Dead End

4—Elma

My marriage to Elma worked out fine, at first. I did a lot of thinking about Elma while I was in Korea. She used to write me regularly, dull letters but the only mail I received. I don't know if Nate knew my A.P.O. address or not. Anyway, every letter would make me wonder why I'd been in such a rush to marry Elma, and what I'd do about it if I came back.

It wasn't much of a worry because for a time I didn't think I was coming back. I guess I wanted to die; you know, kid stuff—felt it would spite Nate. But dead or alive, I wanted to be a big hero. Again, it might have been to prove to Nate I could make it on my own, didn't need him. I still felt nameless, and I suppose I thought if I became a hero, even a dead one, at least I'd be a somebody.

Okay, it sounds childish now, but then I considered myself the toughest thing out, and I guess I was. I was anxious to fight anybody or anything. I kept going up to sergeant and being busted back to private over some brawl. The weird part was that although I saw more than my share of combat and shooting, kept volunteering for patrols—and once I was the only guy who came back—in actual combat I never got a scratch. They gave me two Purple Hearts but both of them were phony.

There was an Italian hick from Maine I got to be kind of pals with. Perhaps because I'd considered myself an Italian for so long I couldn't stop. Most of my fist fights were over some slob making a crack about Carmen Brindise's name. Carmen was a little guy who spoke with a nasal twang, smart and tough. He knew all there was to know about hunting and fishing. In his wallet he carried fish hooks and a line and any time we were around a river, the ocean, even the damn rice paddies, he had a line over. Not that I ever saw him catch anything, either.

One night when we were resting between patrols, and supposedly in a rear area, we were sharing a pup tent. It was that cold winter when it seemed I'd never get real warm again. Carmen had made some rice wine and we were tanked up on the junk. Matter of fact, it was so freezing cold, the bottle broke and I got a nasty cut on my arm taking glass out of the rice mash. Carmen was telling me about how he used to go hunting up in Maine and Canada and on cold nights he'd stick a finger out of the tent and say, “Feels two dogs cold,” and take two hunting hounds in with him for warmth.

In the middle of the night we were high with wine and Carmen was doing his act, sticking a gloved finger out and announcing it was now “ten dogs cold.” Not that we had any dogs, you understand. The last time he did this, a rifle slug blew the top of his head off, splattering me with blood. When the medics reached us they put my bottle cut down as a wound and I got my first Purple Heart.

The second time, I was hitching a ride in a supply truck when a plane came in strafing, killing the driver. I got a bad cut on the head diving out the cab for the ground. When I came to in a base hospital I had another Purple Heart. I suppose that second one was legit.

I didn't pay much attention to the medals, but they helped me get home on rotation and by then the war was over. I figured I'd tell Elma it had been a quickie marriage, let her get a divorce. But Elma surprised me.

She had put away over a grand from my allotment checks and had been making good money working in an aircraft factory. So when I came home I found we had our own apartment, a three-room deal in a swank elevator house. The truth is, for the first couple of months I was nuts about Elma. There was a big sex business with us. She wasn't any beauty but was wonderfully curious about so many things, and we made up for the years I'd been away. It was terrific. I mean, we'd have these workouts and then in the morning she'd take off for work while I'd sleep until the middle of the afternoon, then lounge round the house, watch TV. Even the apartment was kicks then—compared to the tenement I'd known—and I'd often put in hours cleaning it up, waxing the floors, waiting for Elma to come home and make supper.

Her aircraft job folded a few months later; all the women were laid off, and Elma found an office job at half her former salary. I didn't know exactly what I wanted to do. I took a lot of civil service exams, my being a vet giving me extra points. In the meantime we needed dough and I went from one job to another, none of them really much. I was a restless sour ball, always socking the boss or a customer. Like I became a stock clerk in a big clothing house. Might have been a good deal; some of the clerks went on to become salesmen and store managers. My boss let everybody know he'd been a Marine and when I happened to mention I had a double Purple Heart, I was his boy. He put me on the floor, selling. The third day I was a salesman some crumb tried on a loud, checkered sport coat—something he'd picked out himself. When he looked in the mirror and said, “I look like a wop in this,” I flattened him before I realized I was swinging. He sued the company and that was very much that.

I worked in a supermarket; turned out I was good at displaying and selling vegetables. Only for some dumb reason I told them my name was Bucklin Laspiza, got screwed up on my Social Security and had to leave the job after a few months—when I was starting to know what it was all about.

Another time I became a truck helper. If I became a driver and got a union card, the pay would be high. But the fat-jawed dispatcher thought calling me “Fountain Penn” was such a witty remark that I had to break his nose after a few weeks.

Considering the way she acted later on, it was odd Elma never complained about my job turnover then. It was really her sickness that changed her, I guess. One of the reasons we got along so smooth then was, no matter how often I got the sack, she didn't nag about it. It was about this time she began to get tired easily and at first we thought she was pregnant. I think I wanted a kid; at least I kept telling myself he wouldn't have to worry about his name.

The doctor said Elma had a tumor, a big one, and needed an immediate operation. She had a hysterotony, or whatever they call it, where they cleaned her out. The doctor explained that he had left her sex roots in—and maybe I'm not using the correct terms—but actually I think he was wrong. It was a difficult operation and for a time they didn't think she was going to make it. It took every dime we had. Her folks didn't have a penny, and I doubt if they would have helped us anyway—they didn't look with favor upon taking a “bastard” into the family. I wired Nate, care of his local office, for three hundred dollars and got it within a week.

For a time it was even sort of tender fun nursing Elma back to health, but after that she was never the same. For one thing, she completely let herself go, became all soft and baggy, a regular heavyweight of lard. And she suddenly decided she couldn't work any more—hell, it took months before she would even get out of bed.

Things have a way of working—sometimes—and we were both happy when I was appointed a police officer, sent to the police academy for three months. I was nuts about the job. It did something to my—I suppose “ego” is the right word—to be sporting a badge and a gun. Maybe it was silly, but I was very pleased with myself, full of a deep feeling of satisfaction. You see, I was no longer a nameless nobody. I was now authority, with a gun to prove it, and until I met up with Doc, it was all very important to me. Especially that gun—I spent every free minute I could snag on the target range.

I got along okay in the academy, worked hard at it. Although I was still walking around with a ton of chips on my shoulder. If I wasn't one of the top ten students, I was a long way from the bottom ten, too. Here's something else. Around our block we always made a point of chasing any colored kids that happened to come by. Don't get me wrong, we weren't any lynch mob—we chased all kinds of kids—but a colored one was a sure target. So the only guy in the whole class I really got to be a buddy with was a dark brown fellow named Ollie Jackson. I suppose you'd call him “colored”; actually his face looked like the United Nations. His folks had come from the Hawaiian Islands and along with his mahogany-brown skin he had Oriental almond-shaped eyes, and an Indian's hooked nose. Ollie was one of these calm, easygoing types, and strong as a barrel of dead fish. At first look you'd take him for a short, fat joker. That was a mistake because he wasn't so short and he wasn't fat—it was all muscle, hard as steel. We got to be friends in the boxing class.

Most of the fellows took it easy, even with the heavy gloves on. But with my ring experience I had it all over the rest of them and I used to work over anybody I got into the ring with. Sure, I was going for mean then. I tangled with Ollie one day and had no trouble clouting him. He was so wild I could really tee off, but I couldn't floor him. He kept rushing me and finally managed to clinch, put those thick arms around me in a bear hug—and squeezed. When the ref parted us my arms were numb from the elbows down—I simply couldn't raise them. Ollie grunted with pleasure as he started pasting me with roundhouse swings, each feeling like a baseball bat across my face. I wanted to go down and end it, but I had to admire this cat: He'd taken everything I'd dished out, waiting for his chance.

I was so groggy I really didn't remember a thing until I woke up in the middle of the night, beside Elma. I had a headache for days. But the next morning when Ollie came over to ask how I felt, I said great and we were ace buddies—because I knew damn well his head was hurting him, too.

When we graduated, we were assigned to the same precinct house. It was a rough section of town and Ollie the first “colored” cop on duty there. He got hell the first few days—until I started hanging around his post on my off time and between us we walloped respect into a lot of would-be tough studs. Ollie was always calling me down for clouting first and asking questions later. The truth is, I was belting a lot of characters and there were plenty of complaints coming in about me. I didn't know this until the sergeant in charge of our platoon took me aside and told me, “Penn, you're new to the force and this is a deprived area, and tough. You'll come across provocations every tour of duty—but that's part of your job. You've got to stop being on edge all the time. I've been a police officer for a lot of years, so believe me when I tell you a tough cop always ends up a dead cop. You're making a name for yourself, but it's a lousy name. You look like an intelligent kid, so stop taking the easy out.”

“What easy out, sir?” I asked, the “name” bit making me tense.

“Use your head more and your fists less. I'm talking to you because I think you have the makings of a good cop. Only you got to relax, use your judgment more. Don't become a hoodlum with a badge.”

Of course, the troubles I was having on the job were nothing compared to what Elma was giving me. It seemed she had nothing to do but slop around the house and complain. I tried to be fair about it, remembering how she had catered to me when I got out of the Army. But Elma never wanted to get better. She let herself go to a shapeless ton, and whatever the sex thing was between us, it vanished. Actually I think the operation took all desire out of her. She got so big she was a freak—there simply wasn't room for the both of us in one bed. I began sleeping on the living-room couch, which wasn't any dream either. I was nice about it, explaining my changing tours would keep her awake. But not getting a decent night's sleep made me sour on the world most of the time.

The biggest trouble was money. I couldn't blame her for beefing. During my rookie probationary period, in fact up till the end of my first two years, I was making under $4000 a year, with my actual take-home pay a few dimes and quarters over sixty bucks a week. And that didn't make it. Not that we were living big, but the rent was $92 alone, with no possible cheaper apartments to be found. When Elma had been working the aircraft, she was pulling down $110 or $125 with overtime, so the rent hadn't made much of a dent. Or when we were both working, it hadn't been such a big item. But on my peanut salary, two weeks' pay about covered the rent and gas and electric, the phone bill. By stretching each penny we just about made it. Elma was always nagging that we needed a hi-fi, or a toaster, or about having to wait two weeks to have the TV repaired. Or she had to have a new dress—God knows why; Elma rarely went out. I brought in food before or after I went to work. When she couldn't think of anything else to nag about, she would point to my watch, yell, “Look at you, a grown man, an officer of the law, and you have to wear a kid's watch! If I ever get my hands on it, I'll throw it out!”

When I told her to shut up, that the watch was still working fine, she repeated her favorite four-letter word half a dozen times—as if proving something.

Whatever we needed for the house had to be bought on time, so we were always in debt, really strapped. Elma's beef about money was legit, but what sent me straight up was this dumb idea she had that there was all sorts of graft for a beat cop to put his hands on. She would nag that I was a dummy who wasn't trying. I'd keep telling her the old days of a patrolman even taking apples on the cuff were gone. I didn't doubt but that there was cushion money around, but only for the brass. Like I knew damn well there was a book working in the rear of a meat store on my post. I also knew—also damn well—it couldn't operate without the knowledge of the precinct captain and downtown. This joint had been taking bets for years. So I began dropping into the store, pretending I was asking the counterman about the best kind of meat for my sick wife. We both knew my presence wasn't helping “business,” and if they wanted to they could have called downtown and maybe have me sent to another precinct. But the counterman (and he was a real butcher, too—they did a good meat business) would tell me to stop by when I was off and give me a steak, or a ham. It was understood I could stop by once a week.

It was so petty it made me feel lousy. Ollie told me, “Why bother with that stuff? You get a few bucks' worth of meat for free—big deal.”

But Ollie could talk; his wife was a schoolteacher. When they bought a new car and I made the mistake of mentioning it to Elma, she blew her stack. “And we haven't even got decent furniture, a rug, a vacuum cleaner, much less a car! I'm ashamed to ask my folks up here.”

“If they ever should decide to come, tell 'em to take a bath first. Honey, Ollie makes it because his wife has this good job. Why don't you try for some part-time work? Not for the dough so much, but it would be good for you.”

After sputtering her favorite word, she said, “You know I'm not strong, that I nearly died. What you trying to do, get rid of me?”

“Stop it. The operation was almost a year ago. If you got out of the house more, you wouldn't be so sickly.”

You see, I tried as best I could. For a time I had a job as a bouncer in a small cafe, but that only lasted a few weeks. My change of tours killed it, and then the sergeant called me in for another session, warning me it was against some civil service law for a cop to have an outside job.

Elma seemed to think I was holding out, rolling in dough. She began sopping up a lot of beer during the afternoons—or as much as we could afford—and reading these fact-crime magazines. When I'd come home Elma would give me a beer-breath full of, “I was reading about this cop who they found had a ten-thousand-dollar boat, a Caddy, and owned a small apartment house. And he was a hick cop, making less than three grand a year.”

“What jail is he in now?”

“Don't you be so damn smart with me, Bucky. Smarten up on the job if you got to be a wise guy. Yeah, he was caught, but think of all the cops with their hands out who don't get nabbed. How about that traffic-cop ring in New York selling protection cards for fifty bucks a shot?”

“Aw Elma, stop clawing at me. If there was any graft around I'd get it but—”

“But all you get is a few pounds of leftover meat now and then.”

“Lay off me. I'm trying to get something going for myself. My best bet is to make a good collar, be made a detective third grade. It would mean an immediate raise of a few hundred dollars, then almost a thousand more a year soon. And in plain clothes, a guy could find a lot of gravy. Look, instead of beefing all the time, at least clean up the house. It's a pigpen.”

“That's me, Mrs. Pig Penn,” she said, well knowing any cracks about my name made me get up steam.

I slapped her moon face. She broke into tears and I said, “I'm fed up with all your self-pity. You remind me of my old man and his—”

“Nate wasn't your old man.”

I backhanded her and she fell to the floor. I stared down at her, remembering how she had stood by me in my trouble with Nate, the rest of the block. And I hate hitting women. I pulled her up—which was hard work—held her as I said, “Okay, Hon, I'm sorry. You think I like scrimping? I'm trying my best to get my hands on more dough. But you have to try too. Stop bloating yourself with beer. Watch your diet, get out of the house every day. You're still young, no sense in looking... so big.”

“You don't even love me any more,” Elma whined.

“Sure I do. It's merely my change of tours, and you being so sickly that... Come on, let's go to bed.”

But her soft bulk, along with the knowledge that she didn't get the slightest kick out of it any more, made it impossible for me to have relations with her, and she began sneering at me for that, too. I didn't worry. I never was much of a lover-boy; sex was rarely on my mind. I started staying out of the house as much as possible. After my tour of duty I would take a few drinks and roam the streets. It wasn't just keeping out of Elma's way; I liked being a cop, hunting crooks. I told myself that by walking around I might luck up on a good collar, make detective. It wasn't only for Elma; I wanted to be able to buy a tie or pack of butts without a debate with myself as to whether I could afford it.

I'd often read in the papers about some off-duty cop coming on a stick-up, or something. When I was on the four-to-midnight shift I loved roaming the dark streets in the early morning hours, looking for trouble. I found it once—a squad car in a downtown precinct stopped me early one morning, thinking I was a suspicious character.

Another time I collared a drunk stealing a car. I got a pat on the back from the desk lieutenant and a sarcastic request to keep to my own precinct. I really tried, even paid out eating money to bone up on the sergeant's exam at some school. But I didn't pass high enough to make it count.

Things work out funny. The thing I thought would make me a dick was a silly deal that happened on my own beat. I was on an eight-to-four tour and at 3:15 p.m. there's a loony kid perched on the roof of a tenement. He was a skinny, nervous boy of about eighteen, upset because the Army had rejected him, of all dumb things. I went up to the roof and there's his bawling mother and a couple other old women. We couldn't get close—he threatened to jump. I had to race down six flights of stairs to put in a call for the emergency squad and then back up to the roof again. Somebody had called a priest and he was up there, trying to talk the kid out of it.

I had a deal cooking for 4:30 p.m. Some babe was having trouble with her boy friend and wanted to move her things out of his room without getting her head handed to her. She had a trunk and a TV to move, so she had set up a date with a moving van. When I told her I'd be off duty then, she said it would be worth a five spot for me to be around, in case her guy talked out of turn with his mitts. The emergency squad sergeant had a net below and there was several of his men around, but when I told him I was due to go off at four, he said for me to stick around.

It's getting near 4 p.m. and now they got a rabbi and the priest talking to this dumb kid, and he still wanted to jump. The two ministers were putting their heads together for a conference and I was mad as hell. If I didn't show, all the babe had to do was call the beat cop and I'd be out my five bucks. All because of a nutty jerk.

At five to four I walked across the roof toward him, and he wailed, “I'll jump if you come a step nearer!”

I said, in a loud whisper, “Go ahead and jump, you dumb sonofabitch! Go on, get it over with!”

The ministers heard me and while they were giving me the big eyes, damn if this jerk doesn't leave the edge of the roof, walk toward me. I tackled him and that was that.

I made the moving job but figured the ministers would have me up the creek. So that night I find myself on the front pages, being praised for having used the “correct psychology”! It wasn't a big story, but my name was there and it was in the radio and TV news. Even my platoon sergeant gave me a snow job the next day and I figured this was it, I'd be made a detective. But nothing came of it. The kid's folks gave me a big speech of thanks, but that was all.

Nothing worked for me.

One morning a few months later as the platoon lined up a few minutes before eight, we were given parking tickets, told that alternate side of the street parking, to help in cleaning the streets, was now in effect, and to start giving out tickets to any car parked on the wrong side. I told myself this should be good for some cushion, but as it turned out, most times the guy who owned the car wasn't around. Now and then I got a few bucks for not writing out a ticket, but it was too open and risky.

The storekeepers, who usually parked their cars in front of their shops, were kicking like the devil about this alternate deal. I kept working on them, got to know most of their cars. I would go in and warn them to move their heaps. Most times all I got was a fast “Thanks,” or a promise that they would remember me at Christmas.

It got so I hardly bothered handing out tickets, but in the end it paid off—unexpectedly. I met Shep Harris.

The no-parking limit was from 8 a.m. to 11 a.m. Harris was an optometrist who had just opened an office over a shoe store. One morning at about a quarter to eleven I saw this smart red MG parked on the wrong side of the street. It wasn't a new car, but still I figured anybody with a foreign heap might be glad to pay a few bucks to avoid a ticket. When I asked the clerk in the shoe store if he knew who owned the car, he told me, “That's Harris's car, the guy that moved in upstairs. Usually he doesn't get here before noon. Some job, hey? Bet it does a hundred with ease. Now me, I say if you have a car, what good is a two-seater? I'd want to take the family...”

I walked up to his offices. A bell rang as soon as I opened the door, and the office was nicely furnished, everything new—meaning ready money. A runt wearing a white silk jacket, thick glasses making him look owlish and nervous, his narrow shoulders all bones, came in from the other room. He gave me a selling smile as he said, “What can I do for you, officer? Need glasses?”

I took him for a little older than myself, maybe twenty-seven, twenty-eight. “That your MG downstairs?”

“Oh Lord, did somebody crash into it?” he asked, racing for the window. Then he turned, asked me, “What's wrong with it?”

“This is Wednesday, no parking on this side of the street until eleven.”

He glanced at his watch. “Perhaps you do need glasses.” He held up his wrist so I could see it was exactly eleven.

“Okay, mister. I went out of my way to be nice to you. The next time I'll slap a ticket on the car, talk to you later.” I started for the door, angry.

“Now, officer, I was merely joking. I have too many tickets against my record now. I appreciate what you've done. Do you drink?”

“Not on duty.”

“Of course. Here.” He handed me five bucks. “As a personal favor to me, buy yourself a pint on your way home. A little token of my appreciation. Drop by any time.”

From then on, whenever I was on the morning tour, I kept a sharp lookout for his MG. I only managed to nick him a couple of times, but I kept kids off his car and we became sort of friendly. Harris never seemed very busy and I would drop in to use his can, shoot the breeze. He kept a bottle handy, seemed to want company. Either because he was a half-pint, or because he was such a weakling, he liked to touch me. Or maybe it was because I was a cop. You often find guys that way—not queers—who can't keep their mitts off a cop's shoulders when they talk to him. Shep was always poking me in the arm, slapping my back. Liquor never did much for me and sometimes I'd take a nip with him. Most times we'd just bull. I even sent a couple of the boys to him for glasses and he gave them reduced rates. I didn't mind Shep. I guess he was mostly lonely, wanted somebody to talk to.

In time I found out he'd always wanted to be a doctor but his folks ran out of money so he had to settle for being an eyeglass grinder—although an optometrist is more than that, I guess. The ironical part was he had married a rich babe but felt it was too late to go to med school—he claimed he was thirty-three. I used to tell him he was silly not to try it, as long as his wife didn't complain.

Elma was reading so many of these crummy magazines her eyes hurt, but I never took her to Shep. I was ashamed for him to see what I had married. Like an altered cat, Elma seemed to get bigger every day.

I'd been a regular cop for over a year and I felt I was going stale. Somehow the badge didn't have much of a kick any longer. Maybe I was bored with walking my arches flat, giving out tickets, breaking up family fights, shoving drunks and smart-aleck lads around. The high point of my day seemed to be dropping into Shep's for a drink. Along with Elma's nagging I wanted a little action. I was getting restless again.

I found myself doing funny things. I'd do roadwork, as if I was still a pug—and as if my legs didn't get enough exercise. Or, suddenly I began spending time out at Daisy's grave, planting flowers, fixing it up. The third time I was out there some old clown who worked around the cemetery said it was his job to take care of the graves, against the rules to plant your own flowers. I didn't have any extra bucks. I told him I was her son but he kept running his mouth until I belted him. The clown must have found a phone; as I reached the subway station a radio car stopped me. I didn't want to tell them I was a cop—on all police records I hadn't put down anything about Laspiza, of course. I gave the car cops the pitch about a son had the right to plant flowers on his own mother's grave. Then they asked for identification, wanted to know how come if my name was Penn I was fooling with a grave marked Laspiza? I was ready to blow my lid, had to fight from socking them, especially when one cop spots the outline of my hip holster, throws a gun on me—to the delight of a small crowd of curious jerks. I had to show them my badge, lie that Daisy wasn't my real mother but merely a woman who had brought me up. They let me go, but it was a hell of a thing for me to deny my own mother.

You see, the big trouble was I had nobody to talk to about a thing like that. I was barely talking to Elma, and what the devil would she understand? I nearly phoned Nate long-distance. I got his home address from the local office, but didn't have the nerve or the money to call him. I guess I could have reversed the charges, but the more I thought about him the more I hated his phony pride. If he hadn't been so stubborn about not adopting me, I wouldn't be in this mess, wouldn't have married Elma.

That was another thing that made me restless: No matter how much I hated Nate, I couldn't forget him. I thought of him every time I saw a fight or ball game on TV, passed a fancy restaurant. He even spoiled the few times I was able to go surf casting.

The truth is I didn't know what to do with myself. I got my first full vacation in November, after Election Day. Elma was nagging because we didn't have money to go away. Besides, where can you go in November except south, and that costs. (But less than a year later I was flying down to Miami at the height of the season, staying with Judy in the best hotel, in a suite that cost fifty bucks per day.)

My “vacation” was a horror. It was impossible to hang around the house, and I couldn't even tramp the streets—it turned raw and snowed. I spent the first week in and out of cheap movies. One day I stopped at Shep's office, to get warm, and when he got rid of a customer, he said, excitement in his voice, “I've been looking for you, Bucky!”

“I'm on vacation—it says in fine print. I—”

“Listen, I'm positive I've seen Batty Johnson!”

For a few seconds the name didn't mean a thing to me.

“Batty Johnson!” Shep repeated.

Then I got it. Johnson was at the top of the F.B.I. wanted list. I vaguely knew he was a rough thug with a long yellow sheet for murder, assault, and armed robbery. When he started out he was called Bat because he was always saying, “I'll bat you around.” He was said to be very handy with his mitts. Later the nickname became Batty because he was considered to be nuts. All of this I hadn't learned from the post condition board in the station house, but from the crime mags Elma stuffed herself with. I grinned at little Shep, asked, “Since when did you become a crime bug?”

“Bucky, I'm serious. Here, take a look at this. It came in the mail a few days ago.” He fumbled in a drawer, handed me an F.B.I. wanted flyer with Johnson's hard puss staring out at us. Shep also got out his bottle, poured a couple of drinks.

“You'll notice they say he has a muscular defect in his left eye, a form of phoria that—well, no point in my getting technical about it. It's a fairly rare defect. The eye has a tendency to turn up. In addition he is extremely nearsighted. The F.B.I. obviously is circularizing all optometrists and oculists in the nation because this thug wears glasses and if he should ever break the pair he has, or needs new ones, well...”

“You mean he came in here?”

“No, no. I saw him working in a car wash. His hair has been shaved around the temples and dyed white, and he's grown a mustache. He also has some sort of scar on his cheek. But I know it's him.”

“Yeah? How?”

Shep came over, put his arm on my shoulder as he pointed at the flyer with his free hand. “Bucky, I'm positive. When I was thinking of studying medicine, I wanted to go in for plastic surgery. Seemed like the best money deal. I made a study of the planes and bones of the face. When I first got this from the F.B.I. I studied his face and wondered why they hadn't put down in the physical description the fact that his ears are high up. And also notice the distance between the bridge of his nose and the big cheekbones—it's far too wide. Actually the bone structure of his face is abnormal, and that's something you can't disguise. This car washer had the same abnormalities.”

I stared at the mug shot again. “The ears seem okay to me.”

“You're a layman. In a normal face the top of the ear should be in line with the eyebrows, and the bottom of the ear is about in line with the end of the nose. His ears are much higher. Bucky, I know what I'm talking about!”

Shep got off my shoulders to take another drink. I asked, “When did you see him?”

“Day before yesterday. My car was splattered with slush. I happened to pass this auto laundry away uptown, and drove in.”

“Have you told the police?”

“I'm telling you. Bucky, Johnson's last job was robbing and killing an optometrist. I imagine that's how the F.B.I. got on to his faulty vision. I don't want to be the second eye man he murders. You're always talking about making that big arrest. I waited to tell you.”

I studied the flyer again, not believing Shep. “Could you tell from his glasses—I mean by looking at him—if he had whatever you said was wrong with his eye?”

“No, the lenses would correct the muscular condition. But he wasn't wearing glasses!” Shep said happily, as if we were playing guessing games.

“You just told me he needs—”

“What I meant was, he was using contact lenses!”

“Start the record again, Shep. I'm not reading you.”

“Don't you get it, Bucky? This proves he's your man! According to this wanted circular, Johnson is supposed to have ordered frame glasses from this Topeka optometrist, returned a few days later to pick them up, then killed and robbed the fellow, and destroyed the optometrist's office records. He did this under a phony name, but they knew it was Johnson. The F.B.I. then assumes there's something wrong with his sight, hence the reason for doing away with the records. They recheck his prison files and come up with the eye defect. All right, they were correct up to a point; but I started thinking. Johnson wore glasses all the time, even in prison, so that wasn't anything new—anything to destroy records over. Another thing: Why did he have to wait a few days for his glasses?”

“Don't you have your customers return in a couple of days?”

“Of course, but we usually carry a supply of various types of lenses in stock. If a customer is in a big rush, I could make up his glasses within an hour. Now, Johnson was in a hurry; it was dangerous for him to hang around for several days. Since he was going to kill the man, why didn't he force him at gun point to make his glasses at once?”

“Why?”

“Because he'd ordered a set of contact lenses and you have to send for them! An optometrist doesn't stock contact lenses. So when Johnson returns he not only picks up the frame glasses he ordered, but the contact lenses. He has the optometrist give them a final check, then he murders the fellow and destroys the records. The police are looking for a man with frame glasses, and Johnson is walking around wearing contacts! It lines up, Bucky.”

“I don't know. The F.B.I. would have thought of the contact lenses, too.”

“Why? They haven't any record of the dead man ordering the lenses. I think they slipped up. I only stumbled upon it, as I told you, because of the few days' delay in getting his frame glasses. Anyway, I'm certain this car washer has the same facial structure as Johnson and that he was wearing contact lenses!”

I began to have a warm glow of excitement in the pit of my belly. Collar a Batty Johnson and I'd be set. “Shep, can the average person tell if a guy is wearing contact glasses?”

“No. But I can.”

“Doesn't a contact-lens wearer have to take them off every few hours?”

“Now they can be worn for almost twenty-four hours. I get what you mean. You'd want to take him when he isn't wearing them. I'm sure he changes to ordinary glasses when he's in his room. Also, although he is very nearsighted, he has some vision without any glasses. He'd be able to walk the street, for example, without feeling his way, but he'd have to walk slowly, and he'd be lucky if he didn't bump into something or somebody. You see how smart he is? As I told you, the main description point is he has to be wearing these frame glasses they know the Topeka man made. But I'm certain he also had him make contact lenses.”

“Did his height and weight match? Five eleven, a hundred and eighty pounds?”

“The height is right, but he's put on weight. I'd judge he was close to two hundred and fifty now. Of course, that could be padding; these washers are bundled up. Bucky, I tell you I'm positive. When I was driving down here, after the car had been washed, I kept trying to place the man's face. I had a feeling I'd seen the odd structure someplace before. Then I studied this wanted flyer and on my way home I stopped in at the car wash again, and said I wondered if I'd dropped my overshoes out of the car. This time I knew exactly what I was looking for in Johnson's face—it was all there! It's an odd face.”

“Wish you hadn't gone back,” I said, getting up. “Could have made him nervous, might have taken off. Where is this place?”

“No, I was careful. Here's a card they gave me. It's just before you reach the park. What do you plan to do?”

“Take a look-see at this guy.”

“You know he's a killer?”

“He isn't wanted for cheating at checkers.” I started for the door. “Keep this to yourself, Shep. Don't even tell your wife.... Have you told her?”

He slipped me a silly grin. “I haven't told anybody but you. And I had to think carefully about even doing that. Keep me out of it, Bucky. I have plenty of living to do. Going after him right now?”

“Maybe. I got to figure out how I'm going to do it.”

As I opened the door, Shep came over and grabbed my arm. “You forgot your drink.”

“I'm high on this info.”

He slapped me on the back. “Be careful. They don't pay off on dead heroes.”

“Two minds with a single thought. Thanks.”

I rushed home and dug through Elma's magazines until I found the one with the article and pictures on Johnson. I reread the hopped-up story, then took a pair of scissors and cut out the pictures, pasted in bits of paper to cover up the eye glasses, used white paper to cover his hair—the hairline he had shaved—penciled in a moustache. I thought I had a fair picture of what he must look like now.

Elma came out of the bathroom to yell, “What you tearing up the magazine for?”

“Isn't reading this junk once enough for you?” I asked, checking my gun.

“Why the gunplay?”

“I'm on to something big that can make me a detective,” I told her, going out, thinking it could also make me a corpse. Batty wouldn't be taken without a fight. I went over to the precinct house, pretended I wanted something from my locker. I casually studied the flyers they had on him. The desk lieutenant said, “You're on vacation. Going for an eager beaver, Perm?”

“Just getting in out of the cold, sir,” I told him, leaving. I dropped into a bar and had a shot of courage, told myself to cut it out: All I'd have to do was come upon Batty with my reflexes liquored up and I'd end being the most crocked man in the morgue. I didn't like facing him alone. I considered getting Ollie in on it; he was on vacation, too. But that would be dumb—sharing the credit.

I had a kind of plan worked out and the first thing necessary was a car. I couldn't borrow Ollie's without explaining things, but I phoned and put a bite on him for twenty-five bucks until payday. I took a bus to his bank, where he was waiting for me. I mumbled something about a hot tip on a horse and he got a little miffed when I refused to give him the name of the nag.

I hired a car for the day, and it was about 4 p.m. when I drove into the car wash. I had my gun loose in my overcoat pocket and my badge pinned to my shirt—my heart thumping a bongo under it. There was the owner, or manager of the joint, who took your money, and a big colored fellow in boots and several sweat shirts—and this fat white guy wearing rubbers and an old windbreaker. He had a wool cap on, but white hair showed; his mustache was ragged. And his eyes looked okay to me.

They hooked the car to a moving belt and it was pulled under a spray shower while the men sponged it down with long-handled sponges. The colored guy told me, “You can stay in your car if you want, mister. But keep the windows closed. Only take a minute.”

“I'll wait outside,” I said, studying the other guy, trying hard to be casual about it.

“Then best you go up front. Get wet here.”

I walked ahead, wondering when I'd try to take him. If it was Johnson, he was wearing so damn many shirts and pants I couldn't tell if he was armed. I watched the car coming through the spray, the men following it, working on it.

For a moment I nearly chickened out. I kept thinking I was far from certain the guy was Johnson. His eyes looked ordinary to me. But more important, car washing was damp, hard work and I couldn't see a big-time goon going in for real labor. If I threw a gun on him and he made a wrong move, I'd have to plug him. If it turned out to be a mistake, I'd end up to hell and gone up the creek.

When the car moved out of the spray, both men started drying it with big rags. The white fellow held a small hose in his left hand for spots the shower didn't take off, a cloth in his right mitt. When he finally put the hose down, I touched my gun in my pocket, took a deep breath, and went in.

I stepped over to him, picked up the hose, as I said, “There's a mud spot you skipped.” I had the hose in my left hand, and when he turned toward me I sent a stream of water full in his eyes, then lashed him across the gut with the nozzle. He put a hand to his eyes as he bent double. I yanked my gun out.

The Negro and the manager were coming at me, the manager with a hammer in his hand.

“I'm a cop! This is an arrest! Get back!” I ripped my coat open, flashed my badge.

That did it. Even though he was doubled up, fighting for air, I saw Johnson's body stiffen. The ice left my insides: It had to be him.

The manager asked, “What's the trouble, officer?”

“Get to the phone and call the police!” I snapped.

“But what—”

“Goddamn it, phone the police! You, Johnson, turn around—slowly!”

He was still bent over, his big can up in the air, but he turned until he was facing the wall. I felt wonderful, I hadn't even told him to face the wall. I said, “Get your legs apart!” He spread his thick legs. He was in an awkward position as I ran my left hand over his hips, his chest. He was clean.

The manager was using the phone next to the cash register. Johnson turned slowly, facing me. His mouth was open, fighting for air from the sock in the belly. He was still bent over, hands almost touching his rubbered feet. His pants went down into a pair of high work shoes, were held tight around his ankles by thick rubber bands to keep any water out.

The manager put the phone down, started toward me. “The police—”

“Stay where you are!” I didn't want to be crowded.

“The police are on their way. Can't you tell me what this is all about?”

“This man is Batty Johnson. He's wanted.”

“Him? He's a rummy named Howie Brown.”

“We'll see,” I said. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Johnson's right hand fumbling with the rubber bands around his right ankle, the red fingers working them loose. His ankles were thick with padding, and I'd forgotten to frisk him down there. I was about to growl at him to stop it; then I thought: No, it will look harder this way. And be safer. I have the drop on him.

Deliberately, I half turned toward the colored guy, said, “Stay back there.”

“Man, I ain't moving no place.”

“That will be fine,” I said, looking at him but watching Johnson out of the comer of my eye. He was still bent over, staring at the wet floor. We all heard the wail of a siren growing closer in the distance as Johnson got a small automatic half out of an ankle holster.

I didn't give him a chance; I emptied my gun into his head and back. It turned out exactly right. He sat down hard, then fell over on his side, blood running from him in several places. But he was holding the automatic in his right hand!

As the barks of my gun faded, I heard the manager moan, “Oh my God!” and he got sick all over himself.

A radio car came screaming to a stop outside.

And a few hours later I met Doc for the first time, although I was on such a merry-go-round by then I didn't notice him.