Blonde Bait

VII

I couldn't find an all-night restaurant so I headed back for the hotel area and walked into the phone booth in the lobby of a large hotel. It was a few minutes after four and I had to tell the operator to keep ringing before I awoke anybody in the boat house. I answered a sleepy, “Hello?” with, “This is Whalen off the Sea Princess. Has my wife gone on board yet?”

“Nope.”

“You sure?”

“Mr. Whalen, I didn't get to sleep until two because I was watching the late late show. No way she could have got on the dock without me opening the gate.”

“When she comes, tell her I called and that I'll phone again.” I hung up and sat in the booth for a moment, started a cigar working. Now I didn't know what to think.

I'd always seen in the movies how a guy made sure his call couldn't be traced by making a second one. That worked—in all the movies. The Sea Princess was our ace in our sleeve and I had to cover any tracks leading to her... There was a middle aged man with a real pot belly and detective written over his wide face watching me.

I opened the booth door and for a moment we both stared at each other, then I asked, “Something on your mind?”

“You.” He had a mild voice and his hands were in sight. I wondered if this tub of old lard actually thought he could take me. “Kind of late to walk in, camp in the booth.”

Of course he was the house dick. Still, even if I had the face of a goon I was dressed respectably. Also I had to make that cover-up call. I pointed up at the sign over the booth. “It says public phone and doesn't list any hours.”

“So it does.”

“I'm going to make another call.”

“I'm not stopping you, merely standing here.”

I shut the door. All the change I had was three quarters. I put one in the phone, asked information for the number of the hotel desk. I dialed that and told the clerk to give me the house man and make it snappy. Using two-bits for a dime call made me feel very wealthy, for some reason. The desk clerk asked, “Who is calling, please?”

“The police!” I snapped.

My watching buddy took a wave from the desk and as he waddled over, I hung up and walked out. I could suddenly understand all of Rose's fears: a house dick comes over to eye a guy making a phone call in the middle of the night... a guy with a face like mine... and I became jittery. It was a normal move for the house man. Or was it?

I sat on a boardwalk bench and finished my cigar, watching the stars and the waves breaking on the beach —longing to be out there with Rose on the Sea Princess again, away from all this mess.

I went back to our hotel and with a little smirk the desk clerk informed me Mrs. Anderson hadn't called. I took the key and went up to our room. Opening the door, I saw the place was a wreck. The mattress had been cut open, suitcases turned upside down, drawers out. Like a prize fool I walked straight into the room and heard the swish sound of a blackjack cutting air a split second before the ceiling fell on me. As a curtain of darkness came over my eyes I thought I saw a pair of legs making for the door—one leg limping a bit.

I came to with my head throbbing like a bad motor. The top of my noggin was puffed and touching it made me scream. My side was on fire, too. The bastard had kicked me. It took a long moment to get the room in focus. I made it to my feet and staggered over to the bed, my knees shaking so it reminded me of my wrestling days and the hammy way I'd go rubber-legged. I sat very still for a long time, waiting for my head to land, praying I didn't have a concussion. I went through my pockets. My wallet and the dough was still there.

Going to the bathroom I ran cold water over my wrists. I touched my head tenderly. No blood. I opened my shirt. My left side was an angry red but the ribs seemed okay. I urinated and except for a small pain in my kidney, things were in working order. I held a towel full of cold water to my face and head. My wrist watch said a half hour had passed, but most of that had been sitting on the bed.

I locked the door and asked the elevator operator if he'd taken a man down who limped? He said no and his was the only car working in the early morning. Of course I wasn't sure I'd actually seen the limping legs.

In the lobby I asked the clerk and he said, “No one has entered or left here in the last two hours, except you. Any trouble, sir?”

“No.”

I started for the door and he called after me, “Your clothes are unbuttoned, sir.”

I buttoned my shirt and coat and went out. There was a pale line of light on the horizon and the cold sea air was what the doctor ordered. I was full of a lot of feelings: fear, bewilderment—and for the first time since I'd hooked up with Rose, I was damn angry. I walked toward the center of town and found the bus terminal. I got some change and phoned the boat house again. The same sleepy voice answered and when I said, “This is Whalen....” he said, “Aw now, Mr. Whalen, I don't like to complain but... I told you about the late late show. I hardly ever stay up to watch 'em because I'm a guy who needs his sleep. First you get me up and then about the time I'm closing my eyes again your wife comes and now...”

The only feeling I had was one of pure sweet relief. I cut in with, “Listen, it's worth ten bucks if you'll get her to the phone.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Whalen. Hold on.”

It took fifteen minutes for Rose to walk the dock and reach the boat house phone. I sat there, almost humming to myself. I felt cocky again. It would be a snap for me to reach Asbury, only about thirty miles away. Hell, I could even buy an outboard and make it along the coast. I turned to see if anybody in the bus terminal was watching me. The sudden movement of my sore head made me dizzy.

A couple of other ideas came bubbling to the surface of my cocky mood. I was still angry about the clout on the head, wanted to pay somebody back. Since Rose was safe on the boat, I could go to New York and look up the two “Sour” jokers I'd found in the phone book, perhaps get to the bottom of all this. The other idea was: I had to solve things, or at least give it a good try. Now that I was certain a Federal man was after Rose, I'd best damn well know what sort of mess she was in. Not that I was really frightened. I mean, no matter how badly she was wanted by Washington, I'd never leave her. Still, it was better knowing what I was facing and this would be my last chance. I had to go to New York, follow even a slim clue like the phone book names that... Rose's voice interrupted my thinking.

The words coming fast, she asked, “Where are you phoning from?” Her voice was hoarse but full of the warmth I knew.

“A public booth. Don't worry, it won't be traced. I promised the boat house guy a ten spot, give it to him. Are you okay, honey?”

“Yes.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And you?”

“Fine. Maybe pooped from looking for you...”

“Where are you?”

“Still in Atlantic City.”

“Oh God, what's keeping you? Mickey, I expected to find you waiting here for me. We must sail at once.”

“It took me some time to get your message,” I wisecracked. “Look, I'd like to get to the bottom of all this. Long as we're here and...”

“No, Mickey!” Hysteria was back in her voice. “We've had it! Promise me you'll come directly here, and be very careful.”

“Okay, but it will take time. I don't want to bring any company. Are you certain you weren't followed?”

“Yes. I managed to get a bus to Philly, a train to New York. Then a subway to Newark where I hired a cab to drive me to Elizabeth, and a few more cabs to here.”

“Damn,” I said, full of admiration. “Now listen, sit tight and don't worry. I'll be along. But it will take time. I mean, I'll have to do all that twisting and turning, too, and at this hour in the morning there may not be any trains. No matter what happens, you wait on the boat.”

“I will, but hurry. Darling, you're really not hurt or in trouble?”

“No. I won't try to call you again, too risky. I'm leaving here now and I should be with you by late afternoon.”

“Be careful, Mickey.”

“Yeah. And you stay put and wait.”

I hung up and called the other hotel, asked for the house man again, and hung up. To be even safer, I phoned our hotel and asked for their rates. With two cover calls, we couldn't be traced—unless the movies were liars.

I was in luck, there was a direct bus to New York leaving in five minutes. I watched the people boarding it and didn't see anybody looking like a dick. But then I didn't know how to make a tail. Obviously big boy had been following me around ever since I left the club last night. Although he could have easily checked the hotels for a Mickey Anderson.

It was a four hour ride to New York on the turnpike and I had a headache most of the way. But when I walked out into Times Square I had coffee and felt better. I couldn't comb my hair so I bought a hat. For a few minutes I wandered around Broadway, and seeing the rushing people, the big buildings, was a charge. I glanced around like a hick, somehow expecting Hal among the crowds. I had to find out about train and bus schedules and the safest way was the phone. It turned out to be a snap to reach Asbury Park almost any time I wanted to. And now that Rose was safe, what did I have to lose by digging around a little? Maybe Rose had been telling the truth—I was sure she had— but her story was so weird there had to be more to it.

Really wasn't much looking I could do, except checking on the “Sours" in the phone book, and that wouldn't take more than an hour.

I rode a subway uptown, to say I'd been on one, and when I got off and asked for the address on West 113th Street, a street cleaner told me I'd taken the wrong train and I finally took a cab.

I found myself in a colored neighborhood and William Saure turned out to be an elderly brown man who thought I was a cop and had never heard of any Willie Sour or Josef Fedor, and was quite relieved when I told him it was all a mistake.

That left Willy Sowor on Cork Avenue—wherever that was. A cab let me off in front of a seedy looking brownstone rooming house in a block of old houses and swank new apartments. I rang the basement bell and when I didn't get any answer, trotted up the stoop steps, rang another bell.

A little old guy who could have been a retired jockey answered the door. He wore a dirty grey turtle neck sweater, stained slacks, and slippers. His face was too narrow for his features, causing them to look wrinkled and tense. When I asked for Willy Sowor he gave me a blank look and whispered something. He didn't seem to have any voice. When I asked what he'd said, he cupped his ear and told me to step inside. We were in a little hallway which looked a hundred years old, but at the same time this must have been a ritzy house a hundred years ago. A neat carpeted stairway with a fancy polished wooden banister ran up to the next floor. Several closed, thick wooden doors, with fancy scrolls and designs on them, opened on the hallway. The house sure looked far better kept on the inside.

The little man made this whispering sound again. When I asked, “What?” he opened his mouth to show he didn't have any teeth. I asked loudly, “Does Willy Sowor live here? S-o-w-o-r?”

He nodded.

“The guy has something wrong with his nose?”

He worked his head in another nod.

“Where is he?”

Motioning for me to bend down, he put one arm around my shoulders—and let it fall to my hips—as he whispered hoarsely, “He—out.” A strong blast of stale food went with the words.

I had an idea he was frisking me. “Well, when will Sowor be back?”

“Him... return... one hour. You wait?”

I straightened up. “I'll be back in an hour. One hour.” I held up a single finger like a loony. “You tell him it's important, to be sure and wait.”

The old guy gave me a gummy smile. “Me tell. Who you?”

“Friend.” The pidgin English gave me a brilliant idea. I winked at the little guy and told him, “I want to see Willy about some gals. Rose and a doll called Lucy. You know her, Me-lucy-ah?”

“I tell.”

“Good. I'll be back in an hour. Tell Willy to wait.”

“He wait.”

I went out and wondered how to kill an hour. Despite the jockey's breath I was still hungry. There was a stool joint on the corner. I had eggs and toast, juice and coffee, felt like my old self again. I was sitting so I could watch the house through the window—and see what Willy looked like. My side ached and the top of my head was still floating, but I'd felt worse than this after some of my wrestling acts.

Above all, I was quite pleased with my luck in finding Willy-boy. The quiet private house was a break, too. If Sowor didn't talk straight I'd either bribe or beat some info out of him. One way or another, in an hour I'd know the score. I bought a cigar and sat there, watching the house and belching, feeling like a stuffed Sherlock Holmes. I didn't know exactly why I was watching the house. I suppose it wasn't so much I wanted to see what Sowor looked like walking up the steps, but I had an idea he was home all the time and might leave the house.

The joint began to fill up with construction workers, all of them wearing plastic helmets and full of loud, corny talk. It was noon and my stool was being eyed, so I went outside to take a little walk, buy a roll of tape and put it on my sore side. As I stood on the corner, looking around for a drugstore—debating about being out of sight of the house—two big kids stopped and asked if I could spare a match. They looked like college students and the one with the cigarette in his mouth was as tall and thin as a basketball player.

The last thing they looked like were pros. The tall one with the cigarette stood in front of me, while the other one, a tweedy, stubby character wearing heavy frame glasses, stood at my side and back. I took out a pack of matches and started to say he could keep them—when I felt guns pressing my stomach and back. The basketball type said softly, “No trouble, please. We will not hesitate to use these.”

I was so astonished I couldn't talk. This kid could be nineteen or twenty and he wasn't hard looking or a nut, yet his eyes said he wouldn't worry a second over plugging me. Whoever they were, they weren't cops. I asked, “What is this?”

Tweedy at my back said, “Don't go for dumb.” He had a deep, rough voice.

The basketball player held his right hand in his pocket and with his left gently pulled my cigar from my mouth, lit his cigarette, and shoved the cigar back between my lips. It was a simple movement, and it gave me a helpless feeling. He said softly, “Walk with us.” He suddenly laughed and putting his arm around my shoulder, kind of pushed me up the avenue. His gun was on the wrong side, away from me, but deep voice walking behind us warned, “One false move and you get it. Be smart and we won't hurt you.”

We walked up the avenue, the tail one talking loudly about baseball, slapping me on the back now and then. Maybe he was an actor; the three of us looked like buddy-buddies.

We turned into a side street, walked a short block. This was where the construction workers came from and it was a startling sight—like the shelled cities I'd seen on the Italian coast during the war. For several blocks on either side of us there was this leveled area full of the rubble of torn down old buildings, with part of a wall standing here and there. A block or two over were the bulldozers and cranes but where we walked was deserted. The one at my back said, “Let's get to work. Where is it?” He ran his hand over my clothes.

“Where is what? I don't know what you jokers are talking about. What is this?” A punch in the long gut of the basketball player would take him out but there wasn't anything I could do about tweedy behind me.

The tall one said, “You asked for Sowor. We don't know who you are or on what side. We have no desire to kill you, but we will if necessary. That's up to you. Where is it? Where's the girl?”

“What the hell is 'it?'“ I wished I had on one of the construction helmets, another crack on my sore head would...

Basketball whipped out his small automatic and tried to push it through my belly. “Who are you? What do you want to see Sowor about? Did she send you?”

I didn't know what to answer.

Tweedy growled, “Come on, where is it?”

One gun seemed to be cutting my stomach muscles. I said, “I only wanted to ask Willy about some Oriental chippy named Me-lucy who I understand is a good number in the hay. A buddy told me to ask...”

Tweedy said, “Don't go for cute, mister!”

The tall one added, “Please don't make us prove we are serious. Where is it?”

“Look, boys, since you're holding the guns stop talking in riddles. At least tell me what you want?”

Tweedy's deep voice hit me like a club. “My God, he's playing it cute! I get nauseous when anybody feels they have to be coy. For the last time, cut the...”

A bullet whistled by us. We turned to see a short swarthy man coming over the bricks at our left—across the street—a sawed-off carbine in his hands. He yelled something I couldn't understand. The two boys turned from me and let go a wild volley of shots, sharp barks lost in the air. I saw his carbine flashing and then there was the sound of a car coming down the street toward us, and a guy had his hand out, firing as he drove. From the distance the driver might be big boy from Atlantic City. The boys were firing in all directions now as they started to run. I wheeled to my right and hit the ground. Making like a frightened lizard I crawled over the rubble, heading for the street on the other side.

I crawled, stood up and ran, dived into a gully between piles of stones. Crawling, running, falling—A basic training star—I reached the other street and lay behind half a stoop, my lungs pumping. The air was quiet, the heaving of my own chest the only sound. I slowly stood up behind the stoop and looked back; the other street was empty. I studied the rubble for a few minutes. No sign of any movement and not many hiding places.

I was a mess. My coat and one pants leg were torn and there was a long mild gash on my thigh. I'd lost my hat and I was covered with various kinds of dirt and dust. I moved away from the stoop, still watching the bricks and stones. I was alone. In fact I felt as alone as I would on the moon. Trying to brush myself off, I saw my pants' pocket had been ripped open and my wallet was gone. I'd only crawled about a hundred yards but there were a million crevices in the block of rubble into which the wallet could have fallen.

I waited another few minutes, then started back—not even sure I'd crawled in a straight line. It was worse than finding that needle in a haystack. But I had to have money and there wasn't anything to do but look and hope my college gunmen didn't return. I started walking, stooping down to push bricks aside, every muscle stiff and hurting. I'd covered about fifty feet when a voice called, “What are you doing in there?”

A young cop was coming down the middle of the street, swinging his night stick. I couldn't have run if I'd wanted to. I climbed back over the junk and reached the street. My left shoe was sliced open on one side.

The cop had a freshly scrubbed baby face, clean and neat as his blue uniform. He was compactly built, not very tall, and didn't look over twenty-one. This was my day for kids. He ran his eyes over me, made sure he didn't come too close, as he said, “You're in a bad way. Don't you know you're trespassing?”

“I know I lost my wallet with all my dough crawling over this stuff. Listen, two big kids walked me down that street over there, covering me with guns. Then a guy with a sawed-off rifle came firing at us, and a fellow in a car drove up, also banging away. I hit the dirt and crawled over here.” I heard my voice dying: I could hardly believe the story myself!

The cop let me have a good natured grin. “You must have been on an all night binge. What were you guzzling, pure King Kong?”

I moved toward him, blowing my breath. “Smell any liquor?”

He jabbed me lightly in the stomach with his stick. “That's close enough.”

“You smell any booze on me?”

“No. What happened to all these... er... gunmen?”

“I don't know. Maybe one of them is wounded or dead?”

“Let's look.”

I started over the bricks but he said, “Come on, we'll walk abound—using the street.”

As we walked he asked, “Was it a stickup? How many men were shooting?”

“Four, that I saw. No, it wasn't a stickup.”

“What were they... eh... shooting at you for?”

“I don't know. Two kids stopped me on the avenue over there, asked for a light. Looked like college boys— no older than you. Then they throw guns on me and walk me here, where the shooting started.”

The cop glanced over the deserted streets, gripped his night stick. “You been sick recently, mister?”

“Look, you think I crawled through that crap for exercise? I'm telling you straight! Lord, there was a small war going on, didn't you hear any gunfire?”

We'd reached the spot where it had started, there wasn't any blood, no body, not even an empty shell. Babyface stared at me. “I turned the corner from over there about three minutes ago. I didn't hear shots. Have you any identification?”

“Told you, I lost my wallet. See how my pocket is ripped? Damn it, do you think I cut myself up like this as a practical joke!”

“Don't shout. Got a home?”

“Yeah. That is, I came into town this morning to see the sights and...”

“No sights around here. What's your business?”

“I'm a shrimp buyer down in Tampa.”

“Your clothes are a mess but you don't look like a bum. Let's go to the precinct house and call a doc to...”

“Doctor? I'm not crazy! I'm telling you the truth! There were at least a dozen shots fired, the slugs must have hit something. Find them and...”

He shook his head sadly, his eyes running over the leveled blocks. I realized how stupid I sounded: it would be impossible to find any lead in this mess, even if they might be imbedded in the remains of the few walls still standing. He said, “There's a construction office way over there, somebody would have come running, or reported shots.”

The office and equipment was a good four blocks away, they couldn't have heard the shots. And most of them were at lunch. I gave up. “Officer, whether you believe it or not, I'm telling you the truth. I'll go back to my... hotel and change.”

“Nothing I can hold you for. Sure you're feeling okay?”

“Yeah.”. I glanced at my wrist watch. The crystal was smashed but the watch was still ticking. Sowor would be back by now. I'd sure killed an hour!

The cop pulled out a notebook. “Give me your name and address, list of any papers you had in the wallet, and how much money. In case it's found you'll be able to claim it.”

“There was over six hundred bucks in the wallet; nobody will turn it in. I'm late for a business appointment. So long, officer.” I headed toward the avenue. He didn't stop me. Turning the corner I glanced back to see the young cop still standing where I'd left him, swinging his club vigorously. For a second I wondered if he wasn't too young to be a policeman. Passing a store window I saw my reflection. My face and shirt were dirty, my clothes torn. All told I looked like the wrath of God.

There was this dull little bar and I went in and asked the fat bartender where the men's room was. He pointed to a narrow door, asked, “You been playing potsy with a truck?”

“I fell in the remains of the houses around the corner,” I said, making for the John. I heard him call out, “Then sue 'em.”

The men's room wasn't much bigger than a coffin but I was able to clean up my face and hands, brush most of the dirt off my torn clothes. I still looked terrible, a few bruises on my face, and my hands full of cuts. I tried to comb my hair with my fingers and felt blood on the matted hair. When I came out the barkeep said, “You look like you need a belt. What will it be?”

“I sure need something. Rye neat... Wait.” I felt of my pockets. I didn't have a cent on me. “Never mind, I lost my wallet in the bricks. Unless you want to take a slightly busted wristwatch in payment?”

The barkeep glanced at my watch and shook his head. A little guy wearing a stained butcher's white coat and a battered straw hat who was reading a track tip sheet and sipping a brew at a table said without looking up, “I'll pay for his shot, Jim. If he needs one half as bad as he looks, be inhuman not to give him a taste.”

I thanked him. He winked as he told me, “I know how you feel. I go on a bender for a couple days myself. Anyway, soon as they build this project, all us storekeepers are going to be rich. That's why they jack up my rent now, when they're just tearing down the houses and ain't even started the project foundation. Darn shame...”

I gulped the rye and thanked him on my way out. I didn't have time for bar chatter. The drink didn't work any miracles, I still felt sore and hurt, but it cleared up some of the fog. I knew one thing. Rose hadn't been imagining a single incident. I also knew I was going to get to the bottom of this fast, and on the way I'd get hunk with somebody for the beatings I'd been taking the last dozen or so hours.

Reaching the brownstone I went up the steep stairs, rang the bell. The toothless old jockey in the dirty turtle-neck gave me both gums in a smile—which vanished as he took in my torn clothes. I asked, “Sowor here?”

He nodded, pointed toward one of the heavy wooden doors, and whispered, “You go—in there.”

I suppose in the old days this must have been the sitting room. I slid the big doors open and it was still a sitting room. Two burly men were sitting there. They scrambled to their big feet and one of them flashed a small badge. “We're detectives. We'd like to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“A few questions. Nothing to worry about. Come with us.” One of them took my arm at the elbow, the other walked with his hand brushing my free arm. They certainly looked like cops, yet I had a hunch it was phony —too fast and pat. Turtleneck opened the front door and we went down the steps and toward a plain car. I stopped walking, shook my arm free. “Where are we going for this talk?”

“Just to our office.”

“I want to call my lawyer before I go any place. Let me see your badge again.”

“No need to be alarmed. I said we only want to ask you a few questions. May be a good deal for you...”

“The badges!”

The guy at my elbow said, “You've nothing to get 'em in an uproar about,” and flashed a badge in a leather case. I knew what had hit me as wrong before. The badge seemed too small. I grabbed his wrist and read enough of the tin to know he was a private snoop!

I spun him against his partner and, lunging backwards, kicked out with both my thirteens. It was the old drop-kick, only we used to be careful to kick the other guy on the shoulder or chest, and as he was expecting it, he'd be falling away and wouldn't get hurt. Now, one of my shoes caught a dick on the side of his head—and I could feel it up to my knee—while the other clown stopped a shoe on his arm. He had good reflexes. He stumbled back, then turned and ran. His partner dropped to the sidewalk—out cold.

I saw all this in a flash as I was in mid-air. In the ring you broke the fall by landing On your shoulders and rocking forward on your backside. I never found a ring canvas soft but compared to the sidewalk it would have felt like a foam mattress. I hit on my back with a thud that knocked all the air out of me and sent my sore head spinning like a drunken rocket.

For a long time I couldn't get up. I wasn't out, merely lying on the hard sidewalk in a kind of dizzy comfort. A few people began to gather on the other side of the street. They looked like a distant horizon to me. I sat up and held the sides of my face to keep my head together. The dick I'd kicked in the head was still crumpled near me. The crowd came into focus, it had more people. I heard the sound of running feet, a voice asking, “What's going on here?” The voice sounded slightly familiar.

I looked up into the baby face of the young cop. He said, “You cover my post better than I do. Now what happened?”

“This lump and another guy claimed they were police officers and tried to force me into that car over there. They're private detectives and I refused to go with them.”

“You been knifed—your neck is full of blood,” the cop said as he knelt beside the private eye. “I hope this one is alive. What did you slug him with?”

“My foot.”

“Cut the jokes and tell me a straight story.”

“I am. Listen: I came to this house to see a man. Some old little guy in a turtleneck sweater who doesn't speak much English told me the fellow would be back in an hour. I was walking around when two young fellows pulled guns on me—all that stuff I told you happened back where they're knocking down the buildings. When I left you I returned to this house and these two jokers were waiting for me. When I found they were private peepers, I refused to go with them.”

“Where were they taking you? What did they want?”

“Beats me.”

The young cop sighed. “Everything happens to you.” He pulled out his notebook. “What's your name and address?”

I told him Mickey Anderson, a phony address in Tampa. A radio car drove up and two more cops came over, went into conference with Babyface. The private eye finally sat up, groggy as hell, a little blood on his ear. I managed to stand and the young cop grabbed me as I started for the snooper. “No more roughhouse, Anderson.”

“I'm getting fed up with it myself. I'm too old for these falls. But I want to ask this character what the devil this is all about.”

The other cops were helping him to his feet and my cop told me, “They're going to take him to the station house, see if he needs a doc. You can use a medic yourself, your neck is all blood.”

I put my hand to my neck and stared at the blood on my palm. “I'm okay. That's from the bump on my head. I was slugged last night.”

“You really live dangerously. What business you in?”

“Shrimps.”

“That hooked up with the rackets?”

“No. I keep telling you I don't know what this is all about. I'm only up here for a vacation. Where are they taking him?”

“I told you, to the precinct house. If you feel okay, let's you and me talk to the old man you claim you saw in this house, then we'll go to the station.”

“Fine.”

When we rang the bell the little old jockey opened the door immediately and said, “Officer, I'm glad you're here. This man has been a ruddy nuisance!” He had a mouthful of perfect teeth and spoke with a clipped British accent.

The cop gave me big eyes. “This the fellow you were looking for?”

“No. He's the one I talked to, who told me to come back in an hour.”

“I thought you said he spoke broken English?”

“He didn't have his teeth in then.”

The little man drew himself up. “What sort of bloody nonsense is this? Officer, do I have to be insulted on my own property? This creature has been making a pest of himself for...”

“Who called those two private bulls waiting for me in the living room?” I cut in.

“I haven't the smallest idea what you are raving about. I run a respectable rooming establishment and resent these thugs scuffling in front of my property.”

“Let's start from the beginning. Did this man come here an hour ago?” Babyface asked, pointing his night stick toward me.

“Indeed he did. He seemed to be under the weather, too. He asked for a former tenant. I tried to explain that Mr. Sowor no longer lives here. He returned minutes ago, obviously after having imbibed more liquids and having been in a drunken brawl. He again asked for Mr. Sowor. I again informed him Mr. Sowor no longer is a tenant here and shut the door in his face. The next thing I knew, there were sounds of scuffling and I looked out to see him and another chap stretched out on the sidewalk.”

“He claims two men, including the one on the sidewalk, were waiting in your house when he returned,” Babyface said.

The little man threw back his head and laughed, showing all his too-white teeth. “One only has to glance at him to see a drunken...”

“Where is Willy Sowor?” I cut in.

“Poor Mr. Sowor died many months ago. He was run down by a car on the avenue on a rainy night not far from here. I must say Mr. Sowor also imbibed a great deal.”

“What kind of business was he in?” I asked.

Turtleneck blinked. “You have your blasted cheek! All I ask of my tenants is for them to pay their rent on time and respect my privacy—and I certainly respect theirs!”

The cop wrote down his name and the address of the house and as we walked down the steps I said, “That little clown is lying in his store teeth!”

“Maybe. Only two things in your favor: you weren't drunk when I saw you on the brick pile, and the old man is wearing false teeth. We're three blocks from the precinct, can you walk it?”

“Sure.” People were turning to watch us. I wiped the blood from my neck with a handkerchief and threw it in a trash can, turned up my coat collar.

“What was your business with this Sowor fellow?”

“No business. A girl I used to know once mentioned him. Being in New York, I looked him up in the phone book, wanted to ask if he could tell me where this girl is now.”

“Why didn't you phone him?”

“Come on, a guy doesn't give out personal info over a phone. If he's dead, how come he's still listed in the book? Anyway I can check to see if he's really dead?”

“Since the accident was in our precinct, I can find out. As to the phone book, they can't change a listing until a new book comes out, and I think that's once a year. Have you ever been in trouble before, Mr. Anderson?”

“Before? What kind of trouble am I in now?”

“You know what I mean, any police record?”

“Nope.”

He sighed. “Your story sounds so fantastic I almost believe it. Also you don't look smart enough to think up a lie this big.”

I said, “Well, thanks, officer,” my voice full of sarcasm. “When we talk to that private dick, we'll find out what this is all about. I'm going to get to the bottom of this.”

“You'd better. You're looking worse every time I see you. That's some tin ear you're sporting. I've heard of 'em but you don't see them nowadays. When were you a pug?”

“I did some amateur boxing years ago.”

Reaching the police station Babyface took me before the desk lieutenant and saluted. He started to explain what had happened when the desk officer, a dapper fellow of about forty-five dressed in a pressed white shirt and plain black tie, cut him off with, “I know all about the case, officer.”

Babyface went to the rear of the police station. The desk officer studied me for a moment, like a judge, then he said, “This is your lucky day, no charges were pressed against you.”

“Against me?”

“You could have been rapped for assault, disorderly conduct.”

“Lieutenant, haven't you got all this a wee bit rump-backwards? I was the one attacked—or maybe kidnapped is a better word. Where's the private eye? Will it be okay if I talk to him in his cell—through the bars?”

“You can talk to him wherever you wish, but not in here. Since he didn't press charges, we had no reason to hold him,” the desk officer said, his voice sounding bored.

“Are you telling me you let him go?”

He nodded. “You look in rough shape. Want me to call an ambulance doc?”

“Of all the... I have to speak to that guy!” I yelled, refusing to believe what I'd heard. “What's his name and address?”

The desk officer looked thoughtful. “Let me see... Joe... or Jack... I had a fast peep at his credentials but you understand, I have a thousand details to take care of and so I...”

“Look, are you sitting up there and saying you didn't even take his name down, that you haven't any record at all of this?”

“What do you think the blotter is, an autograph album? Mister, a guy is brought in dazed, beaten up. Against my advice he flatly refuses to press charges, or even medical aid. I have no reason to book him or...”

“Damn it, how come you couldn't at least wait until I came here! I was the one attacked!”

The lieutenant gave me a buddy-buddy grin. “On the contrary, he told us you had kicked him—-without provocation—as he was walking along the street. I figured you for a slim type—to kick that high. The officers who brought him in said you acted like you were bagged. I asked him to press charges but he refused, so I could hardly detain him.”

“Of all the goddamn...!”

“Don't raise your voice, this is no gin mill!” he snapped. “You look like a brawler but we tranquilize rougher punks than you every day. Let me see some identification.”

“I lost my wallet.”

He gave me a cynical smile.

“He reported that to me, sir, before this... latest incident.”

I spun around, hadn't heard Babyface return. He told the desk officer about finding me walking around among the leveled buildings, my story about being shot at. Then seeing me stretched out on the sidewalk in front of Sowor's house, his conversation with the old man with false teeth. “I've called downtown, sir. A Willy Sowor was killed by an unknown hit and run driver last November. Also, there's no yellow sheet on this man.”

The lieutenant shook his head. “That's the worst crock of bull I've heard this week. Roll back your sleeves and pants legs.”

“What?”

“Come on, do what you're told.”

I showed him my arms and legs and he said, “You looked too-healthy for a junkie. My advice to you is, go home and sleep it off. Keep on talking like this and I'll send you to Bellevue for observation.”

I started to say something but didn't. I had a feeling I was not only wasting time here but that I was dealing with the enemy. The only thing was to go back and have a talk with the old jockey. The desk officer must have been a mind-reader. He said, “I'm going to give you a break, let you go. But get this straight, haul your hips out of this precinct and fast. You annoy anybody else around here and I'll put you in a straightjacket!”

I hesitated for a moment. The place seemed to be filling up with uniformed cops. I felt trapped. I shrugged and headed for the door. Suddenly I wasn't as much angry as plain tired. All I wanted was to get out of this rat trap, return to Rose and our boat; get the hell back to Ansel's island where the only problem was whether we'd sleep all day or go underwater fishing. I don't know, maybe I was nuts. Or everybody else was.

Walking outside, I wondered what to do: I didn't have one cent on me. I didn't even have a cigar butt. I could phone Rose and reverse the charges, but I needed a dime to do that. And suppose I did call, Rose would have to come to New York to get me. Or wire some money, and wire it to where? I could wire her collect and wait for the money at a Western Union office, only—would they give it to me without identification? For all I knew, in this weird setup we found ourselves in, a telegram might lead them to Rose and the boat. I couldn't risk our last out.

But along about now Rose would begin to worry, might even set out to find me, and that would be a mess. How could I travel the hundred miles, or whatever the distance was, to Asbury Park? The way I looked, nobody in their right mind would let me hitch a ride.

Two columns of cops smartly marched out of the police station and stood at attention on the sidewalk. A sergeant dismissed them and as they broke ranks and walked away, more policemen began to approach the station house. They were changing tours. I watched like a hick until I told myself to snap out of it. I didn't have a friend in town, least of all the cops, and I had to borrow money to reach Rose. But wait—I did have one buddy in the big city.

Hal Anderson had said he lived in New York. If he wasn't at sea I could borrow from him. I walked into a drugstore and looked in the phone book. There were three Harold Andersons in Manhattan, two in the Bronx, and four in Brooklyn and Queens. I racked my brains but couldn't come up with the name of the steamship company Hal worked for, and even if I knew, they probably wouldn't give out his home address. When I asked the druggist if he could spare a hunk of paper and a pencil, he gave me a nervous look and mumbled he was busy. I didn't blame him. I saw myself in a shaving mirror on the counter and I looked like a goon who'd been worked over.

I walked out to find another store. I'd tear the pages out of the phone book. A highschool kid with a brush crewcut and wearing an old windbreaker was crossing the street toward a parked car. He waved at me and walked my way. It took me a second to recognize my young cop. He grinned as he said, “Better not hang around here, Mr. Anderson. The lieutenant can be a wild hair, and give you a hell of a rough time, when he feels nasty.”

“How come he let that guy go without getting his name and address?”

“Well, it was a bit unusual. He should have waited until I—as the investigating officer—showed up. I've covered myself in my memo book, though.”

“You know the dick's name?”

“No. But I wrote that upon reaching the precinct house I found the alleged assaulter, an 'unknown male,' had been released. Maybe the lieutenant was hasty, but consider things from his side, your story sounds fantastic. He...”

“Bull! He let him go before he ever heard my story!”

Babyface shrugged. “Strictly between us, the private badge must have been from a big agency. I shouldn't be telling you this, but the locker room grapevine says the dick was working for an oil company. Big stuff.”

“Oil? What's an oil outfit got to do with this?”

“You tell me. The point is, the lieutenant can't buck the big wheels. Nor can I buck the lieutenant. As I said, perhaps he did act too fast, but that's all. We police have to follow the law, too.”

“Don't talk to me about the law. In less than twenty-four hours I've been slugged, shot at, and rooked—mostly by jerks sporting badges of one kind or another!”

“I don't know what you're mixed up in, Mr. Anderson, but here's some straight advice. Don't hang around here or you'll have more badge trouble.”

“I've had my fill. Look, when I lost my wallet I also lost all my loose change. I haven't a penny, can't even board a bus or subway. Can you lend me a buck? Give me your name and address and I swear I'll mail you back five tomorrow. Or take this busted wrist watch. I broke it on those damn bricks.”

The cop dug in his pocket. “A buck? You must travel in style. A subway token costs fifteen cents. Here's thirty cents, which will get you any place in town. Don't worry about returning it. You're better than a cops-and-robbers movie. Now keep moving, chum.”

I took the quarter and nickel. He headed for his car, stopped, and called out, “I can drive you part of the way downtown.”

“Thanks, but I have to make a call. I don't exactly know where I'm going. I mean, I have to see which of my friends is in town.” I knew it sounded stupid but I didn't trust any cop now.

He said, “You're a real case, buddy,” and got in his car.

For a split second I wondered if I could make a deal, have him drive me to Asbury and give him fifty or a hundred bucks? But I couldn't afford that risk.

I walked down a few blocks and into a candy store, looked up the Harold Andersons in the phone books again. I had three chances out of nine of hitting the right one: three to one odds were rough. It seemed to me Hal had said something about a house and from the little I'd seen of Manhattan, it was all apartment houses. I decided to risk my money on the Bronx and Brooklyn. When I asked for change I thought the fat lady behind the counter was going to scream for help. But she gave me three dimes, even if her hand shook.

I dialed the first Hal Anderson in the Bronx, working the dial carefully—a wrong number would ruin me. A man answered and told me he certainly wasn't a ship's purser and hung up. Next I tried a Brooklyn Harold Anderson and didn't get any answer. I went through a bad moment waiting for the dime to return. I picked another Anderson number in Brooklyn and a woman's voice with a warm accent said, “Oui,” when I went into the ship's purser bit. I realized she had to be Hal's French wife and I couldn't have felt better if I'd hit the daily double. I said, “My name is Mickey Whalen. I was a friend of Hal's down in Florida. We had a boat together.”

There was a brief silence and I had a chill. Suppose Hal had never mentioned me to his wife?

“Ah, yes. He often talks about you.”

“Is Hal home?”

“No. His ship is not due for another week. Too bad, he would want to see you.”

“Mrs. Anderson, I'm in a kind of trouble. I know this sounds odd, but I fell down and lost my wallet. I need a few dollars and don't know a soul in the city but Hal— and you. I have no one else to turn to.”

“Well...” There was another silence, then she asked, “What was the name of the boat you two had?”

“The Sea Princess. Did Hal tell you he saw me down in Haiti a month or two ago?”

“Yes. How much money do you need, Mr. Whalen?”

“A few dollars. I arrived in New York this morning and had this accident with my wallet. Can I come over to your house, now?”

“Of course. Have you...?”

The operator cut in to ask for another nickel.

Hal's wife asked, “Have you a car?”

“No.”

“Where are you?”

“In Manhattan.”

“Then take the D metro, the subway marked D to...”

The operator demanded her nickel again and I said, “I'll be out, Mrs. Anderson, but I have to walk. Wait for me.

I hung up and used my last dime to dial the Anderson who'd been out, to erase the call in case I was being followed. I was getting worse than Rose, didn't put a thing beyond whoever was after us. The party was still not home. So I had a big fat dime, and the subway cost fifteen cents.

Stepping out of the phone booth I wiped the sweat from my face as I asked the old lady behind the counter, “Which way is Brooklyn?”

In a thick accent she said, “Walk two blocks down and turn right. That's the subway. Get on the downtown side and then ask the conductor for...”

“I'm walking. Which way is it, please?” I knew I was talking too much. If I was being followed and this plump lady told them about Brooklyn—but then Brooklyn must be a big place.

She shook her head and all her chins danced. “Walk?” She chuckled. “You funny enough to be on TV. Brooklyn is maybe ten-twenty miles from here. My God, Coney Island must be fifty miles. Better you take subway.”

“Sure it would be better but I have to walk.” I held up the dime. “I was in an accident, lost my money. This is all I have going for me, at the moment. Which way do I start walking?”

“Two blocks down and turn right, to subway,” she said, placing a nickel on the counter. “Take this. And please, no wine.”

“Thank you. I'm not a wino, no matter how I look. I'll return this by mail soon as...”

The chins did their dance again to another short chuckle. “No bother, I don't ask for it back. What's a nickel today? Penny is almost useless, five cents hardly buy anything. I used to have big display of nickel candy. Soon a dime be the same way, then quarter... all very bad. Frightens me. You use subway and be careful, no more schnapps.”

At the door I waved and said, “Madame, for a few hours today I was convinced people are no damn good. May a good life be yours.” I gave her a little bow, too.

Walking toward the subway I wondered if I was batty. Over a lousy jit I was starting to talk like a professional beggar. Me, the joker who'd been straining his wrist tipping everybody ten bucks last night.

On the downtown platform I asked a subway guard which train went to Brooklyn. He said, “Brooklyn covers a lot of territory. What address you want?”

“All I want is to get to Brooklyn,” I snapped, full of suspicion.

“Take any train on this express track,” he said, running his eyes over my clothes and turning away.

I boarded a near empty train and sat down, realizing how bushed I was. A little girl sitting across the aisle started to giggle. Sitting, the big rip in my pants showed most of my leg and everybody could see the torn shoe. I tried covering my leg with my overcoat but that was ripped too. I walked over to a map pasted on one window of the car to find the street Hal's wife lived on. I've studied some complicated sailing charts but I never saw anything like this map of the city. Finally I got a fix on an avenue that crossed Hal's street—after I figured out which subway I had to be on.

The farther downtown we went the more crowded the car became. I worried about whether I was being followed: I didn't want to bring my troubles to Hal or have the clowns chasing me have the opportunity of learning my real name. I remembered what Rose had once told me—how when she was on the run she had stepped out of the first car and waited to see if anybody else stepped out farther down the train.

I'd been keeping track of the stations on the map and had a long way to go, so I walked through the train, keeping my coat collar up and my bloody neck from frightening anybody. Reaching the first car I stepped out at the next stop and glanced down the length of the train. More people than lived on Ansel's island seemed to be getting in and out. However, a few stations later it was better—the platform was almost empty. I stepped out and waited. Several cars down a pretty girl came out, then a guy in a windbreaker, and farther down an old man. I made a feint at stepping back in but all of them kept walking toward the exit. I jumped back into the train as the doors started to close.

I did this at every other station, felt pretty sure I wasn't being tailed. We went under a tunnel. My ears popped. And four stations later I reached my stop. I did my on and off number. It seemed to me a guy stuck his head out in the car next to mine. When the doors started to close and I made like I was jumping back in, I saw this guy pull in his head. All I could see was the back of a brown pork-pie hat and when the train went by I had a flash of the hat again—with a fancy red feather stuck in the band. It could have been my imagination.

Going up the steps I came out on an area looking like many small cities in the south, rows of private houses and a few stores, most of the streets lined with trees.

Afraid to ask, I walked in circles until I found the avenue I was looking for. I got my direction and started walking. They weren't kidding, Brooklyn is big. A half hour later I was still walking, my feet sore and all of me dead tired. My cut shoe seemed ready to fall apart. I stopped at a trash can and poked around until I found some string. I bound the shoe together across the instep and looked up to see a horse-faced woman staring down her big nose at me and making tsk, tsk noises. The string worked okay. I walked for another half hour, stopping to look into store windows, or turning down quiet side streets. I didn't see anybody following me. I'd be an easy make with my size and torn clothing.

It was almost six and starting to get dark when I passed another subway station and realized if I'd been able to ask I would have saved myself all the walking. Of course there were buses passing me all the time, going up and down the avenue, which didn't help my tired feeling. I was killing myself for a lousy fifteen cents. Even in the old days I'd never been this broke.

I finally reached Hal's street. I walked down it and looked at the numbers, knew I wasn't more than a block away from the house. To be on the smart side I went back to the avenue and up another block. And then I got sick because I saw a stocky fellow walking behind me, a red feather in his hat! I stopped to glance at a grocery window and he went by me, and damn if he didn't stop to stare into a hardware window. I walked slowly by him and casually glanced around. There he was, following me.

When we reached the corner I stopped, pretended I was hunting for something in my pockets. Of course he couldn't simply stop and stand there, so he turned into this empty side street, walked slowly ahead of me. I followed him, waiting to see what he'd do now.

He walked along as if he didn't know I was there and when we started to pass a modest apartment house, he suddenly ducked down the service entrance. I jumped after him, determined to settle one badge's hash!

We were in a narrow concrete alleyway, dimly lit by a single bulb. He half turned as I rushed him, dropped when I clubbed the side of his head with my fist. He crumpled into an odd heap, legs corkscrewing under him. Then he fell forward on his face, the hat with the loud feather rolling away. I quickly frisked him. He was clean. I took out his wallet. There were three singles and some identification cards. One said he was a member of a hospitalization group. Another card said he was certified to operate an oil burner. The last identification card stated he was the superintendent of a building. For a moment I was puzzled, then with a horrible sickened feeling I read the address on the card. I ran out to the sidewalk— saw the same street number on the apartment building.

If my shoe wasn't busted I would have sprinted. I walked as fast as I could, heading back toward Hal's street. Several thoughts were thundering around in my sore head. The guy was okay, or would be in a few minutes. I'd dropped the wallet at his feet so they couldn't arrest me for robbery. But was suspicion driving me crazy? I'd flattened a harmless janitor minding his own business, all because he wore a colored feather in his hat band!

Lord, if anybody had seen me, if the cops ever bagged me, they'd let me have the book, if I didn't land in a padded cell. I'd deserve it. Who would believe my story? Not even me! No wonder Rose had been flipping with fright: suspicion and caution can be harder on your nerves than dope.

But there was little chance the super saw me, would be able to identify me, so I was in the clear. But if I was caught... damn! Why had I insisted upon coming to the States? How much of a clown can one guy be?