The Big Heat

Chapter 10

Bannion drove in from Chester through a driving rain. He stopped inside the city line at a handbook and got Larry Smith’s home address from the bookie. At the first drugstore he looked up his number, tried it but got no answer.

That was fine.

He drove out to the Parkway Building, a huge but elegant apartment house that featured uniformed doormen and a discreetly lavish atmosphere for anyone who could afford its prices. Bannion parked across the street from its gleaming, canopied entrance. He lit a cigarette and settled down to wait. His trenchcoat was wet, and drops of water were forming and falling from the brim of his hat. He put the hat on the seat without taking his eyes from the revolving doors of Larry’s building.

Larry would have to show eventually.

Bannion smoked and watched in the rainy darkness...

Larry left Stone’s apartment at nine-thirty, bitter and disgusted. Max and Lagana thought they were big men because they’d been in the rackets in the twenties when (to hear them tell it) you got shot if you said boo to a mobster. It was all a lot of crap. They were kidding themselves, pounding their chests, treating him like a goddamn baby. Big men, real tough, he thought sneering. Bannion, a jerk of a cop, and Cranston, an old woman, had them shaking like a pair of nances.

Suddenly he remembered the way Lagana had looked at him, up and down with those funny, blank eyes. Well, what the hell was a look? He put a tough smile on his face. Probably the old man needed glasses. Nobody had eyes like that unless he was dead. That’s what the old man’s eyes were like, he thought. Like a stiff’s. There was a funny winter light in the back of them, the same thing you saw in a stiff’s eyes.

Larry shivered slightly, and got into his car, ignoring the doorman’s tip-twitching hand. What the hell was he thinking about the old man’s eyes for? They were just eyes, like everyone had. Period. But he couldn’t kid himself; he knew what was wrong when his thoughts skittered this way. He was afraid of dying, not the physical end of it, but what came afterwards. You went somewhere, up, down, out maybe, into space, and your body stayed behind, no use to anyone, cold and stiff. Larry had been raised a Catholic; he was afraid of dying because he’d left the church and knew he would be punished for it. But terrified as he was of this mysterious inevitable punishment, he was even more frightened by the conclusions of atheism. To go nowhere, to have it all end suddenly, forever, that was worse than anything else.

To hell with it, to hell with it, he thought, pounding the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. He pushed the ideas from his mind. Everything was going fine; tomorrow was wonderful, tomorrow was beautiful. He had been on his way home, but he changed his mind and drove to a flashy nightclub on Market Street. The hat check girl made a fuss over him, a couple of waiters hurrying through the velvet-walled foyer nodded to him and smiled, and Larry walked into the big dining and dancing-room in a much better humor. This was a nice joint, a nice relaxing joint, he thought. Here they knew who he was, they knew he was a big shot.

Larry had been working for Max Stone for six years. He was number four man in Philadelphia, young for the responsibility, but that didn’t prevent him from doing a good job. Larry was tough, smart, and completely without morals. He had come up through the ranks of a society that was founded on the fix; as a kid he’d delivered political handbills, driven voters to the polls, seen how the primary lists were padded with fictitious names, and how the pressure was put on individuals who registered against the administration. Larry was no starveling from the slums. He had a high school education and his family were fairly decent, responsible people. Larry went into the rackets by choice, as another young man might go in for the law, because he had learned that everything was rigged — the police, the courts, politics, elections, the whole damn city. It was rigged like a slot machine to clip the suckers and pay off the operator. So why be a sucker?

He had his own handbook when he was twenty-one and then he went to work for Stone, in charge of a string of books on the West side. He arranged the pay-off, had quite a bit to say about applicants who wanted to open joints, and he handled the wire-service and all other details of the organization. Larry was a new element in the rackets, a type hand-picked by Mike Lagana. He was no Sicilian illiterate, no gun-happy hoodlum; Lagana wanted quiet young men, neighborhood boys, who were smart and tough but kept out of trouble. Larry didn’t understand the higher strategy that had pushed him past a number of older men in the organization; he thought he was lucky, and he thanked the good old American way of things that rewarded industry and loyalty regardless of age, background or other irrelevant qualifications.

Larry ordered his dinner, oysters and a five-dollar steak, and settled back to enjoy the floor show. There was a girl in the line he hadn’t seen before, a tall brunette with a good body and a wise, provocative expression on her face. He signalled the captain of waiters and pointed out the girl. “After the show ask her if she’d like to have a drink with me,” he said, smiling.

The waiter smiled, too. “She’d like to, Mr. Smith.”

It was funny how things changed. Half an hour he’d been in the dumps, but now he was riding high. Later, grinning over a drink at the brunette, he said, “Baby, you’re just what I need. You saved my life tonight.”

The brunette patted his hand.

Bannion walked up and down the sidewalk before Larry’s building, a cigarette in the comer of his mouth. The rain had stopped and the early morning was cold and sharp. He glanced up at the big quiet apartment house, and rubbed a hand over his tired face. He wasn’t conscious of fatigue; all he knew was the need to find Larry Smith, to get his hands on that loose end and jerk everything else into the light. But he’d have to wait; Larry had undoubtedly found some diversion. Well, enjoy yourself, Larry, Bannion thought. Enjoy tonight because you won’t enjoy tomorrow.

Bannion had spent a bad five hours in the dark and rainy night, thinking of Kate. She had come back to him and he hugged the bitter loneliness she brought him because it was all he had left of her, all he had left in the world.

He flipped his cigarette into the street and walked over to his car, deciding to get something to drink before going back to the hotel. It had been some time since he’d eaten, but he wasn’t hungry-

Most of the bars he passed were closed, so he drove on into the center of the city and stopped at one on Market Street. He settled down in a red-leather-covered booth in the rear of the place and asked the waitress to bring him a double rye.

There was a juke box sounding the currently popular songs, and a noisy table of college kids in the booth opposite him, good-natured boys having a big time drinking beer and kidding the waitress.

Bannion looked down at his big hands, trying to ignore the songs, the festive chatter from the adjacent booth. When the waitress brought his drink he told her to bring him the bottle. It would save her trips that way.

She said okay.

Twenty minutes later Max Stone came in, accompanied by Debby, and his bodyguard, a man named Jones. Debby took a stool at the bar and Stone shook hands with the manager. Jones took a seat at the end of the bar where he could watch the boss. Stone began rolling dice with a girl who sat behind a green-felt table. He lost consistently, and he wasn’t happy about it. The money wasn’t important, it was just a quarter a throw; but losing, on principle, made him sore. He had been losing steadily at poker in his apartment for the last four hours, and had taken a walk to let the run of the cards change. Stone felt like hell; he’d eaten four hot corned-beef sandwiches on Jewish rye bread and had drunk several highballs. They weren’t doing him any good. He watched the dice bounce out of the leather cup he held, his eyes tired and narrowed. What was wrong with him? He’d felt better earlier in the evening, when Lagana had been putting it on the line to Larry. That was like old times. But when Mike had gone, Stone was swept with the familiar, anxious feeling that something was wrong, that everything was shifting under his feet.

“Don’t pick ’em up so fast,” he told the girl. “I want to look, too.”

“Sure, Mr. Stone.”

The bartender smiled at Stone, the manager smiled at him, and Debby smiled at him; they knew he was in a touchy, explosive mood. Only Jones, his bodyguard, didn’t smile; he wasn’t paid to smile, he was paid to watch, so he sat at the end of the bar, a sullen-looking balding man, and watched Stone, watched the people who walked behind him, with gray, careful eyes.

“Don’t pick ’em up so fast,” Stone said again, glaring at the girl. “I’m not talking just to make noise, baby.”

“No, of course not, Mr. Stone,” the girl said, with a quick nervous smile.

A minute or so later, Stone swore violently. “You’re cheating me, goddamnit,” he yelled, and slammed the leather dice cup against the wall. He drew his thick arm back and slapped the girl across the face. The blow caught her by surprise and almost knocked her off the stool. She scrambled to the floor, and cowered in the corner, staring at Stone with wide, terrified eyes, too stunned to say anything.

The bartender began polishing a glass industriously, and a man at the bar who recognized Stone picked up his change and moved inconspicuously toward the door.

The manager put a hand nervously on Stone’s arm. “Max, forget it, please,” he said. “I’ll pay her off tonight, chase her the hell out of here.”

“What kind of a joint are you running?” Stone said, shaking the hand from his arm.

There was a buzz and stir as customers at the bar and in the booths turned to watch the disturbance.

Stone shoved his hands into the pockets of his overcoat and stared down the room, watching one pair of eyes after another melt away from his angry, self-righteous glare. “Well, what’re you looking at?” he snapped at a thin young man in a natty suit.

“Nothing, nothing at all,” the young man said, and turned away with a weak smile.

The joint’s bouncer, a stocky man in a dark blue suit, stood behind Stone, ready to move fast if anyone bothered him. Jones slid off his stool and was watching too, his weight balanced lightly, expectantly on the balls of his feet.

The only sound was the dice-girl’s muffled sobs.

The college boys in the booth next to Bannion’s had stood up for a better view of the excitement. One of them, a husky, clean-cut lad, looked uncertainly at his friends. “Hey, that big bastard slapped a girl,” he said, with more surprise than outrage in his voice. He wet his lips, and then his face, his good humored, still unformed face, hardened. “Well, we’ll see about that,” he said, and his words sounded clearly in the silence.

He stepped from the booth and started toward Stone.

He didn’t get very far. The man named Jones moved to meet him with a fast, springy stride. He bumped squarely into the boy, put both hands against his shoulders and shoved him powerfully back toward the booth.

“Where you going, hero?” he said, coming after the boy, his hands swinging low at his sides.

Two waiters grabbed the boy’s arms and shoved him down in the booth. He struggled against them, making only a token resistance; his face was white and scared. One of the waiters said, “Jeez, kid, don’t be dumb. That’s Max Stone. Get it, Max Stone. Keep your nose out of his business.”

“He hit the girl,” the boy said in a high, shaky voice.

“Okay, okay,” the waiter said. “So he hit a girl. He can do what he wants.” The waiter looked up at Jones, smiling nervously. “They’re good kids, really. Just kind of excitable,” he said.

Jones stared down at the college boy. “Don’t be excitable, Junior,” he said. “It don’t figure.”

Bannion raised his head slowly. Jones was standing just a few feet from him and his voice had fallen like an ugly weight across his thoughts. Keep out of it, he said to himself, and his lips moved with the silent words, almost as if he were praying. He had recognized Stone, the top man in West, and had heard the hassle. He knew Jones, too, a sullen punk who was happiest when crowding scared little people into a corner. Keep out of it, he said again, muttering the words aloud. He had his lead; Larry Smith. That might lead to Stone, but it had to be proved. There was no percentage in tipping his hand, making a move that could ruin his chances. He told himself to keep out of it, almost savagely, fighting the red anger that was sweeping through him, the anger that could destroy him along with everything in its way.

Jones’ voice came down across his thoughts again, hard and contemptuous. “It don’t figure, college boy,” he said. “Don’t be excitable. Remember that, Junior.”

The glass shattered in Bannion’s tightening fist. He stood and stepped into the aisle between the two rows of booths. “Hello, punk,” he said to Jones.

Jones turned quickly, his lips drawing tight against his teeth. He looked up at Bannion and some of the bored, sullen toughness left his face. “This isn’t any business of yours, Bannion,” he said.

Bannion took the lapels of Jones’ coat in one hand and pulled the man close to him. “You tell me what my business is, punk,” he said, in a low, trembling voice. “You tell me all about it.”

Jones wet his lips and tried to meet Bannion’s eyes. “I... I got nothing to tell you, Bannion.”

Bannion held the slack of Jones’ coat in one big hand. He raised his arm slowly and lifted the man up to his toes. “You’re a smart little punk,” he said, in the same low voice. “Don’t ever tell me anything.” He turned Jones around and pushed him to the rear of the room. “Stay there and keep quiet,” he said. “You’re getting a break, remember.”

Bannion looked at him for an instant, and then turned and walked toward Stone, moving slowly, deliberately, his hands jammed deep into the pockets of his trenchcoat. Under the rain-darkened brim of his hat his face was hard and expressionless.

“You like working girls over, don’t you, Stone?” he said.

Stone glared at the big detective, seeing the brutal anger in his face, and sensing the sudden, explosive quietness in the room. He knew Debby was watching him; he couldn’t let her see him talked down, and he was in no mood to take anything from anybody tonight. “Don’t make a mistake, Bannion,” he said. “Don’t play hero with me.”

“You like working girls over, don’t you?” Bannion said again, he knew now what he was going to do; he would kill Stone. He knew it was stupid, knew it would ruin everything, but he was helpless in the grip of his rage.

Debby watched the two men smiling, her chin cupped in the palm of her hand, one gold sandalled foot swinging slowly. She had never seen anyone treat Max this way before, and she found it exciting and oddly satisfying.

The bouncer behind Stone looked at Bannion uncertainly, remembered certain things he’d heard about him, and backed slowly out of the picture.

Stone saw something in Bannion’s face that cut off the angry blustering words coming up in his throat. He knew Bannion was ready to kill him; this wasn’t just mouth-work, this was murder. Stone was suddenly cold and empty; it had happened so swiftly, so inevitably, he had no time to get ready for it. It was like a bomb going off in your face. He laughed, unaware that he was laughing, but hearing the shrill sound of it high above him in the air. His hands rose of their own volition, and his thick fingers fluttered up there in the curious, strained noise of his laughter.

“Hell, Dave, take it easy,” he said. “Take it easy. I’m sorry, Dave, I’m sorry, I didn’t know... The words strung out meaninglessly.

Bannion got himself under control. It was a struggle that left him pale and shaken. “Get out of here, Stone,” he said. “Fast. While you’re still alive.”

Stone brought his hands down slowly. He glanced around the room, quickly, uncertainly, seeing nothing, and then turned and strode out the door. Bannion looked back at Jones who stood motionless in the rear of the room. “You, too,” he said.

Jones walked quickly up the bar, avoiding Bannion’s eyes, and hurried out after Stone. Bannion stood alone, rubbing his forehead, unaware of the sudden nervous laughter in the room, the excited bursts of conversation, the renewed clink of glasses. He glanced down at the manager who was at his side. “I owe you for about half a bottle of rye,” he said.

“No, no, forget it,” the manager said, rubbing his hands together nervously.

“You’ll be accused of buying me a drink.”

The manager smiled tightly. “Always joking, eh?”

“You can relax. I’m leaving,” Bannion said.

The manager came with him to the door and put a hand on his arm. “Dave, I’m proud to buy you a drink,” he said, in a low’ hurried voice. “Believe that. You know I gotta take what comes in through the door, and — some of it stinks.”

“Well, thanks,” Bannion said, after a slight pause. “Tell you what; buy that college boy a drink, too. Tell him I said his heart’s in the right place.”

“Sure, Dave, sure.”

Bannion walked down the block, his shoulders hunched against the wind. It was three-thirty in the morning. Market Street was empty except for a sailor wandering toward a subway entrance with his arm around a girl. Wind stirred refuse in the gutters, cigarette stubs, newspapers, numbers slips, and the bell of St. John’s was tolling the milkman’s mass.

He heard footsteps behind him, the fast clicking of high heels, and he stopped shortly and turned around. The girl was a smiling, happy-looking blonde, coming toward him with long, quick, graceful strides. She was pretty, the way dolls are pretty, and wore a mink over a black cocktail dress.

“Darn, you walk fast,” she said.

“Well, not too fast, obviously,” Bannion said. “What’s on your mind?”

“I just thought I’d like to talk to you,” Debby said. “I’m Debby Ward. I’m Max Stone’s girl, by the way, although you wouldn’t know it the way he left me back there like an overcoat or something he forgot.”

“I know who you are,” Bannion said.

“Well, fine, we know each other then,” Debby said. “The bartender told me who you were. Your name is Bannion. A mick, aren’t you?” She slipped her arm through Bannion’s. “You want to walk along a while?”

“I’m going home,” Bannion said.

“Where’s home?”

“A hotel room.”

“Darn, I was hoping we could have a drink.”

“What’s your interest in me, Debby?”

She tilted her head. “I don’t know. I liked the way you looked, that’s all.”

They walked along together in silence for a block, and Bannion said, “We could have that drink in my room. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“You make up your mind in a hurry, don’t you?”

“Uh huh,” Debby said, and smiled...

Bannion made two drinks, rye with water, and handed one to Debby. She had made herself comfortable on the bed, a pillow punched up behind her back, her slim, dancer’s legs stretched out before her and crossed at the ankles. Bannion sat in a straight-backed chair and studied his drink.

“How is it being Max Stone’s girl?” he said. “Fun.”

“Sure. What have you got against him?”

“I just don’t like him.”

She laughed. “That’s silly. You can’t get anywhere in this town not liking Max.”

“I’m not trying to get anywhere, Debby. Do you know Larry Smith?”

“Sure I know Larry. He was at Max’s tonight. And Mike Lagana.” She sipped her drink. “Business must be terrible. Mike never shows up unless something’s wrong.”

“Well, what’s wrong?”

She shrugged. “Search me.”

“That might be fun,” Bannion said, and she laughed.

“What was on their collective minds?”

She smiled at him. “You’re trying to pump me. That’s okay, but honest to God I don’t know a thing. What’s more I don’t want to know a thing. When the boys talk business I go out and get my legs waxed, or something.”

“What did you come up here for, Debby?”

She looked at him and shrugged. “I guess I just wanted to needle Max. I don’t like men leaving me in barrooms.”

“You’re going to teach him a lesson, eh?”

She colored slightly. “That isn’t all of it, Bannion. I wasn’t kidding when I said I liked the way you looked. At him, I meant. It’s funny, but sometimes I feel just the way you looked tonight. He’s a good guy, but ” She shrugged and smiled. “I’m not kicking. That’s the way it is with every guy and gal, I suppose. You put up with the bad, take the good.”

“And the good is pretty good?”

“I like it,” Debby said. “Why shouldn’t I?” She raised her eyebrows. “I’ve got all the clothes I want, I have a nice life, plenty of travel, nightclubs, excitement. What’s wrong with that?”

“It’s okay if you like the guy.”

“He’s all right.”

“And if you don’t care where the money comes from,” Bannion said.

“Oh, stop it,” Debby said, with a little laugh. She drew up her legs and locked her hands around her silken knees. “So Max is a gambler. Is that a crime? I know people who do lots worse and are in church every Sunday looking respectable as judges. And why should I care where he gets his money? The main thing is to have it. It isn’t easy to get hold of, believe me. Nobody ever gave me anything until I met Max. I worked for what I got, I can tell you. I worked for my living. Living. That’s putting it very fancy. Did you think I was some heiress before I met him, for God’s sake?”

Bannion shrugged. “I didn’t think about you at all.”

“Well, there’s a pretty speech for you,” Debby said, sighing. “You’re about as sentimental as a pair of handcuffs, I’ll bet. Didn’t you ever tell a girl nice things, Bannion? You know, hair like the west wind, eyes you could drown yourself in, skin like velvet. No?”

Bannion looked down at his drink. “Yes, I remember some things like that,” he said slowly. He was silent a moment. Then he said, “Shall I call you a cab, Debby?”

“Well, I get the point,” Debby said. She stood and smoothed the skirt of her dress, an embarrassed little smile on her lips. “Did I say something wrong, big boy?”

“No.”

“Well, I like to know if I break the house rules.”

“There aren’t any rules here,” Bannion said. He put his hand on her arm as they went to the door.

“What’s the matter? Afraid to make a pass at Max Stone’s girl?”

Bannion didn’t answer.

Debby was trembling slightly. Something about this big, hard-faced man touched her in a curious way. She felt like squirming under the touch of his hand. “Do you really want me to go?” she said, turning at the door and coming close to him, so close that the points of her small, firm breasts touched the rough fabric of his jacket.

“You’re Stone’s girl,” Bannion said, dropping his hand from her arm. He felt disgusted with himself, betrayed and shaken by his need. “I wouldn’t touch anything of Stone’s with a ten foot pole.”

Debby colored and put a hand to her throat. “That’s a rotten thing to say,” she said.

“Goodnight Debby. Have a nice time. Buy another mink, get your legs waxed, roll in it.”

“Bannion what’s the matter?” Suddenly, without reason, she wanted to be close to him, to have him like her, but she was afraid of him, afraid of the look in his face.

Bannion slammed the door on her and then stood with his back to it and stared bitterly down at the small, soft indentation her body had made in his bed.