Learning to Kill: Stories

Runaway

Let me tell you how I happened to change my name.

It wasn’t that I got irritated by bosun’s mates in the Navy stumbling over “Lombino” even before they got to the first vowel. It wasn’t even editors calling the agency to ask for “that Italian guy up there.” It was a novel titled Don’t Crowd Me, and an editor named Charlie Heckelman at a paperback house called Popular Library.

Early in 1952, I had finished, and the agency was marketing, a mystery novel in which an advertising man on vacation in Lake George comes upon a dead body in his cabin and is subsequently blamed for the murder. This was a sort of Innocent Bystander story that became a sort of Man on the Run story, and the byline on it was one of my then still-pseudonyms, Evan Hunter. Well, we sent the book to Popular Library, and Charlie — with whom I’d had business lunches on many an occasion — called to say he liked the book a lot, and would like to buy it, but would like to meet Evan Hunter first to see if he’d agree to some revision suggestions. I ran into Scott’s office and told him Charlie Heckelman wanted to meet Evan Hunter! Scott said, “So take Evan Hunter to meet him.”

A few days later I went to Charlie’s office, and he took one look at me and said, “Where’s Evan Hunter?”

“I’m Evan Hunter,” I said.

Well, after he got over his surprise, he told me the book was a good one, whoever had written it, and then explained where he thought it could benefit from a few revisions. He said he thought he could publish it by December of that year if I could get the revisions to him fairly quickly. I told him I thought I could, and then I suggested — since the cat was now out of the bag — that we use the byline S. A. Lombino on it, which was the name I’d used in college on my weekly column for the school newspaper.

Charlie looked at me long and hard.

“Well,” he said, “it’s your book, and you can put whatever name you like on it. But I have to tell you... Evan Hunter will sell a lot more tickets.”

So that’s what it’s all about, I thought. Never mind Grandpa traipsing all the way from Ruvo del Monte to Naples to get on a ship and sail steerage to America, never mind him getting his “first papers” here and later his citizenship, never mind all those bonfires celebrating freedom on election night, never mind all that Land of the Free and Home of the Brave oratory; if I put S. A Lombino on a novel, everyone will think it was written in crayon by a ditch digger or a gangster.

The very next week, I went downtown with a lawyer and got a court order that legally changed my name. I’ve been Evan Hunter since May of 1952, longer than I ever was Salvatore Lombino, longer than most of my readers have ever been on this earth. A sure affirmation of the correctness of my decision is that the Internet has never allowed me to forget that once upon a time, long long ago, in a galaxy far far away, I was “that Italian guy” named Salvatore Lombino.

Which brings us to the story that follows.

By February of 1954, when “Runaway” was first published in Manhunt, the neighborhood I’d lived in until I was twelve had changed drastically enough so that I could use it as the setting for the tale of an Innocent Bystander who becomes a Man on the Run. But even before the story was published, I had already changed the hero’s name from Johnny Trachetti to Johnny Lane, radically changed the setting from Italian Harlem to what was then called Negro Harlem, expanded the story into a novel, and submitted it to Gold Medal Books, who published the longer version in July as Runaway Black, the new title I’d given the novel. I was enormously pleased when one reviewer thought the Harlem background rang so true because Richard Marsten was undoubtedly a black man!

But the tale does not end there.

Years later, when a new paperback edition of the book was being planned by a publisher who shall go unnamed, I received a proof of the cover, and was shocked to see that the word “Black” had been dropped from the title. The book was now simply called Runaway, even though the lead character was now black and the setting was now black Harlem. I thought I’d entered a time warp. So I asked them how come. They told me that Runaway Black was a “racist” title. Racist! I told them that I had proved my credentials forever with The Blackboard Jungle, wherein Gregory Miller, a black kid (later played brilliantly on the screen by Sidney Poitier)was the goddamn hero, and if they didn’t want to use my title on the book, they could have their money back and forget publishing it altogether. Guess what? They took back their money.

This, then, is my first run at “Runaway,” with its original title and its original setting (the neighborhood I grew up in) and its original Johnny Trachetti — an innocent bystander if ever I saw one.

Because the neighborhood had ingrained fear so deeply inside him, he ran the instant he heard the shots.

He did not stop to wonder where the shots had come from. Shots meant trouble, and trouble meant cops, and in this neighborhood you ran when the cops came.

He cut down First Avenue, past the coal yards, past the corner bar, and then turned left on 119th Street, heading for Pleasant Avenue and then down toward the river. He didn’t stop running until he reached a bench on the Drive, and then he sat and looked uptown to where the Triboro arched its silvery sleek back against the sky. There was a football game today at Randall’s Island. He had seen the college girls, nubby-looking in their tweeds, and the men with pipes and porkpie hats, walking across the bridge earlier that day. They were like invaders from another world. They did not belong in the neighborhood, and he resented them.

He had been sitting on the bench for ten minutes when Snow White and the two cops pulled up. The white top of the squad car reflected the brilliant October sun, and it struck the old panic within him, but there was no place to go except the river, so he sat still and bulled it through. He heard the car doors slam shut with the solidity of bank vault doors, heard the empty, hollow clatter of the cops’ shoes on the pavement, and then saw shadows, long and thin in the afternoon sun, fall across the bench.

“Watching the water?” one cop asked.

He looked up, trying to feign surprise.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice trembling a little. “I’ve been watching the water.”

“We got a dead man,” the second cop said drily.

He blinked up at the cop, condemning himself for feeling guilty when he was completely innocent.

“A dead man?” he said. “Yeah?”

“This is all news to you, huh?” the first cop said.

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

“He got it with a zip gun, this guy,” the cop went on. “You ever own a zip gun?”

“No,” he lied. He had owned a zip gun once, before the cops had begun giving the gangs a lot of trouble. He had ditched the gun then, together with a knife that was over the legal limit in blade size.

“You never owned one, huh?” the cop said drily.

“No, never,” he lied again.

“You know a guy called Angelo?” He knew instantly that it was Angelo Brancusi they were speaking of. He wet his lips. “Lots of guys named Angelo,” he said.

“Only one guy named Angelo Brancusi. You know him?”

“I know him,” he said. “Sure. Everybody knows him.”

“But you particularly, huh?”

“Why me, particularly?”

“Maybe because your name is Johnny Trachetti.”

“That’s my name,” he said. “What’s this all about?”

“Maybe because Angelo tried to rape your kid sister, say two or three weeks ago. Maybe, let’s say, you and Angelo had a big tangle outside the RKO on 125th, with Angelo pulling homemade brass knucks and trying to rip your face apart with them. Maybe that’s why you know him particularly, huh, boy?”

“Angelo tried to work over lots of guys. Everybody knows his brass knucks. He made ’em from a garbage can handle. Besides, he stayed away from me since that time near the RKO. Angelo don’t bother me or my sister anymore.”

“You’re right there, boy,” the first cop said.

“What do you mean?”

“Angelo ain’t bothering anybody anymore,” the cop said. “It was Angelo who got zip-gunned.”

He wet his lips again. Out on the river a tug sent a blast to the sky, high and strident. The blast hung on the silence of the October air, and he could almost taste the brackishness of the river.

“I didn’t shoot him,” he said.

“I know,” the first cop told him. “That’s why you ran like a rat when we came on the scene.”

“Look,” he said, appealing to their common sense now, “I didn’t shoot him. I didn’t like him, but there was lots of guys didn’t like him. Look, why should I shoot him? Hey, come on, you don’t really think...”

He saw the look in the first cop’s eyes. That same look was mirrored on the second cop’s face. He saw, too, the irrefutable logic there. Angelo had been gunned down. Angelo was scum, but he was a citizen of this fair city. Someone had gunned him, and it was like tagging someone for a parking violation. Some big boy upstairs would raise six kinds of hell if this sort of thing went on, people cluttering up the streets with worthless garbage like Angelo. There was only one way to handle a case of this exceptional caliber. Pull in the nearest sucker. Take Johnny because he was as neat a patsy as the next guy, all made to order with an attempted rape on his sister, and a knock-down-drag-out right on 125th, where Angelo had done his best to kill him.

Whatever you do, avoid trouble on your beat. Squelch trouble on your beat. Step on trouble.

Step on Johnny Trachetti.

He read the logic. You can’t fight logic. He didn’t try to.

He brought his knee up into the groin of the first cop, and then clobbered him on the back of the head with both hands squeezed together like the head of a mallet. The cop fell to the pavement like a pile of manure, and his buddy unsnapped the Police Special hanging in the holster near his right buttock. The shot rang out on the crisp autumn air, but Johnny was already behind the squad car, ducking around the grille, heading for the door near the driver’s seat. He knew it was crazy, and he knew you didn’t go around driving cops’ cars, but taking the rap for Angelo’s kill was just as nuts, and he had nothing to lose now, not after the logic he had read.

He heard the second shot, and the third one, but he was already behind the wheel, his head ducked low, his hand re-leasing the emergency brake, his foot on the accelerator. The car leaped ahead, and then the shots came like bursts from a tommy gun, fast and sharp, pinging against the sides of the car.

He heard the first cop banging his nightstick against the pavement, and the pounding was as loud and as frightening as the bark of the other cop’s gun. The last bullet found one of the rear tires, and the car lurched crazily, but he held on to the wheel and kept his foot pressed to the floor, and the rubber flapped and beat the asphalt as he headed for 116th. The cop had stopped to reload, and by the time the next shots came, he couldn’t have hit him if he’d been using a bazooka. He drove down to the York Avenue exit, wondering whether or not he should turn on the siren, a little excited about all of it now, a little reckless-feeling.

He ditched the car, and then ran like a thief up to First Avenue, cutting back uptown. He reached 116th Street, wondered where he should go then. Back home? That was the first place they’d look.

He stood on the corner, looking up toward the Third Avenue El, wondering. When he saw the squad car pull around Second Avenue, he made up his mind, and he made it up fast.

He didn’t run this time. He walked casually, his head turned toward the shop windows that lined the wide street. The corset shop was in the middle of the street, between Second and Third. The plate-glass window carried the fancy legend FOUNDATION GARMENTS, but everybody knew this was the corset shop, and everybody knew it was run by Gussie the Corset Lady.

He walked into the shop quickly. The front room was stacked with dummies wearing brassieres and girdles and corsets and contraptions he couldn’t name. He’d worked for Gussie a long time ago, when he was fifteen, delivering the garments to fat women who should have ordered pants with zippers instead. He heard the hum of the sewing machine in the back room, and he looked out at the street once and then parted the flowered curtains and stepped out of sight.

Gussie looked up from the machine. She was a tall woman in her early fifties, with large brown eyes and full, sensuous lips. She wore her own foundation garments, and she was wearing one now that bunched her full breasts up into the low yoke of her neckline, like the heroine on the jacket of a historical novel.

“Well!” she said. “Who’s after you?”

“The cops,” Johnny said quickly.

She’d been smiling, but the smile dropped from her face now. “What do you mean, the cops? What for?”

“They say I killed Angelo Brancusi.”

“He’s dead?” Gussie asked. She nodded her head emphatically. “Good. He deserved it.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t do it.”

“I didn’t say you did. No matter who did it, he deserved it.”

Johnny glanced through the curtains and out at the street again. “I ran away from them,” he said. “They were planning a run-through. I don’t like working on a railroad.”

“You shouldn’t have run. That was stupid.”

“All right, it was stupid. You didn’t see their eyes.”

Gussie stared at him contemplatively for a few moments. “Why’d you come to me?” she asked.

“Just to get off the streets. You don’t have to worry, I’m leaving.”

Gussie’s face was worried now.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“I don’t know. How do I know? Just stay away from them for now, that’s all.”

“And then what?”

“Somebody killed Angelo,” he said. “That’s for sure.”

“They’ll catch you,” she said. “And it’ll be worse because you ran away.”

“I also slugged a cop and stole a squad car. I got nothin’ to lose now.”

“Stay until dark,” Gussie said suddenly. “Stay here in the back.”

“Thanks,” he said.

“I’m only saving my own skin. If the cops think...”

“Don’t spoil it,” Johnny said. “I was beginning to think you were human.”

“Go to hell, you snot nose,” Gussie said, but she was smiling.

He saw the lights come on in the church across the street, saw the streetlamps throw their dim rays into the gathering October darkness. The clock on the wall in Gussie’s front room read five ten. The lights all along the street came on, warm yellow lights that built a solid, cozy front against the crisp near-winter blackness.

“You’d better get started,” she said. “We’re lucky they haven’t been here yet.”

“I ditched the car on York,” he told her. “They probably figure I headed downtown.”

“Go through the back way,” Gussie said. “You can cut through the yard and climb the fence. That way you’ll come out on a Hun’ fifteenth. Less lights.”

“All right,” he said. He hesitated, biting his lip. “You got money?”

“A little.”

Gussie walked to a chair and unhooked a black leather purse from where it hung. “This’ll help a little. Things haven’t been too good lately.”

She handed him the sawbuck, and he hesitated before taking it. “You don’t have to...”

“Angelo broke my window once,” she said simply.

“Well, thanks a lot.”

She nodded and he left by the back door, cutting into the concrete alleyway behind the apartment building. He knew there would be steps now leading to the sidewalk. He remembered the times when he and the other kids used to duck down behind the steps like this on his own block, whenever they were too busy or too rushed to look for a toilet.

He passed the garbage cans and the familiar sharp stench. It was dark there where the steps dropped down into the bowels of the tenement. He saw the iron railing up ahead of him on the sidewalk, and the dangling chain that was supposed to stop kids from parading up and down the steps, but which only served as an impromptu swing. He started up the steps, and when he collided with the other man he almost shrieked in terror.

He heard a dull clatter as something dropped to the steps and then rolled away into the blackness near the garbage cans. His fists balled immediately and he waited, hearing the other man’s hoarse breathing. He figured the guy for a wino or a stumblebum, or maybe a degenerate.

“You damn fool,” the man said. He still could not see his face. He heard only the hoarse breathing, saw only the dim outline of the man in the feeble glow of the streetlight which filtered down onto the steps below the building.

“Where’d it go?” the man asked.

“Where’d what go?” he heard himself answer.

“You damn fool,” the man cursed again. He pushed back past Johnny, dropped to his hands and knees, and began scrambling around near the garbage cans. Johnny looked at him for a moment, and then wondered, What the hell am I standing around for? He started up the steps, heard the movement behind him, and then felt the wiry fingers clamp onto his shoulder.

“Just a second, punk,” the man said. “If you broke that syringe, then you’re going to pay for it.” He pulled Johnny back down the steps and Johnny stumbled.

“You think syringes grow on trees? I had to swipe this one from a doctor’s bag.”

Johnny got up and moved toward the steps again, and the man slammed him back against the wall. He was a big man, with arms like oaks and a head like a bullet. His eyes gleamed dully in the darkness. “I said stay where you are,” he said.

He shoved Johnny back into the alley, blocking him from the steps, and then he reached down for something that glittered near one of the garbage cans.

“You did it, punk,” he said. “You broke the damn thing.”

Johnny saw the jagged shards of the syringe in the man’s open hand. And then the fingers of the hand closed around the syringe, hefting it like a knife, with the glass ends crooked and sharp.

“You shouldn’t have been shooting up down here,” Johnny said lamely. “I didn’t even see you. I...”

“How much money you got, punk?” the man said.

“Nothing,” Johnny lied.

“Suppose we see,” the man said, advancing with the broken shards of the syringe ahead of him.

“Suppose we don’t?” Johnny answered, planting his feet, and tightening his fists.

“A smart guy, huh? Break the damn syringe, and then pull a wise-o. I don’t like smart guys. If you done something you pay for it, that’s my motto.”

He stepped closer, reaching for Johnny, and Johnny lashed out with his right fist catching the man solidly on his chest. The man staggered back, raising the hand with the syringe high. The streetlight caught the syringe, gave it up to the darkness again as it slashed downward and up. Johnny felt the ragged glass ends when they struck his wrist. He tried to pull his hand back, but the biting glass followed his arm, ripping the thin sleeve of his Eisenhower jacket, the jacket his brother had brought home in the last war. The glass ripped skin clear to his elbow and he felt the blood begin pouring down his arm and he cursed the addict, and brought back his left hand balled at the same time, throwing it at the addict’s head.

He felt his knuckles collide with the bridge of the man’s nose, felt bone crush inward and then the face fell away and back, slamming down against the concrete with the syringe shattering into a thousand brittle pieces now. Now that it was too late. He stepped around the man, and the man moved, and Johnny kicked him in the temple, wanting to knock his head off.

There was pain in his arm, and the blood had soaked through the thin sleeve of his jacket. He touched the arm and felt the blood, and when his hand came away sticky he felt a twinge of panic.

He stood at the base of the steps, wanting to kill the addict, wanting to really kill him.

He kicked him again, happy when he heard the sound of his shoe thudding against bone.

What do I do now? he wondered.

He needed a doctor, but a doctor was out. What about a druggist? What about Frankie Shea who worked for Old Man Sinisi? What about him? Did Frankie owe him a favor?

No, Frankie did not owe him a favor, Frankie did not owe him the sweat from his armpits. But they’d grown up together, had lighted bonfires together on election eve, had thrown snowballs together, had roasted spuds together when there used to be the empty lot behind Grandoso’s Grocery. You figure maybe a guy will do you a favor when your arm is running off into the gutter.

He waited until the drugstore was empty. He knew Old Man Sinisi left the store to Frankie every night after supper, leaving him just enough cash in the register to handle the few sales that piddled in before closing time. So there was no danger there. When the store was empty he walked in, and the bell over the door sounded loudly in the warm, antiseptic stillness. He walked straight behind the counter, running into Frankie as he started to come around front.

“Let’s stay back here,” he whispered.

“Johnny! The cops are...”

“It’s around already, huh?”

“Johnny, you should never have come here. Why’d you come here? Want to get me in trouble?”

“I want my arm bandaged. And something to stop the pain.”

Frankie looked at the bleeding arm and his face went white. “How’d that happen? You... you kill somebody else, Johnny? You...”

“I ain’t killed nobody yet. Look, Frankie, fix it for me, will you? You work in a drugstore, you know the ropes. Just a bandage, and something smeared on the cut, that’s all.”

“I ain’t a doctor, Johnny. Hell, I just work here.”

“You can fix it. I’ll rip your eyes out if you don’t.”

Frankie stared at him levelly. “Come on in back,” he said.

They were in the back of the shop now, in the darkened corner where the retorts and measures rested on a long brown table. Johnny sat and took off his jacket. The cut was worse than he’d thought it was. It spread on his arm in a jagged red streak. He looked at it, and was almost sick, and the pale cast to Frankie’s face told him he was almost sick, too.

“I... I got to go... go get some bandages,” he said. “Out front. I... I’ll be right back, Johnny.”

“Hurry up,” Johnny said.

Frankie went and he sat and looked at the wall of the back room, at the bottles of pills and powder with the strange, dangerous-sounding names.

He sat waiting, and it wasn’t until five minutes had passed that he realized Frankie Shea was taking a damned long time to get a roll of bandage from the shelves out front. A damned long time, and then he remembered there were phone booths just inside the entrance doorway, and he also remembered the time Frankie Shea had ducked out on him, the time the cops had caught them sticking NRA tags on the fenders and bodies of parked cars, gluing them to the metal surface.

Frankie had left him to talk to the cops that time, and whereas that was a long time ago, guys don’t usually change a hell of a lot.

Hastily, Johnny slipped into his soggy jacket.

When Frankie came to the back of the store ten minutes later, the cops behind him with drawn guns, Johnny was already gone. There was only a pool of blood on the table to testify to the fact that he’d been there at all.

The Grand was on 125th Street, just between Lexington and Third avenues. It showed the movies the RKO Proctor’s didn’t run, and it was there that Johnny went, taking a seat near the back, favoring his right arm by leaning over to the left and cradling the gashed wrist and forearm in his lap. The 3-D glasses they had given him were lying useless on his lap, alongside his cradled arm. Without the glasses, the screen was a distorted hodgepodge of color, but Johnny hadn’t come here to catch up on the latest Hollywood attempt. He’d come to get a breather.

“You ain’t even watching the picture,” the girl said.

He turned abruptly, startled, ready to run. The girl was no more than twenty. She wore a white sweater that was filled to capacity. He could see that even in the dark. She was blonde and pretty, he supposed, in a brassy, hard way. He couldn’t make out her features too clearly, except for the vivid slash of lipstick across her mouth, and the glow on the whites of her eyes reflected from the screen.

“No, I ain’t,” he said. He hadn’t even noticed the girl sitting there, and he wondered now when she’d come in. She reeked of cheap perfume but there was something exciting about the perfume and her nearness.

“These 3-D things are good,” she said, taking the glasses from his lap, her hand long and tapering, brushing against his arm. “Supposed to put these Hollywood women right in your arms. Don’t you go for Hollywood women right in your arms?”

“I... look, I’m busy,” he said.

“Too busy to watch the picture?”

He felt an instant panic. Had she heard about him? Did she know he was the one the cops wanted?

“Yes,” he said slowly, “too busy.”

“Too busy for other things, too?”

He caught the pitch then, and an idea began kicking around in the back of his mind. “Things like what?” he asked.

“Things like a way to kill the night. Better than doing eye muscle tricks in a movie.”

“How?” he asked.

“A room on Lex. Not the Waldorf but clean sheets. A bottle, if you can afford it. And a price that’s right.”

“Like?” His mind was racing ahead now. A room on Lex, away from the eyes of the cops, more time to think, more time to work it out.

“Like seven-fifty for all night. Plus the bottle. You got seven-fifty?” she asked.

“I’ve got seven-fifty,” he whispered.

“Don’t let the price fool you. It’s quality merchandise, germ-free. I’m feeling generous.”

“You’re on,” he said, making up his mind.

He saw her grin in the darkness. “I knew you was an intellectual,” she said. “Come on.”

They moved out of the row into the aisle, and she started for the rear of the theater.

“This way,” he said. “We’ll use the exit down front.”

“You ashamed or something?” she asked, her hands on her hips.

He decided to give it to her straight. “I got in a fight. My arm is bleeding. I don’t want to attract attention.”

She stared at him for a few moments, and then said, “Okay. Come on. Down front.”

He gave her money for a jug and then he waited in the darkness of a hallway while she bought it in a brilliantly lighted liquor store. When she came back, she walked on the side of his wounded arm, blocking it effectively from inquisitive eyes.

They walked in silence to a brownstone set next to a delicatessen. She led him up the steps then, and opened the wooden door to her room. It was a small room with a bare bulb hanging overhead and a dresser in one corner. A bed occupied most of the room, and there was a table with an enamel washbasin on a stand alongside the bed.

“Like I said,” she told him, “it ain’t the Waldorf.”

She was not as big as he’d thought she was in the movies. She was, in fact, almost small, except for the breasts that crowded the woolen sweater.

“Which shall we treat first? The arm or the gullet?”

“Have a drink, if you want,” he said. “I can wait.”

“Yeah, but you’re bleeding on my imported Persian rug.” She grinned and went to the dresser, taking out a bottle of peroxide and a roll of gauze. She brought him to the basin, rolled up his sleeve, and then said, “You run into a buzz saw?”

“No, a hophead.”

“Same thing,” she said pouring the peroxide onto the wound.

He winced, holding back the scream that bubbled onto his lips.

“You got glass in there,” she said.

“Pull it out, if you can.”

She looked at him curiously. “Sure,” she said. She wrapped absorbent cotton around a toothpick and then began fishing for the glass splinters. Each time she got one, he clamped down on his teeth hard, and finally it was all over. She drenched the arm in peroxide again, and then wrapped the gauze around it, so tight that he could feel the veins throbbing against the thin material.

“That rates a swallow,” she said. She broke the seal on the fifth, poured whiskey for them both into water glasses, and handed him one. “Here’s to the hophead,” she said.

“May he drop dead,” Johnny answered, tossing off the drink. It burned a hole clear down to his stomach and he remembered abruptly that he hadn’t eaten for a good long while.

The girl took another drink, and then put the glass and the bottle on the dresser top again. “Well, now,” she said. “Let’s try and forget that arm, shall we?”

She moved closer to him, and he thought, The hell with the cops, the hell with Angelo, the hell with everyone. The sweater moved in on him, warm and high, soft, beating with the soft muted beat of her heart beneath the wool and the flesh. He pulled her to him, his head pressed tight against the wool.

“Easy now,” she said, chiding, smiling. “Easy now, boy. Slow and easy.”

A knock sounded on the door.

She broke away from him, and he leaped to his feet.

“Who...” he whispered.

More knocking.

“Get in the closet!”

“The clos...?”

“Go on, move,” she whispered urgently.

He went to the closet, thinking, Why’s she acting like an unfaithful wife? feeling foolish as hell, feeling like the jackass in some low comedy of errors. The closet door closed on him, leaving him in darkness, leaving him with trailing silk dresses flapping around his face, high-heeled shoes crushed under his big feet. He could not stop feeling foolish, and then he heard the outside door open, and the man’s voice.

“What took you so long, Bess?”

“Oh, hello, Tony. I was... napping.”

Why? Johnny thought. Why that? Why didn’t she say, I’ve got someone with me, Tony. Come back later, come back in the morning. Why the runaround?

“Napping, huh?” The voice was a big voice. It belonged to a big man. It belonged to a suspicious man. Johnny did not like that voice, and the voice was in the room now, moving in from the outside door.

“What’s this?” the voice asked.

“What? What’s what, Tony?”

“This jacket. You wearing Army jackets now, Bess? That what you doing?”

“Tony...”

“Just shut up! Where is he?”

“Where’s who? Tony, I was just taking a nap. The jacket belongs... belongs to... a fellow came to fix the plumbing. He must have left it here. The plumbing leaked. He...”

“Did the plumbing leak blood? Did it leak blood in that basin there?”

“Tony...”

“You’re a slut,” he shouted. “I’m going to break that guy in two! Where is he?”

“I told you, Tony. There’s no one...”

“And I told you! I told you what would happen if I caught you up to your old tricks again. Where is he?”

The footsteps were advancing across the room now, and it was a cinch Tony would look in the closet first. He dropped to his knees quickly, rooting around on the closet floor for a shoe. He found a sturdy-feeling job with a spike heel, and he got to his feet again and waited.

“You got him in the closet?” the voice asked, close now. And then the door opened on Johnny, and the shaft of light spilled onto his face. He didn’t hesitate an instant. He brought the shoe up, catching Tony on the bridge of his nose.

Tony was big all right, big and bearded, wearing a leather jacket and corduroy slacks. The shoe caught him on his nose, and the line of blood appeared magically, and then he stumbled backward. Johnny swung out with his left hand, catching Tony in the gut. He hit him again with the shoe, and as Tony went down, he heard the girl screaming, screaming, her voice like an air-raid siren. She dropped to her knees beside› Tony, took his head into her lap, and then looked up at Johnny.

“You crumb!” she shrieked. “You filthy crumb! He’s my brother! He’s my brother!”

Johnny was already halfway to the door.

“My brother!” she kept screaming, and he didn’t hang around to listen to the encore. He ran down the steps and out into the street, a little sorry Tony had arrived when he had, and a little sorry he’d left an almost full fifth of good whiskey in the room.

The fifth had cost him close to four bucks. Well, he’d got a bandage for his arm out of it, if nothing else. It didn’t seem to matter at the moment that blood was already beginning to seep through the bandage again.

Detective-Sergeant Leo Palazzo lived in the Bronx. He did not particularly like Harlem, even though he’d been a cop there for sixteen years.

He was holding in his hands now a signed confession from a punk they’d had in before on a possessions charge.

The punk’s name was Andrew Ryan. They’d picked him up on 117th Street and they’d found him with a zip gun and they’d worked him over hardly fifteen minutes before he’d told them everything they wanted to know.

The only thing they really wanted to know was whether or not he’d put a few holes in the liver and heart of Angelo Brancusi. And whereas Ryan was extremely reticent in the beginning he loosened up almost instantly and seemed almost proud of his shooting prowess. A stenographer had worked up a literate-sounding confession and Ryan had scrawled his signature to it, and that had been that. Except for Johnny Trachetti.

“What about the other guy?” Corporal Davis asked Palazzo.

“What other guy?” Palazzo said.

“The one slugged Brown and swiped the RMP. Him.”

“Forget him,” Palazzo said. “He’s clean, ain’t he?”

“Yeah, but I mean...”

“We really ought to drag him in on a resisting arrest charge, not to mention the theft of the car. Teach him a lesson.”

“He was probably scared,” Davis said. “Hell, you’d have run, too.”

“When he knows the heat’s off he’ll come out in the open again.”

“You really going to pull him in?”

“No, the hell with him. We got this Ryan character, that’s all we need.”

Davis wiped a hand over his face. “What I mean, Leo, shouldn’t we wise the kid up? You know, he still thinks he’s got a murder rap hanging over his head.”

“So what?” Palazzo asked.

“Well, hell, he’s out there someplace thinking...”

“Who cares what the hell he’s thinking? He probably done something anyway, the way he ran.”

“Suppose he does something else? He thinks he’s wanted for murder, Leo, don’t you understand?”

“He’ll live,” Palazzo said. “He’s healthy, ain’t he? He’s young. He’s sound of mind and body. From the way Brown tells me he ran, he must be a hardy specimen.”

“A murder rap...” Davis said.

“Murder rap, shmurder rap. So long as you got your health,” Palazzo cracked.

The arm began bleeding in earnest. It started as a slow trickle of blood that oozed its way through the fresh bandage. But the trickle became a stream, and the stream soaked through the bandage and dripped onto Johnny’s wrist, and the drops ran into his cupped palm, hung on his fingertips, and then spattered onto the sidewalk in a crimson trail.

It got colder, too, and he missed his jacket, and he cursed himself for not having grabbed it when he’d left the girl’s room. With her screaming like that, though, it’s a wonder he managed to remember his head even. Still, it was goddamn cold, too cold for October, too cold even for January.

The trail of blood led from Lexington Avenue down to Third Avenue, past the lighted fronts of the furniture stores, past the all-night restaurants and the bakeries that served coffee from big shining urns. He was very conscious of the blood trail, and he wondered if city cops ever used bloodhounds. All he needed was a pack of mutts chasing down Third Avenue after him. He smiled, the picture striking him somehow as amusing. He could almost see his photo in the Daily News, Johnny Trachetti up a lamppost, his pants seat torn to shreds while the mutts stood up on their hind legs and barked and snapped. Caption: Killer at Bay.

Bay, you know. The hounds baying, you know?

Very funny, he told himself, but you couldn’t wrap a joke around your back, and a laugh wouldn’t stop the wind, and the wind was sure cold.

Nor could corny humor hold back the flow of blood from his arm.

Right now, he needed a place for the night.

He remembered the warehouse just off Third Avenue, where the furniture store kept all the new goods. There was a window the guys used to sneak in through, where one of the bars was loose and capable of being swung out of position. They’d taken Carmen Diaz there once when they were all around sixteen and they’d had a jolly old time on the mats the movers used to wrap around the furniture. He wouldn’t forget that time so easily because it had been his first time. Nor would he forget how they had gotten into the warehouse, because that had been the trickiest part.

He ducked off Third Avenue now, and into the darkness of the side street. There was no one in sight, and he scaled the fence rapidly and then went directly to the window with the loose bar.

He tried all the bars, beginning to lose hope, and then suddenly happy when the fifth one came free under his hands. He moved the bar to one side, jimmied open the window, and then squeezed through the opening. It was a tighter fit than it had been when he was sixteen, but he made it and dropped to the concrete floor, reaching up to close the window behind him.

He found the old iron stairwell and took that up to the third floor where he knew all the mats would be. When he heard the voices, he turned around and was ready to run, but they’d already spotted him.

“Hold it, Mac,” one of them said.

A watchman, he thought.

He froze solid because there was no sense in running now. Maybe he could bull it through, and if not he still had a good left arm, and he still knew how to throw a fist.

The man moved closer to him, a big man in the near darkness.

“Whatta you want, Mac?” he asked.

“You the watchman?” Johnny asked.

The big man laughed. “A watchman, huh? A watchman? You on the bum, too, kid?”

He felt immensely relieved all at once, so relieved that he almost smiled. “Yeah,” he said, “I’m on the bum.”

“Come on in. You want a cup of java?”

“Man, I could use some,” he said. The big man laughed again and reached out for Johnny’s arm. He tried to pull it away, but he wasn’t quick enough, and he winced in pain, and the big man looked at his sticky fingers.

“You hurt, huh, kid?” he asked. There was no sympathy in his voice. There was instead a crafty sound, as if the man had made a very valuable discovery and was hoarding it under the floorboards of his mind.

“Come on,” he said, his voice oily now. “We’ll get you that java.”

He led Johnny to the circle of men huddled in one corner of the huge concrete-floored room. An electric grill was plugged into an outlet, and a battered coffeepot rested on the glowing orange coils. Johnny looked at the circle of bearded faces, four men all told, five counting the big man who’d led him to the group. The men were smiling, but there was no mirth on their faces. His arm dripped blood onto the concrete floor and the eyes calculated the dripping, and then shifted back to his face, the smiles still on the mouths, but never reaching the calculating eyes.

“Who you brung for dinner, Bugs?” one of the men asked.

“A nice young punk,” the big man answered. “Hurt his poor little arm, though, didn’t you, sonny?”

Johnny wet his lips. “Yeah, I... I got cut.”

“Well, now, that’s too bad, punk,” one of the men in the circle said. “Now that’s too bad you got a cut on your arm.”

“Maybe we got a nurse here can fix it up,” another man said.

“Sure, we got a lot of nurses here, kid. We’ll fix you up fine, kid. Here, have some coffee.”

He wasn’t sure now. He wasn’t sure what they meant, and he wasn’t sure whether they intended him harm or whether they were giving him sanctuary. He knew only that there were five of them and that he had only one good arm.

One of the men poured the coffee into a tin cup, and the strong aroma reached his nostrils, clung there. He wanted that coffee very badly, he wanted it almost desperately. The man handed the cup to Bugs, and the steam rose in the orange glow of the grill.

Bugs said, facing Johnny squarely now, “You want the coffee, punk?”

“I’d like a cup,” Johnny said warily.

“You got money to pay for it, punk?” Bugs asked. Maybe that was it. Maybe all they wanted was money. But suppose...

“No,” Johnny lied. “I’m broke.”

“Well now, ain’t that a shame?” Bugs said, winking again at the other men. “How you ’spect to get any coffee unless you pay for it? Coffee don’t grow on trees now, does it?”

“I guess not,” Johnny said slowly. “Forget the coffee. I’ll do without.”

“Now, now,” Bugs said, “no need to take that attitude, is there, boys? We’re willing to barter. You know how to horse-trade, punk?”

“I don’t want the coffee,” Johnny said firmly. He was already figuring how he’d make his break because he knew a break was in the cards, and the way the cards were falling he’d have to make the break soon.

Johnny wet his lips and moved closer to the glowing grill. Bugs kept eyeing him steadily, the vacuous, stupid smile on his face.

“All right,” Johnny said nervously. “Give me the cup.”

Bugs extended the steaming tin cup. “That’s a good little punk,” he said. “That’s the way we like it. No fuss and no muss. Now go ahead and drink your coffee, punk. Drink it all down fine. Go ahead, punk.”

He handed the cup to Johnny, and Johnny felt the hot liquid through the tin of the container and then he moved. He threw the coffee into Bugs’s face, lashing out with his left hand. He heard Bugs scream as the hot liquid scalded him and then Johnny’s foot lashed out for the grill, kicking wildly at it, hooking the metal under the glowing coils. The grill leaped into the air like a flashing comet, hung suspended hot at the end of its wire, and then the wire pulled free of the outlet, and the grill glowed for an instant and then began to dwindle, its coils turning pale.

He was already running. Bugs was screaming wildly behind him, and he heard footsteps, and he heard another scream and knew that the wildly kicked grill had burned someone else. He headed for the steps, with the sounds angry behind him, the footsteps thudding against the bare floor. His own feet hit the iron rungs of the stairs, the echoes clattering up the stairwell, down, down to the main floor and then across the darkened room with the piled, dusty furniture, the shouts and cries behind him all the way. He leaped up for the window, jimmied it open, and then shoved the loose bar aside.

“I’ll kill the louse!” he heard Bugs shout but he was already outside and sprinting for the fence. He jumped up, forced to use both arms, with the blood smearing across the fence in a wild streak. And then he was over, just as Bugs squeezed through the bars and ran for the fence. He was tired, very tired. His arm hurt like hell, and his heart exploded against his rib cage, and he knew he couldn’t risk a prolonged chase because Bugs would surely catch him.

He was at the corner now and Bugs still hadn’t reached the fence. He spotted the manhole and he ran for it quickly, stooping down and expertly prying open the lid with his fingers. He’d been down manholes before. He’d been down them when the kids used to play stickball and a ball rolled down the sewer and the only way to get it was by prying open the manhole cover and catching it before it got washed away to the river. He was in the manhole now, and he slid the cover back in place, hearing it wedge firmly in the caked dirt, soundlessly settling back into position. He clung to the iron brackets set into the wall of the sewer, and he could hear the rush of water far below where the sewer elbowed into the pipes. There was noise above him, the noise of feet trampling on the iron lid of the manhole. He held his breath because there was no place to go from here, no place at all. The footsteps clattered overhead and the iron lid rattled and then the footsteps were gone.

He waited until he heard more footsteps, figured them to belong to Bugs’s followers.

He was safe. They didn’t realize he’d ducked into the manhole. They were probably scouting Third Avenue for him now and they’d give up when they figured they’d lost him.

To play it doubly sure, he edged his way down deeper into the sewer, holding on to the iron brackets with his good hand. The stench of garbage and filthy water reached up to caress his nostrils. He was tempted to move up close to the lid again but it was darker down below and if someone did lift the lid, chances were he wouldn’t be seen if he went deeper.

The walls around him were slimy and wet, and they smelled, too, or at least he thought they did. His nose was no longer capable of determining the direction of the stink. It was all around him, like a soggy vile blanket. He felt nauseous and he didn’t know whether the nausea came from his dripping arm or the dripping slime of the sewer.

He only knew that he was safe here, and that Bugs and the boys were upstairs, and so he descended deeper until the elbow of the sewer was just beneath his feet and he could hear the rush of water loud beneath him.

He was very weary, more weary than he’d been in all his life. The weight of the entire city seemed to press down on him, as if all the concrete and steel were concentrated on this one hole in the asphalt, determined to crush it into the core of the earth.

He hooked his left arm into one of the brackets, and he hung there like a Christ with one arm free. The free arm dangled at his right side, the bandage soaked through now, the blood running down and dropping into the rushing water below.

Drop by drop, it hit the slimy surface of the brown water while Johnny hung from the rusted iron bracket praying no one would lift the manhole cover. Drop by drop, it mingled with the brown water, flowed into the elbow where manhole joined sewer pipe, rushed toward the river, bright red on the brown, rushed with the water carrying the smell of fresh blood.

And the rat clinging to the rotted orange crate lodged in the sewer pipe turned glittering bright eyes toward the manhole opening, and his nostrils twitched as he smelled the blood. His teeth gnashed before he plunged into the water and swam toward the source of the blood.

Marie Trachetti got the news from Hannihan, the cop on the beat. She threw on her high school jacket and went into the streets looking for Johnny.

She had known from the moment Angelo got shot that Johnny would be tagged with it. She had known, and she had sought him then, hoping to warn him, but she had not found him, and the next thing she knew a search was out for him and he was suspected of the killing.

All that was over and done with now. This Ryan fellow had confessed to shooting Angelo, a crime for which he should have been awarded a medal. But Johnny was clear now, and Johnny had to be told, and so Marie took to the streets in search of him.

She did not, in all truth, know where to look for him. Johnny and she did not run in the same circles. She had her friends, and he had his, and except for that run-in with Angelo, their separate social paths hardly ever crossed.

She started looking in the pool parlors and when she had no luck there, she tried the movies. She met some of Johnny’s friends but none of them had seen him, and so she tried all the restaurants, walking up 125th Street and then down Lexington Avenue.

From Lexington Avenue, she walked down to Third, frightened because it was very late at night and because she knew she was an attractive girl in a dark, exotic-looking way. Her brush with Angelo had taught her that.

The sidewalks seemed to be darker than the gutter, and so she stayed in the middle of the street, looking from side to side as she made her way from the corner, hoping to spot Johnny huddled in one of the doorways.

She was wearing high heels, the shoes she wore at her after-school job in the delicatessen. Her heels clattered on the iron top of a manhole cover, sending a loud clicking into the silent night. She did not look down. She continued walking up the street into the blackness.

Johnny did not hear the clicking of his sister’s heels on the manhole cover above him. Johnny was at the moment listening to another sound. The sound was a squeak at first. He looked down curiously. And then the sound was a scraping, and when he looked this time he saw the glow of two pinpoints of light, and he knew he was looking into a rat’s eyes.

He was scared. He was damned scared. It’s one thing tangling with a human, but it’s another to tangle with a rodent, and Johnny had always been afraid of rats, ever since he’d been bitten by a mouse when they lived over on First Avenue.

He started up the iron brackets set into the sewer wall. He started up rapidly, but the rat was fast, too. He screamed aloud when it leaped onto his foot. He could feel it clinging to his shoe. He shook his foot, climbing up closer to the manhole lid all the time, but the rat clung, and it seemed as if every nerve ending in his body had suddenly moved into his foot. He forgot the pain in his arm, and he forgot the rusted rough edges of the brackets as he climbed closer to the lid. He was aware only of the rat’s weight on his foot, of those glittering, pinpointed eyes down below him.

And then the rat began climbing up the tweed of his trousers, and Johnny screamed again, in real fear this time, fear that crackled into his skull. His head banged against the manhole lid, and he rushed up against it frantically, wedging his shoulders against the flat iron surface, trying to move it. He could not budge the cover. He tried it again, and he felt the rat’s claws digging into his trousers, scraping against his flesh.

He tried to scream, but no sound came from his mouth. He pushed upward with his shoulders again, and this time the lid moved a little, and a fine sifting of dirt trickled down onto the back of his neck. He shoved again, and then tried to brush the rat off his leg. The rat clung, snapping at his hand, drawing fresh blood. Johnny’s breath came fast now, crowding into his throat. He shoved at the cover and it moved aside, and the light from the street splashed down into the manhole, illuminating the rat.

It was a big animal, nine inches or so not counting the tail. It was covered with matted, filthy fur and the sight of the rat made Johnny’s flesh crawl. But the manhole cover was off now and he thrust his head above the surface of the street, not caring about Bugs or his friends, not caring about anything now, wanting only to get away.

The rat pounced onto his arm, its teeth sinking into the sodden bandage. Johnny flipped up onto the asphalt and the rat clung, only now Johnny didn’t have to worry about clinging to an iron bracket. He balled his left fist, terror shrieking inside him, and brought it down on the rat’s head. The rat clung fiercely.

He got to his feet and ran across the street, stopping alongside the brick wall of a building. And then he began battering the bleeding arm against the brick, over and over again, slamming the tenacious rat against the wall.

And at last the rat’s jaws loosened and it fell away to the pavement, a whimpering ball of fur with a long, twitching tail. He did not look down at the rat. He was crying now, crying as he’d never cried in his life. He ran up the street, sobbing and wondering why he’d had to run all his life, all his damn life.

And then he stopped running and fell to the pavement, and blackness closed in on him.

It was Marie who found him ten minutes later as she made her way down the street. It was she who carried him home, half dragging him, half pulling him. It was she who sent for the doctor.

The doctor treated and bandaged his arm, and Johnny slept all that night and through the next day.

Marie and Johnny’s parents were by his bedside when he awoke, and the first thing he said was, “Why do I have to keep running? Why?”

And because they thought he was referring to Angelo’s death, they said, “The police found the killer, Johnny. It’s all right now. It’s all right.”

Only Johnny Trachetti knew that it wasn’t all right, and that maybe it would never be.

Downpour

This Richard Marsten story was first published as “Murder on the Keys” in the February 1956 issue of Argosy. I don’t know why editors — especially magazine editors — insist on changing good titles to invariably lousy ones. I have always liked this story, and I have always liked my original title for it, which is what appears on it now.

The state of Florida is a Luger.

You think of it as a broad beaver’s tail jutting out into the Atlantic but it isn’t that at all. There’s a perpendicular bar of real estate on the northern end, spreading west to form the muzzle of a pistol, and the muzzle is narrow and thin in comparison to the broad grip of the gun, the way a Luger tapers down to a narrow, lethal grace. You’ll find Sun City curling down like the trigger of the gun, and if you travel down the western side of the notched grip, you’ll find the Gulf beaches. One of those beaches is called Pass-A-Grille, and it’s as much a part of the Luger as the slide mechanism and the clip.

In Pass-A-Grille that week, they talked of nothing but the weather.

The snowstorm had swept through Ontario and Quebec, rampaged into New York State, and then ripped southward. In Tallahassee, Florida, a surprised citizenry awoke to find sleet and snow and a low temperature of thirty-four degrees — and in Pass-A-Grille, there was a cold, steady rain together with high winds.

People came into the diner with the collars of their coats high, their eyes watery from the angry winds that blew raw off the bay. It was a cold March in Florida, and people looked at the skies and said, “It’ll break tomorrow” — but tomorrow never came.

David Coe watched the skies, too.

David owned a boat. It was a thirty-six-footer and not a yacht, but it had a good engine and it managed to earn its keep. When the weather was good, David carried fishing parties. He could usually get up a good party in Pass-A-Grille. His rates were reasonable and he got all kinds of fishermen — when the weather was good. The weather was not good. The weather was lousy, and he was contemplating a pretty lean week when Leslie Grew came down to the docks.

Grew was a thin man with gold-rimmed spectacles, no more than thirty-eight but with the tired look of a man of seventy. His shoulders were hunched, and he took tentative, birdlike steps as he came down onto the wood planking. He glanced over his shoulder every now and then, almost as if he had a nervous tic. He had thin, sandy-brown hair, and it danced on top of his head, rising and falling with the fresh gusts of wind that whipped off the water. He seemed not to notice the rain. He walked directly to where David was squatting on the deck of the Helen, cleaning out the bait well.

“Mr. Coe?” Grew asked. He had a deep voice, surprising because it came up from such a narrow chest.

“Yes?”

“I want to rent your boat.”

David squinted up at him. He was surprised by the unexpected windfall, but he was also suspicious of a man who wanted to go out in this kind of weather.

“How many in your party, Mr.—”

“Grew,” he supplied, and he looked at David long and hard, as if trying to see whether or not the name meant anything to him. “Leslie Grew,” he added and he kept looking, and David simply nodded because the name meant nothing.

“How many in the party?” David asked again.

“Two,” Grew answered.

“How long do you expect to be out?”

“That depends. I’d say a week or so.”

“You and your friend must be hardy fellows,” David said.

“My friend is a woman,” Grew answered. “My secretary.”

“This is a fishing boat. Does your secretary fish?”

“Is the boat for hire or isn’t it?” Grew asked impatiently. “I haven’t the time to argue.”

“I didn’t say I was renting.”

“I’m a friend of Sam Friedman,” Grew said.

“Yeah?”

“Yes. He suggested I try you. He said you would rent us the boat for a week or so. It’s really quite urgent.”

“How well do you know Sam?”

“Not too well,” Grew admitted. “He told me you were in the Army together. He said you were a man to be trusted. Are you?”

“It depends on what I’m entrusted with.” David looked at his watch. “Come back at noon. I want to call Sam first.”

“Certainly,” Grew said. He paused and then added, “We’d like to get under way as soon as possible. We’ll bring our stuff with us when we come.”

“I’m not sure you’re going yet,” David said.

Grew allowed a tiny smile to briefly appear on his face. “I’m willing to gamble, Mr. Coe,” he said.

David walked over to the diner and crowded himself into a phone booth. Sam Friedman worked on the Sun City afternoon daily, and David had known him for a long time. Sam knew the way David felt about things in general, and it sounded strange that he’d recommend Grew and his “secretary.”

When Sam came on, David said, “Hi. David Coe. Sam, who’s Leslie Grew? He wants to rent a boat. He’s also got a girl with him. Why’d you send him to me?”

“I’d like you to take him aboard. I’d appreciate it a lot. It’ll just be for a week or so. The secretary — it’s not what you think it is.”

“Is he in trouble with the law?”

“No.”

“What then? Look, Sam, give it to me. All of it.”

There was a long silence on the line. Sam sighed then and said, “I can’t, David. Not even a part of it. If you take them aboard, you’ll be doing a lot of people a favor. But I won’t try to influence you. I don’t want to be responsible for getting you involved.”

“What’s there to get involved in?”

“I can’t say another word, David.”

“I just wasted a dime,” David said. He paused, sighing. “I’ll think it over. In the meantime, have you got any other interesting business for me? Like smuggling in some Cubans, or heroin?”

“Go to hell,” Sam said, a smile in his voice.

David hung up and went out of the booth and over to the counter. He ordered a cup of hot coffee, and Charlie went over to draw it while David mulled over Leslie Grew and Company. He was still mulling when the coffee came. The diner was empty except for him and Charlie. When the door opened, David didn’t look around.

The fellow who sat down at the end of the counter didn’t leave room for much else. He was at least six-two in his bare soles, and he probably tipped the scales at two-twenty, bone-dry. He was wearing a camel’s hair polo coat and a brown porkpie hat. He had a thick, beefy-looking face with a lot of meat between the ears, and a nose that looked like a segment of corrugated tin roof. His eyes were almost black, set deep into his head. He sat down, and the stool creaked under his weight. He picked up the menu with a hair-shrouded hand.

Charlie ambled over and said, “Morning, sir. See anything you like?”

The man’s voice was like the sound of a hacksaw, high and rasping. “Cup of coffee and a French,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” Charlie answered. “Some weather, huh?”

“Yeah,” the man said. When Charlie brought him his coffee and doughnut, he leaned closer to the counter and said, “My name’s Williston. Harry Williston.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Charlie said.

Williston nodded. “You know everybody in town?”

“Almost,” Charlie answered.

“I’m looking for a friend of mine,” Williston said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Don’t know where he’s staying, but I’d sure like to find him. Appreciate your help.”

“Happy to help, if I can,” Charlie said. “What’s his name?”

“He’s a tall guy,” Williston said. “Skinny. Brown hair. Wears gold-rimmed glasses.” Williston paused. “There’s a girl with him.”

David didn’t look up. He was raising the coffee cup, and he kept on raising it while he listened.

“What’s his name?” Charlie asked again.

“Put it this way,” Williston said. “He may be traveling incognito. I wouldn’t want to give him away. Have you seen him around?”

Charlie shrugged. “Don’t recall.”

“Put it this way,” Williston said. “It might be worth your while to recall.”

“What’s the girl look like?”

“Blonde, about five-four, good body, good legs.”

“Lots of girls like that in this town.”

“Yeah, but put it this way. They ain’t all with a skinny guy wearing gold-rimmed glasses.”

“Don’t recall seeing either of them,” Charlie said.

Williston turned on his stool. “How about you?” he asked.

David looked up. “How about me what?”

“You see the people I’m inquiring about?”

“I haven’t been listening to your inquiries,” David said. He turned on his stool, and he and Williston had a short staring contest, and then Williston’s stare turned slightly ugly and he said, “I thought everyone in small towns listened.”

“Not everyone,” David said, and he turned back to his coffee.

“You mind listening now?” Williston asked, an edge to his voice.

“What do you want?” David said.

“I’m looking for some friends of mine. A tall, skinny guy with glasses, and a blonde girl. You see them around?”

“No,” David said. “And I don’t intend to.”

“Put it this way,” Williston said. “You can get too bright for your own good.”

“Don’t bother me,” David said. “I came in here for coffee.”

Charlie looked as if he were expecting trouble, and to tell the truth, David was expecting it, too. But people who barged in and started shoving their weight around had always annoyed him. Williston got off his stool and walked over to where David was drinking his coffee. He stood there with his hands on his hips, looking down at David as if he were a spider.

“I didn’t know I was bothering you,” Williston said.

“Put it this way,” David said. “You were, and you are. Go find your friends by yourself. I don’t know anything about them.”

“This is a real friendly town, ain’t it?” Williston said.

“As friendly as most.”

“If you’re an example of—”

David got off the stool and Williston stopped talking. David saw him clench his fists, so he guessed Williston expected him to take a swing. Instead, he reached into his pocket for some change to pay for the coffee. He saw Williston’s hand move unconsciously toward the opening of his coat and linger there until he realized David was only reaching for money. David put his change on the counter. He was heading for the door when Williston put his hand on his arm and turned him around.

“Where you going?” he asked, smiling pleasantly.

“Outside. Take your hand off my arm.”

“You’re the sensitive type, ain’t you?”

“Take your hand back while you’ve still got fingers, mister.”

“Tough, too,” Williston said mockingly, but he pulled back his hand.

David walked to the door and stepped outside.

Leslie Grew and the blonde were waiting on the dock, standing there with the rain coming down around them. The blonde was wearing a dark blue trench coat, the collar turned up against the wind. Her hair was in a long ponytail, and the wind whipped it over her shoulder and occasionally lashed it against her cheek. Her face was wet, a good face with strong cheekbones and a generous mouth. She was wearing black-rimmed eyeglasses.

David walked over to them.

“I guess you’re in trouble,” he said.

“Who told you that?” Grew wanted to know.

“Nobody. Sam’s a clam. But there was a heavy inquiring about you in the diner. He wasn’t the type you take home to Mother.”

Grew and the girl exchanged a hasty glance.

“Are you taking us aboard?” the girl asked. Her voice was surprisingly husky.

“I want a hundred and a quarter for the week,” David said. “If you do any fishing, the bait and tackle are extra.” He paused. “I don’t imagine we’ll be doing much fishing, will we?”

The girl smiled, her gray eyes crinkling at the edges. “I don’t imagine so.”

“Have you got your baggage?”

“Yes,” the girl said. “On the dock.”

“I don’t think I know your name,” David said.

Again, the pair exchanged glances. David caught the quick flicker of their eyes and then Grew said, “David Coe, Miss Meadows.” He paused, as if he were testing the name. “Wanda Meadows.”

“How do you do,” David said. “Come on, I’ll help you with your baggage. We can shove off as soon as I get some provisions.”

There were two valises and what looked like a typewriter case on the dock alongside the boat. David picked up one of the bags, and it almost pulled him back down to the dock. “What’ve you got in here?” he asked. “An anvil?”

Wanda stared at him levelly. “A Luger, among other things,” she said, and walked past him to the gangplank. Grew picked up the typewriter case and followed her. They went down into the cabin, and David put down the bags.

“The dinette on your port forms into a double berth,” he said. “Galley’s over here on the starboard. I’ve got two transom berths up forward, where the john is. You can take the double, Miss Meadows. Mr. Grew and I will sleep up forward.”

“Thank you,” she said. “And please make it Wanda.”

“I will. Have you given any thought to where you want to go?”

“Anywhere, it doesn’t matter,” Grew said. “Just so we’re away from shore.”

David considered this. “Well, I can carry meat for about three days in my icebox. I don’t think she’ll hold more than that. If we’re going to be out for longer than that, we’ll have to put in some place. I’ll need some money in advance if I’m going to stock up.”

“I’ll have to cash a traveler’s check,” Grew said. “I’ll go with you.” He turned to Wanda anxiously. “Will you be all right?”

“I have a gun,” Wanda said. “And I know how to use it.”

Grew nodded to himself, sighed, and patted her hand. “Very well then. Shall we go, Mr. Coe?”

The rain had a cutting edge to it.

They ducked their heads and went off the dock and onto Pass-A-Grille Way. They walked up to Eighth Street, then crossed the boulevard. Grew didn’t say anything. He kept walking with his head bent against the rain, and every now and then he’d raise it and look around.

“Who’s after you?” David asked suddenly. “Man named Williston?”

Grew looked up sharply. “So he’s the one who was asking questions.”

“Is there going to be any gunplay on this little voyage?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why’s the girl carrying a Luger?”

“For protection.”

“Against what?”

Grew didn’t answer that question. Instead, he said, “If you’d rather not carry us, Mr. Coe...”

“I frankly would rather not carry you, Mr. Grew. But the question is whether I should let the Helen lie idle for the rest of this blow, or take her out and earn myself some eating money. I also didn’t like the looks of your friend Harry Williston. You don’t seem like a match for him.”

“And you are a match for him, Mr. Coe?”

“I don’t intend to find out. But if I have to use a gun, I’m going to charge you for the service.”

They went into the grocery and loaded up with meat and canned goods. They carried the food out in three shopping bags, David carrying two and Grew carrying the remaining one. They were passing the post office when Grew stopped dead in his tracks.

“Let’s cross over,” he whispered.

David followed Grew’s glance. Harry Williston was leaning against the wall to the right of the post office entrance, and David figured he’d stationed himself there on the assumption that anyone wanting his mail in this general delivery town would have to come here for it. David took Grew’s elbow, and they started across the street against the rain.

Williston looked up and spotted Grew. He walked out into the gutter.

“Get going,” David told Grew. “Head for the boat!”

“No,” Grew said firmly, and David glanced at him curiously, then shifted his attention back to Williston. Williston was walking across the gutter in an apparent collision course. He stopped about a foot from them, his big feet planted in a wide, wet puddle. They started to walk around him, but he moved over again, blocking their path.

“You’re in our way,” David said. Williston ignored him. He looked straight at Grew and said, “Well. Hello there. Long time no see.”

Grew pulled back his shoulders. “Get out of our way,” he said.

“Have you started it yet?” Williston asked.

“That’s none of your business,” Grew answered.

“Put it this way,” Williston said. “It is my business.”

“We’re driving out of here,” Grew said. “We’ve hired a car and we’re leaving this afternoon and you can’t stop us. I wouldn’t try if I were you.”

“Where’s the girl?” Williston asked.

“She’s going with us,” Grew said.

Williston indicated David. “This your chauffeur?” he asked, smiling.

“Yes,” David answered. “I’m his chauffeur.”

“I should have broke your arm back in the diner.”

“You should have,” David told him. “Now you’ll never get the chance.”

“You know who you’re chauffeuring around, mister?” Williston asked.

“Yes, I do. Get out of our way, Harry. We’re in a hurry.”

“Mr. Williston to you,” he corrected.

“Gee, I’m so sorry,” David said, and then turned to Grew and said, “Come on.” Together they walked away from Williston who stood in the center of the street, in the rain, watching them.

“Away from the docks,” David whispered.

They began walking back toward the center of town.

“You accomplished nothing,” Grew said breathlessly. “There are others. He isn’t alone. They’ll find Sam Friedman, and he’ll tell them about you, and then they’ll know we’re on a boat. Wanda and I were senseless to run. We should have stayed put.”

“This way,” David said, and ducked into an alley.

They walked for a while in silence, circling back toward the docks. Williston was nowhere behind them.

“They don’t know you’re on a boat,” David said at last. “If they look up Sam, he won’t breathe a word to them. You have nothing to worry about. This’ll all blow over.”

“Will it?” Grew said. “Will it?”

And he gave a short, hollow laugh that ran the length of David’s spine.

The gentleman stood against the sink with his hands up over his head. He was wearing Army khakis and a tan windbreaker and he was a slim man with a shock of fiery-red hair. Wanda Meadows sat on the port side of the cabin on one of the dinette seats, and the Luger was in her fist and pointed at the gentleman’s back. Her legs were crossed demurely, and she held the gun as steadily as if it were a cup of tea.

Grew and David came down into the cabin, and the first thing they saw was the slim gentleman, and the next thing they saw was Wanda with the gun. David looked at Wanda. Her eyes were cold and the coldness had turned the gray two shades darker. Her full lips were taut across her teeth.

“Who is he?” David asked.

The man didn’t turn. “Tell the dame to put up the gun, will you?”

“Put it up, Wanda.”

Wanda lowered the gun. The man against the sink made a motion to turn—

“Stay where you are,” she snapped. “If you turn around, I’ll shoot you.”

“The dame’s nuts,” he said, shaking his head. “I come aboard and she pulls a gun on me.”

“Who invited you?” David asked.

“I come aboard to see if I could rent her. She’s a fishing boat, ain’t, she? I heard they was bitin’ like crazy. I figured the owner of the boat wouldn’t mind making a fast buck.”

“I’m the owner,” David said. “I’ve already got a party.”

“Then I’ll be goin’,” the man said. He turned around, and Wanda brought the Luger up and pointed it at his navel.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Frank Reardon.”

“Where are you from?”

“Tampa.”

“Why’d you come all the way down here to fish?”

“I heard they was bitin’. Hell, they ain’t even swimmin’ in Tampa Bay.”

“How’d you find the boat?” David asked.

“What do you mean, how’d I find it? I come looking for a good boat, so I come down to the docks. I spot this one, and she looks clean, so I come aboard. What the hell did I stumble into, anyway? A Russian spy ring?”

“Okay,” David said. “Get ashore. And don’t come back.”

“Don’t worry,” Reardon said. He looked tentatively toward Wanda and the Luger. “Okay, sister?”

“Go on,” she said lowering the gun. Reardon looked at her queerly, shook his head, and mounted the steps. David walked up after him, watching him until he was ashore, then went below again.

“Is someone about ready to tell me what the hell’s going on?” he said.

Neither Grew nor Wanda answered.

“Why are they after you?”

Wanda smiled a bit tremulously.

David stared into the silence. “One thing I hate,” he said, “is talkative fishing parties. Come on, we’d better get under way.”

He gassed her up and then took her out past the rocks. He had no real idea where he should go, no real idea where he should take the fugitives. He vaguely surmised, however, that any chase party would assume they’d head into the Gulf, and so he chose Boca Ciega Bay as the place least likely to encourage pursuit.

He still could not understand his own reasons for having taken them aboard. But there’d been something pathetically appealing about the underweight Grew, and he could not deny the obvious attractiveness of Wanda Meadows. It wasn’t every woman who could handle Pitman and a Luger with equal ease.

He opened the throttle a little wider, and the Helen rushed past Villa del Mar in a burst of flying green and gray and white spray. He kept her nosed into the channel, past the shallow flats and the grass, past Mud Key Point and Mud Key Cutoff and Big McPherson Bayou, heading for the open waters of the bay.

He looked back toward the seat aft near the fishing boxes. There was a locker under that seat, and there was a rifle in the locker, and there was also an Army .45 there, and the .45 had a fresh clip in it. He’d once shot the head off a barracuda with that .45 after a careless fisherman had lost two toes dangling his feet in the water. The way things were going, he surmised there might be more to shoot than barracuda this trip.

He heard a clicking from below, and for a moment he couldn’t place the sound. Then he realized it was a typewriter, and he silently congratulated Grew on his capacity for concentration. Even in the midst of headlong flight, the man could find time to dictate letters to his secretary. He wondered what type of business Grew was in. He didn’t look like a man who got entangled with people like Harry Williston. The typing stopped abruptly. Grew was coming up the steps from the cabin.

“Nasty up here,” Grew said.

“Yes,” David replied.

“How fast will she go?”

“Twenty, twenty-five knots.”

“No faster?”

“This isn’t a destroyer, Mr. Grew.”

“More’s the pity,” Grew answered.

“Getting off some correspondence?”

“What?”

“The typewriter,” David said.

“Oh.” Grew hesitated. “Yes.”

“What line are you in, Mr. Grew?”

Grew hesitated for another moment. He smiled broadly then, as though pleased with the answer he had formulated. “Communications,” he said.

David pulled the throttle out a notch, realizing at the same instant that the typewriter below had stopped when Grew came up on deck,

“Your secretary’s goofing off,” he said.

“Eh? Oh, is she?” Grew seemed to remember something. “I’d better get below.”

He went below and in a moment the typewriter started again. A gull swooped low over the boat, decided it was not carrying any fish, and went screaming off.

Suddenly David felt Wanda’s presence beside him.

“How does it feel?” she asked.

“How does what feel?”

“Being a sailor.”

“Like being a millionaire,” David said, smiling. “Minus the million bucks.”

Wanda sucked in a deep breath and threw back her head, the ponytail trailing down her back. “It smells good,” she said. “The water. You can smell the salt and the fish.” Suddenly she pointed off the starboard bow and said, “Look!”

David followed her finger, picking out the yellow speck in the sky. “Coast Guard helicopter,” he said.

Wanda took off her glasses, squinted, reached for a handkerchief in the pocket of her trench coat, began wiping off the lenses of her glasses. He studied her eyes. They were slightly tilted, almost Oriental, a deep gray reflecting the somber water, flecked with chips of white.

“You’re prettier without them,” he said.

“Thanks,” she answered. “I’m also blind as a bat without them.” She put the glasses on again, peered out over the water to where the helicopter was closer now, its roar filling the sky. David watched the craft as it dropped closer to his boat. He saw an enlisted man in the cockpit toss out a rope ladder, and then an officer in grays climbed over him and started down toward the boat. The enlisted man wrestled with the controls, trying to keep the plane hovering over the boat. The officer was a lieutenant j.g. He clung to the last rung of the ladder for an instant, then dropped to the Helen’s deck.

“You David Coe?” he asked.

“Yes,” David said.

The j.g.’s eyes flicked Wanda briefly. “Hate to break up your party,” he said.

“What is it, Lieutenant?” David asked, miffed by the j.g.’s implication.

“The Sun City Police would like to see you, pal. Seems you talked to a Sam Friedman this morning on the telephone?”

“What about it?”

“You were the last guy to talk to him. He was shot to death about an hour ago. They found him with eight bullets in his head and chest.” The lieutenant paused long enough to see the shock spread across David’s face. “You better pull into Madeira Beach,” he said. “The cops sounded kind of impatient.”

The room could have been a broom closet. There was a square, scarred desk with a chair behind it. There was a bulletin board and a battery of green metal filing cases. There was a shaded lightbulb hanging over the desk and there was a window with dust-covered Venetian blinds hiding it. There was a door with a frosted-glass panel, and on the other side of the frosted glass were lettered the words DETECTIVE DIVISION. A narrow wooden plaque on the desk read: LIEUTENANT MAUROW.

Maurow was a big man with a thatch of red hair. His eyes were pale blue, as cold as a swimming pool in January. He had thick lips and a mole close to the deep cleft in his chin. He studied David and his eyes said nothing and his mouth said nothing. He picked up a pencil and tapped it on the desk.

“What do you do, Coe?” he asked.

“I own a boat.”

“Why’d you call Sam Friedman this morning?”

“I just called him socially,” David said. “Sam was one of my best friends.”

“You know anybody named Leslie Grew?” Maurow asked.

David hesitated. “No,” he said.

“Friedman’s secretary tells us you called about eleven thirty or so.”

“Yes. I guess it was about then.”

“What’d you talk about?”

“The weather,” David said.

“Don’t get wise, Coe. I’ve got a jail full of wise guys downstairs. Did you discuss Leslie Grew with him?”

“I don’t know any Leslie Grew.”

“I hope you’re leveling with me, Coe.”

“Why should I lie?”

“Maybe you’re just a natural liar. Maybe you’d lie if I asked you your own name.”

“Maybe. Why don’t you ask me?”

Maurow looked at him steadily, narrowly.

“You don’t know Leslie Grew, huh?”

“No.”

“A certain police department up north a ways is looking for him.” Maurow smiled. “You still never heard of him?”

“No,” David said.

“Grew and Meadows,” Maurow said. “Meadows is the secretary. Funny, too.” He shrugged massive shoulders. “I guess work is hard to find.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Grew and Meadows are both wanted. They’re wanted bad. That police department is in a small town, a very small town. That doesn’t mean we don’t cooperate with them, though. We got a teletype just a little while after Friedman’s body turned up. Told us they might try to contact him. We got the teletype just a little too late.”

“What are they wanted for?” David asked.

“Grand theft,” Maurow said. “Your pals are heeled, too.”

“Guns?”

“A gun. A souvenir Luger, missing from Grew’s desk. You see any suspicious-looking Lugers lately?”

“I wouldn’t know a Luger if I did see one,” David lied.

“You’re a pretty ignorant fellow for somebody who went through the Italian campaign, ain’t you?”

“Sometimes,” David said.

“Is it true Friedman pulled you away from a grenade once in Italy and maybe saved you from being a splash on the Italian countryside?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you protecting his murderers?”

“I’m not.”

“You’re protecting Grew and Meadows, aren’t you? You called about Grew this morning, didn’t you? That’s what your conversation with Friedman was about. Isn’t that right?”

“No.” David paused. “I don’t know anyone by those names.”

“You couldn’t miss this babe, Coe. She’s a blonde, and she has it all in the right places. She’s also wearing glasses. What do you say?”

“I don’t know any blondes who wear glasses.”

“I don’t think very kindly of you for making things tough for us.” Maurow paused. “Don’t spit on the sidewalk, Coe. And don’t speed, and don’t do a lot of things you may not even know about. This city has a lot of ordinances, and we’ll be waiting for you, Coe. Now get out of here.”

David headed for the deserted dock alongside which he’d berthed the boat, thinking of Sam Friedman and allowing his murder to build a cold, festering rage inside him. He knew that neither Wanda nor Grew could have committed the murder. He’d spoken to Sam on the telephone and then gone directly to the dock to find Grew and the girl waiting for him. After that neither had been much out of his sight.

The boat bobbed gently on the waterline. The dock was very silent, the rain pressing drearily against the wooden planking. David jumped onto the deck, then headed below into the cabin.

The cabin reeked of cordite. The room was filled with smoke that hung in unshifting layers on the still air. He peered through the smoke. The typewriter rested on the dinette table, a sheet of paper in the roller. One suitcase lay on the deck, unopened. The Luger was nowhere in sight. Neither was the girl.

Leslie Grew was on the deck. There was a bullet hole between his eyes. David knelt down. Grew was dead.

“Wanda!” David called, standing up quickly. He walked to the galley side of the cabin and shoved open the door there.

“Wanda!”

He went forward and checked both transom berths. He went into the head and checked there. Wanda Meadows was not aboard. He went back into the cabin and looked down at Grew’s body. The man’s spectacles lay on the deck several feet from his outstretched hand. One of the lenses was smashed, as if someone had stepped on it.

He went to the suitcase that lay on the deck. He lifted it. This was not the heavy suitcase. The heavy suitcase was gone. He put the bag on the dinette table alongside the typewriter, and snapped it open. Quickly he went through it. Lingerie, mostly. Very lacy. Very feminine. He looked through the pocket of the bag. A pair of toothbrushes, toothpaste, shaving cream, a safety razor, a packet of bobby pins, lipstick. He closed the bag. He swung the typewriter around. There were two lines typed on the otherwise blank page. In the right-hand corner was the number “14.” Beneath that, in heavy black type, were the words: “men like Harry Williston, who poses as the innocuous proprietor of a pool parlor. Men like the late and vociferously lamented Geo5”

Harry Williston again.

And somebody who was dead and apparently named George something-or-other. David looked at the keyboard. The “5” was directly above the “r.” A simple typo, except for the fact that the typo and the end of the typewritten matter happened to coincide. Had something happened to cause Wanda Meadows to stop in the middle of the thought — and with an error?

He moved away from the typewriter and began scanning the deck. He found the shoe first. A blue calf, high-heeled pump. It matched the color of the dark blue raincoat she’d been wearing. He looked around the cabin again, wondering if the raincoat was gone, too. Then he saw it sprawled across the seat of the dinette. She had left without her raincoat, and she had left in enough haste to drop her shoe at the foot of the ladder leading above decks. He put the shoe alongside the typewriter, then studied the deck again.

Glistening metal lay several feet from Grew’s body. He bent down and picked it up, recognizing it instantly as an ejected cartridge case. He turned it over in his fingers, seeing the indentation where the firing pin had struck. Lettered onto the back of the case in a semicircle were the letters REM.UMC.

Beneath that, and coming up to form the lower half of the circle: 9-MM LUGER.

Harry Williston had been carrying a snub-nosed .38, a gun that looked like a Banker’s Special. But Banker’s Special or not, it had been a revolver, and revolvers don’t eject cartridges, and the cartridge David held was unmistakably stamped LUGER.

He had seen only one Luger since all this started.

That Luger had been in the fist of Wanda Meadows. He looked down at the bullet hole in Grew’s face, wondering if it had been made by Wanda’s Luger.

When he heard the creak above him, and he looked up at once. Someone was onboard.

“Hello?” a voice called. “Anybody aboard?”

For an instant, David panicked. He looked at the body on the deck, then hurriedly went toward the ladder. Two men were waiting above. They both wore trench coats and gray fedoras. He closed the door to the cabin and walked toward them.

“What can I do for you?”

“Sun City Police,” one of the men said. “I’m Detective-Sergeant Sloane. My partner, Detective Belgrave.”

Belgrave nodded briefly. His eyes were on the closed cabin door.

“Maurow didn’t waste any time, did he?” David said.

“Maurow can move fast when he has to,” Sloane said.

“We’ve got a search warrant,” Belgrave said. “Let’s get to work.” He was a big man with a pinched face and hooded brown eyes. “Anybody else aboard this tub?”

“No,” David said.

“What’s your name, anyway?” Belgrave asked.

“David Coe.”

“He’s the one spoke to Friedman last,” Sloane said.

“Yeah,” Belgrave said. “He a friend of yours, Coe?”

“Yes.”

“Shame. Somebody must have sure hated that poor bastard.”

“How do you mean?”

“Emptied a whole damn magazine into him. That don’t betoken brotherly love, pal.”

“A whole magazine?”

He thought back to what the lieutenant j.g. had said. They found him with eight bullet holes in his head and chest. A whole magazine. A .45 carried seven or nine cartridges. A .22 usually carried ten cartridges. A .38 carried nine. A .32 carried eight.

“He was killed with a .32?” David asked.

Belgrave snorted. “Hell no. A Luger. Come on, let’s take a look belowdecks.”

He moved toward the cabin door, and David stepped around him quickly.

“What do you expect to find down there?” he asked.

“Happens we’re looking for a dame,” Belgrave said, and he shoved past David and was reaching for the latch on the door when David clawed at his shoulder and spun him around and hit him. Belgrave slammed back against the cabin door, and was reaching under his coat when David hit him again, and he crumpled to the deck. Behind him, David heard Sloane shout, “Hey! Hey!” He whirled and shot his fist at Sloane’s stomach.

“Hey!” Sloane shouted again, and then there was a surprised look on his face and David hit the surprised look, and Sloane hit the deck and was still. David looked off up the dock. There was no one in sight. Quickly, he went to the seat aft near the fishing boxes. He opened the locker under the seat, reached in, and took out the .45 in its Army holster. He removed the gun from the holster, and put the holster back into the locker. He closed the locker and slid the gun’s magazine onto the palm of his hand. It was a full clip. He slapped the clip home and then worked a cartridge into the firing chamber. He tucked the gun into his waistband, took a last look at the quiet detectives, and left the boat.

Maurow’s going to love this, he thought. This will absolutely delight Maurow. But the alternative had been to let the cops go belowdecks and find Grew’s body, after which they’d have put the arm on David for sure. The important thing now was to find a young lady running around somewhere in the rain, a secretary with a very heavy suitcase and a Luger — but without a typewriter.

There were nine typewriter-rental places listed in the Gulf Beaches telephone directory. The fourth one he called told him a woman in Madeira Beach had phoned to rent a typewriter that afternoon.

“What’s her name?” he asked.

“Name? Just a second.” The man paused, obviously checking some papers. “Rebecca Jones,” he said. “At the Sunbright Motel. You know where that is?”

“I’ll find it,” David said.

“Who is this, anyway?” the man asked, but David had already hung up.

The Sunbright Motel was a plush, luxurious, wood-and-glass structure that hugged the beach. Doggedly, David pushed through the rain and into the lobby. The front desk was set along a solid wooden wall that faced the glass entrance wall. There were a good many people in the lobby, seated in the comfortable, modern easy chairs, staring glumly through the rain. David was starting for the desk when he saw Williston. The big man saw him at the same instant. His eyes sparked angrily, then flicked over the crowded lobby. The anger fled. He smiled genially, extended his hand, and walked over toward David.

“Hello,” he said, almost cheerfully.

David didn’t answer. Williston pulled back his hand, the smile still on his face. “We were looking for you,” he said.

“What do you want, Williston?”

“Put it this way,” Williston said. “We ain’t stopping till we get it, so there’s no use playing cute.”

“How’s your pool parlor coming along?” David asked.

The smile dropped from Williston’s mouth. “How do you know about that?”

“I get around,” David said.

Williston scowled. “Where’s Leslie Grew?”

“Leslie Grew is dead.”

“Since when?”

“You don’t know anything about it, huh?” David said.

“Nothing at all.”

“You’re as innocent as—”

“Cut it!” Williston whispered sharply. “I know Grew’s alive, so just cut it! Just tell me where.”

“Try looking on my boat,” David said.

“We already tried, pal. Don’t worry, we’ll get what we want.”

“What is it you—?”

He stopped suddenly.

Wanda had just entered the lobby through a door to the left of the desk.

Williston hadn’t seen her because his back was to her, but she had seen him and she had seen David, and she hesitated now, watching them. She had managed to pick up a pair of flats somewhere, but she was still coatless. She carried the heavy valise.

“If you told me what you’re looking for,” David went on softly, “I might be able to help you.”

“You’re a card,” Williston said. “Put it this way. You’re such a card I’d like to break your nose.”

Wanda turned and moved toward the writing desk along one of the glass walls.

“I’ll tell you what, Williston,” David said, stalling. “You’ve been talking about ‘it’ and about how badly you want ‘it,’ but talk is talk, and talk is cheap.” He saw Wanda pick up a pen and hastily scribble something on a sheet of motel stationery.

“Who’s got it?” Williston asked. “You?”

“Maybe,” David said.

Williston scratched the side of his jaw. Behind him, Wanda held up the folded piece of stationery so that David could see it. Then she tucked the folded page into one of the cubbyholes at the rear of the writing desk and crossed the lobby.

“What would you say it’s worth?” Williston asked.

“Plenty,” David said. She was walking out into the rain now, a slim figure in sweater and skirt, crossing the gravel parking lot, her skirt whipping around her bare legs, the ponytail sweeping back over her shoulders. She stood near the concrete oval surrounding a young palm tree. The rain was lashing down in sheets.

“How much is that?” Williston asked.

Wanda raised her arm and a taxi pulled to a stop beside the palm. The rear door opened. She climbed in, and the door closed. The cab sped off.

David sighed. “Not for sale,” he said. “And there’s nothing more to say.”

“There’s a lot to say. We’re willing to be sensible, so long as your price is right. Why spill any more blood?”

David pulled away from Williston and went across the lobby. Williston stared after him, puzzled, considering. David reached in and removed the note from the cubbyhole. She had a clear, firm hand. The note read:

The note was unsigned.

David glanced at his watch. Three thirty. That left a lot of hours to kill. He smiled at Williston, waved, walked past the bellhop at the cigar counter, and stepped through the glass door and out into the rain. He saw the Sun City squad car too late. The policemen had already seen him, and there was no place to run.

Maurow was in an ugly mood.

“All right, Coe,” he said. “I’m listening.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I want it all. Every bit of it. Right from the beginning. And you’d better give it to me straight.”

“If I knew anything, I’d tell it to you,” David said. “All I know is that a couple of people wanted to charter my boat. I called Sam Friedman, and he told me they didn’t have any law trouble. So I took them aboard. The next thing I know, Sam is dead.”

“These people,” Maurow interrupted. “Grew and Meadows?”

“Yes,” David said.

“What about them?”

“That’s all I know. Except that a rough character named Harry Williston is throwing his weight around. He runs a pool parlor someplace.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. There’s somebody named George in this, too, but he’s dead. Williston is after something, I don’t know what it is, but he wants it badly enough to pay for it — or possibly to kill for it.”

“George who?”

“I don’t know. I saw his name in a typewriter.” Maurow went to his desk and opened a drawer. He took out a sheet of paper that had once been crumpled, but which had been pressed smooth. He handed the sheet to David.

“What do you make of this?” he asked.

“What am I supposed to make of it? It’s shorthand, isn’t it?”

“Yes. But it’s not Gregg and it’s not Pitman, and it’s not Speedwriting. Our experts don’t know what the hell it is.”

David stared at the jumble of letters on the sheet. There was something familiar about the handwriting, and it took him several seconds to realize it was Wanda’s. He said nothing.

“We figure it’s some kind of personal shorthand,” Maurow said.

“Where’d you find it?”

“In the trash basket aboard your boat. We also got a sheet of paper from the typewriter, probably transcribed from some other notes. We tried cracking this with what we had in English, but it doesn’t match up. Is that where you got the George stuff?”

“Yes,” David said.

“Where did Grew and Meadows want you to take them?”

“They didn’t care.”

“Why’d they contact you?”

“Sam recommended me.”

“How’d they know him?”

“I don’t know. He was a newspaperman. I guess he got to meet a lot of people.”

“And he suggested they try you, huh?”

“Yes.”

“And that’s your stake in this, that right? That’s why you’ve been sticking your neck out right from when this started, huh? You know something, Coe? I think you’re full of shit.”

“I’ve told you all I know,” David said.

“You haven’t told me where Leslie Grew is.”

David blinked.

“What?”

“You heard me. For all I know, you’re in this, too. Until you prove otherwise to me, you’re in it. Right up to your navel. What were you doing with a .45, Coe?”

“It’s an Army souvenir.”

“That doesn’t answer my question. Do you own a Luger, too?”

“No,” David mumbled.

“Does Grew?”

“I don’t know.”

“You do know because the teletype we got said Grew was carrying a Luger. Now how about that?”

“If you say so.”

“Where’s Grew now?”

“Where do you think? Who the hell are you trying to kid?”

“You’d better get out of here before I do something we’ll both regret, Coe. I’m still itching to tie you in to this. I’m itching so much, I can’t stand still. So you’d better get out. Now! While you can still walk.”

David got out.

He did not go back to the boat. He did not go back for one reason alone, and that reason was a simple one. He did not believe Maurow knew there was a dead man in the cabin. It sounded crazy as hell, he knew, especially since Maurow had reeled off every other object in the cabin, down to Wanda’s panties and the page of shorthand that had been in the trash basket. But from the line of Maurow’s questioning, David assumed the Sun City Police did not know about Grew’s murder.

Now he stood in the grass where the sidewalk ended at the beach’s edge. There was no moon, and no stars, and the rain swept the gutter and the sidewalk and the tall grass. On his left, a gray weather-beaten beach house faced the Gulf. On his right, the white-studded walls of a small hotel peered bleakly through the rain. He could hear the sullen rush of the surf, could feel the rain’s sharp silvery needles on his face. The beach was usually moon-drenched, the water placid. Tonight, there was only the rain and an angry surf. He pulled his collar high and cut through the grass, walking on the narrow path.

He heard the grass swishing, and he dropped to his knees in the sand. The footsteps were light. She came onto the beach, and looked quickly right and left.

“Wanda,” he whispered.

“David?”

She ran across the beach, and he held out his arms to her, surprising himself when he did, and somehow not surprised when she came into them. She put her head against his shoulder, dropping the heavy valise to the sand.

“I’m so damned tired,” she said.

He held her close. Her clothes were soaked through. He pulled off his windbreaker and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“What happened?” he asked.

“When you left the boat... to go to the police, remember? You told us to stay out of sight in the cabin, so we did. Then — it couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes after you left — we heard footsteps above us. I guess we panicked.”

“Who was it?”

“We didn’t know at first. We stopped working, and I slammed the suitcase shut, and then I went to stand near the steps coming down into the cabin, out of sight. I had the Luger in my hand. I still have the gun. It’s in the valise.”

“Go ahead.”

“A man came down into the cabin. He didn’t see me. He saw... only...”

She could not continue for a moment and then her eyes flooded with the memory of the thin, bespectacled man with whom she had worked.

“He was very brave. He stood there and said, ‘What do you want? Who are you?’ The man didn’t say anything. He just brought up his gun and fired.”

“Was it a Luger?”

“No. No, I don’t think so. I don’t remember. Everything happened so quickly, David, it was difficult to...”

“What happened then?”

“I stood there frozen. I had a gun in my hand. The man turned to me, and I... I just fired. I hit him in the right shoulder, and ran for the steps. He was an ugly man, David, with a scar on his face. He reached for me, and he caught my ankle, and I gripped the railings on both sides and kicked back at him. I know I kicked him in the face but I didn’t turn to look. That’s when my shoe came off — when I kicked him. I didn’t look back. I just ran off the boat.” She shook her head. “So much trouble,” she said. “So much trouble, David.”

“Maybe you ought to tell me about this trouble,” he said. “What are they after?”

“They want the notes in this valise,” Wanda said. “All in shorthand — my own personal shorthand.”

“I don’t understand,” David said. “What kind of notes? Why would anyone want to kill—”

“It’s a book manuscript,” Wanda said. “It’s set for magazine serialization, too.”

“Fiction?”

Wanda gave a short laugh. “Hell, no!”

“And Leslie Grew wrote this book?”

“Yes,” she said. “Leslie Grew wrote it. David, there’s something you—”

“Shh!” he said.

She stopped talking, and they listened together. From the sidewalk came the sound of heavy footsteps.

“They’ve seen us,” David said. “Run!”

She was off instantly, one hand tight around the handle of the valise.

“Through the grass,” he yelled. “Go on!”

She didn’t look back at him. She slithered into the grass and then broke into a fast run as the men came onto the beach.

There were three of them.

Williston and two others.

“Hold it!” Williston shouted, and then a gun was in his hand. One of the men with him was wearing his right arm in a sling. A gun was in his left hand, and he was pointing it at David.

“The broad shot Freddie this afternoon,” Williston said. “Be careful, his temper ain’t exactly even.”

There was a third man, and a third gun. The third gun was a Luger. The man behind it was short and squat.

“This the one who shot Sam?” David asked.

“Yep,” Williston said pleasantly, and smiled. “Meet Ralphie. Come on, let’s find that broad.”

They walked through the grass almost leisurely. On Pass-A-Grille Way, they stopped beside a black Cadillac. Freddie and Ralphie climbed into the front seat, Williston into the back beside David.

“Cruise, Ralphie.”

Ralphie nodded, started the car.

“Why’d you kill Sam?” David asked him.

He didn’t turn from the wheel. He drove hunched over it, peering through the windshield. “He wouldn’t tell me what I wanted to know,” he said.

“So you emptied a Luger into him?”

“He was helping them,” Williston said. “That’s good enough for me.” He leaned forward. “You see her, Ralphie?”

“Not yet.”

“Helping them to do what?” David asked.

“Helping them get away.”

“From what?”

“From us!” Williston said sharply. “There’s a town a little ways north of here, Coe. A nice town. A real nice town. It’s our town. You know what I mean? Our town. Put it this way. We got it sewed up real tight. There ain’t nothing goes on in that town, we ain’t got our finger in it. It’s wide open in a quiet way. That means you can get any kind of action you want there, without having the cops crawling all over you, because the cops is in our pocket, too. You can cool off in our town, you can do anything you want in our town because we control it, and we like the way it’s run. Put it this way, Coe. We don’t like anybody coming in and fouling up the china closet.”

“So?”

“So okay, we’re doing what we always do. We’re respectable businessmen. I run a pool parlor. Ralphie here owns a candy store. Freddie’s a tailor. All respectable. The rest of the boys, too. We learned all that from Georgie Phelps, who was one of the best guys alive. Some jerk from Kansas City come down with a grudge, though, and cooled Georgie. We took care of him, all right. But what I’m saying, when Georgie was alive, and even now, we do things right. Put it this way. The local cops get paid plenty to look the other way. What the state cops don’t know ain’t gonna hurt them. Right?”

“I’m still listening.”

“Sure, listen hard. So there’s maybe a little gambling, and maybe a little dope, and maybe a little woman business, and maybe the poor slob ain’t getting a fair shake, but we’re making dough, and that’s the way we want it. So we get a tip from New York. From New York, a guy we know makes a phone call. He tells us we’re sittin’, we’re sittin’ on a volcano and the lid is about to blow off. You see her yet, Ralphie?”

“No. This damn rain...”

“Keep lookin’. She couldn’t of vanished. This guy in New York tells us there’s a big-shot writer in our town. Tells us the writer’s been snooping for close to six months, and has enough stuff to blow the town wide open. That’s no good, Coe. In six months, you can learn a lot of dangerous things. So we ask our New York friend what the writer’s name is, and he tells us Leslie Grew. And he tells us Grew is in our town with a secretary, writing this book, which is gonna break in a national magazine.”

“So you started looking for Grew?”

“Sure. Our town ain’t exactly a chicken coop, Coe. It took us a while to find what we were looking for. Only trouble is, Grew took off first. Carrying enough notes to fill ten books. Enough notes to bring in not only the state cops, but the Feds as well. That ain’t good, Coe. Put it this way. Grew and friend had to go.”

“And that’s why you came here.”

“Why else? But when we come down, there was a few things we didn’t know. We didn’t know, first of all, that Grew knew a newspaperman named Sam Friedman. We found that out later. By that time, our cops were getting to work, too. We figured if we could get those two back to our town on some phony charge, the rest would be easy. Our cops teletyped the Sun City Police. I sent Ralphie over to see Mr. Friedman. But their wire told me something else, too. All the while we was looking for Grew, we thought—”

“There she is!” Ralphie yelled.

The Cadillac was a more powerful car than the taxi Wanda was in. But the cabdriver knew the roads well, and Ralphie didn’t. The cab kept a comfortable lead as they sped out of Pass-A-Grille and through Don Ce-Sar Place, and Belle Vista Beach, and Blind Pass, and Sunset Beach, and Treasure Island, and Sunshine Beach. The big Caddy went over the bridge at John’s Pass, made the turn, and then squealed into Madeira Beach.

“There she goes!” Freddie yelled. “Into that joint!”

Ralphie pulled the car over and screeched to a stop.

“Come on, Coe!” Williston yelled, reaching into the backseat and pulling David out into the rain with him. Up ahead, David saw Wanda duck into the aquarium exhibit.

The building was a two-story affair. Upstairs was where the two porpoises were fed every day while spectators goggled and cheered. The downstairs level was a dimly lit stone-and-concrete dungeon, where lighted glass walls showed the other big fish.

A porpoise was in the closest tank. The downstairs level ran for a hundred feet and angled off in an L showing the other side of the second tank, the tank in which a giant turtle, a sand shark, and a giant grouper were kept. The aquarium was dead silent. The fish drifted past silently and eerily. The tortoise pressed against the glass. Behind him the shark flashed into view.

“Upstairs,” Williston shouted, pointing to the stairway at the end of the corridor, running for the steps.

Freddie’s gun was in his hand. He was standing on David’s left, and David could see the wad under his suit jacket near his right shoulder. His wound. As they approached the steps, David gripped the railing and brought both feet up, jackknifing into the air, aiming his heels at the wad on Freddie’s right shoulder.

Freddie’s scream pierced the air, echoed down the passageway as he dropped to the floor. David charged up the steps. Freddie was still screaming behind him.

“Wanda!” he yelled.

Behind him, Williston leveled the .38 in his fist, and fired. David heard the shot, felt searing pain in his right leg, stumbled forward. Wanda was huddled against the wall at the far end of the aquarium, near the open porpoise tank. A sign behind her read: FEEDING TIME — 2:30 AND 7:00 P.M. Two empty buckets lay on the feeding platform. The porpoises kept breaking the surface of water, coming up for air. David started to run toward her, but he felt suddenly dizzy and weak, and he slipped to the floor, close to the railing near the open lip of the first tank.

Wanda dropped the suitcase, and came running toward him. She was still carrying the Luger. He heard Williston’s heavy footsteps on the stairs, and then he saw Williston’s head appear, and then the hand with the gun came into view.

“Okay,” he said, grinning. “End of the road, Miss Grew. Give me those notes!”

“I think not,” she said, and fired.

She fired four shots in a row. The first two shots sailed over Williston’s head. The third one caught him in the chest, and the fourth one caught him in the stomach. His own gun went off, and then he staggered back toward the railing around the tank. He hung poised over the railing for a moment, and then folded over it into the tank. He was a big man. Water splashed up and over the lid of the tank. In an instant, the grouper darted from one corner, and the sand shark lunged from the other. Both of them made it to Williston’s body at about the same time.

Wanda ran to where David lay on the floor.

“Are you all right?” she said.

He was about to lose consciousness. He nodded, shook his head, nodded again.

“Who was the dead man on my boat?” he asked.

“John Meadows, my secretary,” she said. “He let them believe they were looking for a man. I’m—”

There were footsteps on the stairs.

The aquarium cashier burst into view.

“There they are!” she shouted. “They came in without paying!”

A patrolman was on the stairs behind her.

“There’s another one outside,” David said. “A man in a black Cadillac. He murdered the Sun City reporter.”

“Get the guy in the black Caddy,” the patrolman yelled down to his partner. He turned to David. “All right,” he said gruffly. “What the hell’s going on here? Who’s that guy downstairs with his arm in a sling? And who the hell are you, lady?”

“Leslie Grew,” David said, and then he relaxed in her arms and hoped she’d still be there when he came to again.

Eye Witness

This story first appeared in 1952, in a magazine called Verdict. It was one of the several short short stories I wrote under the Hunt Collins pseudonym. It was probably first submitted to Manhunt, and when rejected there — shame on you, Scott! — went to Verdict, one of the many detective magazines trying to imitate Manhunt’s spectacular success. (I still think Scott was editing each and every one of them.)

Whereas I later wrote several novels under the Richard Marsten pseudonym, Hunt Collins wrote only one, the book that first attracted the attention of Herb Alexander (remember?) and started the whole 87th Precinct saga. Cut Me In was about a murder in a literary agency. (Guess where I got the background for it.) The title referred to the venal practice of taking commissions, and the book was an Innocent Bystander story, like the one that follows.

He had witnessed a murder, and the sight had sunken into the brown pits that were his eyes. It had tightened the thin line of his mouth and given him a tic over his left cheekbone.

He sat now with his hat in his hands, his fingers nervously exploring the narrow brim. He was a thin man with a mustache that completely dominated the confined planes of his face.

He was dressed neatly, his trousers carefully raised in a crease-protecting lift that revealed taut socks and the brass clasp of one garter.

“That him?” I asked.

“That’s him,” Magruder said.

“And he saw the mugging?”

“He says he saw it. He won’t talk to anyone but the Chief.”

“None of us underlings will do, huh?”

Magruder shrugged. He’d been on the force for a long time now, and he was used to just about every type of taxpayer. I looked over to where the thin man sat on the bench against the wall.

“Well,” I said, “let me see what I can get out of him.”

Magruder cocked an eyebrow and asked, “You think maybe the old man would like to see him personally?”

“Maybe. If he’s got something. If not, we’d be wasting his time. And especially on this case, I don’t think...”

“Yeah,” Magruder agreed.

I left Magruder and walked over to the little man. He looked up when I approached him, and then blinked.

“Mr. Struthers?” I said. “I’m Detective-Sergeant Cappeli. My partner tells me you have some information about the...”

“You’re not the Chief, are you?”

“No,” I said, “but I’m working very closely with him on this case.”

“I won’t talk to anyone but the Chief,” he said. His eyes met mine for an instant, and then turned away. He was not being stubborn, I decided. I hadn’t seen stubbornness in his eyes. I’d seen fear.

“Why, Mr. Struthers?”

“Why? Why what? Why won’t I tell my story to anyone else? Because I won’t, that’s why.”

“Mr. Struthers, withholding information is a serious crime. It makes you an accessory after the fact. We’d hate to have to...”

“I’m not withholding anything. Get the Chief and I’ll tell you everything I saw. That’s all, get the Chief.”

I waited for a moment before trying again. “Are you familiar with the case at all, sir?”

Struthers considered his answer. “Just what I read in the papers. And what I saw.”

“You know that it was the Chiefs wife who was mugged? That the mugger was after her purse and killed her without getting it?”

“Yes, I know that.”

“Can you see then why we don’t want to bring the Chief into this until it’s absolutely necessary? So far, we’ve had ten people confessing to the crime, and eight people who claim to have seen the mugging and murder.”

“I did see it,” Struthers protested.

“I’m not saying you didn’t, sir. But I’d like to be sure before I bring the Chief in on it.”

“I just don’t want any slipups,” Struthers said. “I... I don’t want him coming after me next.”

“We’ll offer you every possible protection, sir. The Chief, as you can well imagine, has a strong personal interest in this case. He’ll certainly see that no harm comes to you.”

Struthers looked around him suspiciously. “Well, do we have to talk here?”

“No, sir, you can come into my office.”

He deliberated for another moment, and then said, “All right” He stood up abruptly, his fingers still roaming the hat brim.

I led him to the corridor, winking over my shoulder at Magruder as we went out When we got to my office, I offered him a chair and a cigarette. He took the seat, but declined the smoke.

“Now then, what did you see?”

“I saw the mugger, the man who killed her.” Struthers lowered his voice. “But he saw me, too. That’s why I want to make absolutely certain that... that I won’t get into any trouble over this.”

“You won’t, sir. I can assure you. Where did you see the killing?”

“On Third and Elm. Right near the old paint factory. I was on my way home from the movies.”

“What did you see?”

“Well, the woman, Mrs. Anderson — I didn’t know it was her at the time, of course — was standing on a corner waiting for the bus. I was walking down toward her. I walk that way often, especially coming home from the show. It was a nice night and...”

“What happened?”

“Well, it was dark, and I was walking pretty quiet, I guess. I wear gummies — gum sole shoes. The mugger came out of the shadows and grabbed Mrs. Anderson around the throat, from behind her. She threw up her arm, and her purse opened and everything inside fell on the sidewalk. Then the mugger lifted his hand and brought it down, and she screamed, and he yelled, ‘Quiet, you witch!’ Then he lifted his hand again and brought it down again, all the time yelling, ‘Here, you witch, here, here,’ while he was stabbing her. He must have lifted the knife at least a dozen times.”

“And you saw him? You saw his face?”

“Yes. She dropped to the ground, and he came running up the street toward me. I tried to get against the building, but I was too late. We stood face-to-face, and for a minute I thought he was going to kill me, too. But he gave a kind of a moan and ran up the street.”

“Why didn’t you come to the police at once?”

“I... I guess I was scared. Mister, I still am. You’ve got to promise me I won’t get into any trouble. I’m a married man, and I got two kids. I can’t afford to...”

“Could you pick him out of a lineup? We’ve already rounded up a lot of men, some with records as muggers. Could you pick the killer?”

“Yes. But not if he can see me. If he sees me, it’s all off. I won’t go through with it if he can see me.”

“He won’t see you, sir. We’ll put you behind a screen.”

“So long as he doesn’t see me. He knows what I look like, too, and I got a family. I won’t identify him if he knows I’m the one doing it.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about.” I clicked down Magruder’s toggle on the intercom, and when he answered, I said, “Looks like we’ve got something here, Mac. Get the boys ready for a run-through, will you? And set up a screen for the witness.”

“Right. I’ll let the Chief know.”

“Buzz me back,” I said, and hung up.

“I won’t do it unless I’m behind that screen,” Struthers said.

“I’ve asked for a screen, sir.”

I was still waiting for Magruder to get back, when the door opened. A voice lined with anguish and fatigue said, “Mac tells me you’ve got a witness.”

I turned from the window, ready to say, “Yes, sir,” and Struthers turned to face the door at the same time.

His eyebrows lifted, and his eyes grew wide.

He stared at the figure in the doorway and I watched both men as their eyes met and locked for an instant.

“No!” Struthers said suddenly. “I... I’ve changed my mind. I... I can’t do it. I have to go. I have to go.”

He slammed his hat onto his head and ran out quickly, almost before I’d gotten to my feet.

“Now what the hell got into him all of a sudden?” I asked.

Chief Anderson shrugged wearily.

“I have no idea,” he said.

Every Morning

Two of the major characters in the 87th Precinct novels are Detective Arthur Brown and Deputy Chief Surgeon Sharyn Cooke. They’re both black. But long before these two characters were born, I was experimenting with writing from the viewpoint of blacks. In 1954, the same year I tried to become Gregory Miller in The Blackboard Jungle, this story by Richard Marsten appeared in Manhunt.

He sang softly to himself as he worked on the long white beach. He could see the pleasure craft scooting over the deep blue waters, could see the cottony clouds moving leisurely across the wide expanse of sky. There was a mild breeze in the air, and it touched the woolly skullcap that was his hair, caressed his brown skin. He worked with a long rake, pulling at the tangled sea vegetation that the norther had tossed onto the sand. The sun was strong, and the sound of the sea was good, and he was almost happy as he worked.

He watched the muscles ripple on his long brown arms as he pulled at the rake. She would not like it if the beach were dirty. She liked the beach to be sparkling white and clean... the way her skin was.

“Jonas!”

He heard the call, and he turned his head toward the big house. He felt the same panic he’d felt a hundred times before. He could feel the trembling start in his hands, and he turned back to the rake, wanting to stall as long as he could, hoping she would not call again, but knowing she would.

“Jonas! Jo-naaaas!”

The call came from the second floor of the house, and he knew it came from her bedroom, and he knew she was just rising, and he knew exactly what would happen if he went up there. He hated what was about to happen, but at the same time it excited him. He clutched the rake more tightly, telling himself he would not answer her call, lying to himself because he knew he would go if she called one more time.

“Jonas! Where the devil are you?”

“Coming, Mrs. Hicks,” he shouted.

He sighed deeply and put down the rake. He climbed the concrete steps leading from the beach, and then he walked past the barbecue pit and the beach house, moving under the Australian pines that lined the beach. The pine needles were soft under his feet, and though he knew the pines were planted to form a covering over the sand, to stop sand from being tracked into the house, he still enjoyed the soft feel under his shoes. For an instant, he wished he were barefoot, and then he scolded himself for having a thought that was strictly “native.”

He shook his head and climbed the steps to the screened back porch of the house. The hibiscus climbed the screen in a wild array of color, pinks and reds and orchids. The smaller bougainvillea reached up for the sun where it splashed down through the pines. He closed the door behind him and walked through the dim cool interior of the house, starting up the steps to her bedroom.

When he reached her door, he paused outside, and then he knocked discreetly.

“Is that you, Jonas?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hicks.”

“Well, come in.”

He opened the door and stepped into the bedroom. She was sitting in bed, the sheet reaching to her waist. Her long blonde hair spilled over her shoulders, trailing down her back. She wore a white nylon gown, and he could see the mounds of her breasts beneath the gown, could see the erect rosebuds of her nipples. Hastily, he lowered his eyes.

“Good morning, Jonas,” she said.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hicks.”

“My, it’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hicks.”

“Where were you when I called, Jonas?”

“On the beach, Mrs. Hicks.”

“Swimming, Jonas?” She lifted one eyebrow archly, and a tiny smile curled her mouth.

“Oh, no, Mrs. Hicks. I was raking up the...”

“Haven’t you ever felt like taking a swim at that beach, Jonas?”

He did not answer. He stared at his shoes, and he felt his hands clench at his sides.

“Jonas?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hicks?”

“Haven’t you ever felt like taking a swim at that beach?”

“There’s lots of places to swim, Mrs. Hicks.”

“Yes.” The smile expanded. Her green eyes were smiling now, too. She sat in bed like a slender cat, licking her chops. “That’s what I like about Nassau. There are lots of places to swim.” She continued smiling for a moment, and then she sat up straighter, as if she were ready for business now.

“Well,” she said, “what shall we have for breakfast? Has the cook come in, Jonas?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hicks.”

“Eggs, I think. Coddled. And some toast and marmalade. And a little juice.” He made a movement toward the door, and she stopped him with a wave of her hand. “Oh, there’s no rush, Jonas. Stay. I want you to help me.”

He swallowed, and he put his hands behind his back to hide the trembling. “Yes... Mrs. Hicks.”

She threw back the sheet, and he saw her long legs beneath the hem of the short nightgown. She reached for her slippers on the floor near her bed, squirmed her feet into them, and then stood up. Luxuriantly, she stretched her arms over her head and yawned. The nightgown tightened across her chest, lifting as she raised her arms, showing more of the long curve of her legs. She walked to the window and threw open the blinds, and the sun splashed through the gown, and he saw the full outline of her body, and he thought, Every morning, every morning the same thing.

He could feel the sweat beading his brow, and he wanted to get out of that room, wanted to get far away from her and her body, wanted to escape this labyrinth that led to one exit alone.

“Ahhhhhhhhh.”

She let out her breath and then walked across the room to her dressing table. She sat and crossed her legs, and he could see the whiter area on her thigh that the sun never reached. And looking at that whiter stretch of flesh, his own skin felt browner.

“Do you like working for me?” she asked suddenly.

“Yes, Mrs. Hicks,” he said quickly.

“You don’t really, though, do you?”

“I like it, Mrs. Hicks,” he said.

“I like you to work for me, Jonas. I wouldn’t have you leave for anything in the world. You know that, don’t you, Jonas?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hicks.”

There has to be a way out, he thought. There has to be some way. A way other than the one... the one...

“Have you ever thought of quitting this job, Jonas?”

“No, Mrs. Hicks,” he lied.

“That’s sensible, you know. Not quitting, I mean. It wouldn’t be wise for you to quit, would it, Jonas? Aside from the salary, I mean, which is rather handsome, wouldn’t you say, Jonas.”

“It’s a handsome salary,” he said.

“Yes. But aside from that, aside from losing the salary if you quit. I wouldn’t like you to quit, Jonas. I would let Mr. Hicks know of my displeasure, and my husband is really quite a powerful man, you know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hicks.”

“It might be difficult for you to get work afterwards, I mean if you ever decided to leave me. Heaven knows, there’s not much work for Bahamians as it is. And Mr. Hicks is quite powerful, knowing the governor and all, isn’t that right, Jonas?”

When he did not answer, she giggled suddenly.

“Oh, we’re being silly. You like the job, and I like you, so why should we talk of leaving?” She paused. “Has my husband gone to the club?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hicks.”

“Good,” she said. “Come do my hair, Jonas.”

“I...”

“Come do my hair,” she said slowly and firmly.

“Y... yes, Mrs. Hicks.”

She held out the brush to him, and he took it and then placed himself behind her chair. He could see her face in the mirror of the dressing table, could see the clean sweep of her throat, and beneath that the first rise of her breasts where the neck of the gown ended. She tilted her head back and her eyes met his in the mirror.

“Stroke evenly now, Jonas. And gently. Remember. Gently.”

He began stroking her hair. He watched her face as he stroked, not wanting to watch it, but knowing that he was inside the trap now, and knowing that he had to watch her face, had to watch her lips part as he stroked, had to watch the narrowing of those green eyes. Every morning, every morning the same thing, every morning driving him out of his mind with her body and her glances, always daring him, always challenging him, and always reminding him that it could not be. He stroked, and her breath came faster in her throat, and he watched the animal pleasure on her face as the brush bristles searched her scalp.

And as he stroked, he thought again of the only way out, and he wondered if he had the courage to do it, wondered if he could ever muster the courage to stop all this, stop it finally and irrevocably. She counted softly as he stroked, and her voice was a whisper, and he continued to think of what he must do to end it, and he felt the great fear within him, but he knew he could not take much more of this, not every morning, and he knew he could not leave the job because she would make sure there would never be work for him again.

But even knowing all this, the way out was a drastic one, and he wondered what it would be like without her hair to brush every morning, without the sight of her body, without the soft caress of her voice.

Death, he thought.

Death.

“That’s enough, Jonas,” she-said.

He handed her the brush. “I’ll tell the cook, Mrs. Hicks, to...”

“No, stay.”

He looked at her curiously. She always dismissed him after the brushing. Her eyes always turned cold and forbidding then, as if she’d had her day’s sport and was then ready to end the farce... until the next morning.

“I think something bit me yesterday. An insect, I think,” she said. “I wonder if you’d mind looking. You natives... what I mean, you’d probably be familiar with it.”

She stood up and walked toward him, and then she began unbuttoning the yoke neck of her gown. He watched her in panic, not knowing whether to flee or stand, knowing only that he would have to carry out his plan after this, knowing that she would go further and further unless it were ended, and knowing that only he could end it, in the only possible way open for him.

He watched her take the hem of her gown in her fingers and pull it up over her waist. He saw the clean whiteness of her skin, and then she pulled the gown up over her back, turning, her breasts still covered, bending.

“In the center of my back, Jonas, do you see it?”

She came closer to him. He was wet with perspiration now. He stared at her back, the fullness of her buttocks, the impression of her spine against her flesh.

“There’s... there’s nothing, Mrs. Hicks,” he said. “Nothing.”

She dropped the gown abruptly, and then turned to face him, the smile on her mouth again, the yoke of the gown open so that he could see her breasts plainly.

“Nothing?” she asked, smiling. “You saw nothing, Jonas?”

“Nothing, Mrs. Hicks,” he said, and he turned and left her, still smiling, her hands on her hips.

He slit his wrists with a razor blade the next morning. He watched the blood stain the sand on the beach he’d always kept so clean, and he felt a strange inner peace possess him as the life drained out of him.

The native police did not ask many questions when they arrived, and Mrs. Hicks did not offer to show them her torn and shredded nightgown, or the purple bruises on her breasts and thighs.

She hired a new caretaker that afternoon.

The Innocent One

This little story by Richard Marsten appeared in Manhunt in 1953. There is little to say about it except that it is a quintessential Innocent Bystander story — and it still remains one of my favorites.

It was the next poor bastard who got it.

You must understand, first, that the sun was very hot on that day and Miguel had been working in it from just after dawn. He had eaten a hearty breakfast, and then had taken to the fields early, remembering what had to be done and wanting to do it quickly.

There were many rocks among the beans that day, and perhaps that is what started it all. When Miguel discovered the first rock, he reached down gingerly and tossed it over his shoulder to the rear of his neat rows of beans. The sun was still not high in the sky and the earth had not yet begun to bake, and so a smile worked its way over his brown features as he heard the rock thud to the soft earth behind. He started hoeing again, thinking of Maria and the night before.

He would never regret having married Maria. Jesus, she was a one! There was the passion of the tigress in her, and the energy of the rabbit. He thought again of her, straightening up abruptly, and feeling the ache in his back muscles.

That was when he saw the second rock.

He shrugged, thinking, Dios, another one!

He lifted it, threw it over his shoulder, and began hoeing again. He was surprised when he came across more rocks. At first he thought someone had played a joke on him, and he pulled his black brows together, wondering who it could have been. Juan, that pig? Felipe, that animal with the slobbering lips? Pablo?

Then he remembered that it had rained the night before, and he realized that the waters had washed the soil clean, exposing the rocks, bringing them to the surface.

He cursed himself for not having thought to protect the beans in some way. Then he cursed the rocks. And since the sun was beginning to climb in the sky, he cursed that too, and got to work.

The rocks were not heavy. They were, in fact, rather small.

It was that there were very many of them. He picked them up painstakingly, tossing them over his shoulders. How could a man hoe his beans when the rows were full of rocks? He started to count them, stopping at ten because that was as far as he knew how to count, and then starting with one all over again.

The sun was very hot now. The hoe lay on the ground, the rich earth staining its long handle. He kept picking up the rocks, not looking up now, swearing softly, the sweat pouring down his neck and back. When a long shadow fell over the land before him, he almost didn’t notice it.

Then a voice joined the shadow and Miguel straightened his back and rubbed his earth-stained fingers on his white trousers.

“You are busy, Miguel?” the voice asked. The voice came through the speaker’s nose rather than his mouth. It whined like the voice of the lamb. It was Felipe.

“No, I am not busy,” Miguel said. “I was, at this very moment, lying on my back and counting the stars in the sky.”

“But it is morning...” Felipe started. Miguel’s subtle humor struck him then, and he slapped his thigh and guffawed like the jackass he was. “Counting the stars!” he bellowed. “Counting the stars!”

Miguel was not amused. “You were perhaps on your way somewhere, amigo. If so, don’t let me detain you.”

“I was going nowhere, Miguel,” Felipe said.

Miguel grunted and began picking up rocks again. He forgot how many rocks he had counted thus far, so he started all over again.

“You are picking up rocks, Miguel?”

Miguel did not answer.

“I say you are picking up...”

“Yes!” Miguel said. “Yes, I am picking up rocks.” He stood up and kneaded the small of his back, and Felipe grinned knowingly.

“The back, it hurts, eh?”

“Yes,” Miguel said. He looked at Felipe. “Why do you nod?”

“Me? Nod? Who, me?”

“Yes, you. Why do you stand here and nod your head like the wise snake who has swallowed the young chicken?”

Felipe grinned and nodded his head. “You must be mistaken, Miguel. I do not nod.”

“I am not blind, amigo,” Miguel said testily. “I say my back hurts, and you begin to nod your head. Why is it funny that my back hurts? Is it funny that there are rocks and stones among my beans?”

“No, Miguel. It is not funny.”

“Then why do you nod?”

Felipe grinned. “Maria, eh?”

Miguel clenched his fists. “What about Maria, amigo? Maria who is my wife.”

Felipe opened his eyes innocently. “Nothing, Miguel. Just... Maria.”

“You refer to my back?”

“Sí!”

“And you connect this somehow with Maria?”

“Sí.”

“How?”

“This Maria... your wife, God bless her... she is a strong one, eh, Miguel?”

Miguel was beginning to get a little angry. He was not used to discussing his wife among the beans. “So? What do you mean she is a strong one?”

“You know. Muy fuerte. Like the tigress.”

“How do you know this?”

Felipe grinned. “It is known, Miguel.”

Miguel’s lips tightened into a narrow line. “How is it known?”

“I must go to town, Miguel,” Felipe said hastily. “I see you soon.”

“Just a moment, Felipe. How is it...?”

“Good-bye, amigo.”

Felipe turned his back and Miguel stared at him as he walked toward the road. The dust rose about him, and he waved back at Miguel. Miguel did not return the wave. He stood there with the strong sun on his head, and the many rocks and stones at his feet.

How did this animal with the slobbering lips know of Maria’s passion? Surely he had never spoken a word about it to any of the men. Then how did Felipe know?

The possibilities annoyed Miguel. He turned back to the rocks, and this time they seemed heavier, and the sun seemed stronger, and his back seemed to ache more.

How did Felipe know?

He was pondering this in an ill temper when Juan came to stand beside him. Juan was darkly handsome, his white trousers and shirt bright in the powerful sunlight. Miguel looked up at him sourly and said, “So? Do you wish to pass the time with idle chatter also?”

Juan smiled, his teeth even and white against the ruddy brown of his face. “Did I offend you, Miguel?”

“No!” Miguel snapped.

“Then why do you leap at me like a tiger?”

“Do not mention this animal to me,” Miguel said.

“No?”

“No! I have rocks to clear, and I want to clear them before lunch because Maria will be calling me then.”

“Ahhhhh,” Juan said, grinning.

Miguel stared at him for a moment. The grin was the same one Felipe had worn, except that Felipe was ugly and with slobbering lips and Juan was perhaps the handsomest man in the village.

Miguel stared at him and wondered if it had been he who told Felipe of Maria’s great passion. And if so, how had Juan known?

“Why do you ‘ahhhhh’?” he asked.

“Did I ‘ahhhhh’?”

“You did. You did indeed. You made this very sound. Why?”

“I was not aware, amigo.” Juan said, and smiled again.

“Was it mention of lunch that evoked this sigh?”

“No. No, I do not think so.”

“Then there remains only Maria.”

Juan grinned and said nothing.

“I said...”

“I heard you, Miguel.”

“What about Maria?”

Juan shrugged. “Who said anything about Maria?”

“You are saying it with your eyes,” Miguel said heatedly. “What about her?”

“She is your wife, Miguel.”

“I know she is my wife. I sleep with her, I...”

Juan was grinning again.

“What’s funny about that, Juan? Why do you grin now?”

“I have nothing to say, amigo. Maria is your wife. God bless her.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means... well, God bless her. She is a good woman.”

“How would you know?” Miguel shouted.

“That she is a good woman? Why, Miguel...”

“You know what I mean! Why is my wife the sudden topic of conversation for the whole village? What’s going on? Why do you all discuss her so intimately?”

“Intimately?”

“Yes! By God, Juan, if there is something that someone knows...”

Juan smiled again. “But there is nothing, Miguel. Nothing.”

“You are sure?”

“I must go to town now, my friend. Is there anything I can do there for you?”

“No!” Miguel snapped.

“Then, adios, amigo.”

He turned and walked off, shaking his head, and Miguel could have sworn he heard him mutter the word “tigress.”

He went to work on the rocks with a fury. What was all this? Why Felipe? And now Juan?

What was going on with his wife?

He thought of her passion, her gleaming black hair, the way it trailed down the curve of her back, reaching her waist. He thought of the fluid muscles on that back, beneath the soft, firm skin. He thought of the long graceful curve of her legs, the way the firelight played on her lifted breasts, the deep hollow of her navel.

Too passionate, he thought. Far too passionate.

Far too passionate for one man. Far too passionate for simple Miguel who worked the fields picking stones and hoeing beans. Yes, she was a woman who needed many men, many, many men.

Was that why Felipe had laughed with dripping lips? Was that why Juan had smiled that superior handsome smile? Miguel picked up his hoe and swung it at a large rock. The rock chipped, but it did not budge from the earth.

Was that it? Was Maria then making a cuckold of her simple Miguel? Was that why all the men in the village were snickering, smiling, laughing behind their hands? Or was it only the men from this village? Was it the adjoining village, too? Or did it go beyond that?

Did they pass her from hand to hand like a used wine jug? Did they all drink of her, and was that why they laughed at Miguel now? Was that why they laughed behind their hands, laughed aloud with their mouths and their eyes?

The sun was hot, and the bowels of the earth stank, and the rocks and stones were plentiful, and Miguel chopped at them with the hoe, using the sharp blade like an ax.

I shall show them, he thought. I shall teach them to laugh. I shall teach them to make the fool of Miguel de la Piaz!

It was then that Pablo strolled by. He had passed Miguel’s house and Maria had asked him to call her husband home for lunch. He was not a bright lad, Pablo. He walked up close to Miguel, who furiously pounded the earth with his hoe, using it like an ax, the sharp blade striking sparks from the rocks. He tapped Miguel on the shoulder, smiled, and started to say, “Maria...”

Miguel whirled like an animal, the hoe raised high.

So you see, it was the next poor bastard who got it.