Act of Fear

Chapter 13

The first time I woke up I concentrated on where I was. That is an old reflex of a drifter like me. I was in a bed. There was sun outside drawn shades. The furniture was not my own bedroom. It did not look like the room in the Hotel Manning. It was not jail, and it was not a hospital. It was a problem, but I gave it up. I was more interested in the pain.

The second time I woke up I concentrated on how I was. My head was light and not attached to my neck. There was a headache in the head that floated somewhere above the bed. My face was swollen. There was a bandage of some kind on my nose. I ached all over. I seemed to be strapped across the ribs. But I also seemed to be all there.

I thought about what had happened. I knew I had been beaten by Jake Roth, but the details were confused. The thought of Roth must have been on my face.

‘You look like you’re seeing a ghost.’

It was Marty. I was, of course, in her bedroom. She stood with a tray. I saw orange juice, coffee, a bowl of something that steamed. I was hungry.

‘I am,’ I said. ‘Mine.’

She put the tray down on the bed table and gave me the juice.

‘You found me last night?’ I said.

She nodded. ‘In the kitchen. You had a butcher knife. Did you…?’

‘All take and no give,’ I said.

Then I recalled my two punches. That pleased the hell out of me. At least Roth would have a sore mouth today. I also remembered my ultimatum. That made me feel cold. It is one thing to take a chance like that in the heat of action and another to think about it later. Jake Roth wasn’t a man filled with logic or self-control. He could have lost his head.

‘When I saw you I nearly fainted. I saw the knife, you looked dead. When I found you were just out cold, I called the doctor. He said it looked worse than it was.’

‘It feels worse than it looks,’ I-said. ‘What’s the score?’

‘Broken nose; you won’t be so handsome.’

‘That could help.’

‘Facial bruises, a lot of them. Cuts inside and outside on your face. A mild concussion and a cracked rib. Some torn ligaments in your chest, too. I’m so sorry, baby.’

‘I bet I look grand,’ I said. I smiled. It hurt.

‘You’ll need a visit to the dentist, too. Who did it, Dan?’

‘Just forget it,’ I said. ‘You should have shipped me home.’

‘Yes I should have!’ Marty said. ‘Now eat. Soup is good.’

I had the soup. It was good.

‘What did they want?’ Marty said.

‘No questions,’ I said. ‘I was stupid to come here.’

‘Finish your soup.’

I finished the soup and the coffee. She sat on the edge of the bed and watched me until I had finished. Then she leaned and kissed my forehead. She stood up.

‘You stay here.’ she said. ‘And try to do something more constructive than being a human punch bag.’

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ I said.

‘Work, baby,’ she said.

‘Work?’

‘It’s almost nine o’clock.’

‘At night?’

‘The doctor gave you a shot. He said you need at least two days in bed — alone.’

‘I slept all day?’

‘You did, and you looked cherubic,’ Marty said.

‘Sure,’ I said.

‘Two days the doctor said.’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘You go to work.’

‘You’ll be here when I get back, Dan?’

‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘No, baby, I doubt it.’

‘Meaning you might come back, but first you’ll go.’

‘The best defence is a good offence,’ I said.

She kissed me again. ‘Be careful.’

Her hair shone red in the soft light of the bedroom as she left. She was wearing a turtleneck black sheath tonight, and carrying the suede coat. I wished she did not have to go. I wished that I did not have to go. But she had to work and so did I.

It looked like Pappas was a hell of a lot more involved, and worried, than it had seemed. Andy had never had me worked over before. I must be getting awfully close to some sensitive toes. They figured to be Pappas’ toes, and yet I still did not like the setup. If Andy wanted me out of the way, he would be more direct, I was sure. And I trust in Gazzo’s judgment. Not all the way, I could not rule Pappas out of it all, but if Gazzo did not see Pappas or his boys as the killer of Tani Jones, he was probably right. So if Pappas was not the killer, he must be looking for the killer. Then why work me over? To get to Jo-Jo exclusive? Yes, that made sense — Pappas-sense. He wanted Jo-Jo all to himself. It had to be. And that meant Jo-Jo had real problems. If I was to do anything but run away from it I had to get moving.

I started by getting out of bed. I was sore everywhere. The tape on my ribs helped, but it was hard to breathe. It was harder to breathe through my broken nose. My clothes were gone. I began to swear at Marty, when I opened the closet and found a whole change of clothes. She must have called Joe. It was good to have friends. I dressed and then took my first look into the mirror.

The broken nose hardly showed, except for a thick piece of tape across the bridge. There was tape on my cheekbone, and on my jaw. I was bruised, cut, and swollen. My lips looked like a hamburger bun, my gums looked a little like the hamburger. But it was the eyes that were prettiest. They were both that sick shade of dark yellow-brown-black for over two inches all round. I looked awful.

Before I got out of there I looked out of each window to see if I had any shadows lurking. I saw none. I went down the stairs warily, and before I left the entrance I surveyed all the doorways I could see. The Saturday night crowds did not make it easy. An army could hide in the mob of beat kids, students, bagel babies, and drunks. I saw no suspicious characters. Just in case, I took a few fast twists down side streets and through alleys and back yards to see if I could flush anyone. I drew a blank. No one was following me. I straightened my course for Doyle Street.

My course was obvious — too damned obvious. I had to start around again. Whatever Jo-Jo was, he seemed to be a good rabbit. No one had found him yet; not even Pappas if Pappas was after him. One fact stood out like a bikini blonde at a Quaker meeting: Jo-Jo had not seen fit to tell his family where he was, or whoever was after Jo-Jo beside myself had a reason for not asking the family. I put my money on the former — Jo-Jo had not told his family, which gave me a lot to think about. Why had Jo-Jo not told his family? It was a new question. Maybe old Schmidt would have an answer. Or Pete. After Schmidt, Pete would be my next stop. After Pete I would finally have to start the long round of travel depots. I did not look forward to that.

The murder block of Doyle Street was on top of the river. It was dark and deserted even on a Saturday night early. The West Side Highway stood raised at the far end, with the shadows of piers beyond it, and then the river. The apartment house where Tani Jones had died stood like a giant among shabby pygmies on the north side of the street near the east corner. An alley ran beside it, as Gazzo had said. I entered the alley beside the new building and walked through to Water Street. Schmidt’s Garage was just down from the Water Street end of the alley, on the north side of the street. The alley where Stettin had been mugged was far down on the south side of Water Street near the river. I crossed Water Street and stood where I could see the alley beside the building, Schmidt’s Garage, and the far-off mouth of the alley where Stettin had been attacked.

I could see the rear entrance to the building where Tani Jones had died. It was in the alley with a light over it. There was a ramp down to the garage of the building. The building itself towered above all the buildings on Water Street. Most of its windows above the seventh or eight floor were visible from Schmidt’s Garage. It had no fire escape. There was little cover in the alley beside the building. I walked on down to Schmidt’s Garage.

The entrances to both alleys were in plain sight from in front of Schmidt’s Garage, but nothing more could be seen; nothing inside either alley. But someone driving up and down the street on a motorcycle could have seen almost anything in either alley. I did not search the alleys. The police would have combed them both, people walked through them all day, and cars and trucks used them by the dozen.

I looked around to be sure I was alone. Cars were parked on both sides of the street, bumper to bumper at this hour, except in front of the alleys and the two driveways of Schmidt’s Garage. They were even parked in front of the two loading docks of a warehouse next to Schmidt’s now that it was night. I looked at the garage and saw there was light inside the office as well as in the garage itself. At least Schmidt worked late and would have time to talk to me. It was a good omen.

Then I heard the bad omen. Silence.

A garage is not a quiet place. With light in both shop and office there should have been noise. There was no sound of any kind. I looked into the office. It was empty. There was an open ledger and a paper coffee cup. I went into the shop section.

I found Schmidt in the rear behind a stripped-down truck. They had worked him over good before he died. I did not think they had intended to kill him. He had just died on their hands. His white hair lay in a pool of blood that had poured from his nose and mouth. The blood was still wet. His bloody face was a mass of bruised wounds. It looked like at least one arm had been broken. I did not look for the rest of the details of what they had done to him, but a blow-torch burned on the workbench. There was a long steel rod in his right hand. It looked like he had fought back at some point. Some old man.

Fight had not helped. He was dead.

I went into the office and called Gazzo. I smoked while I waited. I had the feeling that eyes were watching me. That was probably only nerves, but the blood was still wet out there in the garage, so I was wary. A man came in to ask if I had a cigarette machine. I told him no, but I tried to keep him there. He had a girl out in a car and he left. I smoked and listened to every sound until the sirens growled into the street and I was surrounded by blue uniforms. Gazzo sat at Schmidt’s desk. I told him my story of this killing.

‘You better take a vacation,’ the captain said. ‘I can’t handle many more bodies.’

‘Bodies are your business,’ I said. ‘You live on dead bodies, Captain.’

I suppose I felt bad. And nervous. Schmidt had been a good, tough, honest man. None of it had helped him.

‘I don’t want the next to be yours,’ Gazzo said.

He had seen my face. I did not want the next to be me either.

‘You’re getting close,’ Gazzo said. ‘Schmidt is still warm. You’re maybe too close. You’ve maybe got someone worried. You want to tell me why?’

‘I don’t know why,’ I said. ‘I don’t know anything.’

‘Sure,’ Gazzo said. ‘Someone worked you over for fun.’

‘They think I know, Captain, but I don’t.’

He looked at me. ‘That’s bad.’

‘I know how bad it is,’ I said. And I did. It is bad enough to know something dangerous enough to be beaten for; it is much worse to not know what they think you know.

I went out into the dark of Water Street. Squad cars blocked the street. Their red revolving lights played across all the parked cars. I thought about Schmidt. The killers were still looking for answers. I did not think they had found any here. I took deep breaths in the hot night. I almost wished they had found their answers, ended it all. I lighted another cigarette. At a time like this the dangers of cigarettes don’t seem so bad. You have to live a while for them to kill you, and I’m not sure many of us are going to make it. The men who control the bombs wear better clothes and speak better in more languages than Pappas or Jake Roth or the ones who killed Schmidt, but they are the same men.

I smoked and watched a solitary patrolman walk along the dark street. He was not one of the squad-car boys; he was a beat cop. Stettin’s replacement. I watched him and smiled. He had come round the corner, and caught my eye, at a slow amble. He had probably been snoozing somewhere or cadging a quick free drink and had not heard the squad cars arrive. In the instant he saw the squad cars he assumed a purposeful efficient air. He came down the block batting car tyres with his billy, trying to appear tall and alert. He peered closely at the cars parked near the driveways and fire hydrants. He stopped at the cars parked in front of the loading docks. That was legal at night and on Sundays. He seemed annoyed that no one had parked illegally. I watched his slow progress down the block towards the river. I saw him pass the mouth of the alley where Stettin had been mugged. He looked into that alley.

There was a click inside my head.

That’s the closest word I can think of. A click. A sudden sensation of something being released, of clicking into place. Where there had been all jagged pieces there was a click and a sudden smooth surface.

I knew where Officer Stettin fitted into this. I knew why he had been mugged. Suddenly, like that.

Not chapter and verse, not the full implications, but the connection. I was suddenly as sure as a man can ever be sure of anything. I did not know why I had not seen it before. It was so clear. So obvious. I knew what the mugger had wanted. I knew why Stettin had been attacked. The mugger had wanted the only thing taken from Stettin that could possibly have been a danger to anyone. The only thing taken that could have involved anyone else.

The summons book.

A guess? Yes. A hunch. But it had to be. Have you ever had a thought that you suddenly just know is true? Nothing else, you just know. That is sometimes all that detective work is — a flash of hunch that must be true. Sometimes, did I say? Most of the time. Ask any cop. All else aside, most of the crimes of the kind the police get — small, violent, messy crimes — are solved by informers or a hunch. Not clues, not a neat trail, but the experienced hunch.

I had the hunch I had been looking for. Stettin did not know why he had been mugged. There had to be a reason. And the only thing stolen that could have involved someone else was the summons book. End of hunch. Next question: How did a summons book become so dangerous?

Even as I thought I had begun to walk fast in the night. Towards St Vincent’s Hospital. Because if my hunch were right, and I knew it was, then Pete Vitanza should be my confirmation even if he did not know it. If my hunch were right, then I had a whole new picture of the murder of Tani Jones. A picture I liked better. The picture I had sensed from the start. Burglars rarely kill, and Tani Jones had put up no fight. The shooting had been quick, close, sudden. The killer had not run. He was out looking for Jo-Jo. Looking hard to the point of two more murders. Why? Because there had been no burglar. There had been no robbery. That was all a cover-up.

Tani Jones had known her killer.

She had known her killer, and the killer had known her. He had known that she was Andy Pappas’ girl friend.

The killer was a man who had called on Tani Jones. A man who went to see her while Pappas was safely out of town. A man who was cheating Andy Pappas with Tani Jones, the dumb little girl who liked men too much. Then what had happened in Tani Jones’s apartment that day? I did not know that, a hunch can only go so far, but for some reason the man had killed her. When I knew who, I would probably know why, but one thing I was sure of — the man had not planned to kill Tani. The whole faked robbery had an impromptu ring about it, an aura of improvisation, a spur-of-the-moment desperate cover-up. Something had happened in Tani Jones’s apartment that day that made a secret lover into a sudden killer.

What that was my hunch could not tell me, but my hunch told me one more big fact. After the killer had killed, faked his robbery, and got clean away unseen, something more had happened down on Water Street. Something had suddenly gone very wrong for the killer, and it had involved Patrolman Stettin and his summons book.

By this time I was at St Vincent’s. The doctor did not want to let me talk to Pete Vitanza. I argued. I told the doctor that it was urgent police business. He had seen me there with Lieutenant Marx earlier. It finally worked. I went into Pete’s room.

Pete was propped up in bed, his splinted arms thrust straight out. He looked better. He was young and resilient, and the young recover quickly. But his eyes were still bandaged, and when I entered his whole head turned towards the sound I made as I came in.

‘Mr Fortune?’

He had had some visitors, there was mail on his bedtray and books on the bed he could not read yet. Apparently the nurse had been reading to him. But he was really waiting for me. Some of his visitors had been police, and he wanted to talk about Nancy Driscoll.

‘It don’t sound right, Mr Fortune,’ Pete said. ‘Jo-Jo ain’t the type. The broad was chasin’ him, you know?’

‘Maybe he decided he wanted her after all,’ I said. ‘The police have a good-luck piece. Did Jo-Jo have one like it?’

‘That little Ferrari?’ Pete said. ‘Hell.’

His hands rummaged among the opened letters on his bedtray. He came up with a key ring. On the ring, as he held it up, was another shiny red miniature Ferrari racing car.

‘See?’ Pete said.

‘Jo-Jo had one just like it?’ I asked.

‘Sure, we got ‘em together. I mean, here’s another one, right?’

‘You’ve got yours,’ I said. ‘Does Jo-Jo have his?’

‘There got to be a thousand around the city,’ Pete said.

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘When we find Jo-Jo, and he has his, then the police will start looking for the other nine-hundred-and-ninety-eight.’

‘He never killed her,’ Pete said, but I heard the wavering in his voice. There was doubt in his voice.

‘Who then?’ I said. ‘Maybe the two who worked on you?’

‘It fits, don’t it? I mean, she knew Jo-Jo, too.’

‘Maybe,’ I said, ‘but now I want something else. I want to know everything that happened on Water Street a week ago Thursday. The day Stettin was hit. Everything, Pete.’

Petey shrugged again. ‘We worked on the bike, drove around.’

‘They killed Schmidt,’ I said.

I saw the shudder go through him. Part of it was for Schmidt, I know that. Most of it was for himself. I know that, too. We think about ourselves. That’s the way it is. Ourselves here and now, that’s how we think. Most of the time most of us don’t even care that the ship is sinking as long as we can make a good buck selling life preservers before it goes down and be rich for a little while. Ask any soldier who ever prayed that his buddy would be killed instead of him. That same soldier might toss himself on a grenade and save ten men and die doing it, but that is a different thing. That’s not thinking about it. And that’s not most of us.

In the bed Pete Vitanza was remembering the feel of their fists, the kick of their shoes. They could return.

‘That’s rough,’ Pete said.

‘Anything at all out of the normal,’ I said.

Pete shook his bandaged head. ‘We worked on the bike. We ate lunch at the bike. I mean, what’s normal? Jo-Jo took the bike out. I took the bike out and around. We practised turns. Jo-Jo made these figures, you know, like figure-eights. He liked to stunt with the bike. So…’

‘Stunts? Turns?’ I said. ‘You needed space maybe?’

I closed my eyes. I saw the parked cars on Water Street. The two driveways out of the garage and the loading docks. There were just two parking spaces between the driveway out of the garage and the first loading dock.

‘You needed room for the manoeuvres?’ I said.

I saw the reaction. Under the bandages he reacted.

‘You moved a car?’ I said.

‘A black convertible,’ Pete said. ‘Yeh. We shoved this small, black convertible down by the loading dock. We laughed.’

One of those little things that happen and you never really remember. Like stopping to mail some letters on your way to work, and later you don’t remember it and wonder why you were five minutes late for work. Or the time you find some debris on your lawn and you cross the street to drop it into a waste can. That puts you on the wrong side of the street. When someone says they saw you on that side of the street you tell them they must be wrong because you never walk on that side. Why would you cross the street?

‘We needed some more room,’ Pete said. ‘This convertible was blocking the turns. It was unlocked. We just had to push it so Jo-Jo could make the stunts, yeh.’

‘Then what?’

‘Nothin’. We just shoved it down.’

‘You said you were both at Schmidt’s until six o’clock?’

Pete thought. ‘No, I had to get home, you know? I guess I left first. Jo-Jo he hung around to finish up, cover the bike.’

‘Did you talk to Jo-Jo again?’

‘Sure, maybe a couple of hours later. And Friday, too. Early like. He said he was busy, couldn’t work on the bike. I told you.’

‘Did he say anything else? Maybe about that car?’

‘No,’ Petey said.

I stood up. ‘Okay, you rest. The doc tells me the bandages come off maybe Monday.’

‘You got to find him,’ Pete said from behind his bandages. I mean, they already killed Schmidt and the Driscoll broad.’

‘I’ll find him,’ I said. But in what order? First or second?

On the dark — street in front of St Vincent’s my eyes took in everything that moved and all the shadows. I was jumpy. I felt like a spy on his first day in a strange city — all alone and not sure I could pass the first challenge. This was not my city now. It belonged to a killer. A killer who could hire men to look for Jo-Jo, and maybe for me. Two shadows who had no names and no faces, but who killed just for answers. It was their city now, because now I had some answers to give.

Patrolman Stettin had ticketed that black convertible because Jo-Jo and Pete had shoved it down into a no parking zone. It was all that made sense. The killer had come back to his car and found that it had been tagged. For some reason this was dangerous. Probably because it placed him on the block at that time, and for some reason that was very bad for him. Was it bad because it told the police, or told Pappas, or both? I did not know. But it had to be that he found the tag, hunted Stettin, mugged him, and took the summons book. That was one big answer. It left me with a big question: If the killer had the ticket and the summons book, why was he after Jo-Jo?

I was no longer in front of St Vincent’s. All this time my feet had been walking. My feet were taking me where I had to go next, where I would get the rest of it. I was not sure I wanted the rest of it. When I pushed this time it would be too late to back off and think. One more push and I could not turn back.