable, they take much of the strain off your heart. People don't realize how they constantly overstrain their hearts. By the way, your exhibition was very neat. What do you call that?”
I sat—or rather stretched out—on the chair. It was comfortable. I said, “That's Hicki O Toshi, Japanese for tip and fall. I seem to be giving too many 'exhibitions' these days.”
“That the same as judo?” Franklin asked, taking a bottle and several thermos-pitchers from his desk.
I nodded. “You've seen the basic idea of judo—take advantage of the other guy's rush. Judo is mainly redirecting the other chum's energy, turning it against himself. The more powerful your opponent, the less good it does him.”
“Sounds interesting. Like a shot? I have gin—with grapefruit, orange, pineapple, or grape juice.”
I took mine with orange juice and Bobo tried it with grape juice. It was a very smooth drink, warming my guts at once. The “Cat” poured himself a straight juice drink, asked, “Now—what is it you wish to see me about?”
“What you wanted to see me about,” I said, fencing with words.
Franklin smiled. It was hard to think he'd ever been a strong-arm goon—looked more like a fugitive from a man-of-distinction ad. But he had the beefy shoulders of a muscle-man, and when the rest of his face smiled, his eyes were always alert, watching... waiting.
He said, “You're an interesting little man—and I'm not referring to size, but rather that you're a very, very small businessman. I could buy and sell you a hundred thousand times over. However as businessmen...”
I finished my drink. I didn't know whether it was the chair or the drink, but I sure felt relaxed.
“... let's have a talk. I operate on the theory that there's two ways to do things, the hard way and the simple way. Like all other businessmen I have certain... eh... trade secrets. Now I believe in live and let live, but let us assume you—or somebody—stumbled on to some of my trade ideas. In that situation I can do it the hard way, take my secrets back. Or play it the easy way—let you in my business, there's enough for all. You understand?”
I nodded. I could have dozed off then and there. I reached out, put the glass back on the desk. Bobo's eyes looked watery, he was half high. I told Franklin, “Let me have another shot. This is great stuff.”
He made another drink, gave it to me, said, “I find people can think best when relaxed. You're not drinking gin but straight hospital alcohol, 190 proof, with juice.”
“190 proof? I thought a 100 proof was...?”
Franklin smiled, pleased with his own knowledge. “Most people confuse volume with proof. 100 proof, for example, only means the contents are 50 per cent alcohol by volume. This is a handy drink, puts people at ease, off their guard.”
“Think I'm off guard?” I asked, taking a big gulp, acting like a kid showing off. The stuff sure gave me a glow.
“You and I, we haven't any reason to be on our guard, or have we?”
“That's right,” I said, not having the faintest idea what he was gassing about. But of course I couldn't tell him that. “And my end of the deal is the Light Fantastic concession?”
He spread his large hands on the desk. “That's it, I throw business your way... you throw some my way.”
There was an awkward silence. He was waiting for me to carry the ball. I said, “Have to give it some thought,” and climbed off the chair.
“Very sensible,” Franklin said, standing up. “Only don't think too long. Sometimes a deal goes cold—dead cold— if a person waits too long.”
“You don't have to spell it out.” The thought that he might have something to do with Anita's beaten body sobered me up. I finished the drink to get the glow back again. I waved to Franklin, started for the door. The “Cat” said to Bobo, “Amigo, you smoke Havana cigars? Take some.” He held out a box.
Bobo took one, hesitated, took another. The “Cat” laughed at him. “You should have battled my Lefty again, you had the style to whip him.”
As we walked toward the door, Franklin must have stepped on a button under the carpet, the door buzzed open. He said, “I'll expect a call from you—soon.”
“Yeah.”
The hallway was empty and we walked—or floated— past the offices, nodded at the cute receptionist, and took the elevator to the street. I was drinking with one of the biggest mobsters in the city—that old merry-go-round was getting up speed.
8
When we hit the sidewalk Bobo said, “Hal, I am ashamed of what happened....” Martinez couldn't take liquor and he spoke thickly, like a real lush.
“Forget it, you've stepped in for me plenty of times.”
“Funny office, funny drink.”
“And a not-so-funny 'Cat',” I said. “Soon as my head settles down, I have to do some real good thinking.”
“Lot I fail to understand and it's not the drink,” Bobo said. “What you got on Franklin?”
“That's what I have to think out. Whatever I have—I don't know what it is.”
“Like holding the tiger by the tail. A difficult situation,” Bobo said in solemn-drunk talk.
“Look, go home and sleep it off. I'm going back to the office for a moment. See you in the morning.”
“Hal...” Bobo hesitated. “I... eh...”
I took out my wallet, still had seventy bucks of Will's money. I gave Bobo two tens, walked him to the subway.
The phone was ringing as I unlocked the office door. I didn't make it. I sat down and banged away at the rubber pad, but it was hard to think. In a vague way things were starting to take shape but I was a long way from putting the pieces together—or from having all the pieces. The phone rang again. Curly Cox asked, “Hello? Boss? Me and the other guys ain't got no more cards to stick in the doors tonight. Called you earlier but no answer. Told Anita about it yesterday and... What's with this Anita?”
I told him I'd ordered some and would pick them up from the printers, and that he and the others should drop in around midnight to get them.
I had to hustle down to the printer before he closed at five, then, having nothing to do, I dropped in on Saltz, to see what he knew. He greeted me with, “Deadeye Dick, the famous two-bit private investigator. Suppose you got the case solved?”
“Have you?” He sure irritated the hell out of me.
“Been talking to a couple of stoolies. They claim the word is Anita was shaking down somebody—somebody important.”
“That's a crock of slop; Anita never knew anybody important. And she wasn't a shakedown artist. She was a kid.”
“Is that why she's a dead kid, because she never knew nobody important?”
I said, “You're crazy if you take a stoolie's word that she was shaking down any...”
Saltz laughed in my face. “Darling, you're not even a two-bit detective. How the hell do you think the police work? Let me give you a little course in scientific detection —more cases have been solved by tips from stoolies than by all the laboratory methods ever invented. Maybe in the movies they look through a microscope and come up with the answers, but in real life—a dick is only as good as his list of stoolies. Sure, a stoolie is the worst kind of a rat, but if you squeeze him, all the grapevine gossip comes out, and that's what you work on. But, of course, you wouldn't know that.”
