Dead End

9—Betty

Doc and I had a good week. Some months before, we had bagged a nineteen-year-old kid in the act of stealing a car. He was wine-high at the time and it was a routine arrest. Shortly before the case came to trial, the boy's old man offered us five hundred dollars to make a few “slight” mistakes in the time; whether we saw the car on the uptown or downtown side of the street, or what the kid was wearing, and so on, in our testimony. It was the boy's first offense and it figured that if we sounded a bit confused—but not enough to look like fools—the kid might get off. The boy came from a middle-class W.P.A. family, as Doc sarcastically called them: white, Protestant, a hundred percent American.

I was against taking the money. It seemed to me an open-and-shut case against the kid. And if he had been able to drive away, in his condition he might have killed a lot of people. But the poppa talked to Doc—not to me—and Doc put his hand out for both of us. On the stand we told a straight story, a tight story, and poppa looked like he wanted to kill us as sonny boy got a year.

As he slipped me my half, Doc said, “Don't act like a child taking castor oil. We did the right thing, Bucky. He's a snotty kid and guilty. Why should he get off because his folks are rich enough to grease the police? Seriously, this was true law enforcement; we taught them never to try bribing a police officer again. And what the hell, they're in no position to kick about a thing.”

We dropped into a bar we liked for a couple of free belts, a kind of celebration. The fat barkeep whispered, “Glad to see you guys. Doc, you see that broad over there in the booth? The skinny one. I don't know if she's crazy or what, but she's openly soliciting. And she don't even know how to do it. I threw her fanny out once before today, and here she is back. Get her out of here before I lose my license.”

Betty didn't look like much then: pale; scrawny figure; her clothes tacky. But she was young, about twenty. When Doc and I sat down in the booth, flashed our buzzers, she began to cry. The barkeep hit his head with his hands—the last thing he wanted was a scene. So we walked-rushed her out to the squad car. She gave us the usual song and dance about being down on her luck, hungry. Then she looked at me and said, “I don't care if I do go to jail; at least I'll eat. All I've had since yesterday is a box of crackers.”

“Hustling been that bad?” Doc asked, as if it was all a joke.

She said hysterically, “I always thought this... this last resort... would be simple. It isn't. I've made four dollars in five days, I'm scared crazy. I was locked out of my room this morning and... I'm so hungry I could...”

“Sister, you're spinning an old record,” Doc told her.

I felt sorry for her. Perhaps that was the key to all my feelings toward Betty: I was sorry for her. She didn't have a thing except her youth. Her face wasn't pretty, sort of rough-featured, like her nose had been stuck on. But as Doc once told me, humor is based on cruelty—so maybe love is based on pity. I told her, “Okay, stop the tears. I'll blow you to a good meal.” I looked at Doc. “We can let her go. We haven't anything on her except being a vag.”

A radio car cruised by with a police captain—probably the local precinct captain making his wrap-up for the day. I thought he recognized us.

Doc said, “Start the car, Bucky. This isn't the place to talk. Go to Mario's; we'll put some good heavy spaghetti next to the young lady's ribs while we chat. What's your name, honey?”

“Betty. Betty James,” she said suspiciously, although when she looked at me her eyes were grateful.

We had a neat meal. Doc was in high, ordering a lot of fancy dishes like clams smothered in various kinds of melted cheese, and white and red wine. It made me think of Nate.

Betty ate like a pig. The food loosened her up a little, but there was still this sullen, suspicious look that said she didn't trust cops, was still scared stiff. I don't know why, but that got me excited.

When we had plowed through some rich Italian pastry and were sipping coffee espresso, Doc puffed on a cigarette as he told her, “Listen to me closely, Betty James. I'm going to make a suggestion. You want to buy it, fine. You turn it down, that's okay, too. Whatever you decide has to be of your own free will. Now, we're not going to arrest you. If you like, walk out of here this minute, and I hope we'll never see you again. You want to do that?”

She puffed fast on her cigarette, like a kid, asked, “Can I hear the suggestion?” She was talking to Doc but looking at me.

“Honey, you walk out now, you may luck up on something legit and be on your way. But the odds are against you. So you'll turn back to the streets and sooner or later we, or some other officers, will have to take you in. You'll do a couple of months, maybe longer, and when you come out, then what? Not a thing will have changed for you: You'll still be broke, jobless. The hard truth is you'll be walking the streets again, maybe working for some two-bit pimp. It becomes a vicious circle. You understand what I'm driving at, honey? In most ways our ideas of prison reform are not only hopelessly old-fashioned but downright stupid.”

“I still don't get the deal,” she said.

Doc smiled, trying hard to give her the soft sell. “The way I see it, realistically, since you want to go into the business, or rather circumstances force you into it, then be a success at it instead of a cluck. You look like a nice kid, not a tramp; that's why we're giving you a break. Suppose we set you up in a modest apartment, let you do a nice quiet business? We'll pass the right word to a few bartenders and—well, kind of protect you. All you make is yours, and if you're smart, you'll save your dough and quit the racket as soon as you have enough to set yourself up in a real business.”

“How can I get an apartment? I haven't a dime.”

“We'll advance you enough for rent, clothes, eating money.”

“What's in it for you?”

Doc threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, you are my girl! Brimming over with modern philosophy—what's in it for me! The answer is: nothing. We'll drop around now and then and all you have to do is show us a big time. Want to buy it?”

Betty said yes without a second's hesitation.

“You're absolutely certain you want to get 'in the life,' as the quaint phrase goes?”

“Yes.”

“Then it's a deal. No, that's too harsh a word—it's a friendly agreement,” Doc said, ordering more wine.

Betty stood up. “I'll have to make more room for the wine,” she said, heading for the ladies' room.

Soon as she left, I asked Doc, “Are you playing idiot's delight? Do you realize the limb we're out on? Two cops setting up a girl!”

“There's always a certain amount of risk in doing a favor. That's why it's a favor. What else can we do? Suppose we gave her a few bucks; what will she do tomorrow or the next day? She looks like a nice, simple kid. Prison would only harden her. Don't worry; we'll play it careful, protect ourselves. Only this time, Bucky, no mink coats. Don't get her into any bad habits.”

“The whole thing is nuts.”

Doc shrugged. “Okay, I'll play the good Samaritan solo. I'll lend her the money, and when she has a stake, I'll make her quit the racket and—”

“It isn't the money, it's—”

“The principle?” Doc cut in, laughing at me.

“You want to get into this, I'll go along. But I still think it's cockeyed,” I said, confused. When Doc first started this helping-her angle, I thought he'd remembered her from someplace, figured she was a big collar or could put us on to somebody else. I mean, he was doing the “friend” routine. Often when two dicks are interrogating a suspect, one detective, to make him talk, pretends he's the jerk's friend. I thought that was what Doc was working on, that he never meant to actually go through with the dizzy deal.

I took Betty to a crummy hotel for the night, and within a day we had her established. We only told three bartenders, all guys we had something on, and impressed upon them that if they sent up a drunk or a wrongo customer, we'd take it out on them. And Doc drilled Betty about forgetting our names in case things got out of line.

While I couldn't understand Doc going for a deal like this, I had to admit he was right—as usual. For the few months she was in business, Betty did okay. She didn't try to make a fortune, played it slow, like we told her. And of course she didn't have the looks for the big time. Nor was it all smooth: We had to help her move twice, and once I had to run up to her place in the middle of the night and talk a vice-squad eager beaver out of running her in. And now and then I had to bounce the nuts and dubs.

I kept a strict and honest account of her money, I only gave her a few dollars for spending money, warned her to stay off the expensive clothes jive, which can be as bad as dope or drink for some girls. Every extra penny I put in her savings account, which was in her name, but I kept the bank book. She had $985.52 when it was all over.

(It's still in the bank. The money never did her any good.)

Betty and I agreed that when she hit two grand she would quit the life and open a little beauty parlor with a perfume counter on the side. Betty was mad about perfumes, and many a night the two of us would go over some catalogue she had, arguing as to which brands she would carry, or maybe put out her own line—depending on the neighborhood where she opened shop. I even began saving a few dollars in a special account I opened under the name of Bucklin Laspiza, and was going into the business as a silent partner.

We had some great times together. Like with Judy, it didn't seem to matter to me that she had other men. Except Doc. I don't know why but I didn't like Doc going with her. I think he sensed the way I felt, left her alone.

Odd thing about Doc, he liked to shop for her clothes. He would visit bargain basements or luck up on some hot stuff, and took a delight in dressing her simply but smartly. He enjoyed it so much I began to wonder if he was a suppressed queer.

I was very happy with Betty. Whenever I had my days off, she would close shop and spend them with me. If it was hot, we'd go to the beach, stuff ourselves with hot dogs. I never asked about her past, although I had an idea she'd had a lousy marriage a few months before I met her.

She was a simple kid, but not stupid. She wasn't greedy like Judy nor a nag like Elma. She didn't drink much, although when I was in the mood, she would dutifully get crocked with me. She would do anything I felt like. Her one passion was movies and we took in a lot of them. Whenever I'd remark about the beauty of an actress, Betty would act jealous and start whispering about how the babe on the screen couldn't love me the way she did. It made me feel great. Another funny thing, she wanted me to see comedies, said I didn't laugh enough. Whenever I took her out, I paid, and she liked that. I promised her in the fall I'd fly her to Miami for a week. And I meant it.

Weeks would pass without my seeing Elma, going “home.” And when I did see her, her grossness left me disgusted. She seemed to believe my yarns about working day and night. I was giving her fifty a week and all she did was lay around the house, stuffing her fat head with candy, TV, and her crime magazines.

At times—not often—I felt guilty about Elma, I'd remember how she'd stuck by me when everybody else on the block was sneering at my being a bastard; the way she'd saved our money when I was in the Army. Sometimes I'd suggest we take in a movie, or a bar, but she had grown into such a lard monster we were both embarrassed by her size. Elma's idea of a big time was for us to watch TV, eating candy and popcorn. She had a special game: Whenever she saw a crime story on TV she would ask me during a commercial, “You're a hot-shot detective—who did the murder, Bucky?” Or, “How would you go about capturing the guy?”

The trouble was, most times I would guess wrong and it would send Elma rocking with laughter, as if she had pulled a fast one on me. Once we were watching an old whodunit movie and I said it was obvious the gal had done it. Elma bet me a dollar the mother was the killer, then got hysterical when I paid off and told me she had seen the picture a couple times before. Although I couldn't stand her, I still had this sense of shame, as if in my own little way I was doing to Elma what Nate had done to Daisy. I mean, I had this feeling that somehow I must be responsible for Elma being so dull, so fat. I knew it wasn't my fault, but then Nate had said he hadn't made a slavey out of Daisy, too.

The few times I was with Elma—usually to change my clothes—I could hardly wait to see Betty. Sometimes I'd leave the apartment at six in the morning and get Betty up, have breakfast with her before I reported for duty. It was like getting the taste of Elma out of my system. Poor Betty never complained about my breaking into her sleep. She was as happy as a pet dog to see me.

When was .it—six or seven days ago?—when all this really started? Doc and I had just finished our tour and were off on a two-day swing. Usually when we were off, Doc would want to go to some off-beat restaurant and talk, but he said he was tired and went to his hotel. I got Betty up and took her out for Chinese food. She phoned the bartenders not to send up any customers for a few days. We were sleeping late the next morning when the phone rang. I wanted to let it ring, but Betty couldn't stand a ringing phone. I answered it and Doc asked, “What are you two doing? I wore out my hand ringing the bell.”

“I disconnected the bell.”

“I'm at the corner drugstore. Coming right up.”

“What's cooking, Doc?”

“Cut the corn and get dressed, be ready to go. Big case.”

I took a shave, thinking that Doc could only get this worked up over a big gravy deal, and I might show Betty the Miami palm trees sooner than I expected. As I was showering, I heard Doc come in. Betty said she'd make us coffee, but Doc, who had busted right into the bathroom, told her, “No time, honey. We're in a big hurry. Here.” He yanked a thin box of stockings out of his inside pocket. “Picked these up for you yesterday. A gift. Now, honey, take a walk. Try them on—in the next room. Bucky and I have some talk.”

She left as I toweled myself down and Doc said, “We're in for a lot of work. All off-time has been canceled. I got the call an hour ago. We're on fly assignment to the Park Precinct, Lieutenant Bill Smith's squad. A good cop and a smart man.”

“What's the large deal?”

“You're about to witness, and take part in, one of our society's stupid circus acts. Somebody driven by need commits a crime. Society then rushes in about fifty thousand dollars' worth of time and money to collar him. One of the illogical bumps of our system. If they had given the guy—or girl—only a small part of that sum to start with, there would have been no reason to turn to crime and—”

“Stop talking me to death. What's happened?”

“A kid was snatched about three hours ago. Ever hear of a Leonard Wyckoff?”

“No. Who he?” I was disappointed; this wasn't going to be any pocket money deal.

Doc shook his head. “Stop going for cute, Bucky. We'll probably be working around the clock for the next couple of days. This—”

“Then why all the rush in finding me? We could have reported in this afternoon. Let's have a decent breakfast first and then—”

“No, we have to report immediately. It's an important case. This Wyckoff is a wealthy plastics manufacturer with a house on Park West. His wife died in a car accident last year and now his four-year-old daughter, Joan, has been snatched.”

I slipped into my shorts. “Where?”

“From her nursery school.”

“You said it was done a few hours ago. What makes them go for the kidnapping angle? Three hours—the girl could have walked out of school, be lost, hiding, or—”

“Wyckoff's already been contacted. They're asking for a million bucks.” Doc jammed a cigarette in his mouth, looked around. “Where's some fire?”