Rogue Cop

13

Broome Street stretched from the river to the heart of the city and terminated in a dead end a half-block below the Municipal Building. Its upper section was smart and prosperous, with excellent shops and department stores facing each other across a broad asphalt surface. But the street changed character as it wound through warehouses and slums to the river. Overhead lights gave way to street lamps set far apart, and the gutters were clotted with newspapers, garbage and refuse. The tall, red brick buildings had been converted into rooming houses for dock laborers, and the neon signs of cheap bars glittered at every corner.

Carmody parked in the 4800 block and when he switched off the motor a dark thick silence settled around him. The warehouses and garages were locked up at this hour, and the dawn-rising longshoremen were in bed for the night. Moving quietly, he walked down the empty sidewalk to number 4842, a narrow, four-storied brick building, identical with a dozen others in the block. He ascended the short stoop of stone stairs, hollowed by decades of use, and tried the door. It was locked, as he’d expected it would be. He rang the night bell.

A few minutes later a stockily built Irishman wearing only a pair of trousers peered out at him with sleepy, belligerent eyes.

“Now what’s your pleasure?” he said.

Carmody held out his badge and let the slanting light from the hallway fall on it. “Talk as natural as you can,” he said quietly. “Answer my questions. Have you got a spare room?”

The man cleared his throat and stared at the badge. “We’re all full up,” he said.

“Think I’d have better luck somewhere else in the block?”

“Couldn’t say for sure. You can try across the street, at 4839. They might have an extra.”

“A big blond man with a wide face,” Carmody said quietly. “If he’s here nod your head.”

The man’s eyes became round and solemn. He nodded slowly and jerked his thumb in a furtive gesture to his right. “Just beside me,” he said, breathing out the words. “Front room.”

“Thanks, anyway,” Carmody said, and moved silently past him into the small airless hallway. He closed the front door and pointed to the stairs. The man needed no urging; he took the steps two at a time, his bare feet noiseless on the faded carpet.

Carmody waited until he had turned out of sight at the second-floor landing. Then he rapped sharply on the door of the front room. His breathing was even and slow, and his hands hung straight down at his sides.

Bedsprings creaked beyond the door and footsteps moved across the floor.

“Who’s that?” a voice said quietly.

“Message from Bill Ackerman,” Carmody said.

The door opened an inch and stopped. Carmody saw one eye shining softly from the light in the hallway, and below that the cold blue glint of a gun barrel.

“Walk straight in when I open the door,” the voice said. “Stop in the middle of the room and don’t turn around. Get that straight.”

“Okay, I’ve got it.”

“Start walking.”

The door swung open. Carmody entered the dark room with the hall light shining on his back. He was a perfect target if the killer wanted to shoot. But he wasn’t worried about that. Not yet.

A switch clicked and a bare bulb above his head flooded the room with white harsh light. He heard the door swing shut, a lock click and then a gun barrel pressed hard against his spine. The man’s free hand went over him with expert speed, found his revolver and flipped it free of the holster.

“Take off your hat now,” he said. “Real slow. Raise it with both hands.”

He knows his racket, Carmody thought, lifting his hat. Occasionally even a cop might forget that a small gun could be carried on the top of a man’s head under a fedora.

“Lemme look at you now,” the man said.

Turning slowly, Carmody faced the man who had killed his brother. Look down here, Eddie, he prayed. This is for you.

“You’re Joie Langley, right?” he said quietly.

“Don’t make conversation. What’s with Ackerman?”

Langley’s youth surprised Carmody. He was twenty-four, or twenty-five at most, a big muscular kid with tousled blond hair and sullen eyes set close together in a wide brutal face. The gun he held looked like a finger of his huge hand. He was wearing loafers, slacks and an unbuttoned yellow sports shirt that exposed his solid hairy chest. About Eddie’s age, Carmody thought, but a different breed. He was a hard and savage killer; Eddie wouldn’t have had a chance with him, even from the front.

“Ackerman wants you to clear out,” Carmody said. “I’m a cop, and I work for him. I’ll set it up for you.”

“A cop?” Langley said softly, and took a step back from Carmody. He went down in a springy crouch, his sullen eyes narrowing with suspicion. “I don’t like this, buddy. The whole deal stinks. I’m the hottest guy in the country but he won’t pay off, won’t let me clear out. Where’s your badge, buddy?”

“I’ll take my wallet from my hip pocket,” Carmody said quietly. “I’ll do it nice and slow. You’re getting all excited, sonny. What’s the matter? This your first job?”

Langley swore at him impersonally. Then he said, “I’m making sure it ain’t my last, that’s all. Take out your frontpiece.”

Carmody opened his wallet and flashed the badge. “Look at the name on the identification card,” he said. “That’s important, too.”

Langley stared at him, the gun steady in his big fist. “I like this less all the time, buddy,” he said.

“You’d be spending your dough in Las Vegas right now if you hadn’t fumbled the job,” Carmody said. “Look at the name in that wallet. Then we’ll get moving.”

Langley took the wallet in his free hand and held it at eye-level. He was still watching Carmody. “You sound like you think you’re tough,” he said casually.

“Look at the name.”

Langley grinned and glanced at the identification card, keeping the gun fixed steadily on Carmody’s stomach.

“Michael T. Carmody,” he said, reading the name slowly. A puzzled line deepened above his eyes. “That’s the name of the guy I—”

Carmody had raised his hand casually — as if he were going to scratch his chin — and now he struck down at Langley’s wrist, gambling on the hoodlum’s momentary confusion and the speed and power of his own body.

He almost lost his bet.

Langley jerked back from the blow, his lips flattening in a snarl, and the rock-hard edge of Carmody’s hand missed his wrist — but it struck the top of his thumb and knocked his finger away from the trigger. For a split second the gun dangled impotently in his hand, and Carmody made another desperate bet on himself and whipped a left hook into Langley’s face. It would have been safer to try for the gun; if the hook missed he’d be dead before he could throw another punch. But it didn’t miss; Langley’s head snapped back as Carmody’s fist exploded under his jaw and the gun spun from his hand to the floor. Carmody kicked it under the bed and began to laugh. Then he hit Langley in the stomach with a right that raised him two inches off the floor. When Langley bent over, gasping for breath, Carmody brought his knee up into his face and knocked him halfway across the room.

“It was your last job, sonny,” he said, grabbing the slack of the sports shirt and pulling him to his feet. “You shot a good kid, my brother. But you shoot nobody else.”

Langley stared at him, breathing raggedly, hate shining from his bleeding ruined face. “I’d cut off my hands and feet for one chance at you, copper,” he cried softly. “I’d fix you good.”

“You had your chance, sonny,” Carmody said. “A thousand more wouldn’t help.” Turning Langley around, he twisted his wrist up between his shoulder blades and locked it there in the vise of his own big hand. “Eddie could have taken you front to front,” he said. “You’re not big-time, you’re all mouth. We’re going downtown now and I’ll turn you over to my brother’s friends. If you want your troubles to start sooner just get balky. I’ll break this arm of yours off and make you carry it.”

“I don’t scare, copper,” Langley said angrily.

Carmody hesitated in the bleak room and stared with bitter eyes into his own past. “No, we don’t scare, sonny,” he said. “God Himself can’t scare us. So we wind up like this. Little men begging for a break.”

“Who’s little?”

“You’re little enough to fit in the chair,” Carmody said. “That’s what counts. How old are you?”

“Twenty-six my next birthday.”

“A ripe old age,” Carmody said, and sighed. “Let’s go.”

He retrieved his revolver, opened the door and shoved Langley out into the dimly lighted hallway. The house was still and quiet. It was just about all over, Carmody knew, and he was restless and impatient for the final end of it. The power and drive that had always been a pressure within him seemed to be gone; even his anger had watered down to a heavy pervading bitterness. He was reaching for the knob when the doorbell broke clamorously through the silence.

Carmody froze, tightening his grip on Langley’s wrist.

“Easy now,” he whispered.

“Maybe you got trouble, copper.”

“You’ll get it first.”

Carmody was in an awkward position. With one band he couldn’t open the door and still keep an effective grip on the gun. And Langley might break if he put away the gun to open the door.

“Maybe we got action,” Langley said, laughing soundlessly.

“You won’t see it,” Carmody said; raising his gun he slugged him at the base of the skull, not hard enough to injure him but hard enough to silence him for a few moments. Langley sagged against him and Carmody caught his arms and lowered him to the floor.

Then he turned the knob, releasing the catch, and stepped quickly back to the shadow of the stairs. The door swung open and Myers, the little detective from his shift, walked into the hallway.

“Good Lord,” he said closing the door quickly, and glancing from Carmody down to Langley’s sprawled body.

“How did you find me?” Carmody said.

Myers was breathing rapidly, his small cautious face tense with excitement. “That can wait, Mike. Ackerman’s sitting across the street in his car. With Hymie Schmidt. Did you know that?”

Carmody felt a quiver of excitement go down his spine. It wasn’t over yet; not by a long sight. Ackerman was the man he had come closer to fearing than anyone else he had known in his life. And now Ackerman was waiting for him.

“There’s an alarm out for him,” Myers said. “He’s wanted for questioning. And he’s on the run.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“I spotted your car down the block. That old mobster at my wife’s sanitarium gave me the tip on this guy.” He glanced down at Langley. “Someone in Chicago told him a guy named Joie Langley had come East to do a job on a cop. A pet stoolie of mine tipped me off he was staying here. I came out just to look around and then I saw your car. That scared me. So I decided to come in. That’s when I saw Ackerman and Schmidt pull up and stop across the street.”

“They’ve seen my car, too, then,” Carmody said. “We don’t have much time. They’ll either clear out or come in here shooting.”

“I got it all thought out,” Myers said, gripping his arm. “They don’t know me from Adam. To them I’m just a little guy who lives here or is hunting for a room. Well, look: I’ll walk out again and go down to the sidewalk. I take out cigarettes, pretend I need a match and cross the street to their car. When I get there I put my gun in their face. And that’s the end of it. You can cover me from here. Okay?”

Carmody hesitated. It was a good bold move but Myers wasn’t the man for it. “No,” he said.

“It will work.”

“What the devil are you trying to prove?”

Myers shook his head slowly. “They killed a cop, remember? I’m going to prove they can’t get away with it. That’s what’s important to me. Don’t you ever know what makes people tick, Mike?”

“No, I’m too dumb,” Carmody said wearily. Then he put his hand awkwardly on Myers’ shoulder. “Forgive me, will you? You’re a better cop than I could be in a thousand years. Go out and arrest those bastards.”

“You watch me.” Myers opened the door and went down the stone steps to the sidewalk. From the crack of the partially open door Carmody saw Ackerman’s long black car parked across the street, and the faces of the two men in the front seat, pale triangular blurs in the darkness. He watched Myers fumble through his pockets, bring out cigarettes and stick one in his mouth. Weaving slightly, Myers dug around again in his pockets for matches. Carmody felt perspiration starting on his forehead; the little detective was overdoing it, playing it like a drunk on a stage. But it was too late to drag him back. Myers had started across the street to Ackerman’s car, weaving on rubbery legs.

“You guys got a match?” Carmody heard him call.

“I think so.” It was Ackerman’s voice, carrying clearly across the silent street.

“Good guy,” Myers said, laughing cheerfully.

That was when Ackerman shot him, as he approached the car, doing his imitation of a drunk’s lurching walk. The report blasted the silence and sent shattering echoes racing along the dark blocks.

Carmody charged down to the sidewalk as he saw Myers fall, and heard his shrill incredulous cry of pain. His gun banged twice and the glass in Ackerman’s windshield shattered with a noisy crash. He saw Ackerman clearly then but before he could fire again something struck his shoulder and spun his body around in a full circle. There was no pain at first, only the incredible, sledge-hammer impact of the bullet. He was on his knees, feeling for his gun when the pain hit, driving into him like a white-hot needle. The breath left his body in a squeezing rush and he put a hand quickly on the pavement to keep himself from falling on his face. When he raised his head, Ackerman was standing above him, looking as tall as the buildings. “You rotten filthy dog,” he said, staring at Carmody with furious eyes. “You fixed me good. But you’re where you belong now, on your knees and ready to die.”

Carmody fought against a dizzying pain and nausea. “You’re through,” he grinned, and the effort stretched the skin whitely across his cheekbones. “It wasn’t a bad night’s work.”

“I’ll be alive when you’re dead,” Ackerman said, his voice trembling with passion.

Windows had gone up along the block and from a distance came the faint baying of a police siren.

“Boss, let’s go,” Hymie Schmidt shouted from inside the car.

“Just one more second,” Ackerman said, putting the cold muzzle of his gun against Carmody’s forehead. “Don’t worry about me,” he said, leaning forward and speaking slowly and clearly. “I’ve got judges and lawyers in every pocket. And shooting a crooked cop is an easy rap to beat.”

“Damn you!” Hymie Schmidt yelled, and let out the clutch with a snap. The car shot forward with a deep roar of power. Ackerman spun around, his face twisting with alarm. “Stop!” he shouted, and ran a few yards down the street, waving both arms in the air. Finally, he halted, cursing furiously at the fading tail-light.

When he turned around, Carmody was kneeling as he had left him, but Myers was sitting up in the street with a gun in his lap, his little face frozen and white with pain.

“You won’t kill any more cops,” he said weakly, and shot Ackerman through the head.