Dead End

6—Shep Harris

It seemed like a great hand whisked me up out of the car wash and pulled me through the air for the rest of the day and night. So many flash bulbs popped in my face I could barely see. Reporters were firing questions at me; the Commissioner personally made me a detective third grade, said he was going to put me in for a citation. At one point I made a filmed interview for TV, and at another time during the night I remember signing some sort of contract and getting three hundred-dollar bills—a queer-looking character was going to do a story under my name on how I captured Johnson. It gave me a charge to imagine Elma seeing it in one of her magazines.

Matter of fact, the first Elma knew of things, she told me hours later, was when she saw my name and picture splashed all over the front page of the morning paper. I was going to send Nate a copy of the papers but I figured that was playing it crude; he'd read about it in California anyway.

If I was in a happy daze, I snapped out of it when some of the police brass cross-examined me. They went at me so hard, for a second I thought they had things mixed up, took me for Johnson. They kept assuring me it was only for their record and the publicity; they were going to make the most of a local cop capturing the F.B.I.'s top wanted man. After a few questions I got the message: They were a little sore I'd made it a one-man show.

A deputy commissioner, a sharp-faced joker named Oats, or something like that, was the chief examiner. He kept firing questions at me over a silly smile, as though we were making small talk in a coffee shop. I was sitting in front of his desk, wishing I was on my feet. Doc was standing around, along with some other guys. Doc was leaning against the wall, a kind of bored look on his face. But he never took his eyes off me. Of course, I didn't even know his name then.

Sharp-puss and I went through dialogue that sounded like something off a TV crook show:

“Now, Penn, you say you were never in this car laundry before?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You just happened to drive your car in this afternoon?”

“It's not my car. I only rented it for the day,” I told him, weighing my answers, careful not to lie too much.

“You rented the car?”

“Yes sir. You see, I can't afford a car, so sometimes I rent or borrow one for the day, drive around like it was mine. I like cars.”

“If it was a rented car, how come you had it washed?”

“I told you, sir. I like to pretend it's mine. It was dirty with snow and mud, so I drove into this car wash. I was lucky.”

“Be a good background bit,” sharp-face said, writing it down on a scratch pad. “Let the papers play up the fact a patrolman isn't paid enough to buy his own car. So by luck you drove into this car wash? Tell me, Penn, how were you able to recognize Johnson so quickly? He had quite a disguise.”

“I didn't pay any attention to the dyed hair, the padding. When I first studied the wanted flyer on him, I noticed his ears were high up on his noggin, and his cheekbones unusually far apart. I kept those in mind, knowing he couldn't change those features.”

“Do you study all wanted flyers that carefully?”

“Why, of course, sir; it's part of my job. Another thing, I knew he had bad eyes, so I sprayed the water in his eyes first.”

“It's a wonder Johnson could work without his glasses. His lack of glasses made us think, at first, you had made a big mistake.”

“Mistake, sir?” I repeated, playing it cool. “Don't forget he went for his gun. And he was wearing glasses, contact lenses. I had him figured for those, too.”

“How?”

“Well, sir, when I read about his killing the optometrist, I got to thinking. He'd only got fifty-three dollars in cash, so money wasn't the reason for killing. We know he wanted glasses, but why destroy the office records? I told myself he did away with the records because he'd had this eye doctor make him contact lenses, but he wanted us to think he was wearing frame glasses.”

“That's damn good brainwork, Penn, although how could you tell he was wearing contact lenses?”

“I didn't worry about it, sir. I assumed he was wearing contacts but based my identification on his ears and facial structure. I was merely going to hold him for a routine check, but he threw a gun on me. I was lax there. I mean when I frisked him, I should have thought of an ankle holster.”

“Don't worry about it, Penn; you did some real police work. Now let me see; according to your statement, and that of the witnesses, you pulled your gun on him and asked the owner of the laundry to phone the police. Then when Johnson—”

“Sir, in my excitement I accidentally hit him in the stomach with the hose.”

“Yes I know about that accident.” There was a faint hint of sarcasm in sharp-face's voice. “Of course you had to defend yourself, and you're a young cop—that's why you didn't frisk him completely. And if you'd had help, Johnson wouldn't be dead. We wanted to question him about a score of cases.”

I didn't say a word. I was getting angry. I give them the number-one goon on a slab and they're kicking!

“We don't like our men taking needless chances. In this case, if you hadn't been so quick on the trigger, you'd be dead. And so would the rest of the car-wash crew.”

“I don't think I took a needless chance, sir, or any chance. As soon as I made Johnson, I had the owner phone in for help. While I didn't expect Johnson to pull that hidden-gun trick, I was... well... kind of ready for it. I saw a great deal of that sort of gunplay in Korea.”

“Ah, yes. Thanks for reminding me. I see by your record you were awarded the Purple Heart in Korea, twice. Naturally we'll make sure the papers get that. I also note your quick thinking once saved a suicide. And your file says you're quick with your hands, too—a ball of fire with your fists. Off the record, Penn, I'm all for a police officer being tough.”

“Thank you, sir. My wife doesn't believe in posthumous awards.”

“A good line for the papers. Well, that's about all, Penn. Allow me to congratulate you on a very important collar, on some splendid police work.”

“Thanks, sir.”

“Oh, I mustn't forget to tell the reporters you were on vacation, too. Police work is a twenty-four-hour job. But above all, police work is teamwork. I'm not talking about you, understand, merely making a general statement. No room on the force for grandstanding, a going-it-alone attitude. Of course, in this situation, I'm sure there wasn't any other way you could have captured him. Let me shake your hand, Penn. I'm certain you will make a excellent detective and go far in the ranks.”

I shook hands, thinking: Giving me all this smart talk, this hinting—and all he does is park his fat ass behind a fat desk. But it's over. I got a new badge and I didn't let this rat-faced jerk trip me.

It was ten in the morning when I finally got home. It was a good thing I fell over that article dough—I owed another day on the car. The second I opened the door, Elma looked up from the TV, yelled, “Bucky! When do you get the money?”

“What money?” I asked, walking toward the bedroom.

“Don't hand me that 'what money' line! You think I'm blind—it's all over the papers.”

I started to undress, wondering how she could possibly know about the money I got for the article. I told her, “Hon, I've been up for over twenty-four hours. I'm groggy for sleep. I don't know anything about money or—”

“The papers say there was a five-thousand-dollar reward for his capture!”

“There is? I didn't know that. And if there is a reward, it will go to the police fund. Now let me sleep.”

“Bucky Penn, are you holding out on me?”

“Stop yapping like a damn fool; There isn't any dough for me. A cop can never claim a reward. But I'm a detective now. That will mean a raise and—”

“Sure, a great ten bucks a month. Here I was dreaming of using that five grand to buy... Nothing works right for us.”

“I'll be damned!” I said, undressing fast, too pooped to take a bath. “Here I been busting my hump to get a raise, risk my life to finally get one, and all you can do is gripe about a reward I can't touch,” I added, determined not to tell her about the money I had in my pocket.

Elma shrugged, a weary motion with her rolls of fat shaking. “Hurray! Hurray! You're a hero! No—I don't mean that. Of course I'm glad you made good. It's just that—Oh, I was so certain we had the reward. Want some breakfast?”

“I'm full of coffee and sandwiches. All I want is sleep,” I said, getting into her bed.

“I'll keep the TV down low. Say, your friend Shep, the eye man, called. Said he wanted you to phone him.”

“Later,” I said, dropping off into a wonderful deep sleep. I vaguely remember Elma shaking me awake once, telling me some radio program wanted me “at once” for a noon interview. She said, “You'll get a wrist watch for appearing. What shall I tell 'em?”

“Tell them I'm bushed. Anyway, I have a watch.”

“Yeah, I'll tell them you have a toy watch! Come on, they're on the phone, what shall—”

“Just let me alone,” I mumbled, sinking back into the lush softness of sleep.

The next thing I knew she was shaking me awake. “Bucky, Mr. Harris is here to see you.”

I yawned, feeling great. “I told you to let me sleep.”

“My God, the phone has been ringing all the time. Ollie called. So did your platoon sergeant. Reporters phoned. This Mr. Harris—Shep—has called about five times. I kept telling him you were in bed but he... You know you're all over the afternoon and evening papers and on the TV news? Why, one reporter even came up here to talk to me.”

“Evening papers?” I repeated, staring at the drawn shade. “What time is it?”

“Around six. Want supper? I went out and got a steak for...”

I yawned again. “What did you tell the reporter?”

“Which one?”

“The one who came here.”

“The same as I told those that called. That you took a chance with your life and it was a shame you aren't getting the reward.”

“From now on keep your trap shut,” I said, getting out of bed. “The department might not like your opinions. Tell Shep I'll be with him in a minute.”

I came wide awake under the cold-water faucet in the bathroom. It was ten after six on my pug watch. I slipped on my old ring robe and went into the living room. Shep blinked at me behind his powerful glasses as I told Elma to get some beers.

“We haven't got any.”

“Run down to the store, Honey. Shep, guess you've met my wife, Elma.”

“Yes. I've been talking to her on the phone most of the day. Bucky, I can do without beer. I want to—”

“I want some. Elma's been cooped up in the house all day,” I said, giving her the sign to scram. She didn't like it.

When she left, I slapped Shep on his narrow back, told him, “Well, I'm a tin hero, thanks to you.”

“That's what I've been trying to talk to you about,” he said, his hands shaking as he lit a cigarette.

“I was up all night,” I said, sitting on the couch. “What's there to talk about, Shep?”

“Well—” he began, blowing smoke down at our worn floors. I never got around to waxing them any more. And I wished he hadn't seen Elma. “Well, it's like this: All this publicity and—My wife thinks I should be part of it!” The words came rushing out.

“Yeah?” My mind tightened up fast. “Why? You told me you wanted to keep out of this. That's why I made a special point of not mentioning you.”

He nodded. “I know. That's what I said, but—”

“But now that Johnson is dead you think it's safe,” I cut in.

“No. I mean... Look, Bucky, it isn't me, it's my wife. I feel lousy about saying this, but she thinks I should get the reward money.” Shep looked up at me, his eyes miserable.

“That goes to the police fund. I never even knew there was a reward, and anyway, I don't get a dime.”

“That's why I'm here. You can't get it, no matter what, so it doesn't make any difference to you. But I could claim it, if they knew the part I'd played in his capture.”

“Shep, the part you played was gassing about it over a shot of rye in your office,” I said, knowing I had to shut him up or look like a phony downtown. Sharp-face and his talk about grandstanding.

“Bucky, this is tough to say. Don't get me wrong. I'm not taking anything away from you. It's the reward. I can use the money.”

“I thought you were loaded.”

“We're... comfortable. But it's all her money. Her family set up my office and—well, it takes time to get established. You know my business hasn't been raising any hell. They keep nagging her—me—about it. You know how it is. So if I had the five thousand... You understand. And it isn't as if I'm not entitled to it. I did give information leading to his arrest.”

“Shep, you wouldn't get a cent.”

“That's not what the inspector downtown told me. He said—”

I jumped up. “Goddamn you, did you talk to anybody?”

He backed away from me, his eyes blinking. “Bucky, I tried to phone you first. She's been on my neck all afternoon. I merely called downtown to see if I was eligible and... I'm to see them tomorrow morning. That's why I had to come up here.”

“Shep, you're a fool!” I shouted. “Listen to me. When you see them you have to say it was all a mistake, make like you're a crackpot. You want to be killed, get your wife and kid murdered?”

“I don't—”

“And think of the spot you've put me on, all the lying I've done to protect you!”

“Protect me from what?”

“You remember what happened to Arnold Schuster after he fingered Willie Sutton? He was shot down on the street! You know why? He told a cop about how he had recognized Sutton. After the cop arrested Sutton—and kept Schuster's name out of things—well, a few days later Schuster got into the picture, with a lot of publicity about how he had first put the finger on Sutton. Then Schuster began getting threatening calls and a few days later he was shot dead. If he'd kept quiet, he'd still be alive!”

Shep swallowed. “I remember. Gang revenge?”

“Why didn't you remember before running your mouth! Who knows why he was gunned? They've never collared the killer. Maybe it was an organized thing, revenge, or maybe some jerk wanted to make a name for himself. Punks can be crackpots, too. You go right home and tell your wife to shut up. Or would she prefer being a widow for five grand?”

“But Johnson is dead!”

“So what? Willie Sutton was behind bars when Schuster was killed. Nobody ever accused Sutton of doing it. Do you know what pals Johnson had? Killing you would be safe for them. One of his buddies gets hopped up, or drunk, says, 'I'll get hunk with the little louse who fingered Batty!' So one night or day, maybe tomorrow, a week from tomorrow, or a year from now, a total stranger walks up and kills you, or your wife or kid. You want to live in fear the rest of your life?”

Shep thought for a second, so scared he nearly burned himself with his cigarette.

“These same guys might try to get me,” I went on, “but they know it's bad business killing a cop. And they don't blame me, know it's my job. But you, doing their pal in for money—they'll never forgive or forget that. The minute your name is mentioned in the papers you become a walking target! For Christ sakes, why do you think I've gone out of my way to keep you out of this?”

“Wouldn't the police give me protection?”

“Sure, for a few days, a week or so. A thug like Batty was big time, known around the underworld for years, he has to have a gang of friends. You go home and talk sense to your wife!”

He crushed his cigarette in an ash tray filled with apple cores—Elma always feeding her fat mouth. “I'll try, Bucky. It was her idea and I thought the publicity might help business, so I—”

“You'll be the busiest optometrist under a headstone! Shep, I know what I'm talking about. Why, this would be the worst thing possible for your business; people would be afraid to go into your office, afraid they might step in the way of a bullet. Make your wife keep still. And tomorrow you tell whoever you talk to downtown that it was only a lot of talk, you made a mistake.”

“I'll explain things to... at home. But I'll sure look like a fool when I talk to the inspector.”

“At least you'll be a live fool! Long as it doesn't make the papers, so you'll only be a fool to the inspector. Remember what you told me—they don't pay off on dead heroes. Now speak to your wife before she talks too much.”

“Okay, Bucky.”

“And if anybody threatens you, let me know at once.” I put an arm around his little shoulders, practically pushed him toward the door. “Explain to your wife about the spot I'd be in. I got a promotion; I'd lose it if it came out I'd lied, even to protect you.”

“I wouldn't do anything to hurt you, Bucky. You know that.”

“I know it, but do you? Don't forget, in your office, you made a point of telling me to keep you out of this. This is a hell of a time to change your mind—after I've made out my reports.”

“I'll swear I told you that.”

“Shep, my first duty is to the police department, not to you. For your safety, and my job, let's not have it come to the point where you have to swear to anything. You could be dead before you have time to swear! Now go to your wife.”

When he left I smoked a cigarette slowly, went into the kitchen and put the gas under the coffeepot. I was okay. Even if downtown believed Shep, or rather didn't entirely believe his retraction. Long as he made a retraction. Okay, so it might have been bad police work for me to do it alone, but I had made the collar. I had killed him—the headlines backed me up—so what more could the department want?

I went to the bedroom and got out my new detective shield. Yeah, whether they liked the way I handled the case or not, there was little chance of them taking this tin from me. But it would be best if they thought Shep a jerk. I didn't plan on being a third-grade dick all my life. The main thing was I had a detective badge. Not bad for a young fellow. At this rate, by the time I'd be thirty I might be a...

Elma came in with a couple bottles of beer, looked around, and asked, “Where's Mr. Harris?”

“Gone.”

“What did he want?”

“Some advice on killing a traffic ticket.”

“And I had to rush out and get beer.”

“You've had plenty of practice.”

She got off her four-letter word, several times.

I grinned. “I'm only kidding. Elma, get dressed; we're going out tonight. I still got the car and we can drive to some fancy place on the island and eat.”

She spun around, her coat half off. “Car? What car? How come you have money to step out? Bucky, you cheap bastard, you did get that reward!”

I grabbed her hand so hard she screamed. She yelled again. I let go, gave her cheek a rough pat. “Sorry, Honey, but you know how that word 'bastard' sends me sky-high. This is a big day for me, for us. Let's not fight. So get this through your head: If there was any way I could put my mitts on that reward money, I'd do it. But there isn't. I borrowed a couple of bucks from a sergeant downtown, last night, to celebrate my promotion. As for the car, I rented one yesterday.”

“You never told me. What you need a car for?” Elma asked, rubbing her wrist, which was very red.

“I met some guy who wanted to move a lot of stuff, and I thought by renting a car I could come out a few bucks ahead. But I never got to it. Forget it and get dressed. While I take a shower, make me a sandwich or something. I'm starved. I'm sorry about your wrist.” I pulled her to me, kissed her.

“I'm the one who should be sorry, Bucky. It slipped out. I didn't mean that—that name.”

“I know.”

“I'd never call you that.”

“Sure. Elma, things will be different now. We won't be so strapped for dough. As a detective, I should have more chance of picking up extra bucks.” I slapped her barrel-like rear. “Let's get dressed and have a good time.”

Under the shower a new idea hit me. If I admitted Shep's part in things, took a chance on still holding my new badge, he probably would get the reward. But would he split it with me? Twenty-five hundred bucks was a lot of folding money. But once he got the reward, or knew he was entitled to it, how could I make him split? And Shep would be stuck for the tax bite on it. A grand for Sam would only leave us four to split.

I thought about it as I dressed, had a cheese sandwich and coffee. There were two things wrong: I couldn't be sure Shep would agree to share the dough, and I didn't want to look the fool to the police brass. Still, two grand was...

The bell rang. I opened the door to see this thin, dapper man standing there. He didn't look like a reporter. He smiled, said, “Hello, Penn. Remember me, Detective Alexander? I was in the Commissioner's office this morning when he talked to you.”

“Sure I remember you,” I lied. “Come in.”

He gave me a small, amused smile as he walked in—the smile saying he knew I was lying.

As I took his coat and hat—both of them real expensive, and not the kind of clothing that had to shout how much they cost, either—Alexander glanced around the living room. His eyes said I was living in a dump. Just then Elma had to come out of the bathroom, a robe around her, a towel wrapped about her head. She looked like a walking tent. I introduced her and she giggled something about excusing the way she looked and ducked into the bedroom.

Alexander grinned at me politely. His tight smile said I was married to a pot. I asked, “Want a beer?”

“No, thanks. I'll make this short. Deputy Commissioner Oast has a dinner engagement, so he asked me to come up and talk to you. Penn, do you know a Dr. Sheppard Harris?”

“Yeah. Has an office on my old post. Why?”

“He phoned Howie—Commissioner Oast—late this afternoon, claims he tipped you off to Johnson. We're going to talk to him in the morning, so we want to get your version straight first.”

“My version of what?” I asked, trying to sound calm.

“Of how you knew the car washer was Johnson. It would not only embarrass the department a great deal if the doctor's story is true—considering that we've told the papers you did it solo—but there's also the matter of department discipline. But I don't have to tell you about that. The point is, if the doctor's story is true, we have to know it now, so we can straighten out the newspaper stories. Did he tip you off?”

Alexander took out a cigarette, toyed with it. I was not only nervous, I was getting sore. Maybe his not offering me a cigarette did it. I mean, he was acting so damn big, as if he knew all about me. I said, “Shep is one of these crime nuts. Also the kind of guy who likes to fondle cops. You know the type. He reads the wanted circulars at the post office, fact-detective magazines. I used to drop into his office now and then and—”

“What for?” He was tapping the cigarette. His nails were actually manicured.

“What?”

He said gently, almost like Nate used to talk, “How come you dropped in to see him so often?”

I thought: This slick character with his good clothes and fancy nails—he probably never pounded a beat in his life. I said loudly, “Off the record, to get out of the cold, maybe use his John.”

He didn't say a word, kept playing with his cigarette.

“I sent some of the boys at the precinct house to Shep for glasses. He gave them a good deal. Well, Shep liked to shoot the breeze about famous cases, the stuff he read about in these magazines. When Johnson was named the top wanted man, Shep said he hoped I could collar him. He would say that about every wanted criminal and—”

“Was the contact lens bit his idea?”

I rubbed the side of my head, as if in deep thought. “He mentioned it once, as a possibility. You see he was especially interested in Johnson, since he had knocked off an eye man.”

“Dr. Harris didn't spot Johnson in the car wash first?”

“No.” (I almost said, “Sir.”) “As I told the Commissioner, I spotted him because of his odd face.”

“Yes, that's what you told us. So Dr. Harris merely mentioned Johnson's name, along with a lot of other wanted clowns?”

“Yeah.”

“He's another crackpot after publicity?”

“Yeah, in his own way.”

“Should the department brush him off as a crackpot?”

“Yes.”

He gave me a real smile, stood up. “That's what I want to know. You bagged your man; that's all that should count, Penn. But there's this big publicity—number one wanted man and the rest of that silly slop. Who really knows or cares if a thug heads the F.B.I. wanted list? Our job is collaring crooks every day and not running a popularity contest. Here I'm off on a speech and all I meant to say is, you did a good job, Penn.” He waved the cigarette at me. “Got some fire?”

“What?”

“A match, son.”

“Oh.” I tossed a pack of matches at him. Taking his coat and hat from the closet, I asked, “Any idea what detective squad I'll be assigned to?”

“No. Does it make any difference to you?”

“None. I'm just curious.”

“Kid, you're on vacation. Forget the job.”

I debated if I should help him on with his coat—which sure felt rich and soft—but I'd had the “kid” chatter. I simply handed him the coat and walked him to the door.

The second he was gone I ran to the phone book, found Shep's home number. Funny, I'd never heard him called “doctor” before, or thought of him as one. I dialed his number and then hung up. After I'd put the fear of God in him already, no sense in letting Shep know I was worried. And this Alexander—his patronizing look, his big talk about “we” and “us,” as if he was Mister Police Department. He was only a detective, not even an acting lieutenant. Probably a clown with a powerful “in” behind him. They got the cushy jobs. About time I had that. Ought to make Elma get active in a club, get some political muscle behind me. One thing: It was a big break that Shep came here first, that I made him change his mind, see the light.

When Elma was finally dressed, we drove out to a steak house that had a sad floor show. We had a few drinks and I was happy Elma didn't ask me to dance with her. Around midnight, as we were driving home, I had the radio on. A news commentator said, ”... A new factor popped up in the sensational capture of Batty Johnson yesterday when Dr. Sheppard Harris, an optometrist, claimed he had tipped off Patrolman Bucklin Penn to the top-wanted thug's whereabouts. Dr. Harris said a wanted flyer sent out by the F.B.I. to all optometrists had led him to recognize the notorious killer.... Turning to the Near East, a new showdown is expected when...”

I turned off the radio, glanced at Elma. She was sleeping. As I silently cursed Shep, I felt sick. Why had the department given out the news? Now Shep might hesitate about retracting it. Was downtown protecting themselves, or had it been a leak? Hell, this made the F.B.I. look good. Be a fine thing if I was caught between the brass and the F.B.I. dueling for credit on the collar. Anyway, I knew what I had to do.

I insisted we stop at a bar, bought Elma a brace of double shots, encouraged her to get high. There were some smiles from the jerks holding up the bar, at her size, but happily she didn't notice them. I was so tense I would have turned the joint out. I got her to tank up while I kept to one drink. When we reached the apartment she undressed and was snoring peacefully a few minutes after she hit the sheets.

I took off my shirt and tie, washed up, to relax. Then I stuffed some toilet paper into the mouthpiece of the phone, dialed Shep's house. After two rings I hung up. I put the Late, Late Show on the TV, keeping it down low, and after ten minutes I phoned and hung up again. Then I dialed a few minutes later and when he answered I didn't say a word, but kept breathing heavily into the phone, let him hang up.

I waited until the TV movie was over—and it was well after 2 a.m. Then I phoned him again. When he said, “Hello?” I growled through the paper. “You Harris, the eye doc?” I used a thick accent, an Italian one—and felt lousy about it.

“Why, yes, I'm Dr. Harris. Who is this?”

I could hear his teeth chattering over the phone.

“Who are you? Who is this?”

“Who d'ya think, you lousy stoolie?”

“What—what do you want?”

I tried to make my laugh sound crazy.

He kept asking what I wanted, fighting to hold his voice from coming apart. I didn't say a word. When he hung up I glanced at my wrist watch and waited. Exactly one minute and five seconds later my phone rang. I let it ring a few times, holding a pillow over it to drown out the sound. Then I picked up the receiver, yawned, “Yeah?”

“Bucky? Bucky?”

“Yeah, I'm Bucky. Who's this?”

“Bucky, this is Shep!”

“Hey, it's the middle of the night. What's the matter, Shep?”

His voice was high with hysteria as he babbled, “Bucky, somebody just threatened me! I—”

“They came to your house?”

“Over the phone, Bucky. The phone has been ringing all night. Every time I answered, there wouldn't be anybody at the other end!”

“Shep, you haven't said any more about—what we talked about? I mean, you haven't talked to any reporters, have you?”

“No. But it was on the radio. I heard—”

“I told you to keep your mouth shut. Now every crackpot in the city will be annoying you!”

“Honest, Bucky, I haven't said a word to anybody since I talked to you. I don't know how it got on the air.”

“What did they say over the phone?”

“I could hardly make it out, but a man called me a lousy stoolie.”

“That's not a threat. Don't worry about it.”

“Don't worry? My God! Bucky, what shall I do?”

“I told you what to do. Deny everything when you talk to the police tomorrow. Get off the hook.”

“I will. But you think they might try anything tonight?”

“It was probably only a nut. Don't answer your phone, keep it off the cradle. Now go back to sleep,”

“Sleep? My wife is... I'm... Bucky, we're scared—terrified. Do me a favor. Spend the night at my house.”

“Shep, I'm half dead.”

“Please, Bucky, until tomorrow when I can straighten myself, get out from under this nightmare. I'll pay you for your time.”

“Well...”

“Please!”

It made me feel good to hear the greedy little slob plead. Of course I was going up—he might call the police if I didn't. I said, “Okay, Shep, I'm on my way. And stop talking about paying anybody. I'm doing this for a friend—you. Sit tight. I'll be up in about twenty minutes.”

He lived in one of these ritzy houses with terraces. And he needed the reward! Still, I knew what he meant—her family. I drove around looking for a parking place; here on the outskirts of town there seemed to be even more cars. I passed his MG parked about half a block away. When I found a space I walked back to his car. It was after three on a dark, cold morning; not a soul around. I poked about in the gutter slush until I found a small stone. I hammered it against his windshield with my gun, cracking the glass.

When I rang his bell he asked a dozen times who I was, and when he finally let me in, Shep damn near hugged me. Taking off my coat, I asked, “Any more phone calls?”

“I have the receiver off, like you told me. Bucky, you don't know how much I appreciate this.”

“I warned you what would happen.”

“You did. Don't worry; tomorrow I'll deny everything at the top of my lungs.”

I nodded. “Best you don't say anything about tonight—the calls. Then the police might not drop it. You tell them you're a crime bug, that you were drunk or something. Make sure it sounds good and make certain the police give it to the papers.”

“Yes, yes.”

I took out my gun, and Shep's eyes became saucers behind his glasses. I told him, “Now go to sleep and forget it. I'll stretch out on the couch.”

“Bucky, I'll buy you a case of rye for this.”

“Forget it. You did me a favor, Shep. I'm paying you back.” There was a kind of moan. I turned to see the frightened eyes of a nice-looking babe watching us from the darkness of the bedroom. She was a runt, too. I said loudly, “Go to sleep, Shep. Don't turn on the lights, and stay away from the windows, just in case.”

The moan was louder. “Tell your wife not to worry. You'll scare your kid awake.”

I put the receiver back in its cradle, was able to get a few hours shut-eye. I awoke to see a little girl in a red bathrobe staring at me with a solemn face. I sat up and winked at the kid; she giggled. Shep's wife came out of the kitchenette to get the girl. The wife looked like a kid herself, except for the dark circles under her eyes. As she took the girl to the bathroom, the wife whispered, “Thank you, very much, Mr. Penn.”

“It's okay. It will be over soon.”

We all took turns going to the John. I phoned Elma, and it took a lot of rings to get her up. I told her where I was.

There was a mild argument during breakfast as Shep explained to his wife that he was going to tell the Commissioner he'd been drunk when he called. The wife wasn't thinking of the reward any longer, but the fact Shep would look foolish.

I said, “So what if he looks like a jerk? It will be forgotten by tomorrow. Those calls last night might be the work of a crank, but we can't be sure. Better to be a fool for a day than a nervous wreck the rest of your lives. Or dead.”

“Daddy, what does 'dead' mean?” the little girl asked.

After they got a morning cartoon show on TV for the kid, Shep told his wife about Arnold Schuster and she was sold. We left the house a few minutes before nine, and if he still had any doubts, his busted windshield was the final convincer. He almost fainted as he whispered, “A—a bullet hole!”

I went through the routine of examining the cracked glass. “Maybe. Might be a pebble from the wheel of a passing car.”

“No, no, it's a bullet hole!”

“Could be. But a slug would have gone through the windshield.” I bent down and ran my fingers through the snow and dirt on the ground, examined the road. Finally I said,” I don't see a slug. Let's get going. My wife is waiting for me.”

“Drive downtown with me, Bucky.”

“Well, I have to take my car back. Tell you what: I'll follow you. And stop shaking or you'll drive your car off the road.

I followed him down to police headquarters, then returned my car. I ate a big breakfast and took a cab to the house. Elma was sleeping. I read the morning papers, turned on TV and watched a couple of morning shows. At about eleven Elma got up and drank three cups of coffee. She wanted to know why I'd been at Shep's house.

“Some nut threatened him. It's okay now.”

I listened to the noon news roundup. Nothing. But at one a newscaster said, “Dr. Sheppard Harris, the optometrist who yesterday claimed he had tipped off the police about Batty Johnson, this morning admitted it was all a hoax. He claimed he had been reading a wanted circular about Johnson while under the influence of a pill he was taking for a cold, and later, without realizing what he was doing, phoned the police....”

I turned off the set, started to undress. Elma said, “Keep it on. There's a story I follow every day.”

I took out ten bucks. “Honey, I want to sleep. Why don't you go out and buy yourself something, or take in a movie?”

Snatching the bill, she asked, “Where did you get the money?”

“Oh, stop it. Shep slipped it to me for guarding him.”

I fell into bed, and my boxer's arms said I'd only been sleeping fifty minutes when the doorbell rang. It kept ringing. I went to the door, in my shorts, ready to bawl Elma out for coming back so soon, forgetting her key. I opened the door to see Detective Alexander grinning at me again. He came in, and when I asked for his coat, he said, “I'll only be a minute.” He ran his eyes over my body. “You pack good muscle.”

“You got me out of the sack.”

“Of course. I hear you were up all night.”

I came awake fast. I didn't like the sarcastic grin on his thin face.

Alexander sat on the couch, pushed his hat back on his brushed gray hair. “You were right, Penn. Your buddy Harris turned out to be a real crank, as you said.”

“Yeah?”

“He was hysterical this morning. Said something about threatening phone calls last night. Too bad his name leaked out to the press. They tell me it was on the radio news last night.”

“So Shep told me,” I said. Dopey Shep, telling them about the calls. But I was still way out in the clear—although Alexander's mocking eyes didn't say that. “In fact, he dragged me out in the middle of the night, insisted I come up and protect him. Hard to say if there were any calls or it was all his imagination. No one phoned while I was there.”

“Of course.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” I asked, knowing my voice was too loud.

“Nothing. Of course it was odd, the calls coming so soon after he was mentioned in a newscast.”

“If there actually were threatening calls, what's so odd about it? You expect a nut, or one of Johnson's pals, to wait?”

“I don't expect anything.”

“Shep say anything else? Any new calls?”

“Nope. He was upset about his windshield, thought it was a shot.”

“I told him it might be a flying stone.”

Alexander nodded, his eyes watching me like he was seeing a funny show. “The lab said it was a stone.”

I waited a second, got a cigarette from a pack on the TV. Alexander didn't say a word. I lit the butt and the silence made my nerves jump. “Stop stalling. What's on the Commissioner's mind?”

“I don't know. I guess he thinks you're a big hero. This isn't an official call, Bucklin. Where did you get a name like that?”

“Don't worry about my name. If this isn't official, what...?”

He grinned, showing neat teeth. “I'm here as a friend. You see, I think you're a big hero, too.”

“Look, I'm tired. I'm not feeling friendly. In fact, I'm feeling like tossing you out on your ass!” I stood up.

“Relax, son.” He walked over to the TV set and took a cigarette. “You don't have to impress me that you're a tough character. I believe it. I can see it. That's the reason for my visit. I need somebody tough and sharp. My partner died a few weeks ago. His whiskey finally got to his heart. I've been looking for a new partner, the right kind of man, your kind. Think you'd like to work with me?”

I glanced at his overcoat—it had to cost two hundred bucks. His shirt and shoes weren't anything you found in a bargain basement, either.

He said, “I usually get special assignments, Bucklin, and—”

“Call me Bucky.”

“And if you were my partner, so would you. Right now I'm assigned to the Commissioner's Squad—we go anyplace we wish. I like your record, Bucky. Take that suicide attempt you foiled. Fast thinking.”

The sarcasm was back in his voice. I took my eyes from his clothes. “I might go for it. Can you swing it?”

“I wouldn't be asking you if I couldn't. Is it a deal, partner?”

“Yeah.”

He put the cigarette in his thin mouth. “When is your vacation over?” The butt moved with his lips like a tiny baton.

“I can start right now.”

“Don't be dumb. Finish your vacation, son.” He glanced at the matches on top of the TV. “Get me some fire, Bucky.”

“The matches are over there,” I said, not moving.

For a second he stared at me; then he laughed and walked over and lit the cigarette, spit out a few tobacco crumbs. He came over and held out his hand. “You'll get your orders in the mail within a few days. I think we'll make out fine, Bucky.”

I shook his hand hard. “Sure. What do I call you—Al or Alex?”

“If you do I'll break your jaw. My first name is Harry but everybody calls me Doc.” He jerked his hand away, flexed the fingers. “We'll make a winning team—with your strength, Bucky boy.”