Rogue Cop

10

It was an unpainted wooden building set in the middle of a block of municipal decay. Carmody got hold of the owner, a sullen little Spaniard, and asked him about Longie Tucker.

“There is one man on the third floor,” the Spaniard said, shrugging carelessly. “I don’t care about his name. Maybe you want that one, eh? I go to tell him.”

“You go finish your lunch,” Carmody said.

“You copper?”

“You just finish lunch, understand, amigo?” Carmody said quietly.

“Sure, I don’t care,” the man said and closed his door.

Carmody went up the stairs quietly. The wallpaper was torn and filthy, and he breathed through his mouth to avoid the greasy, stale smell of the building. Two doors stood open on the third floor, revealing the interiors of small, messy rooms. The third and last door was closed. Carmody eased his gun from the holster and tried the knob. It turned under his hand. He pushed the door inward and stepped into the room, his finger curved and hard against the trigger of his gun.

Longie Tucker lay fully dressed on a sagging bed, one hand trailing on the dusty floor. The room was oppressively hot; the single window was closed and the air was heavy and foul. Tucker breathed slowly and deeply, his body shuddering with the effort. There was an empty whiskey bottle near his hand, and two boxes of pills.

Carmody shook his shoulder until his eyelids fluttered, and then pulled him to a sitting position.

Tucker blinked at him, confused and frightened. “What’s the beef?” he muttered.

Carmody’s hopes died as he stared at Tucker’s drawn face, at the gray skin shot here and there with tiny networks of ruptured blood vessels. The man was half his former size, a sick, decaying husk.

Tucker grinned at him suddenly, disclosing rows of bad teeth. “I get you now, friend. Mike Carmody. Is that right?”

“That’s it,” Carmody said, putting his gun away.

“I didn’t do the job on your brother,” Tucker said. “I couldn’t do a job on a fly. I ain’t left the room in two weeks. I got the bug in my lungs. Ain’t that a riot? I go west and get the con.”

“Who killed my brother? Do you know?”

“God’s truth, I don’t. I heard the job was open but I wouldn’t have touched it if I could.”

“You heard about it? Did they advertise in the papers?”

“Word gets around.”

Carmody rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead and turned toward the door.

“Mike, can you spare a buck? I need something to drink.”

“No.”

“Coppers,” Tucker said, making an ugly word of it.

Carmody looked down at him coldly. “Why didn’t you save the money you got for shooting people in the back?” Then, disgusted and angry with himself, he took out a roll of bills and threw a twenty on Tucker’s bed. “Don’t die thinking all coppers are no good,” he said.

“Thanks, Mike,” Tucker said, grinning weakly as he reached for the money.

Carmody drove across the city to the Empire Hotel and went up past the police detail to Karen’s apartment. She opened the door for him and he walked into the cool, dim room. The shades had been drawn against the afternoon sun and Nancy was lying on the studio couch, asleep, an arm thrown over her eyes.

“Must you wake her?” Karen asked him. “She just got to sleep.”

“Yes.”

“You have to, I suppose,” she said dryly.

“Look, I didn’t invent this game,” Carmody said. Then he felt his temper slipping; the pressure inside him had reached the danger point. Wilson, Father Ahearn and now Karen. They couldn’t wait to give him a gratuitous kick in the teeth. “Stop yapping at me,” he said abruptly. “If you think I’m a heel write your congressman about it. But lay off me; understand?”

“I understand,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

The reply confused him; it was simple and straightforward, with no sarcasm running under it. He sat down on the sofa facing the studio couch and lit a cigarette. “I’ll give her a few minutes,” he said. “How has she been?”

“Not too good. She cried a lot and tried to leave several times. I gave her a few drinks and that seemed to help.”

“She had a rough time.”

“Yes, she told me about it,” Karen said. She sat down beside him on the sofa and shook her head slowly. “What kind of men are they, Mike?”

“Big men, tough men,” he said. “With the world in their pockets. They don’t believe in anything but the fix. They never heard of Judgment Day.”

She didn’t answer him. He glanced at her and saw that she was rubbing her forehead with the tips of her fingers. She was wearing a white linen dress and her hair was brushed back above her ears and held with a black ribbon. The faint light in the room ran along her slim legs as she moved one foot in a restless circle. She looked used up; pale and very tired.

“She told me about your break with Ackerman,” she said quietly. “And the fight. She thinks you’re the greatest guy in the world.” Again her voice was simple and straightforward, with no bitterness or sarcasm in it. “That’s why I told you I was sorry. You tried to save him. I didn’t know that this morning.”

“I was a big help,” he said bitterly.

“I can’t believe he’s dead,” she said, moving her head slowly from side to side. “Just last night he sat here full of health and hope and big plans. And now he’s gone.”

“Well, he lived in a straight line,” Carmody said, “no detours, no short cuts.” He spoke without reflection or deliberation, but the words sounded with a truth he hadn’t understood before; it was something to say of a man that the shape and purpose of his life had remained constant against all pressure and temptation.

“It’s been a ghastly day,” she whispered.

“You ought to get some rest.” Without thinking of what he was doing, he put a hand on her back and began to massage the taut muscles of her shoulders and neck. He felt the malleable quality of her body under his fingers, and the small thin points of her shoulder blades, and he wondered irrelevantly what held her together, what supported all of her poise and strength. There was something inside her that was impervious to attack. She had countered his contempt with a confident anger, as if hating him was a privilege she had earned. Father Ahearn’s words struck him suddenly: Hating sin... belongs to us poor fools who believe in right and wrong. Was that her pitch? That she was on the side of the angels?

“Don’t do that,” she said suddenly.

“What’s the matter?”

“I don’t want you to touch me.”

Carmody took his hand away from her slowly. “I’m not good enough, is that it?”

“Don’t make a big thing out of it,” she said wearily. “I just don’t want you to touch me, that’s all. Not because I think you aren’t good enough and not because I don’t like it.” She looked at him, her face a small white blur in the dim room. “Can’t you understand that?”

“Wait until you’re asked before you say no,” he said, wanting to hurt her as she had hurt him.

“That’s a cheap thing to say. It isn’t what I meant, Mike, I was just—”

“Cheap?” he said, cutting across her sentence. “That sounds funny coming from you.” There had been a delayed reaction to the feel of her body under his hand; now the memory of it crowded sharply and turbulently against his control. “What about Danny Nimo?” he said, his voice rising angrily. “Would you call that just a little cheap around the edges?”

“Oh, damn you, damn you,” she said, pounding a fist against her knee. “That’s all you’ve got on your mind. You’re infatuated with evil. Goodness bores you. Because the devil is more exciting to you than God. He’s your kind of people, a real sharpie. All right, I’ll tell you about Danny Nimo.”

“I don’t want to hear about it.”

“Oh, yes you do. It’s low and depraved. It’s your meat, Mike.”

“Stop it,” he said sharply.

“I lived with Danny Nimo for a year,” she said. “This was six years ago. Then there was the automobile accident. Danny paid the bills and took care of me for two years although I was in a cast most of that time. That was goodness of a sort, although you’d never understand it. During that time I had plenty of time to think about myself and Danny. I tried to understand why I had got mixed up with him. But I couldn’t figure it out. Not neatly and simply, anyway. My father was an electrician, my mother was a good-hearted woman and I’d had a fair education. And I had a little talent for music. It didn’t add to the way I was living. Maybe it was the fun of being a racketeer’s girl. Living high without working for it. Being on the inside. I don’t know. But I did know that I’d taken a big step in a direction I didn’t want to go. So when I was well enough to walk I told him how I felt and left him. There’s the whole story. Did you get a kick out of it?”

The bitterness in her voice confused him. “I’m sorry I spoke out of turn,” he said slowly. “Who am I to be judging people?”

“Excuse me,” she said and stood quickly. He saw that she was close to tears.

“Wait a minute. Please. Is it that easy to get out? Like you did, I mean?”

“Easy?” She was silent a moment. Then she laughed softly. “Try it, if you think it’s easy. Just say, ‘Forgive me, I’ve been wrong.’ That’s all. But keep a drink close by. The words may choke you a little.”

“ ‘Forgive me,’ ” he said quietly. “Who do I say that to?”

“To whatever you’ve got left. Maybe yourself.”

Carmody shook his head slowly. He couldn’t say he’d been wrong and mean it. And how could anybody forgive himself? It was too simple and pat.

Nancy stirred on the couch, and then sat up suddenly, her eyes bright with fear.

“Relax, everything’s all right,” Karen said gently. “Lie down and finish your sleep.”

Nancy recognized Carmody and drew a long, relieved breath. “Old tough Mike,” she said, and put her head down on the pillow. She laughed softly. “I guess I had a bad dream.”

Carmody sat beside her and took one of her hands. She looked cool and comfortable under the single white sheet.

“How do you feel?” he asked her. He heard Karen cross behind him and leave the room.

“Pretty good, I guess.”

“Ackerman is afraid of you,” he said. “What have you got on him, baby?”

She smiled at him but it was a shaky effort. “My mother told me a man could get anything from a woman if he called her baby,” she said.

“Don’t play around, please,” he said. “You told Fanzo’s men you were going to send Ackerman to jail. What did you mean by that?”

Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m afraid, Mike. I don’t want to get mixed up in it.”

“They can’t hurt you,” he said. “You’re safe here.”

“You don’t know them, Mike.”

“I know them,” he said. “They’re scared and on the run. If you keep them running you’ll be safe. But if they beat this trouble you’re in a bad spot. Don’t you see that?”

Karen returned and sat at the foot of the couch. For a moment Nancy stared at her in silence, her eyes round and frightened in her childish face. “Should I tell him?” she said softly.

“I think so,” Karen said. “It would be a big thing to do.”

“All right,” Nancy said, the words tumbling out rapidly. “Ackerman is afraid of a man named Dobbs. Dobbs lives in New Jersey. That’s all I know, Mike, I swear it.”

“Dobbs?” The name meant nothing to Carmody. “How did you find this out?”

“Beaumonte told me. When he was drunk one night. You see, something had gone wrong and Ackerman phoned him and raised the devil for fifteen or twenty minutes. When it was all over Dan was in a terrible mood. He drank a full bottle of whiskey, and then started knocking the furniture around and smashing bottles and records all over the place. I never saw him so wild. When I finally got him to bed, he started talking about Dobbs. He didn’t know what he was saying, I knew. But he said that Dobbs was the only guy smarter than Ackerman, the only guy Ackerman was afraid of. It meant nothing at all to me. The next day I pretended I’d been drunk too. Beaumonte seemed a little scared. He asked me half-a-dozen times if I remembered what he’d been talking about, but I played dumb. Listening out of turn is just as bad as talking out of turn.”

“You must have used Dobbs’ name with Fanzo’s men,” Carmody said.

“I guess I did,” Nancy said sadly.

“And it went back to Ackerman.” Carmody stood up and turned the name around in his mind. He knew men named Dobbs but none who fitted the role of Ackerman’s blackmailer. “Where’s the phone?” he asked Karen.

“In the kitchen.”

Carmody went into the tiny kitchen, took the phone from the wall and dialed his Headquarters. When the clerk answered, he said, “I’m looking for George Murphy, the reporter. Is he around?”

“Well, he was here half an hour ago. He said he was going up to the press room, I think. Wait, I’ll switch you.”

The clerk transferred the call and another voice said, “Press room.”

“Is George Murphy around?”

“Hold on. He’s talking to his desk on another phone.”

“Okay.”

Murphy came on a moment later. “Hello?”

“Mike Carmody, George. Are you busy right now?”

“Nothing that won’t keep. What’s up?”

“I want to talk to you. Can you meet me at the South end of City Hall on Market Street in about fifteen minutes?”

“Sure, Mike. I’ll be the man with the press card in his hatband.”

Carmody walked into the living room and said to Karen, “I’m going now.” His whole manner had changed; the lead was in his hands and his hunter’s instincts had driven everything else from his mind.

“Be careful, Mike,” Nancy said. Karen watched him in silence.

“I will.” He left the apartment and went down to his car.

Murphy was waiting for him at the north entrance of the Hall, his hat pushed back on his big round head, a fresh cigar in his mouth. He looked sleepy and comfortable, as if he’d just finished dinner; but behind those drowsing eyes was a mind like an immense and orderly warehouse. “Hi, Mike,” he said, taking the cigar from his mouth.

“Let’s walk,” Carmody said. “What I’ve got is very private.”

“Okay.”

They strolled across the avenue that wound around the Hall, and started down Market Street, walking leisurely through the crowds that were pouring out of shops and office buildings.

Without looking at Murphy, Carmody said, “I’ve got the start of the biggest story you ever saw. But I need help. When I get the whole thing, it’s all yours. How about it?”

“Let’s hear the start of it,” Murphy said, putting the cigar in his mouth and clasping his hands behind him.

“Ackerman is afraid of a man named Dobbs,” Carmody said. “Dobbs lives in New Jersey. That’s all I know. I want you to help me find him.”

“It doesn’t sound right,” Murphy said, after walking along a few feet in silence. “Ackerman’s not afraid of anybody. He’s got rid of anybody who could hurt him, and don’t bet against that.”

“My tip is straight,” Carmody said. “If we can find Dobbs, and spade up what he’s got on Ackerman, then you’ve got a story.”

Murphy took the cigar from his mouth and looked at it as they waited for a light. “The story I’ll get is your obituary, Mike. You can’t buck Ackerman now. Six months from now, maybe. But the city isn’t ready yet.”

“I’m ready,” Carmody said. “To hell with the city.”

“You couldn’t keep them from killing your brother,” Murphy said thoughtfully. “What makes you think you can stay healthy?”

“We’re different types,” Carmody said.

“I guess you are,” Murphy said cryptically. Then he shrugged his big soft shoulders. “Let’s walk over to the office. Maybe we can find this Dobbs in the library. But I don’t see much hope for it.”

They spent the next three hours in the Express morgue, studying items on those Dobbses whose fame or notoriety had rated interment in this mausoleum of newsprint. There were obits, news and sports stories, announcements of promotions, luncheons, engagements, divorces, weddings. Murphy pawed through the yellowing clips with patient efficiency, occasionally embellishing the stories with scraps from the warehouse of his memory. Finally, he weeded out all but five clippings. “I’ll check these,” he said. “Each one of these guys knew Ackerman in the old days. And that’s where the dirt is, I’ll bet. Here we got Micky Dobbs, the fight promoter. And Judge Dobbs who worked for Ackerman before he retired. And Max Dobbs, the bondsman. Tim Dobbs, the fire chief.” Murphy grinned crookedly. “He used to condemn joints that didn’t cooperate with Ackerman. And last is Murray Payne Dobbs, who was a big trucker before Ackerman ran him out of the state.” He made a pile of the clips and then got up from the table and rubbed the top of his head. “You want me to handle this? I can do it through the paper without causing too much talk.”

“Okay. Call me when you learn something.”

“Where’ll you be? At the hotel?”

“No. I’m staying at the old man’s.”

Murphy glanced at him queerly. “I thought you hated that place.”

“It’s quieter out there,” Carmody said.

At ten-thirty that night a slim, dark-haired man stepped into a telephone booth, fished in the return slot out of habit then dropped a coin and dialed a number. When a voice answered, he said, “Sammy Ingersoll. I got a message for Mr. Ackerman.”

“Just a minute.”

“What’s the word?” Ackerman said, a few seconds later.

“Carmody’s bedded down for the night. At his brother’s home in the Northeast. He’s been huddling most of the evening with a guy from the Express. Murphy.”

“What about the girl?”

“Only got a guess so far. But it’s a good one, I think. She’s stashed away in the apartment of that dame who saw the shooting. Karen something-or-other.”

“You don’t get paid for guessing,” Ackerman said angrily.

“I know, Mr. Ackerman. But Carmody took some dame there. I got that from a neighbor who was up early with an earache. This neighbor saw Carmody and the girl go in about four in the morning. I can’t check it because they got police guards there. In the lobby and up at her apartment.”

“All right,” Ackerman said, after a short pause. “We’ll handle the police detail. You’ve earned a vacation. Take a couple of weeks in Miami and send us the bill. And keep what you told me to yourself.”

Sammy made a small circle with his lips. His sharp little face was completely blank. “Mr. Beaumonte asked me to let him know if I learned anything.”

“I said to keep it to yourself. You’d better not misunderstand me.”

“No chance of that. I’m on my way.”

When he left the booth, Sammy wiped his damp forehead with a handkerchief. There was no future in getting in the middle between Bill Ackerman and Dan Beaumonte. Miami seemed like a beautiful idea to him, not just for two or three weeks but maybe two or three years.