The Last Cop Out

9

Moe Piel had come to New York again in an old panel truck that bore the labels of a Fort Lauderdale television repair service. He had driven within speed limits, stopped overnight outside of Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, and the only incident had been a flat on Route 13 in Delaware. A state trooper had even stopped to offer assistance, but when none was necessary, had driven away after a perfunctory license check.

Had he inspected the truck he would have found a tool box full of cash destined for delivery to another dealer in arms and ammunition with a warehouse on the Lower West Side of Manhattan. Unfortunately, the Delaware police had, at that time, no want out on Moe Piel or the truck, but that wouldn’t have mattered anyway since his license, registration and occupation were all phony anyway. Besides, he looked like any typical television repairman having to make an emergency trip to New York to pick up parts that would take too long in shipment.

Unfortunately, too, the organization knew that if Herman Shanke were to hold on to the bite he had taken out of their Miami operations, he was going to have the weaponry to do it with and the police had clamped down in Miami to such an extent that nothing was available in that area.

Which left New York and the organization knew about the unscrupulous dealer in arms and ammunition with his warehouse a stone’s throw away from the West Side Highway.

And Bingo and Shatzi were waiting for him when he parked the panel truck in front of the old converted garage that supposedly dealt in used car parts, which wouldn’t even attract a junkie burglar.

Since Moe Piel had never met the dealer, he didn’t recognize that Bingo Miles didn’t fit the description at all until Shatzi shoved a gun in his ribs from behind and he didn’t even get the chance to go for the rod he kept in his belt to impress the city slickers when they were culminating the transaction. All he could feel was embarrassment, because down there at the tip of Florida he was one hell of a hotshot killer with his own inexhaustible supply of weapons and suddenly he was nothing but a stupid shit.

What made it worse, they thought he had dumped a whole fucking handful of big wheels and were treating him with a little respect when he didn’t even know what the hell they were getting at. All he knew was that they thought he was an idiot for going out of his league to hustle ammo for Herman the German when some slob could have done the same thing. He heard them talking it over and the conclusion was it was simply a matter of expediting matters. Except that Herman wasn’t family, nor was Moe, and they couldn’t be expected to know any better.

The place wasn’t soundproofed or isolated, so after they tied him up, they taped his mouth and Shatzi took out the pan, charcoal, poured in the starter fluid and stuck the irons in the works. They gave Moe Piel a pad and pencil to write with when he was ready to talk and put in a call to the Frenchman.

You really couldn’t tell when Frank Verdun was mad. It was even better when you could tell, but when you couldn’t it was worse. He had killed the best when he was at his happiest moments, savoring the ebbing away of life, his face placid and the tiniest of smiles playing around his lips. He was looking at Bingo and Shatzi like that right now.

“Look, Frank, I swear, neither Bingo or I touched him. No shit, Frank. We were waiting for you and when we looked he was like that, all drooped over and hell, the irons didn’t even get hot yet.”

The Frenchman yanked Moe Piel’s head back by the hair and stared into the lifeless eyes. “You dumbheads!”

“Frank...”

“Shut up.” It wasn’t the first time he had seen this happen. Twice before it had happened to him and he had made a doctor explain it all in detail, and now he went through those details until he was satisfied. “The fucker’s had a heart attack.”

“Aw, shit, Frank...”

“Stupid bastards. You have to put on the full show before I get here? You like it that way?”

“We only thought...”

“Who the hell ever told you to think, you dumb pricks? You know what this bum could have told us? We could have the backup man, the rest, the head... and you lousy assholes blow the whole deal.”

“Come on, Frank, we was expectin’ a driver. Who else. So when we see this punk we’re gonna set him up for you. It always works. You know...”

“Shit.” He looked at the two guys and let the anger ebb from him. All they did was the job the way they were used to and they couldn’t be blamed at all. “Where’s the dealer?”

Bingo said, “I killed him. He’s in the back.”

“Okay, dump them both.”

“What about the truck, boss?”

“You rig it up right and send it back. Let that fucking Herman the German have some ammo, but make sure it blows up in his fucking face. You think you can do that right?”

“Sure, boss,” Bingo said.

“Hey, Frank...”

“Now what, Shatzi?”

“Ah, nothing, boss.”

The Frenchman nodded and went out in disgust. Shatzi smiled. No sense asking for something so simple. He pulled the knife out of his pocket and while Bingo was rigging the truck he cut the navels from the two bodies, looked at them with horrified eyes, then flushed them down the stained toilet.

They dumped the corpses in the Jersey meadows and sent the truck back to Florida with the big surprise for Herman the German.

The Big Board in Chicago was duly notified and approved the procedure, even though they didn’t appreciate it. The only thing they didn’t know about was the navel surgery.

She had enjoyed the show, but Gill had sat there silent beside her and never even cracked a smile, even during the most hilarious scenes of the performance. He didn’t look at his watch or squirm or complain, so that’s the way he probably enjoys a stage show, she was thinking.

But Gill Burke was occupied by the two bodies the Jersey police had found because they were searching the area for a lost kid, and the lab had turned up physical evidence of particles that indicated they had both been in a garage, a very old garage that stored number-one cup grease which had been out of style since World War I.

That fracas had been a long time ago and the garage had to cater to renovators of antique automobiles, or their parts, or just be plain old. They hadn’t gotten a make on the corpses yet, but that would come and when the performance was over he’d have to call Bill Long to see how far they had gotten. He had tried once at intermission and they were still working on it. Well, another fifteen minutes and maybe they’d have it.

He didn’t realize the curtain had come down until everybody started to leave and he remembered the present and looked at Helen. “Enjoy it?” she asked him.

“Great.”

“Later I want you to tell me about it.”

“Why?”

“Because I think you sleep with your eyes open.”

“You know better than that.”

“Do I?”

“Maybe if I had you next to me...”

Helen let a slow smile drift across her mouth. “He told me you could be charming.”

“Who?”

“Mr. Verdun. He gave us the tickets.”

The crawl started down between his legs and crossed up his belly. Everything was there and she didn’t even have to tell him how accidental it all looked. Damn, he was dumb! He should have asked, should have done something. He was too preoccupied with his own thoughts and let everything go by the board.

“Helen...” He looked around him. The aisles were emptying fast. “Don’t ask questions and do exactly what I tell you to do.”

“Gill?”

“Just do it. Come on.” He took her arm and edged out of the row of seats, then fought his way into the throng heading for the exits. When they were firmly surrounded he spotted a group of eight, joined them in their frenzy to flag down a cab, then beat them out with a hard shove of his left hand and shoved Helen in and got in behind her.

He told the driver where to go, kept checking behind him, but the streets of Manhattan at theater-closing time are nothing but cabs anyway and he couldn’t tell if they were being followed or not. When he dropepd her at her apartment he told the driver what else to do and got out four blocks away.

By the time the cab that had really followed him had reached the point he was at there was a basement stairwell handy and he dropped into it before the tommy gun went off and took the windows out of the lower floor right beside his head.

Only this time he had a two-handed grip on the .45 and let one slug off and saw the driver catch it square in the side of the head and the cab went halfway down the street before it crashed into the row of parked cars at the curb.

He wasn’t fast enough to get the occupant of the back seat, but Bingo Miles was sure as hell dead in the front one.

Two hours later the disgruntled lab technicians who had been summoned from their quiet homes had certified the fact that Bingo Miles had the same microscopic particles in his clothing that had been found on the dead men in the Jersey meadows and Robert Lederer was blue in the face because Gill Burke wouldn’t tell him what it was all about.

All he’d do was grin and he couldn’t even fire him, since Burke was the only one who had any inkling of what was going on. That son of a bitch renegade ex-cop was holding all the aces.

Until now, the Frenchman could never understand fear. He had seen it in others, heard it expressed, saw it demonstrated, but he never could understand it, because until now it had been part of somebody who was fearful of him. He didn’t like the sensation at all. In fact, he didn’t even recognize it until he vomited without being sick. He just stopped on the street and vomited like a fucking pregnant woman.

So what if that idiot Miles got himself shot? He had it all set up and instead of letting it happen he gets himself shot and that fucking Shatzi is all hyped up because his buddy gets knocked off and he’s all shook because he thinks the setup went the other way. Damn it, you couldn’t trust a freak when the chips went down and why he used Shatzi he’d never know. Maybe he was getting too old. He used to be able to handle the freaks, now they blew up on him and if he didn’t squash that crazy bastard he’d have the whole Big Board climbing down his neck. He should have remembered what Lulu told him one day. “Freaks speak,” she had said. He should have listened.

Okay, Shatzi, you are on the hot list now.

But Shatzi Heinkle had already figured that one out and had packed up his stuff and changed hotels. When the soldiers came to look for him, the room was cold and empty. The night clerk had not seen him go, neither had the doorman, who was half drunk.

Frank Verdun felt another quiver of fear when they told him. He didn’t like what was outside there. Gill Burke was bad enough, but there was something else too.

The whole fucking organization was falling apart, he thought.

“Let’s have it again,” Bill Long said.

“They set me up,” Burke grinned slowly. “Verdun tossed the tickets in her lap and they were able to spot my movements.”

“That’s right, Miss Scanlon?”

“I don’t know. Mr. Verdun said I could give the tickets away. I choose to keep them.”

“Then you could have made the deal work.”

“If you look at it that way, most likely, yes.”

“Fuck you, Bill,” Burke said.

“All right, its a possibility, damn it!”

“And it stinks.”

“Not from what you told me.”

“You got no schmarts, pal. From the neck up, you’re dead.”

“What will a good lawyer make of it?”

“Nothing,” Gill said. “The prosecution won’t even take it into court and you know it.”

“That leaves you on your own personal vendetta.”

“Balls, I never had much to do with the Frenchman.”

“This is now, buddy.”

“Now I’ll kill him,” Gill said. Then added, “If he gives me the chance.”

“You won’t even advise him of his rights?”

“Screw the Miranda or the Escobedo decisions.”

“Just like the old days, eh?”

“Correct, chum.”

“Fine cop.”

“Shit.”

“Maybe Lederer doesn’t need you any more.”

“He sure does, my friend.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not the one who is running scared.”

Bill Long took a deep breath and settled into his chair. He should have known better than to get into a hassle, but things weren’t the same any more. “Tell me,” he said, “why with all this crap and all these kills are you suddenly being the target? The whole damn Mafia doesn’t suddenly pounce on you when they have something like this other thing happening to them?”

Burke stood up and lit a cigarette. When he had a couple of deep drags he looked outside toward the night of the city and said, “You should have asked me that a long time ago. Or do you still want me to goad you into further speculation?”

“You know what you can do?”

“Sure,” Gill smiled. He looked at Helen in the big leather chair. “But why do it myself when I have somebody else to help?”

“Out,” Long snapped. “We’re straining our friendship.”

“How about that?” Gill told him.

In the cab, Helen reached over and took his hand. “I can’t stay there any longer, Gill. I guess you know that.”

“I wasn’t going to let you anyway.” He yanked the cigarette pack from his pocket, found it empty and tossed it out the window with an angry gesture. “That slob was just a little too cute.”

“Gill... he didn’t tell me to use those tickets.”

“No?” He turned and studied her face a moment. “Figure it this way. He probably knew his office staff pretty well and you were the only one uncommitted. Women don’t generally change their plans at the last second even for good seats at a prime show. You were a natural, baby.”

“But why would he want to have you killed?” she asked him.

“I’m in their way.”

“So are all the rest of the policemen.”

“Not like I am. They got trouble enough without me.”

“That’s an awfully big chance they were taking then.”

“And that’s how they live. With the odds. They got rid of me once before and I didn’t stay down so they had to rig the game again.”

“Captain Long still thinks I had something to do with it.”

“Not really. He’s grabbing at straws. He knows the whole story.”

Her hand tightened around his and her teeth nibbled at her lip. “I don’t know, Gill. I think I’m beginning to get scared.”

“Forget it.”

“Gill...” She looked at him anxiously again. “It’ll happen again, like last night, won’t it?”

He shrugged, his face unmoving. “Maybe. But it can end the same way too.”

“Oh, Gill, isn’t there any way out... just for a little while?” There was a strange note of pathos in her voice. “Everything is going too fast. I... I have to get away from this!”

He ran his hand up her arm and cradled it around her shoulders. “Sorry as hell you were caught in the middle, Helen. I know that session with Bill was rough, but he had to have your statement. Look, you’re finished with that damn job and all the rest of the crap. Get it out of your mind.”

“Fine, but what will I do now?”

“You’re going to sit back and let me take care of you.”

For a second she didn’t move, then she turned and looked up at him, her eyes soft. “Gill...?”

He fought with himself a full minute, telling himself all the things that were barriers, reminding himself of what could go wrong. He wasn’t a kid any more and she had had enough of a cop’s life years before. He still had something big to do that could get him killed and the whole business could expose her to something worse than she had ever known.

But that other feeling he had, the one he didn’t think would ever come to him, was even stronger and he looked at her and grinned. “It’s a hell of a way to put it, sugar, but that’s the way it is.”

She laid her head on his shoulder very gently and said, “I love you.”

Gill kissed her hair, saying the same thing without words.

“Gill?.”

“What?”

“It’s Saturday night.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Can we go somewhere for the weekend?”

He looked at his watch and frowned. “It’s nine-thirty now.”

“There’s an awfully nice place in Jersey where it’s quiet and the food is good. All the rooms have patios that look out at the hills.”

“Honey...”

“Please?”

His arm squeezed her gently. “Okay, pest.” He glanced at his watch again. “I’ll drop you off, go pack some of my own things and pick you up in half an hour.”

She came off his shoulder and shook her head pathetically at his ignorance. “Lover,” she said, “... and if that’s what you want to be, you had better understand women just a little better. It has been a rather harrowing experience and I would like to look my best for this particular assignation, so please, please give me an hour and a half at least.”

Burke laughed because she was so damn right and he was so damn stupid. They were almost at her apartment and he leaned over to kiss her softly on her mouth. “I’ll learn, kid.”

She patted his cheek. “I hope so.”

“But you’d better learn something too.”

“Oh?”

“I wasn’t thinking of this as an assignation. My suggestion of keeping you was motivated by a more permanent and basic reason.”

She felt her face flush and wondered when she had ever been more happy. Never, she concluded, and went upstairs to her apartment feeling tingly all over.

Papa Menes didn’t know whether to feel good or bad. All he knew was that the Big Board knew he was in the area where the trouble was and now they had to speculate about him turning the pot over. Miami was where the trouble was, he was only an hour’s drive away, and if he weren’t the instigator, then he could be the stopper in the drain. He was on the Big Board, but not present when the decisions were made because he had a nose for blood and he didn’t want his to be part of the smell. It was much nicer to screw a tender broad up the ass and enjoy himself than to have to go through all the mayhem that had been part of his formative period and on into the chairman’s seat of power where torture and murder were only spoken words you never saw executed at all.

He was there through accidental choice and now he had to take care of a jerk German who thought he could buck the power of the organization and since he knew the odds and the way, they were asking him to complete a totally menial task. The dames were on the way down and he could take care of Herman the German any time he wanted to. His soldiers had arrived, were ready to operate, and even though the Miami police were covering the whole area, his people were the only ones capable of going inside to make the hits. They were completely equipped, excellently skilled and totally dedicated.

Why the Big Board wanted Herman the German rubbed, he didn’t know. That was an operation for any local capo, not the boss. But, if they wanted him to handle the deal, it was fine, fine. Very fine.

Up in New York that bastard cop Burke was giving the Frenchman all kinds of hell and he liked that too. Every time the Board brought in a sex creep like the Frenchman they always had trouble. Shit, just let him have his own button men and he could do it alone, but no. They brought in Frank Verdun and ever since, the trouble got worse.

Well, they couldn’t blame him. Two days, a week from now, that bum the German, would be dead and the trouble would be over. A whole fucking month of trouble over a stupid German and that dead Moe Piel. Assholes.

The word brought him back to the present because Artie Meeker was driving up with the two broads from Miami and now that he knew she really liked it, he was really going to lay it to her. No more baby oil to lubricate the thrust. This time he’d use spit and if it hurt, so much the better.

Frank Verdun had an animal instinct. He knew when he was being stalked. He could feel it in his bones and even as he walked his hand was on the gun in his pocket. The feel of it used to quiet him, but this time it didn’t. It felt cold and inadequate, and no matter where his eyes went or his mind turned, there was never anybody there. He remembered Vic Petrocinni and the others, suddenly knowing how they had felt, and his stomach turned sour.

When he reached the safety of his apartment he vomited again, kneeling on the shag rug in front of the toilet bowl so as not to get any of the slop on his person. Not much came up because he hadn’t eaten anything, but the terrible retching was there in his bowels and he had to let the spasms take their course. When they were over he took his clothes off and stepped into the shower.

The Frenchman came out with a hard-on like he always did after playing with himself with the soap, and feeling better, never saw the knife slash through his enlarged genital member at all. All he could do was stare before he sucked in his breath to scream. He saw the face without being able to pronounce the name behind it and the next slash of the knife took his throat completely out from beneath his chin.

He even had the terrifying experience of living through the excruciation of dying, looking up at a complete improbability and knowing no majestic reason for it at all, wondering why the hell one little worm could eat through stone walls and make them crumble like sand. He was still alive when the knife went through his certain parts with the wildest impact any mind could conjure, and all the fear blended with the pure knowledge of what he had done to those other people and he tried to scream.

But it wasn’t any good at all.

What came out of that gaping slash in his throat was a big sigh and he started to die knowing, but not being able to tell.

For a long time Shatzi stared at the pool of blood that bathed the naked body, his face warped with some deep inner thoughts. In life, Frank Verdun had been a terrifying person to be obeyed or avoided, and after what the Frenchman had had done to him all those years ago, Shatzi had remained truly loyal to every whim and demand of the top enforcer. Not because of respect or devotion, but plain, unmitigated, unreasoning fear.

Now he was enjoying what he saw and a dry cackle that passed for a laugh rasped from his mouth. “You didn’t have to set the soldiers on me, Frank,” he said. “Verdun, you dirty bastard, Verdun, you shithead, you’re finally gonna get it.”

He thought he detected a slight movement of the eyelids, but he couldn’t be sure. Too bad, he thought. He’d never done it when anybody had been alive before. He took his knife and carefully scooped out Frank Verdun’s navel from his stomach, holding it up on the point to study it. When he looked down at the Frenchman’s face his shoulders gave an involuntary twitch. Verdun’s eyes were open, all the way open for one horrified second as he saw his tie to life being raised on the blade of death and his eyes filmed over as the feeble heartbeat stopped altogether.

Shatzi grinned when he saw it, pulled a dirty handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped the grisly souvenir in it. “This one I’ll keep, Frankie boy,” he said. “This one is special.”

Gill picked up the phone on the fourth ring and barked a short hello. Bill Long said, “Thought you might like to know, we got a line on Shatzi Heinkle and it looks like it’s going to pan out.”

“Where is he?”

“Running, buddy. He’s in one hell of a big hurry too. He cleared out of the place he was staying and right afterwards some guys came looking for him. The description we got on them matches a couple of hard cases from Brooklyn.”

“Uh-huh. They got him marked. If he was the guy in the cab with Bingo they’ll want him out of the way. Right now they can’t afford any kinky characters going loose.”

“Would Verdun let out a contract on him?”

“It sure as hell sounds reasonable.”

“That’s the way I figured. They should be getting there just about now to see what the Frenchman says about it.”

Burke felt himself frowning. “That guy can move in a hurry too.”

“Hell, we’ve had his place staked out all night by one of the detectives. You want in on it?”

“Not tonight, old buddy.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me.”

“I’ll believe.”

Gill nodded to himself. “I’m spending the weekend with Helen Scanlon. If you want me I’ll be at the Clipper Inn over in Jersey.”

“Oh, brother,” Long said quietly as he hung up.

Burke picked up his overnight bag and went downstairs to grab a cab to pick up Helen.

Papa Menes woke up thinking of how he had penetrated the blonde from Miami. A nice willing victim, that one, fleshy and limber and hard to hold onto it that position. He knew she had loved it and he figured she was putting on an act with all that yelling and twisting, but she really didn’t try too hard to get away and the few times he had given her a belt across the tanned flesh of her buttocks she had whimpered properly and had held fast while he accommodated himself.

The girl was a real pro and knew how to adjust to the customer’s demands. When she realized his preference she adapted to them and performed in a proper manner, but the old fart was a real bat with a half-limp cock that couldn’t go in all the way and she wasn’t getting half the pleasure out of it she thought she would. Too bad, if she was like her friend who was in there with Artie Meeker getting laid in the missionary position or doing her simple oral bit, it would be much simpler. One shot and Artie was finished for a few hours, but this old fart kept plowing and plowing and he’d never get that row hoed if he didn’t get his rocks off and right now she was beginning to get sore. At least he could have used the baby oil.

So to distract herself she raised her head and looked over toward the dresser. She saw the gun, but that was nothing new with these Yankee pricks. What she saw that really bothered her was the crumpled telegram on the floor below her eyes and the one word that made her anus contract so hard that Papa Menes reached his orgasm was VERDUN.

Her grandfather had been killed in a battle of that name. Then she remembered a guy with the same name who had almost killed her.

She was young then, much too young to have left home, but the group had convinced her she was square and above all things she didn’t want to be a square so she had climbed aboard the battered Volkswagen van and handed her sixty dollars to Glen to put in the communal fund and they had taken off from Decatur to go to the lush riches of California. But somehow they had gotten pointed in the wrong direction and went southeast instead until the van broke down. They had sent her back to a garage a mile away, but the garage had been abandoned a year before and when she got back the van was still there. Not the little family, though. They were gone and they had taken her things with them too.

For an hour, she cried, then she started to walk. That was when the convertible stopped and the suave man in the sharkskin suit invited her in. She was feeling too miserable to refuse. The nearest town was twenty miles away, and the remote asphalt county road she was on didn’t show any signs at all of carrying traffic. For a few miles she sniffled in self-pity and told her story.

She screamed in pain not long afterward, but the barn was a long way from anything and its walls were thick. She lay there naked, the ropes biting into her flesh, forced to do whatever pleased him, escaping the pain only by being totally submissive to his wishes, then writhing in agony as he reverted to the painful things again.

When he cut her loose she tried to crawl away, but there was no place to go and she cowered against the side of the stall where he had hung his clothes. He had dressed quickly, not paying any attention to her at all. The only thing that happened was the letter dropping from his pocket and before he retrieved it she saw the name on the envelope and that name had been VERDUN. She remembered being told how her grandfather had died in that place.

Until now, she had never remembered the name again.

This time she knew she’d never be able to forget it again.