The Big Heat

Chapter 6

Bannion drove out to the city limits, to the exclusive section of Germantown, a lovely rolling area of gentle slopes, twisting lanes, and comfortable homes set well back from the streets and surrounded with handsomely kept lawns and trees.

Mike Lagana lived out here, in a sixteen-room house with an English country tone to it. His home was boxed by six acres of land, impeccably cleaned and pruned by a Belgian gardener, and sat sturdily and prettily in the cup of a shallow green valley.

Bannion parked and climbed out of his car. He noticed the uniformed patrolman who stood at the walk leading to the house. The cop noticed him too; he strolled over, a big, middle-aged man with thoughtful ruddy features.

“Who’d you want to see?” he said in a pleasant voice.

Bannion showed his badge, and the cop smiled. “Okay, Sergeant.”

“I can go in now? That’s nice.”

“Sure, go right on in,” the cop said.

Bannion walked toward the house, and then stopped and glanced back at the cop. “How many men on this detail, by the way?”

“Three altogether. Two in the back, and one in the front.”

“Twenty-four hours a day, I suppose.”

“Uh huh. Nights there’s four, though.”

Bannion smiled. “That’s ten cops a day to watch Mike Lagana. Roughly, about a hundred dollars of taxpayers’ money. You like the detail?”

The cop shrugged. “I do what I’m told.”

Bannion stared at him and a touch of color appeared in the cop’s face. “Yes, we all do what we’re told, I guess,” Bannion said.

“That’s right,” the cop said, relaxing.

Bannion walked down the gravelled lane to Lagana’s home. He went up the steps and sounded a brass knocker against an oaken door. He waited there on the wide porch, listening to the humming stillness, watching the cold, pale, late-afternoon light on the oily green leaves of the bushes that were planted beside the steps.

A dark-haired, teen-aged girl opened the door. She was slim and pretty in a flannel skirt and cashmere sweater. There was a jingling junk bracelet on her left wrist. Another girl stood behind her, holding a tray of cokes. They looked at Bannion politely, smiling, and then the girl with the cokes giggled.

“Stop it, Janie,” the dark-haired girl said, trying hard to keep her own face straight. “Hello, I’m Angela Lagana,” she said to Bannion. “You must think we’re crazy, but Janie’s had the giggles all afternoon. Please come in.”

“Thanks, I wanted to see your father.”

“Okay, I’ll tell him,” Angela Lagana said.

The girl called Janie giggled as Bannion entered the large foyer. “Honestly,” Angela said, in an exasperated voice, and gave her a despairing glance.

A door off the hall opened and Mike Lagana appeared, hands on his hips, grinning at his daughter and her friend. “You monkeys,” he said. He was a small, slender man, with gray skin, blue-tinged along the jawline, wavy gray hair, and a neat, black mustache. Mike Lagana looked as if he might be a capable, prosperous druggist. There was nothing remarkable about him physically, except his extremely good clothes, and his eyes, which were deep brown, and totally lacking in warmth, interest or any other expression. They might have been highly polished glass balls inserted in his narrow, commonplace face.

“What’s all the commotion?” he said, smiling at the girls and Bannion.

“My name’s Bannion, I’m with Homicide,” Bannion said.

“A pleasure,” Lagana said, extending his hand. “Okay, kids, beat it now.”

The girls trotted up a flight of wide curving stairs, and Lagana smiled after them, his head cocked slightly, a soft little grin on his face. Their excited, conspiratorial rush of conversation was cut off by the sound of a closed door. Lagana laughed, glancing at Bannion. “They say kids keep you young, but I don’t know.” he said. “Come on in and sit down. What was the name again? I’m sorry, but I missed it.”

“Bannion.”

“Sure, I’ve heard of you,” Lagana said, touching Bannion’s arm and guiding him into a large, comfortably furnished study. There were deep chairs, a fireplace, a desk that looked as if it were used, and a pleasing view through French windows of gardens and trees. The wide mantel was crowded with portraits of Lagana’s wife and children, and there was a picture of Lagana taken much earlier, as a young man, in fact, standing between a rather sullen-looking elderly couple in cheap, heavy clothes. Above the mantel hung an oil painting of a white-haired woman with a dark complexion and mild, worried eyes.

“That’s my mother,” Lagana said, smiling. “A great old woman. They don’t make ’em like that anymore, eh? Our old mothers were the last of their kind.” Lagana smiled into his mother’s mild, slightly worried eyes. “Yes, a great old person,” he said. “She died a year ago May. She lived here with me, had her own suite, bathroom, everything. Well, that isn’t what you came out for, I’m sure,” he said, with a little laugh. “What is it this time? The Benefit ball game? Pension Fund drive?”

“I’m here about a murder,” Bannion said.

Lagana looked surprised. “Yes? Go on.”

“I thought you might help me on it,” Bannion said.

Lagana seemed irritated now, but puzzled. “Who do you work for, by the way? Wilks?”

“Yes, Wilks. I’m here about a girl named Lucy Carroway, who was murdered last week. She was tortured first, then tossed out of a car on the Lancaster Pike. It was an old-fashioned liquidation, and I thought—”

Lagana cut him off with a sharp, angry gesture. “I don’t care what you thought. You’ve got no business coming here, and you know it.” He frowned at Bannion. “I’m glad to help you boys when I can, but I’ve got an office for that sort of thing. This is my home, and I won’t have dirt tracked into it. We’ll forget it this time, but don’t ever make this mistake again. Do you understand?”

“I thought you might help me on this job,” Bannion said.

“Goddamnit, don’t you hear good?” Lagana said, in an angry voice. “Where do you think you are? A station house, or a pool room, maybe? This is where I live, where my family lives, where my mother died. What makes you think I want cops stinking it up?” He paused, breathing hard. “I’m sorry to talk this way. I don’t like to. But you’re out of line, friend, way out of line. I said I’d forget it, and I mean it. This time. Now, I’m kind of busy, so you’ll have to run along.” He put a hand on Bannion’s arm, and his expression changed; he smiled. “No hard feeling, eh? Tell you what: See me downtown tomorrow if you need some help. That’s fair enough?”

Bannion returned his smile. “I need help tonight,” he said.

Lagana studied Bannion, frowning slightly. He seemed to be making an effort to memorize every line in the detective’s face. Then he said: “Okay, so you’re stubborn. What’s on your mind?”

“A girl named Lucy Carroway was murdered,” Bannion said. “I think she was killed by a man working for Max Stone. A man from Detroit named Biggie Burrows. To start with, I want him. And I intend to get him. I said before it was an old-style liquidation, brazen and brutal. You don’t want that sort of thing in town any more than I do. It might interfere with the nice, quiet way things are running. That’s why I’m hoping you’ll help me.”

“Is that all?”

“No, there’s one other thing. I got a call this afternoon — from one of your boys, I think. He told me to keep my mouth shut about this deal. That annoyed me, Lagana. That’s why I came out here, which as we both know, is a foolish place for me to come. But I want action. I’m stymied at the office, so I’m trying you. How about it? Do I get some help?”

“What makes you think this man Burrows killed the girl?”

“Several things.”

“You’re not saying, eh? Well, you’re a fool,” Lagana said. “I told you twice I’d forget this but I won’t say it again. You won’t get another chance, friend.” He paced the floor, staring at Bannion, a bright, angry touch of color in his gray cheeks. “I’ll see that you don’t make this mistake again, bright boy. I’ve met some prize dummies in my life, but you’re in a class by yourself, Bannion. What’s your trouble? You act like you’re on the junk.”

“You mean I must be crazy to violate your chaste, immaculate home,” Bannion said slowly. “Is that it, Lagana?”

“Shut up, shut up, you hear,” Lagana said. “I got nothing to say to you. Now get rolling.”

“You think I must be taking dope, eh?” Bannion said, and his voice was deceptively soft. “Because I’m concerned about a girl’s murder. She was no prize, perhaps, but she didn’t deserve twenty-four hours of refined hell, and then a boot out of a speeding car. That bothers me and I want some help on it, and you assume I must be a dope.” Bannion’s voice grew louder, harder. “We don’t talk about things like that in your home, eh? It’s too elegant, too respectable, too clean. Cute little daughter, pictures of Mama on the wall. No place for murder, no place for a stinking cop. Just the place for a hoodlum who made his money and built this house out of twenty-five years of murder, extortion and corruption. That’s what it is to me, Lagana. A thieve’s temple. You couldn’t plant enough flowers around here to kill the stench.”

“Bannion, you—”

“Shut up,” Bannion said. “You’re interested in homes, eh? Well, I’ll tell you about some homes. Cops have homes. No places like this, but three and four-room apartments that run on a skin-tight budget. Sometimes those homes are empty as hell after the cop gets shot up, and sometimes there’s no money at all if he gets hounded off the force by your men for trying to do a decent job. I’ve got a home myself, Lagana. Does that surprise you? Did you think I lived under a brick? Your creeps feel no compunction about phoning there, giving me orders, talking to my wife as if she were God’s greatest slut. Cops have families, too, and even mothers. Decent people, most of them, living in a city with inferior schools, filthy parks, and rotten government, screwed by your handbooks, clipped by your numbers writers, and sickened by the kind of justice and order you’ve brought into their lives. Keep those people in mind, Lagana, when you’re popping off about your own serene little corner of Heaven.”

Lagana stared at Bannion, breathing hard. “Okay, okay,” he said. “You’ve made your speech. I hope you’ll think it was worth it, Bannion.” He walked to his desk and punched a button beside a brass inkstand.

A man in a chauffeur’s uniform appeared in the doorway, his eyes finding Lagana’s alertly, questioningly. He was a big man with a pale, wide face, and the ridged forehead of a fighter. He moved easily, smoothly, his calf muscles bulging against black leather puttees, his shoulders straining the seams of his gray, whipcord uniform. “Yes, sir?” he said, in a gentle, incurious voice.

“George, take this character out of here,” Lagana said. “Put him in his car.”

The man turned easily, his big hand coming down on Bannion’s forearm. “Let’s go,” he said, his wide, pale face impassive.

“Take it easy,” Bannion said. “I don’t need any help.”

“I said, let’s go, friend,” the chauffeur said. He pulled Bannion toward him with a powerful jerk, trying for a hammer-lock on the arm he was holding.

Bannion’s temper gave, his control snapped. He straightened his arm, breaking the hammer-lock, and slammed George up against the wall. A framed picture of Lagana’s daughter dropped to the floor at the impact.

“George!” Lagana shouted.

“Yes, sir,” George said, in his gentle, incurious voice. He came out from the wall, watching Bannion carefully, thoughtfully. “All right, big boy,” he said.

He feinted for Bannion’s stomach with his left, then dropped his shoulder and brought his right over to the jaw. Bannion picked the punch off with his left hand, stepped in and slapped the man with all his strength across the face. It was a terrible blow; it sounded like a pistol shot in the room and George went down to his knees under it, shaking his head, his jaw hanging queerly.

“George, get him!” Lagana yelled.

George moved under the prod of that voice. He was bleeding now from the nose and mouth, but he crouched, got his feet under him, and looked up at Bannion. He stared into the detective’s eyes, and a funny expression came over his face.

“Don’t get up,” Bannion said.

George wet his lips. “I’m not getting up,” he said, his jaw wagging unnaturally with the words.

Bannion turned back to Lagana, and frowned. Lagana was sinking into the chair beside his desk, his mouth hanging open. He was breathing in slow, ragged gasps. His arm rose, his fingers fluttered at a table beside the fireplace. “The bottle,” he said, rolling his head slowly, his shiny, expressionless eyes never leaving Bannion’s face.

There was a tray on the fireplace table, and on it a small, unstoppered bottle and a glass of water.

“The bottle,” Lagana said, in a low, pain-squeezed voice.

Bannion picked up the tray and put it on the desk within Lagana’s reach. He watched Lagana pour a few drops from the bottle into the glass and then raise the glass slowly, jerkily to his lips.

“It’s his heart,” George said in the silence.

Bannion looked down at the man, who still crouched on the floor, the lower half of his face dark with blood. He felt an acute disgust for himself for causing that damage. “Well, that should be news to the people who say he hasn’t got one,” he said. He looked at Lagana again, and then left the house and walked up the dark gravelled path to his car.

The next night, about eleven o’clock, Bannion sat at home, an untouched drink beside him, smoking and staring at the ceiling. He was at a crossroads, and he knew it; either he went along and took orders, or he changed jobs. He had to keep his hands off Lucy Carroway’s murder, or risk a head-on collision with Wilks, and the men behind him. That was the problem, all right. But did he have a free choice? Could he turn his back on Lucy’s murder, smile and go on about something else? Or was he already committed? Bannion wasn’t sure. He frowned, turning the question around in his mind, and sipped his drink.

The day had been uneventful; there had been no repercussions on his visit to Lagana. But the rumble in the department, in the city, was growing louder. The morning paper, the Call-Bulletin, had followed up the Express’s story with an editorial that asked a few pointed and critical questions.

“You’re fine company tonight,” Kate said, looking at him across her magazine.

“I’m sorry.” He smiled at her, experiencing the same curious feeling of gratitude he’d had the night Tom Deery had committed suicide. “How about a nightcap?”

“No thanks.” She suddenly raised a hand, and winked at him. “I think we’ve got a visitor. Brigid?” she called.

There was no answer.

Bannion grinned. “Come on in, baby,” he said.

There was a rush of feet and Brigid appeared, blinking with sleep, and ready to laugh or cry depending on her parents’ reaction.

“I can’t sleep,” she said, her head drooping, her voice and expression piteous.

“This is absolute nonsense,” Kate said. “You just trot right back to bed, young lady.”

She began crying and ran to her father’s knee. He picked her up and she snuggled against him, looking triumphantly at her mother.

“According to the book this is the age where they have trouble sleeping,” Bannion said. “The remedial treatment is to lead them back to bed with great kindness and firmness.”

“Well, supposing you try it,” Kate said.

Bannion sighed. “I walked right into that one, obviously. Okay. Bidge, would you like me to put you back in bed? You know everybody else is sleeping now. It’s very late.”

“All right,” Brigid said, with a long sigh.

Bannion stood up, cradling her tiny bottom in the palm of his hand. “This is final, remember,” he said. “No more hopping out of bed.”

“You didn’t put the car away,” Kate said.

“I’ll do my fatherly duty first.”

Kate put an arm around his waist and gave him a hug. “Well, if you’re taking over my chores, I’ll be a sport and put the car in.”

“Thanks, but never mind. I’ll do it.”

“Oh, come on, I won’t tear off a fender. Where are the keys?”

“You’ve never put it away, you’ll knock the garage down.”

“Well, we can chalk it up to experience. Where are the keys?”

“In my overcoat. But be careful, Kate.”

“Oh, stop it, for Heaven’s sake,” she said. She got the keys, slipped a coat over her shoulders and went out. Bannion carried Brigid back to her room. He put her in bed, gave her the toys she wanted, and tucked the covers up around her neck. She stared up at him, her eyes bright with excitement.

“Tell me a story,” she said, wriggling under the covers.

“Okay, but a quick one. A real quick one.”

“Yes, a real quick one.”

“Which one do you want?”

“About the pussy cat.”

“Okay, the pussy cat it is.”

There was an explosion in the street, a muffled, reverberating sound that shook the windows in the front of the house.

“Daddy, tell the story.”

Bannion got slowly to his feet. “Just a minute,” he said.

The echoes of the blast rolled away and in the silence he heard a man shouting in the street.

“Daddy, please tell the story,” Brigid said crossly.

“Bidge, I’ve got to go outside a minute,” he said. “You wait here, I’ll be right back.”

“But I—”

“Don’t get out of that bed,” Bannion said, and the sound of his voice made her begin crying.

Bannion left the room in long strides, ran down the hall and out the front door. Two men were trotting along the sidewalk, their heels sounding sharply in the cold, and across the street a window was being pushed up with a protesting shriek.

Bannion’s car was before the house, under the shade of a tree. Smoke was pouring from it and the front end looked as if it had been flattened by a blow from a mighty fist. He leaped down the steps, his heart contracting with horror, and ran to the side of the car. The front door wouldn’t open; it was jammed tight, buckled and wrinkled. Bannion smashed the glass with his fist, shouting to Kate in a wild voice. He got a hold on the door and jerked it open, pulled it completely away from the body of the car with a mighty, despairing wrench, not caring about, not even feeling the glass cutting into his hands.

There was no way to get her out; she was pinioned in the wreckage as if it were some medieval rack, but Bannion threw himself across her, shouting to her, and the sound of his voice, his insane, bellowing voice, halted the men who were running to the scene, brought pale, scared looks to their faces.

They crowded up behind him at last, seeing what he couldn’t see; but it was a long time before they could get him away from her, make him realize that she was dead.