Shakedown for Murder

Chapter 2

Bessie was waiting with a pile of packages outside the cashier's counter. “I've been standing here so long the butter and frozen foods have probably melted. Let's take these out to the car. Imagine what they're saying—that Doctor Barnes was murdered. If that isn't the most fantastic thing I ever....”

“Grandpa told them so, Mom!” Andy cut in, his voice high with excitement. “Oh, Mama, you should have seen the way Grandpa told the Police Chief why it had to be murder. Grandpa is a peace officer, too! I bet like Wyatt Earp in the cowboy....”

“Keep still, Andy. Matt, you didn't start this horrid rumor?”

“Isn't a rumor, but murder. I told you this morning that hit-and-run business didn't rest right with me. Newspapers to the contrary, most people aren't hit-and-run drivers. At least the guy would have stopped and....”

“Guy?” Bessie asked, opening the car door for us. “We women drive, too, remember?”

“.... slowed down, even if he didn't stop. Once he saw the wrecked car, knew he wouldn't be blamed for hitting the doc, he certainly would have reported it.”

Driving away Bessie said, “A murder in End Harbor, in this quiet little village... Matt, are you positive?”

“Let's put it this way: Certain factors point to murder, and until they're investigated and explained, the case should be handled as a homicide.”

“Tell Mom about the door locks,” Andy called out from the back seat. “Grandpa, how many killings you been on?”

“None.”

His “Oh” oozed with disappointment.

Bessie's knee nudged mine and she made a waving motion with her little finger. Andy must have been watching her in the windshield mirror, for he asked, “Who you telling to shut up, Mom?”

“Nobody, mister big eyes and ears. I don't like all this murder talk. I don't want to hear another word about it —especially from you.”

“Can I ask Grandpa one last question?”

“Go ahead. Lord, you should have heard the way the gossip spread through the supermarket. An absolute stranger, a woman, came up and whispered it to me as if....”

“You said I could ask the question,” Andy cut in. “Grandpa, when are you going to catch the killer?”

“Andy, all I plan to catch is some sleep. I'm on vacation.” I tried to change the subject. “Clouds seem to be lifting; don't you want to try your spinning reel?”

“Sure, but I thought....”

“Andy, police work is exactly that—work. I merely put my two cents in because I didn't like the way that young cop was pushing you around. We'll let the End Harbor police do their own work. You and I are going to pack a few sandwiches, take our lines and see what's in the bay.”

Bessie groaned. “Don't know where my head is, I forgot bread. We'll stop at Tony's.”

She drew up before a small store and I said, “I'll get the bread.” A beefy young man was leaning across the counter, looking bored. He straightened up slowly when he saw me, said, “Now that you're here, I know it's summer.”

“What? Let me have a loaf of whole wheat.”

“Yes, sir. And what else?”

“That's all. Give me a couple cans of beer, any brand.”

He looked bored again as he got the beer. “Tell you, mister, business ain't worth getting out of bed for these days. It's after nine and I just broke the ice with you. That goddamn supermarket is squeezing out every merchant. My folks made a good living from this store as far back as I can recall but now... big chains put the whole town on its back. Oh, they give jobs to a few people, bat they drain all the money out, spend it elsewhere and.... Sorry, didn't mean to cry on your shoulder. Suppose you heard about Doc Barnes' accident? Now I hear some state trooper says it's a murder. Gives you the creeps.”

“Murder always does,” I said, paying and taking my bag.

Reaching the cottage, Bessie found Matty sleeping on the couch. When she pushed him off, the cat arched his back and spat at her. “Give me any back talk, you fat tom, and you'll be crab bait. Andy, go down to the Johnsons' and borrow their oars.”

“You bet,” the boy said, dashing out.

As I helped Bessie put things away she told me, “Matt, I don't like all this murder talk around Andy. He sees enough violence on TV. Thank God he's getting a summer off from that.”

“Don't shield him too much, this is a pretty violent world.”

“Matt, you're not taking part in this... murder, are you?”

“Hell, no. It's none of my business. Technically I am a peace officer but I only opened my yap to show off for Andy, I suppose. The local cop was a young snot.”

“Let's not talk about it in front of Andy. And don't let him horse you into rowing way out—the weather can change fast here. And take it easy rowing, you've done enough grandstanding for one day.”

I patted her cheek. “Since when did you become such a worry bug? Matter of fact, I don't intend to touch the oars; about time Andy got rid of his baby fat. He's growing up fine, Bessie.”

“Of course. It's been fourteen months since my miscarriage. We're trying hard for another child.”

“Don't worry about it. If it happens, it happens. And if it doesn't—you have Andy. Martha and I had two kids within three years and after that, nothing.”

“It isn't a fixation with me, or anything. But I do so want a girl. Would you like to play bridge tonight? I can ask John Preston over.”

“I don't care. Better make it tomorrow night, I didn't sleep much last night. Guess I'll get into my trunks.”

“Take pants along, in case the sun comes out and cooks that pale skin of yours.”

I changed while she made lunch. Then I fed Matty and cleaned out his box, stretched out for a snooze just as Andy returned with the oars. He got his fishing tackle together, including a pair of old metal binoculars. I picked them up, hung them around my neck.

Andy said, “Dad's letting me use them this summer. They're powerful.”

“I know.” They were good glasses, cost five dollars— back in 1929 when Martha gave them to me for Christmas. I gave them to Danny on his sixteenth birthday. Now Andy had 'em. It gave me a happy warm feeling—and made me feel old.

I carried the oars and the lunch while Andy took the fishing gear. As we walked to the beach he asked, “Grandpa, why do people kill each other?”

“Because we haven't learned to control our anger, I suppose. We're all under tensions which....”

“What's tensions mean, Grandpa?”

“I thought I told you to call me Matt?”

“Mama says not to. What's tensions?”

“Oh... people worry too much,” I said, wondering what I'd started. “They worry about a job, money, even clams. Then maybe they start fighting and one party gets so angry he doesn't realize what he's doing, swings the clam rake... and the other man is dead. Or two countries start shouting over a boat or something, and then there's war. Remember, never let your anger master you. These glass rods any good?” I asked, changing the subject with a clumsy hand.

He was a true fishing nut, talked rods and reels all the way to the beach. I hoped he would outgrow that soon, I've always found guys who go in for a lot of fishing gear to be bull artists—and not just about fish, either.

In the light of morning, even a dull one, the bay seemed far prettier than last night. It was a large rough circle of water opening on the Sound, or maybe the ocean. Andy started swimming out to get the rowboat. While I didn't want to get wet, I couldn't let him swim alone. The damn water was still ice cold. When we got the boat ashore, Andy wanted to empty some of the water and I almost broke my back tipping the heavy tub. We finally pushed off, and to my surprise the boy rowed well. As I lit my pipe the sun came out for a spell. I examined some of the anchored yachts through the glasses, and if it wasn't for my damp trunks, I would have enjoyed things.

Dropping anchor outside the breakwater, we got our hooks over. Fishing wasn't exactly a success. Not only didn't we catch anything but Andy's spinning reel wouldn't work. The fish kept eating my bait without my feeling a bite. I realized I was getting a burn and put on my pants and shirt. I didn't have to worry about the kid, he was brown as coffee. He was upset over the reel. I tried to monkey with it but mechanical gadgets are always over my noggin. I gave it up, asked if he wanted a sandwich. He pointed at the remains of a rotting dock, told me, “Pops usually fishes there. The reel was working for him yesterday. You should have seen him cast with it—sent it out a mile.”

I put the glasses on the dock. “Nobody there.”

“Pops may be fishing from the beach, on the other side. He can fix the reel, I bet.”

I motioned for him to pull up anchor as I took the oars. I couldn't remember when I last rowed. Although I once had a post that included the lake at 110th Street and I did a lot of rowing then. I was still pretty good at it.

The dock and the beach were empty. Andy said, “Damn. I mean darn—Pops is always here.”

I rowed back out into the bay and tossed out the anchor. The kid fished with my rod while I had a sandwich and some chocolate milk Bessie had fixed. My backside ached from sitting on the hard boat seat and I felt sleepy. I sat there, holding my head in my hands, feeling the stubble on my chin, almost dozing, when Andy caught a Small blowfish and startled me with his shouting. He tickled its white belly to show me how it blew itself up into a ball, then said it was too small to eat and tossed it back. Funny, when I was coming up we never ate them—now they were a delicacy. The kid wanted to row some more. He didn't head out into the bay but followed the shoreline. “There's Pops',” he said.

Andy was pointing a chubby finger at an old-fashioned but well kept-up house that stood above a cluster of trees. It was a large square house, painted white with red trim and in the center of the roof there was a small glass-enclosed room with a railing running around it. A man was lying on a cot, taking what little sun there was. He seemed to have a blanket over most of him and a large floppy straw hat covered his head and face. Sneakers and old army suntans stuck out of the bottom of the cot. I put the glasses on him; couldn't see any better. There was a paper on the floor, he was probably sleeping.

“Grandpa, you know what that is? That kind of... of house up on the roof?” Andy asked with the self-importance of the newly learned.

“No,” I lied. “What is it?”

“In the days when End Harbor was a big whaling port, the wife of the captain of the ship would walk on the roof every day, looking out on the bay, see if her husband's ship was coining in. I bet from up there she could see for about fifty miles, maybe a hundred. Anyway, they call it the widow's walk because she never knew whether she was a widow or not. I mean, if the boat never came back.” He was making for the shore and now he stood up and called, “Pops!” and waved his hands.

“Sit down, you'll turn the boat over. You're too far away for him to hear. Besides, he looks like he's sleeping. What's the man's real name?”

“I don't know, everybody calls him Pops. He knows lots of things about fishing and... heck, I thought I'd ask him to fix my reel. He sold it to me.”

There was a faint line of narrow beach, then a steep bank that rose ten or fifteen feet and disappeared into a layer of trees. The house sure had privacy. Maybe he was just resting. I asked, “Do you think we'd be bothering him if we took the reel to his house?” I had enough of the boat and water.

“No. Mom says he's a very spry man for his age. What does spry mean?”

“That he has pep. Well go to the house, but if he's asleep we'll let the reel go till tomorrow.”

“Okay, we have to row back to that old dock. The road runs by....”

“Well go ashore here and walk up. I'll row and you watch out for rocks. Has he any dogs?”

“I don't know,” the kid said, moving forward as I took over the oars. “He lives with Mr. Anderson. He's the mailman here. He also has a big vegetable truck.”

We beached the boat and with obvious delight Andy scolded me for not burying the anchor in the sand. I helped him up the bank, getting myself dirty. After the trees we came to a large field that ran up to the house. It was a nice hunk of land. Behind the house there was an open garage with a large new truck. A station wagon stood in the driveway which circled through a well-kept lawn. Everything about the place showed a lot of care, and except for the truck it looked like a rich man's estate.

We were about halfway across the field when one of the side windows of the house flew up and a shotgun barrel covered us as a man's voice yelled, “Hold it! Don't you lead signs? You're trespassing on private property!”

I grabbed Andy, said, “Don't move.” Then I called out, “Put that damn gun away. The boy merely wants to see Mr... Pops. I didn't see any NO TRESPASSING signs.”

“Should have come around by the road. Well, don't stand there, come along. Be careful where you walk, stay on the path.” He stood in the window, the gun still on us. He was a stocky joker. I kept the kid behind me and I was puffing as we reached the house. It was quite a slope.

The man and gun left the window and a moment later appeared on the screened porch that ran around the house. He was holding the gun by the barrel now. It was an expensive pump shotgun. He had on a dun polo shirt that showed off his bulky shoulders, and work pants. He looked about forty-five, a strong man with a thick neck, heavy iron-gray hair, and wide, homely face. He wasn't tall, in fact looked smaller than he was—like Marciano did in the ring. “What do you want to see Pops about? He's not feeling well.”

“I wanted to ask him about this reel he sold me,” Andy said, “It don't—doesn't work.”

The guy smiled and it completely changed his face, gave it some life. “You must be the kid who wouldn't take the reel for a gift, wanted to buy it. He told me about you. What's wrong with it?” he asked, coming down the porch steps.

“Stuck.”

He rested the gun between his knees as Andy handed him the reel. I said, “If you're so fond of guns, learn how to handle them. If you should happen to kick the shotgun now, it would blow your head off.”

“I know about guns, but thanks for the advice,” he said, resting the shotgun against the steps.

“And you ought to think twice or three times about pointing it at people—even trespassers.”

He looked up from the reel, eyes staring right into mine. He had honest eyes. “You must be this city policeman causing all the fuss.” He held out a large hand. “I'm Larry Anderson.”

“Matt Lund,” I said, shaking his mitt.

“Sorry I shouted at you. This used to be farm land and it's full of ruts and holes. I'm always afraid somebody will break a leg. As for the gun, I've been jumpy as a cat all morning. Pops had a mild heart attack right after breakfast and—you know about Doc Barnes. I couldn't even get a Hampton doctor to come over, those society snobs. Anyway, Pops' condition isn't serious and one of the docs gave me instructions over the phone. Pops will have to rest for a week or so, absolute rest. Meantime, just to play it safe, I've contacted a specialist in New York.” He took out a penknife and loosened a screw in the reel. It spun smoothly. “It's okay, son, you had it down too tight.”

Andy thanked him and as we turned to walk back to the boat, Anderson said, “I'd better show you the path.”

“I don't want to put you out....”

“That's okay.” As we followed him across the field he said over his thick shoulder, “Of course the doc's death upset me too. As a member of the town council, I—and Art, Chief Roberts—have called a meeting for noon. Murder makes it a terrible mess. But you were right, Mr. Lund. At least the Chief agrees it's murder. But it sure don't make sense, anybody killing a sweet guy like Ed Barnes who always.... Careful, step around these wooden boards. Old well here and the weather may have rotted the cover. I know Doc would have been the first to agree with us about the publicity.”

“What publicity?” I asked.

“The summer season hasn't been too good, as it is. Now this murder talk—it won't help business or the good name of the Harbor.”

When we reached the beach he said something about wind taking the POSTED signs he'd tacked to the trees. He showed Andy how to oil the reel, and pointing to a red buoy out in the water, said, “Tide should be in strong soon, brings in the fish. I've always found buoy 9 out there a good spot for kings.” He turned to me. “On behalf of the Harbor Council I want to thank you for helping out the police department.”

“Guess in time Roberts would have noticed the door lock. He was excited. Young bunch of policemen you have.”

“Chief Edwards died of kidney trouble last year, just after Jim Harris resigned to live with his girl in Brooklyn; she married a big dress man there. Art was new to the force, but that left him chief. Maybe you can give him a hand on this case?”

“Nope, I'm on vacation here, for a week.”

“Well, thank you again for your interest. Don't think we'll have much more sun, I'll take Pops back to his room. I'm trying to get a woman to help out around the house, but help is difficult to find during the summer.” He touched the binoculars around my neck. “Getting a lazy man's view of the harbor?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I have to tend to Pops. Treat that reel with care and it will work fine, sonny.”

Andy said he would and we rowed out to the buoy. The kid got off some long casts while I pulled in a fair-sized porgy and the bastard cut my hands with his fins. Andy gave me a lecture on how to land a fish and I gave up fishing for the day. I saw Anderson up on the widow's walk, talking to Pops. Then he lifted the old man in his arms, stopped for second as if to point us out to Pops, then easily carried him into the house.

The sun came out again and we hung around the buoy for a long time, Andy catching a couple more porgies. I was getting stiff and when it started to cloud up again, over Andy's protests, I said it was time to head for home.

Neither Bessie nor the car were at the beach. Andy asked some women where she was but they said she hadn't been down as yet. We went to the cottage and Bessie wasn't there either. While the boy took the oars back, I showered and shaved, and then climbed into the mushy bed for a nap. It started to rain lightly and I lay there, listening to the rain hit the roof—an interesting sound for anybody accustomed to working in the damn rain. I was too pooped to sleep.

I was only wearing shorts and my knees were lobster red; in fact my skin was so hot I couldn't cover myself with a sheet and had to shove Matty off the bed. He tried to jump back on and I got up and pushed him into the living room, closed the door. I took a belt of brandy and stretched out again. If I was in the city now, just coming off at four o'clock, I'd go back to my old beat and play cards with some of the storekeepers after they closed. Or sit around the house and watch an early cowboy movie on TV.

Pain in my legs awoke me. Bessie was sitting on the bed, shaking me, her slacks pressing against my sunburnt knees. Her dark eyes were large and frightened. I asked, “What's the matter?” and moved away from her. It was still raining and at first I thought the shades were down, then I glanced at my watch—it was after eight.

“Matt, Andy and I have been riding all over town looking for you, and here you are, pounding your ear!”

I sat up and groaned; my skin felt as if it was cracking. “Damn, but I've got a burn. Got anything for that?”

“I saw Matty on the couch outside so I thought you had gone to town or... I'm all mixed up. Matt, Matt, they've arrested Jerry for Dr. Barnes' murder!”

I stood up and shook with a small chill; my red skin seemed to change from hot to ice every second. I was afraid to put on a robe. “Jerry, the dialectician? Where did you learn that?”

“It's all over the village. And every one of these bigoted souls is pleased as punch now that the village 'foreigner' is labeled a murderer! I tried to see him but that dumb-ox police chief wouldn't even let me talk to him. Matt, there's nobody to help him. You saw Jerry, I know trim—he couldn't possibly kill anybody.”

Stiffly, I headed for the door.

“Matt, are you sleepwalking? Didn't you hear what I told you?”

“I'm not deaf, but when I get up the first thing I have to do is take in the John. I'll be back in a second.”

Washing was torture and I couldn't find a thing in the medicine chest for sunburn. When I came out, Bessie had tea bags is a pan of hot water, cotton, and a bottle of baby oil. She told me to stand still and began dabbing my red skin with the tea bags. It embarrassed me to have her touch me all over so I cornballed, “Thinking of serving me with sugar?”

“No, with an apple in your mouth. Tannic acid is the best thing for a bum. Now I'll put on the oil, and dress you warmly before you catch a cold. Matt, we simply....”

“Where's the kid?”

“Visiting down the street. Matt, we must help Jerry. I'm certain they're making him the whipping boy, the goat.”

“Do you know why they think Jerry did it?”

“Oh, something about his having an argument with the doctor last night. Jerry is a diabetic, or on the verge of becoming one. He felt ill last night and called the doctor, who bawled him out for drinking beer. A neighbor heard them shouting at each other. Mrs. Barnes claims Jerry's was the only call the doctor had last night. There, that's enough oil, now get dressed. I have supper working.”

“I'm not hungry, stuffed myself on sandwiches in the boat,” I said, going to my room and dressing. Matty was wailing for his supper.

Bessie had hamburgers, potatoes, and a cup of strong spicy tea waiting. She sat down opposite me and lit a cigarette. When I asked when she started smoking, she said, “Only when I'm nervous. Matt, you have to prove Jerry is innocent.”

“Me?”

“You're a policeman and the only one who can—and will—help him. You know he's being framed.”

“Bessie, honey, because he's your landsman doesn't make him innocent. They must have something else on him beside what you've told me.”

“They don't! You can almost feel the sigh of relief in the village now that he's arrested—they all hate him.”

“You sure he's arrested or merely held for questioning?”

“Oh—I don't know the legalities... Matt, what are you going to do?”

“Go back to sleep. I'm on....”

“Matt, I'm serious!”

“So am I. Bessie, no matter what you may think, people are rarely framed for murder. At least not in New York State. I'm on vacation, not to mention that I have no business here as a cop.”

“Matt, I'm counting on you. You're the one who started this murder business, you just have to help!”

“Bessie, be sensible. I acted like a horse's ass this morning, playing the big cop. It's... well... like a matter of professional ethics. Suppose Roberts was in New York and tried playing cop—they'd laugh him out of town, if they didn't actually boot him out of the station house. Actually, as a peace officer, I have no more authority over Roberts than... well, than any citizen. I mean....”

“Matt, you're spouting about ethics like this was a debate, a bull session. A man's life is at stake!”

I nibbled at the hamburger. “Easy, Bessie. You say go out and solve a murder like it was the same as going to the store. I mean, exactly what do you think I can do? This isn't a movie. I'm not a detective; all my life I've been a plain old beat-cop. The truth is that except for a couple of busted store windows and petty house robberies, I've never taken part in a real crime. Jerry will get a lawyer, a chance to prove his innocence. Damn it, Bessie, what I'm trying to say is: I'm not sure I can help him or....” I let the rest of the sentence die, turned away to give Matty a piece of hamburger.

I saw disgust and shame in Bessie's eyes. “I hate to say this, Matt, but you're an old maid. All you want is your bed and to fool around with a dumb cat. Jerry is a good man, doesn't that matter to you? I suppose if he was a lousy cat with a broken leg, you'd run to....” She held her face in her hands and began to weep.

I'm a sucker for tears—any kind. I went around the table and put my hands on her shoulders. She hugged my waist. “Okay, Bessie, I'll see what I can do. But don't expect me to work miracles, be a super-sleuth.”

She wiped her face on my shirt. “Matt, I'm sorry.... about calling you an old maid. You're like Jerry—a good man. I know you'll solve this. I just know!”

“Yeah.” It sounded like nothing. “Let me have the keys to the car. I'll see what I can get from this alleged Chief of Police.” My fingers were stroking her hair, it was very soft.

Bessie insisted I wear one of Danny's windbreakers, which was too big for me and I knew I looked comical as I parked in front of the Harbor's main building. I was hoping Robert's would be out. He wasn't. He was behind his desk sucking on a big cigar, and from the sneering expression on his face I had the feeling Roberts had been waiting for me. I was all set to explain about Bessie nagging me and how I was on vacation, and hardly wanted a fight with my daughter-in-law on any occasion. But the sight of him got my dander up, making it harder for me to apologize for sticking my nose into his business. I fully realized I was being a prize pain in his rear.

Roberts boomed, “If it isn't Peace Officer Lund. I suppose you heard the news?” The sarcastic “Peace Officer” bit didn't help my mood.

I relit my pipe and sat in the chair beside his desk. “Yeah, I heard. I know this sounds kind of dumb—I mean, this morning I was talking up because of the boy, and now, well, my daughter-in-law is after me. You see, she's Greek, like Jerry, and she wants me to....”

“How come you let your son marry a Greek?”

That ended any explanations I had in mind. I puffed on my pipe and stared at this big young handsome dressmaker's dummy. He puffed, too—purled out his chest, said, “Not bad for a hick cop: murder in the morning, an arrest in the afternoon.”

“I never called you a hick cop, Roberts. Yeah, it was fast work. How did you do it?”

“Common sense. We checked with Pris... Mrs. Barnes, on the doc's night calls. His last one was at Jerry's house. Mrs. Ida Bond—she lives across the road from Jerry—she heard the doc bawling Jerry out for drinking beer and Jerry telling him to leave him alone. She is ready to swear she heard Edward, Doc Barnes, shouting, 'Then I won't be responsible for your life,' and Jerry answering, 'And I won't be responsible for yours.' That's the exact words. Naturally when we questioned Jerry he denied the killing, but did admit he had some words with Doc. Claims he was home all night, but living alone... that ain't much of an alibi.”

“You arrested him on that evidence?”

Roberts waved a long hand at the smoke in the air. “Sounds good to me: two men have an argument and later one of them is found murdered.”

“Find any fingerprints?”

“Didn't look,” he said calmly. “First off, being out in that rain all night, hardly be any prints or tire tracks. Then, we were so sure it was an accident... I mean, the undertaker was already working on the body when you convinced me it had to be murder. But I got all the evidence I need.”

“Come off it, Roberts,” I said, not blaming him for holding out on me. “Your evidence won't stand up in court.”

He blew a cloud of lazy smoke, watched it drift up to the ceiling. “If it doesn't, Jerry's acquitted.” He leaned across the desk, lowered his voice. “Between you and me, being a diabetic old Jerry could plead he was in a state of shock, sort of nuts, get off with that.”

This was the screwiest cop ever! “Anything missing? Wallet or money gone, any signs of robbery?” I asked.

“Nope. Made a careful check with Mrs. Barnes. Everything's there. This wasn't any robbery.”

“What time was the doctor at Jerry's house?”

“Around nine-thirty. Jerry phoned him just before nine. Mrs. Barnes says the doc was peeved at having to make a night call. And before you ask what time the doc died— I'll tell you. Medical Examiner puts it around eleven P.M., but he can't be positive, give or take an hour or two. So that fits.”

I was fed up with this hot air. I got to my feet. “Jerry has a lawyer?”

A shrug of the heavy shoulders—and it wasn't padding either. “He must have plenty of dough, been living like a miser all his life. He can get himself a good one. He's over at the Riverside jail—that's the county seat.”

“Think I can see him?”

The handsome face tightened. “Look, it's an open and shut case....”

“Can I see him?”

Roberts stared at me, his eyes narrowing. There was a silent pause while he made a fist with his big right hand, balanced it on his left palm for a second, examining it. Finally, convinced he still had all his fingers, or something, he looked at me again, asked, “What you making a production of this for, Lund?”

“No production. He's a kind of friend of the family. I merely want to see that he has a lawyer, cigarettes, understands his rights.”

Roberts opened his fist, slapped the desk—lightly. “You should know it isn't up to me. Go down to the jail in the morning, if it will make you feel any better. Only if you're still on this peace officer kick, remember I'm in charge here and you'll do what I say or....”

“You're the one making a thing of it. I told you why I'm here: Jerry is a friend of my daughter-in-law and... uh... Fm only doing this as a friend.”

“Suit yourself, friend. But don't let me trip over you.”

“Thanks.” I zipped up the floppy windbreaker on the way out.

I didn't feel like rushing back to more of Bessie's needling. There was a dreary-looking bar across the street. I went in and ordered a beer. The bartender was a tall man with the kind of shoulder and arm development that came from doing something a darn sight harder than mixing drinks. He had weak eyes and his thick glasses gave his fleshy face an unreal look. There were a couple of young kids, about eighteen or nineteen, hanging around a pin-ball machine. They were drinking straight gin, or maybe it was vodka.

I bought a bag of potato chips and sipped my brew slowly. Bessie said Jerry used his mumbling dialect on everybody in town—did that include the doc? If so, how could a woman across the road understand what he was yelling? And Barnes—now, why would a doctor be shouting at a patient? The whole dumb village was acting screwy: first they didn't want to call it murder, pass it off as an accident. Then they tagged Jerry and from the way Roberts acted, he couldn't care less if it held up in court. He seemed to want an acquittal.

“.... I hear he's a big-time private eye.” This was followed by a nervous giggle from the pinball crowd. I looked into the dirty mirror behind the bar; the three punks were leaning against the machine, staring at me with crocked eyes. One of them said, loudly, “I heard he's FBI. Sent down here to root up trouble. I ain't hit an FBI yet, but there's always a first time.”

I felt a chill, which had nothing to do with my sunburn. These were tall husky young fellows, with SOP crewcuts and loud sport shirts. But they were wearing work shoes and looked accustomed to hard work—and in shape. There was more mumbling and I finished my beer as quickly as I could—without making it look fast, nodded at the barkeep and headed for the door.

I'd reached the sidewalk when they came out, all of them swinging. I blocked a wild right and punched one of them in the eye. A smack on the chin dropped me. I sat on the walk, dizzy, and trying to think of a lot of things— like curling up to protect myself from kicks. And if the bastards had busted my bridgework.

My head was spinning but I saw the bartender come out and give one of the kids a swift kick in the can, tell him, “I warned you about starting any roughhouse in my place, Tommy. Try this again and I'll droplock you through the wall. And I ain't kidding.”

A pair of long legs in black puttees passed me. Roberts moved nicely. He grabbed the nearest kid and slapped him across the face. A hell of a slap, the mouth went out of shape for a moment and his hair shook. When he let go, the punk went reeling down the street. The others started to run but Roberts took two steps and backhanded another across the nose, making it bleed. He was damn good, always had his right fist cocked for real trouble. He reached down and lifted me to my feet. “You okay, Lund?”

I put a finger in my numb mouth; my bridgework was still in one piece. I said, “Yeah.”

The bartender said, “Sorry, mister. I thought they were only fooling. Come in and get a shot on the house, fix you up.”

“I'm okay.” I started toward Bessie's car. Roberts walked along with me. “They thought you were here to look into a hot-rod accident. A kid was killed in a race, in a car stolen out of state from New Jersey. Was some talk about the Feds coming into the case. They were just scared.”

“They weren't scared enough.” Feeling returned to my jaw.

“Kids used to do a lot of cop-fighting down here, their form of juvenile delinquency, I guess. Matter of fact, that's why I was first taken on, as a special, to handle the kids. Sure you're okay, Mr. Lund?”

I got in the car and said I was fine. Hell of it was, Roberts really sounded sincere.

“It won't happen again, Lund. You understand, one of those things. I'll drop in on the kids, at their homes, in an hour or so, put the fear of the law in them. I don't stand for cops being slugged here.”

“Sure, they were liquored up. Thanks.”

“Anyway, I'm glad you socked one of the clowns. Handle yourself good for a guy your age.”

I waved and drove off, wondering if he was kidding me; not sure. I couldn't make this hick burg, couldn't figure it even a little.