Shield for Murder

13

It was ten minutes until Linda’s next show when the door of her dressing room opened and two large men sauntered in casually. One of them closed the door and leaned his great bulk against it; the other put both hands on his hips and regarded her with a cheerful smile.

“Miss Linda Wade, I guess,” he said.

She had turned from her dressing table, still holding a lipstick in one hand. “Yes, what do you want?”

The taller man, the one with the incredible shoulders and thick black hair, continued to grin at her. His companion, a huge squat man with badly battered features, nodded his head at her approvingly.

“You got a nice direct personality, Miss Wade,” he said.

She looked from one man to the other, aware that her hands were trembling. “Who are you?” she said.

“We’re friends of a friend,” the bigger man said, his grin widening. “That makes us all friends, so to speak.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“We don’t want to mystify you, Miss Wade. Do we, Hymie?”

The man at the door shook his round head solemnly. “Not a bit. With a direct personality we should be direct, I say.”

“Right, Miss Wade; we’re friends, in a manner of speaking, with Barny Nolan. You know the name, I guess?”

“Yes, I know him,” she said, and stood and walked to the door. “Please get out of my way. I’ve got a show to do. I have nothing to say to you about Barny Nolan or anything else.”

“Sure, sure,” Hymie said, in the soothing voice one might use with a child. “First, though, we got a few questions to ask you about our mutual friend.”

“Let me out of here,” she said angrily.

The bigger man lifted her gently back to a chair with the same ease that he would have handled a child’s doll. “Nolan is spending a lot of money on you?” he said, gazing down at her and smiling.

“He give you anything to keep for him?” Hymie asked. “Some stuff in a delicate shade of green maybe, with historical-type pictures on it?”

“I... I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That’s why we’re here,” Hymie said with great earnestness. “We want to fill in everybody so there won’t be any mystery any more. Everybody should have all the facts, I figure. That way everybody can do what’s best to keep out of trouble. You think I got a good point?”

“If you don’t let me out of here I’ll start screaming.” Linda stood up defiantly. “I’m awfully good at screaming.”

Hymie looked disappointed. “We were hoping this would be a friendly visit, Miss Wade. We don’t want anybody to get hurt. Hurt feelings, I mean. But that creep you hang around with is going to get lots of people hurt, Miss Wade. Maybe even you.”

There was a knock on the door and Hymie stepped aside. Jim Evans stuck his head in and said, “You’re on, Linda.” Then he saw Hymie and Laddy, and his eyes became wary. “What’s up, boys?”

Both men smiled at him. “Nothing much,” Hymie said. “We just came by to tell Miss Wade we liked her act.”

“That’s right,” Laddy said. “We’re stage door Johnnies in a manner of speaking.”

“Oh, I see.” Jim Evans smiled quickly. “Well, I’ll bet Linda’s glad you like the show. How about having a drink with me, boys?”

“No, we’ve got to run along,” Laddy said. “We’re just simple-hearted fellas, and this night-life is pretty tiring.”

Jim Evans laughed. “Well, say hello to Mike for me. Tell him to drop by some night.”

“Sure, we’ll do that,” Hymie said, and smiled at Linda. “You’re a fine singer, Miss Wade. You just stick to it, the singing I mean, and you’ll get along fine.”

The two big men edged out of the room and strolled down the corridor to the dance floor. Jim Evans frowned at their wide backs and then stepped into Linda’s dressing room and closed the door.

“What the hell did they want?”

“Who are they, Jim?”

“Laddy O’Neill and Hymie Solstein, a couple of Mike Espizito’s walking nightmares. They’re nobody for you to know, or even think about, baby.”

“Jim, give me a nickel, please. I’ve got to make a phone call.”

He caught her shoulders. “Are you in some kind of trouble, baby?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Jim. Please don’t ask me about it now.”

“Okay,” Jim Evans said gloomily. “But I’d rather see snakes crawling around the dance floor than those characters in your dressing room. I’ll tell Sam to play another chorus, but rush it up.” He dug a coin from his pocket.

Linda hurried down to the pay phone at the end of the corridor and dialed the Call-Bulletin. A man on the City desk told her that Mark Brewster could probably be reached at the Sixty-fifth District.

Linda stepped out of the phone booth and borrowed a nickel from a passing waitress. Then she called the police board, and asked for the Sixty-fifth...

Nolan walked into the Simba about midnight. The band was playing one of Linda’s songs but she wasn’t on the stage. Despite the steam bath he was still flushed with liquor, and he knew he shouldn’t have come here. Yet he had to see Linda. That was the only thing that mattered.

He walked across the dance floor and down the corridor that led to the dressing rooms. Jim Evans was standing in front of Linda’s, looking worriedly at his watch.

“Where’s Linda?” Nolan asked.

“She’s phoning somebody. Say, Barny, you’re just the man I want to see. I think I need a cop.”

“What’s up?”

Evans shrugged, and glanced back to the booth where Linda was on the phone. “I’m damned if I know, Barny. But Hymie Solstein and Laddy O’Neill were here to see Linda. She won’t tell me why, but I don’t like the idea of those characters being in the same county with her.”

“They were here, eh?”

“Sure, right in her dressing room. What’s the matter, Barny?”

Nolan shoved past him and walked down the corridor to the telephone booth. He reached the open door in time to hear Linda say, “All right, I’ll see you then. And thanks.”

When she stepped from the booth, he saw that she was pale and nervous.

“I want to talk to you,” he said.

“Barny, not now. I’m on.”

He took her arm. “Let’s go back to your dressing room.”

Jim Evans came toward them, looking desperate. “Linda, Sam can’t keep playing your introduction all night.”

“She isn’t going on yet,” Nolan told him, and his hand tightened on Linda’s arm. “Come on, kid. We got a little talking to do.”

Inside her dressing room he kicked the door shut. “Okay now. What did Espizito’s punks want?”

She sat down, her hands locked tightly together in her lap. “I don’t really know, Barny.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“All right. They wanted to know if you were spending money on me. That was about as far as they got before Jim came in.”

“All right, what else?”

“Nothing, Barny.” She looked up at him, and saw that he looked desperately ill. “You’ve been drinking, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I’ve been drinking. What the hell difference does that make to you?”

She turned away from him and put both hands to her face, and then she began to weep.

Nolan stared down at her shining hair, at her slim bare shoulders; and suddenly his anger melted away and he was left with nothing but confusion and sadness.

Clumsily he knelt beside her and patted her arm. “I never meant to do this to you, kid,” he said. “I loved you, that’s all. I wanted to do things that would make you happy. You’ve got to believe that. Don’t cry, kid. I’ll take care of Hymie and Laddy so they’ll never bother anybody again.”

“No, don’t do that, Barny.” She raised her head. “You’ll just get into trouble.” She was drawn almost helplessly to him, as she studied his bitter anguished face. He lowered his head and she stroked his thick curly hair. “Just take everything slowly, Barny,” she said in a gentle voice. “Will you do that?”

“Yeah, sure, kid.”

There was a harried knock on the door. “Linda?” Jim Evans called. “How about it?”

“All right, I’m coming. Barny, I must go.”

“Sure, sure,” he said, getting to his feet awkwardly. “Look, how about picking you up later?”

She didn’t have the heart to make any excuses. “Of course, Barny. After the last show.”

He grinned at her, and suddenly the gray depression was gone. “Great,” he said. “Great. Knock ’em dead, kid. See you later.”

Outside the Simba, Nolan paused indecisively for a moment, watching the crowds strolling by; and then he walked west, glancing into shooting galleries, book stores, movie lobbies. He stopped at a busy newsstand and nodded to the proprietor, a corpulent cheerful man who took horse bets.

“Seen Laddy O’Neill or Hymie around here lately?” he asked.

The vendor looked blank. Nolan said, “It’s just a personal matter.”

“Oh, sure, Barny, they came out of the Simba about half an hour ago. They were walking west.”

Nolan drifted into a few bars, moving slowly, deliberately, savoring a pleasant feeling of release. For the first time in what seemed an eternity he had a definite, physical object for his anger.

When he reached Twentieth Street he stopped and lit a cigar. The traffic of the night, couples hand-in-hand, derelicts, young men in sports jackets, on the make, flowed past him as he thought about Hymie and Laddy. Automatically, with cop-bred skill he began plotting their probable course for the rest of the night. He had checked a few bars with the thought that they might have stopped for a drink after leaving the Simba. Obviously they hadn’t. They’d probably returned to Espizito’s club to report. After that they might try Mama Ragoni’s for food, Ace MaGuire’s for bowling or billiards, or half a dozen other spots for craps or poker. Nolan knew where their women lived, too; that would be his last stop.

He returned to his car and drove down to South Philly where he found a parking place about a block from Mama Ragoni’s. The neighborhood was a rich and yeasty one, redolent of pepperoni, capacoli and Chianti; and on warm nights the steps of the row of houses were occupied by elderly men playing checkers, and women who held sleeping babies in their arms and talked to one another in soft voices. Under the street lamp at the corner, teen-aged boys and girls formed noisy groups; and from the open doors of cafés the jingling melodies of Puccini, Donizetti and Verdi soared into the night.

Nolan had grown up in a neighborhood like this one, but in times when there had been very little pepperoni and Chianti, and when the men weren’t working; and the kids who hung around the street corners were afraid they’d never get a job, and would never have any money for girls or dates or clothes. Everyone was afraid in those days, and Nolan had done a lot of street fighting to prove he wasn’t.

Mama Ragoni’s wasn’t crowded. Two or three men stood at the bar, and in the rear dining room only two tables were occupied. At one table sat two young men with dates; and at the other sat Laddy and Hymie, attacking steaming plates of veal scallopini. Wicker-wrapped flasks of Chianti were at their elbows.

Nolan paused in the doorway for an instant, and then walked slowly into the dining room.

Laddy O’Neill glanced up and saw him coming. He put his fork down and nudged Hymie with his knee. Hymie looked up smiling, but then his eyes narrowed slightly. He lifted a glass of Chianti to the detective, and said, blandly: “Hi ya, keed. Got time for a drink?”

Nolan didn’t hear him. He was conscious of nothing but the two faces before him, the smiling faces of the men who had bothered Linda. His gun came out so swiftly that neither of them had a chance to move. He slapped the barrel across Laddy’s face with every ounce of strength in his arm, and the big man toppled backward and hit the floor with a crash. Hymie came to his feet, swearing loudly, but Nolan had already started his back-handed swing and the gun barrel struck his temple as he grabbed for a wine bottle.

Hymie sat back down drunkenly, cursing in a confused, mumbling voice, and holding his bleeding head in both hands. Laddy came up to his feet and Nolan kicked him squarely in the mouth. O’Neill went backward, knocked over a table and landed on his back.

A girl at the other table was screaming wildly. The two young men were trying to pull her toward the bar but she fought them off and continued to scream in a demented fashion.

Nolan leaped on top of Laddy and slapped the gun barrel across his face four times, viciously, deliberately. Then he stood and turned to Hymie who was still holding his head and moaning softly.

“Punks,” he said, shouting the word. “Don’t come near me again, hear? You hear that?”

He put his gun away and strode past the screaming girl into the barroom. Mama Ragoni was behind the bar, pale and tearful. “You crazy man,” she yelled. “You crazy man. I’ll call the police.”

Nolan’s anger was already gone. The physical release had drained him and he felt calm and empty. He turned to Mama Ragoni and flipped out his wallet and showed her his shield.

“What do you want a cop for?”

“You crazy man!” she said in a hoarse, incredulous voice.

“Yeah?” Nolan walked out smiling.

Mark Brewster knocked on Linda’s dressing room door at twelve-thirty, half an hour after he’d got her call. She let him in and he saw that she was pale beneath her make-up.

“Thanks for coming over.” She twisted her hands together nervously. “I can’t offer you a drink, but maybe you’d like a cigarette.”

Mark saw that she was on edge. “Nothing at all, thanks,” he said. “Why don’t we sit down?”

“I’m sorry. I should have thought of that.” She rubbed her forehead. “I’m all mixed up, Mark.”

“Supposing you tell me what Laddy and Hymie wanted.”

“They were curious about Barny.” She sat down, looked at her hands. “Specifically they wanted to know if he’d given me any money.”

“Well, Espizito isn’t wasting any time, obviously. Then what?”

“That’s about all. Jim came by then, and they left. After that Barny was here.”

“Oh? Did you call him, too?”

“No, he just came by to see me. He’d been drinking — he acted as if he might explode any minute.”

Mark lit a cigarette. “I can control my sympathy for him with practically no effort at all,” he said dryly. “Did you tell him about Laddy’s and Hymie’s visit?”

“Yes.”

“They’ll probably regret that they stopped by without invitations. Did Nolan have anything else to say?”

Linda stood and walked to her dressing table. She picked up a cigarette but didn’t put it in her mouth. “He wanted to see me later tonight,” she said. “He seemed, oh, I don’t know, as if he couldn’t go on much longer.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I told him I’d see him, of course. He’s meeting me here after my last show.”

They were silent a moment; and then Mark struck a match and nodded to her cigarette. “You might as well light that thing,” he said.

“Thank you.”

“You had to see him, of course,” he said, and dropped the match deliberately onto the floor.

“Yes, I had to, Mark. Not because I was afraid of arousing his suspicions or anything like that. But simply because he seems to have got into more trouble than he can stand.”

“He chose his trouble pretty deliberately,” Mark said, meeting her eyes. “Are you forgetting that?”

“I’m not forgetting anything. But, Mark, there’s something about him — oh, I just can’t put it in words. He’s like a baby at times. He’s turbulent, rebellious and yet so damn simple and helpless.”

“You love the guy, don’t you?” Mark said, standing. “Why don’t you say that, instead of giving me this social-service worker routine?”

“You’re utterly ridiculous. I don’t love him, but I can’t hate him. I pity him.”

Their eyes met angrily. Mark said, “This helpless little baby of yours tried to kill me last night. Did he happen to lisp that boyish prank of his into your ear?”

“Oh no, Mark.”

“Oh yes, Linda,” he said, repeating her inflection deliberately. “Early this morning, when I left your apartment, he tried to run me down in his car. That, I suppose, is the sort of activity you’d call willful and rebellious.”

“Oh, stop it, Mark,” she said, shaking her head. “Don’t stand there mocking me. Why are you doing it? Can’t you see I have to help him? Can’t you understand that?”

He shrugged his shoulders tiredly. “I’m sorry, Linda. I didn’t mean to be sarcastic about it. But I don’t get it. I just don’t get it.”

Linda put her hand on his arm impulsively. “Mark, I want you to understand it. It’s important to me that you do. Barny’s made a symbol of me. He’s put me on a ridiculous pedestal. He’s got me confused with success and security and love, and all the things he’s missed in life. I represent a cure-all for his mistakes, shortcomings, tough breaks. I didn’t see that until tonight. Now I simply can’t throw him back on his resources. Not right away, not brutally, Mark.”

Mark paused a moment, then looked down at the floor. “That’s up to you, Linda,” he said in an even voice.

“But I don’t want it that way, Mark. I want you to understand.”

“Why?”

She shrugged and sat down slowly at her dressing table. Studying herself in the mirror, she said: “Why? I don’t quite know, Mark. Perhaps I’ve got a lost-kitten complex and wanted to share it with you.”

“Nolan is no lost kitten, believe me, baby.”

She met his eyes in the mirror. “I suppose you’re right, Mark. I’m sure that when you say a thing it’s bound to be a dead-sure fact, cold, accurate and final.”

“How the hell did we get onto this?”

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice tired. “Would you excuse me now, please? I have to freshen up for my next show.”

“Sure,” he said. He stared at her bare shoulders and the clean line of her throat, for an instant; and then he turned and walked out of the room.

When the door slammed, Linda picked up a lipstick from the table and started to do her lips; but her hands were trembling and it was no use. She put her head down on her arms and began to cry.