Sin In Their Blood

MONDAY

It was almost 10 a.m. and starting to warm up as I walked slowly down the main street, stopping every few minutes to rest my light bag. It's the kind of a street you think about a lot when you're out of town... and then return and wonder why the hell you ever looked forward to seeing it again. I took in the skyscrapers, the movie houses, the gin mills, the bookie joints that passed as cigar stores, the radio-station tower that disappeared into the blue sky, a modern monument to nothing. I watched the people hurrying by, the crowded restaurants and orangeade stands, the heavy traffic—and I knew the street didn't mean a thing to me any more. I suppose in the hospital I'd thought about it so often because it had been a dream then, a symbol of living. Now, as I looked up and down the busy street— this street that had been a big part of my life—all I could think was, where had I got it? In what bar or eating place or movie had somebody breathed deeply and given me the damn bug?

There were lots of places I could have gone to but I didn't have anyplace to go to, so I dropped into the Baker, the best hotel in town. I had less than seventy bucks and this was strictly a lush spot, but after eleven months of hospital beds, I wanted a little luxury for a few nights. As I walked across the impressive lobby, Abe Berg, the house dick, came toward me like a wobbly tank. Abe was a rough joker, once he got his mitts on you. He'd been a professional wrestler and his face had been stepped on a couple of times—and put together again carelessly. Some guys get by on their size, or rough talk—Abe got by on his face. He said in a shrill voice, “Matt Ranzino! You big bastard, heard you were the hero of that mess in Korea!”

“I was there,” I said, turning my head to avoid his breath as we pumped hands.

“On a case here?” Abe asked, then being a real bright detective he noticed my bag, added, “Staying here? I can get you the professional rate—40 per cent off.”

“I'm on nothing. Just got into town. Thought I'd put up here for a few days.”

“I'll fix you up with the desk.”

“Thanks.”

He banged me on the shoulder with one of his meat-hooks, and I thought I was going to fall over. I let go of his hand, stepped back out of his reach as he said, “Boy, you look in top shape. Whatcha weigh?”

“Two hundred... and five and a half ounces.”

“And hard as that old brick house,” he said, trying to slap me in the guts with his heavy left hand. I pushed that aside, said, “Take it slow, Abe, I... eh... ate a minute ago.”

“Sure. Stop in my office for a hooker?”

“Too early.”

We went over to the desk clerk, who looked as though he just had the cellophane unwrapped from him. Abe introduced me as a buddy-buddy and whispered something into the clerk's ear and it must have been good—I only had to pay three bucks for a room and bath. I wanted to go up and lay down for a while, but Abe wanted to talk. He told the clerk, “Matt here was the toughest private dick in town.”

“Well, well,” the clerk said in a deadpan voice that must be an occupational disease with hotel clerks.

“He was a rough cookie. Say, every time I see this Humphrey Bogart doing his stuff in the movies I say to myself, them Hollywood jokers ought to get Matt Ranzino on the screen and really see a rough clown in action.”

“The house-dick business so bad you've become a publicity agent, too?” I asked Abe, and the clerk chuckled at this corn.

“It's the truth, ain't no stuff,” Abe said as I picked up my bag. We walked over to the elevator and he asked casually, “What you going to do, Matt, get your license again?”

“I don't know. Going to take it easy for a time.”

“Heard about your partner, Harry Loughlin? He's in the big money.” Abe said it as though the words tasted bad. “So I heard. What kind of agency he got?”

“You going in with him again?”

“No.”

Abe gave me a horrible leer that was a gold-tooth smile. “Good! Listen what Harry's doing is... well, I ain't for talking about it, but it stinks. Really stinks big, Matt.”

“Harry's the lad to think up a fast hustle,” I said, moving into the elevator.

“A hustle is a hustle but this...” Abe shook his big head. “This is real crummy, worse than a two-bit pimp, or a—”

“See you around, Abe,” I said, motioning at the elevator operator.

There was a bellhop waiting at the room and I had to give him half a buck for unlocking the door. But he tossed the change on the bed, said, “You don't have to give me nothing, Mr. Ranzino. I was coming from school when you busted that drunken driver's jaw and...”

“Take the change.”

“No, sir. They had a hell of a nerve busting you from the force just because he was the mayor's cousin.”

“The mayor's family can never be a drunk,” I said. That was all only five years ago, now it seemed like another lifetime.

“I followed all your cases in the papers after that, felt I was reading about a friend. I mean, because I was in on that first thing. My name is Jim, Mr. Ranzino, and I'm no movie-happy jerk, but if you should open your own agency again, I'd like a job as office boy. Anything to learn the business. I'm small but tough as...”

“Ask Abe to tell you the secrets of the trade.”

“That ape, thinks he's funny giving you a grip-of-iron handshake. He told me all he knows in two minutes. I'm serious Mr...'”

“Don't know exactly what I'm going to do,” I said, “but I'll keep you in mind, Jim.”

His face showed the let-down at the brush-off, but he said thanks a million and went out. I locked the door, opened my shirt, stretched out on the bed. It was a big, soft bed, a big room. I wasn't tired and I couldn't sleep. I wondered why I'd ever come back to this town. Pops was dead, I had no one. And Abe and this Korea hero crap. And this dizzy kid—must be almost 17 or 18, army-bait unless he was lucky enough to be a moron.

I lay there, lazily wondering what to do—being out of a hospital was a little like getting out of stir. One thing, I'd have to find a room, give my change of address to the government as soon as possible. If my monthly check was held up too long, I'd be in a bad way.

I'd look around out at the beach—be the best place to live. Air wasn't too damp. Get me a cheap room there tomorrow—hell with this big bed.

I turned over and saw my wristwatch. It was after eleven and I went to the neat adjoining bath and washed out a clean glass thoroughly, was downing one of my multi-vitamin pills I had to take three times a day, when the phone rang.

“Hear you just got into town, Matt.” It was the smooth, almost purring voice of my former partner— and as unpleasant sounding as ever. Harry must really be a wheel, for obviously although he hated him—or said he did—Abe had phoned him the minute I went up to my room.

I asked, “What's new, Harry?” to be polite.

“Plenty cooking. You feeling okay, Matt?”

“Yeah—guess so.”

“That's swell. Must of had yourself a time with those nurses, coming to your bed and throwing it at you all the...”

“What's on your mind, Harry?”

“Why Matt, this is the first time I've talked to you in a year. Get the cigarettes I sent you every month?”

“No.”

“That's odd, I sure sent them. Had Flo take care of it. Say Matt, like to make a little real talkie with you. How about dropping over to my office after lunch? Say about one-thirty?”

“Okay.”

“See you then, Matt boy. Got a deal cooking at lunch, otherwise I'd break bread with you. I'm in suite 2111, the Grace Building. See you.”

I said okay and hung up. Harry was so smooth and full of crap it was comical... the way he told me he was in touch with Flo, and that my office jive. But I didn't give a damn about Flo or the office.

It was almost noon and I was hungry. As I crossed the lobby Abe pretended to read a paper and didn't notice me.

I walked down Main Street and all the eating places were full and I wanted to avoid crowds. Long as I was splurging, I dropped into The Glass Stem, one of the more expensive bars in town. The bar was crowded but most of the booths were empty. I took a booth, told the waiter, “Glass of milk and a lettuce and tomato sandwich on whole wheat toast.”

He had fish-eyes and a skinny face and he almost looked pop-eyed as he asked, “You say milk or beer?”

“Milk. Still serve that, don't you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Make sure it's fresh.”

“Won't serve it if it isn't.” He turned toward the bar and called out, “Bob, we-got any fresh milk?”

The barkeep nodded.

A fat, hard face peered out of the booth in front of me, repeated, “Milk?” It was Tops Anderson, a big-time goon, and when his drunken, bloodshot eyes got me in focus, he grinned, said, “Well for—Jesus—Matt Ranzino!”

He got to his feet and I saw he'd put on weight the last year. He held out a pudgy hand and I shook it and he sat down opposite me, said, “Can't say you're a sight for sore eyes, but I always did like you. When you get back in town?”

“Today.”

“Bill!” Tops yelled. A lean young kid of about 20, with cool eyes and the cocky manner of a jerk who thinks he owns the world because he packs a gun, stood up in the next booth. He joined us, walking in a practiced, cat-like way. Tops said, “Bill, meet Matt Ranzino, one of the toughest dicks out. And say it with a 'D.'”

We touched hands; the kid had no use for dicks.

Tops went into the army hero pitch and when the waiter brought my milk, Tops said, “Forget that cow piss, bring us three ryes.”

I took the milk, said I wasn't drinking.

“What's the matter, used to lap it up. You don't want to drink with me?”

“I'm on the wagon,” I said, sipping my milk.

The snooty punk grinned and Tops shook his head. “You've changed. And things've changed since you been away, Matt. I own most of the juke boxes in town.”

“All of them,” the gunman added. He had an odd way of talking, biting off each word as though talking bored him.

I didn't say anything, went to work on my sandwich.

“Yeah, I cornea long ways since that time you sent me up.” Tops turned to Bill. “Matt's the only copper ever got me.”

“When was that?” the punk asked, to make conversation.

“Three, four years ago. I don't know, maybe longer. I was working for... never mind who. I was just a rough bastard, bouncing guys. Tossed some nut out of this bar and he landed wrong, got a concussion or something. So the dope is silly enough to sue and I got to throw out the process server too. He returns with a dick—Matt. I go for the both of 'em and Matt here breaks my lower plate with the fastest left hook I ever seen.”

The hood looked me over again, buttered up Tops with, “Beat you to the punch, boss?”

The waiter brought two drinks and Tops took his down in one gulp while Bill toyed with his. The kid didn't look like the type that ever let himself get drunk. Tops burst out laughing. “Hell of it was, I've beat some rugged raps, but I couldn't square this simple assault charge. I did three months. Matt, you sure got a kick in your hands.”

I finished my sandwich and milk, wondered if it was then I'd got it. But the doc had said it would have been during a strain, and Tops had been easy, he was one of those wild-swinging brawlers. And that had been too long ago—the bug would have died in my lungs before Korea.

“Yeah, Matt packs a kayo. 'Course, you kind of took advantage of me. If I'd have known you was a pug.... I was a handy-andy with a blackjack... then. Bill, you're looking at a guy who could have been heavyweight champ of the world, maybe. Hey Matt, you know Pops died while you was away?”

“I know.”

“Pops and his boys. Bill, make sense turning down a ring career to become a cop? And Matt was real good at it, too.”

“Dopey,” Bill said to his whiskey.

“I was just an amateur,” I said.

“Another crazy racket, fighting for medals,” Tops said. He lit a fresh cigar, handed me one. I shook my head and he dug in his pocket, came out with a pack of cigarettes. I shook my head again and his eyes got a little bright. “You don't want to smoke my cigars?”

“I don't smoke much, any more.”

“Yeah?” Tops squinted at me. “I might of been a great boxer myself, if I had the chance,” Tops said, his voice getting nasty. “It's a fact, Matt's the only guy ever flattened me, and I been in some rough brawls. Do any fighting in the army?”

“Not that kind.” I started to get up. Tops reached across the table and pushed me down with one hand— didn't push me hard, but still a push.

“What's the hurry?”

“Got an appointment.”

“I want to talk over old times.”

“Some other time,” I said, reaching into my pocket for change.

Tops said, “Your money's no good here, on me.”

“That's okay,” I said, leaving a dime and a nickel for a tip.

Bill said, “What a spendthrift!”

Tops roared with laughter, swept the change off the table. “Leave that for the busboy. Hey, Bill, know something, this Wop don't like our company.”

“Don't call me a Wop,” I said, and immediately wished I'd shut up.

Tops said in a mocking voice, “Sorry. See, he don't like us, don't like me calling him a Wop. Fancy Dago, ain't he?” His voice was loud and people were staring at us. The waiter was whispering nervously to the manager.

I said, “Forget it, Tops, you're drunk and I've places to go.”

“So I'm drunk! Know what I want to talk to you about, what I been thinking about sitting here, looking at your ugly kisser? I never liked you socking me around. Nobody ever done that to me, you got me with a Sunday punch. Know what, let's you and me see who's the roughest chum right now?”

“Some other time, I just ate,” I said, getting up. Tops got to his feet fast, for a guy in his condition. The punk got up quickly too, glanced around, said something to Tops who growled, “Naw, he ain't a copper no more. Hit the wrong slob and got hisself busted.” His eyes didn't leave me as he talked and now he asked, “We settle this right here, or should we go into the alley?”

I had the ball—was stuck with it! Tops was too stupid drunk to argue with. I knew the alley. I shrugged. “Let's go into the alley, I don't want to break any tables and property, knocking you around. Remember, you're starting this... and better take your plates out, no sense my busting them... again.”

The tough talk didn't work. “Damn right I'm starting it, going to kick the living slop out of you,” Tops said as we started for the kitchen door. This Bill pretended to brush against me and I shoved him aside, said, “Relax, punk, I'm clean.”

We walked through the kitchen, which was empty except for a short-order cook in dirty shirtsleeves, who stared at us with surprise. We stepped out into the alley and as Tops took off his coat and handed it to the punk... I ran like mad. Tops was too drunk to run and I knew the kid wouldn't be any trouble.

Nothing followed me—except Tops' astonished and deep laughter. The alley came out on a busy side street, as I knew it would, and I slowed down. I told the nearest cabbie to drive me to the park. I'd never run from anybody before, but I didn't feel bad, in fact I didn't feel anything. I was breathing hard and when I took my pulse it seemed too fast. I leaned back against the seat, shut my eyes, and waited for my heart to stop pounding.

I sat on a park bench for awhile, wondering what that short sprint had done to my left lung... the one they had once talked of collapsing. It was the first time I'd run, or even walked fast, in almost a year, and my throat felt a little raw from breathing too fast. I'd have to see Max, get a gun permit. Coming back to town was a mistake—there were too many characters like Tops around, waiting to take a poke at me. You return to your “home town” not because it's a good or bad town, but for no reason except it's “home town.” Well, that was for the birds, if I wanted to stay alive I'd have to get out of town—but fast. The next time there might not be an alley and a beating would kill me.

I sat in the park till one, then took a bus to the Grace Building, which was a swank office building not far from the bar I'd been in. Suite 2111 had AMERICA! AMERICA! Inc. printed on the door in small silver letters and the office was a lush affair—the walls of knotted blond pine, fancy leather chairs, thick rug, and pictures of Washington, Truman, and MacArthur on the walls in modern copper frames. The receptionist was a dull-looking, thin woman who told me, “Mr. Loughlin is busy. Take a seat, please.”

I sat down and in a few minutes a creep came out of an office and told the woman, “I'll be back by two, Miss O'Brien.” This frantic looked to be about thirty, was small and slight, and had thick glasses on a pimply face that seemed too big for the rest of his head. He wore a dark blue suit, a white shirt with a starched collar, and a dark black tie. His hair was a violent orange-red, and the only thing missing on him was a strait jacket.

Miss O'Brien said, “Yes, sir, Mr. Austin,” and Mr. Austin actually backed out of the office, his eyes, distorted by the powerful glasses, giving me a clumsy once-over. He sure looked like a nut or a hophead who needed a shot in a big hurry.

I glanced through several magazines I'd never heard of before, all of them full of super-patriotic junk, eager to explain what had gone wrong in Korea, and all of them had an article either called, “What MUST Be Done,” or, “Wake Up, America!” I tossed the magazines back on the end tables next to the smart brown leather couch I was sitting on. I knew damn well Harry was alone, giving me the waiting treatment to show his importance. I was about to ask the receptionist if she had the daily paper, so I could start looking for a room, when the door opened and I smelled the perfume before I heard, “Matt!” and she threw herself on my lap, her red mouth over mine. I pushed Flo aside, and jumped up, said, “Damn it, don't kiss me!”

The months hadn't hurt Flo. She still had the fluffy blond hair, the sensuous mouth, and her chic dress proved beyond any doubt she had a full figure and wasn't wearing a bra. Her firm full breasts seemed to be held at the nipples, like two jack-in-the-boxes, waiting to spring over the low-cut dress. But I really wasn't looking at her fleshy bosom or the long shapely legs and the bit of round thigh that showed as she sprawled on the couch—I was only watching that over-red mouth, afraid of it. I'd thought a lot about Flo... she'd been the logical candidate to give me the bug: Flo and her sloppy soul kisses, ramming her sharp darting tongue down my throat.

Flo bounded to her feet as Miss O'Brien watched with respect and disapproval, hugged me, and fortunately her mouth only reached my shoulder, smearing my shirt. She was wearing high platforms—her lips used to come about halfway up my chest, she got her kicks biting the hair there. She said, in the gushy way she had of talking, “Ah, Matt, Matt, it's so damn good to see you! How you, honey?” She pushed me away, looked me over with delight. “You still look so... oh... rough and big. Matt, I've missed you so goddamn much.”

“I can see that,” I said, glancing at the silver fox scarf, the rings and bracelets—all real stones. Flo spent a lot of time dressing herself, and if her taste was a little on the loud side, she never wore cheap stuff. It used to amaze me how she spent hours dressing—to be able to undress in seconds.

She giggled. “Hell, Matt, I had to do something, or go to work—for peanuts. It don't mean a thing, you're the only stud for me. You know that. Why the very sight of you sent a hot...”

There was a cough from Miss O'Brien and Flo muttered a female word under her breath—which was the last thing you'd think about the faded Miss O'Brien. Flo whispered, “Hon, I'll wait downstairs. Be in the yellow Packard roadster—it's mine. And don't pay no mind to whatever Harry tells you, you know where you really stand with me—and any time.”

“Well... I don't know how long I'll be with Harry....”

“Hon, I'll wait.”

Miss O'Brien said crisply, “Mr. Loughlin will see you now.”

Flo winked, said, “Don't forget, I'll be waiting.”

The receptionist began, “Mr. Loughlin is waiting...

I pushed Flo away, my hand touching a lot of soft cool skin and Flo looked at Miss O'Brien and repeated the four-letter word—loudly—and the woman blushed a deep red as she buzzed the door for me.

I went through a small room, a kind of foyer, lined with big metal filing cabinets, the fireproof expensive ones, with a thick lock on each cabinet. There was also a desk with a bronze nameplate: Thatcher Austin, Jr.

The creep came complete. On the wall behind the desk there was a small American flag with a scale model sub-machine gun hung under it. It was a good model and I was about to stop and examine it, when Harry opened the door of his office.

He hadn't changed: wiry, dapper, the thin-featured face all clean-shaven and with a trace of powder and nice smelling after-shave lotion. He had the same small hands, soft and well manicured, as always. Sometimes when he was on a real good binge, he'd paint his nails a mild pink.

“You big thug, you look fine!”

I said, “That's what everybody has been trying to sell me.”

He sat down behind his big metal and dark mahogany desk and I sat on one of these ultra-modern chairs that's supposedly molded to the shape of your behind. After the first few seconds, it was comfortable.

Harry said, “That wound and the hospital didn't do you any harm, you look fit. Those nurses as tail-happy as the jokes go?”

“Stop it.” Harry, knew more dirty jokes than any man alive, or maybe dead. And all of them funny—to a high-school kid.

“But you do look fine. I don't know, expected you to limp in with half an arm. Never did get that wound business straight—where were you hit?”

“In the head. Forget the wound and the war. What did you want to see me about?”

Harry gave me a small grin, examined his nails. “Same thing you wanted to see me about—get us both straight. Thought we might start off by getting things settled. Righto?”

“You're talking.” The “righto” was a new word for Harry.

He pressed a button and the bottom drawer of his desk gently slid open. He fumbled around with some papers—a few of our old letterheads—tossed them on the desk. “That's all that remains of our old agency.”

He waited for me to say something, then added, “Got a hundred and twenty bucks for the office furniture, but we owed that much in back rent, phone. Have it all itemized if you care to see it.”

“Take your word.”

Harry filled a straight-grained pipe and lit it. He puffed on the pipe greedily, watching me. He was smoking something that smelled like a mixture of sugar and Under The Arm No. 5. The whole pipe idea must have been part of Harry's new “executive” look. Finally he said, “What I'm saying, Matt, is, you're not a partner in this new set-up I have. But that doesn't mean you're not in. Want to work for me? Hundred a week to start.”

“No dice.”

“You mean you expect to get a slice of this deal? It's all mine, you want a job, okay, but no partnership.” His voice grew shrill like it always did when he was angry.

“You can have it—all of it.”

He looked at me like I was bulling him, then leaned back in his red leather chair, sent out a big cloud of smoke that stunk up the room. I thought how odd it was that a weak character like Harry, a bag of bones, knowing almost the same people I did, going the same places, never got the bug. And with all my muscles, I had to get it.

“Matt, you're not sore about anything?”

“No.”

“This job is a snap and...”

“I'm not going to work—for a while.”

“Loaded?”

“Just my pension. Rising prices are cutting it to hell, but I'll manage.”

Harry sucked on his pipe again, studied me. “There's one more thing—Flo. I took over while you...”

“You can have her too, along with the letterheads.”

“Matt, you've changed.”

“That's right.”

“Flo fits in with my plans. I like a stupid girl, just a plain stupid one, not one of these educated stupid broads that drive you nuts with their complexes. Flo is...”

I stood up. “So long, Harry. I got to get some sleep.”

“Wait a minute. Sit down. I canceled two appointments so we could chat. Matt, I'll level with you, I have a gold mine here, but I need somebody I can trust to work with me. Give you a hundred and fifty a week, and it's no work. Sit down, let me show you something.” He took a four-page printed newsletter from the top of his desk, handed it to me. I read the first paragraph which had some hooey about “inside trends in America.” Across the top in big red letters was printed, CONFIDENTIAL! Destroy This After Reading!

Harry said, “I write that. Got a guy at the printers who goes over it for mistakes, does a polish job.”

“What is it?”

“Costs fifty bucks a year to subscribe to my newsletter, and I got over 1,800 suckers. Send it to them registered mail—big deal. Was going to charge them thirty dollars, then I thought of the registered-mail angle, added twenty to pay the postage. Impresses the hell out of 'em.”

“Out of who?”

“Businessmen. And if they don't subscribe, or let us screen their employees—for from five hundred to a grand, depending upon the number of workers—why then I smear them in the newsletter. It's surefire.... I can put a small concern out of business within three issues of my newsletter.”

“Screen their employees for what?” I asked, tossing the newsletter back on the desk.

“For Reds, or anybody they want to call a troublemaker. I don't care, I'll screen anybody for anything— long as there's a bundle of that green stuff on the line.. Hell, Matt, this makes the old strike-breaking racket look like small time...”

“I never went in for fink work.”

“Maybe being in the hospital you don't know it, but the whole atmosphere of America has changed. Everybody is scared stiff. There's a magic word—red. Hint that anybody is a Communist and their goose is cooked. Got to be very careful what you think and read these days. Notice those files in the other room? They're worth a million bucks to me, and I'm not just blowing off. Last year I stumbled on a joker called Thatcher Austin, a fanatic on the...”

“I saw him.”

Harry grinned—he'd even straightened out his teeth. “Something for the books, isn't he? Comes from one of the old blue-blood families—minor key society stuff. Except they been stony since way back to the '29 crash. Thatcher was never exactly all there....”

“He looks it.”

“Convinced himself the crash was all part of a revolution started by Al Smith, Roosevelt, and Stalin to make his family poor. He was nutty. So his folks found him a hobby, what they call mental therapy. He started reading all the papers and mags, including the union stuff and left newspapers, filed the names of everybody mentioned there. Tells me for fifteen years he used to work ten and twelve hours a day at it. Realize what that's worth under the McCarran Law? I've a file as good as the FBI's! And the Austin name comes in handy when contacting the big shots. It's a cinch— when we screen a plant or an office, even a school or church, all we do is cheek their employees against our files. Half hour's work and the big shots think I'm a regular Sherlock Holmes because I tell them Joe Blow, their elevator operator, attended a meeting for Roosevelt back in 1937, or something Joe Blow don't even remember himself.”

“What does buster need you for? What's his cut?”

Harry laughed and relit his pipe. “You won't believe this but all that jerk gets is sixty a week, his own desk, 'and a bright badge saying he's an honorary Deputy Police Chief. He's happy, and works like a bastard. But I've only scratched the field, Matt; with these files I can cover the country, no telling how big we can get... if I can find somebody I can trust. Be like old times, Matt, we were always a smart team.”

“I want to forget old times,” I said. “And I'm tired.”

Harry waved his hand, as if pushing me away. “I'll be the front man, make the speeches at the businessmen's luncheons, all that bunko. I'm good at it, know how to scare them crazy. You'd run the office, follow up my leads. It's a dream, no danger or rough stuff... and how the dough rolls in.”

“Legalized blackmail,” I said, thinking it was time for one of my vitamin pills.

Harry shrugged. “I didn't make the laws. All I know is it's legal, patriotic, and pays off. People are scared, worse than during Prohibition. Hell, now people are scared to even look at a sunset any more—it's red. Matt, you interested?”

“Nope.” I got to my feet again. “So long, Harry, have fun.” As I left the office I heard him say, “You dumb-ox, I'm offering you real dough for no work and...”

When I got downstairs and out on the sidewalk, a horn wailed and I saw, Flo behind the wheel of a sleek roadster. As I got in she asked, “You find an apartment yet, or shall we go to a hotel?”

“I'm going to the High Street police station.”

“Aw Matt, honey, you're sore about me taking up with Harry? I told you he doesn't...”

“I'm not steamed about anything, and stop climbing all over me. People are watching us.”

“Then let's go to a hotel. I know a...”

“Stop it, Flo. Things have changed—we're done.” She put her face next to mine and I twisted away from that mouth, asked, “Baby, you going to drive me to the police station, or do I walk?”

She moved away, started the car. “What's changed? If you're not sore, I mean, what else could I do, get a job in the five and ten or.... God, Matt, you weren't wounded there?”

“No. But I've been... eh... sick—and I didn't get a dose either. Look, baby, I've been away more than a year, and it's all over for us.”

“But why?”

“Who knows the way of these things? It just is,” I said, sounding like advice to the lovelorn.

She drove expertly through the heavy afternoon traffic. “Aw, Matt, I been looking forward to your coming back. Harry's no good. Sometimes I think he gets more delight out of teasing me, slapping me around, than going with me. You know how I tick, Matt, I got to have a real man.”

“You shouldn't have any trouble finding one.”

“I thought I had you.” Flo sighed. “I don't know, Matt, we should have married and settled down, and by this time I'd be fat and sloppy and with a house full of kids. Now I'm all mixed up. I have money—Harry's good that way, likes to see me dress flashy, the jewels, this car—but it all doesn't add up to anything. Things seem empty. All I think of is how good we had it. Maybe not much real dough, but we were made for each other.”

I don't know if it was smelling her, or hearing her talk and remembering—or what, but I was beginning to run a little temperature. Which was funny, because Flo and I were never romantic, merely good between the sheets.

The idea of kissing her, being with her, made me cold with fear and I said, “Cut the chatter, baby. That's over, forget us.”

“Just like that, two lousy words, forget us, and you think I can get you out of my system? It ain't like that, Matt. We could start over again, I'll give up the car and ice, or if you want, I'll stay with Harry, take his dough and see you till you get started and ready to...”

“You've become quite a gal.”

“You're the one to decide what I'll do,” she said, drawing up in front of this old run-down brick building that was the High Street precinct, parking beside the NO-PARKING sign. “Merely said that, Matt, to show you how much I need you. I'm desperate for a guy like you. Know how hard up I am? Even let that bedbug, Thatcher, have a piece now and then—for comic relief. Ought to see him, he's something, strictly a weirdie.”

“I bet. Aren't you playing close to home? If Harry found...?”

“Who the hell do you think makes me go with that nitwit!” Flo said savagely.

That figured, I didn't think the tin badge would be quite enough to hold the creep. I got out of the car. “Sorry, Flo, but I have my own troubles.”

She said, “Matt, look at me, I've been feeling... dirty... for months. Just seeing you makes me feel all fresh, and wanting you so damn much I have a pain in my guts.”

“Take some Turns,” I said like a dope and she began to cry. I reached in and squeezed her hand. “Didn't mean the corny crack, Flo. You're as pretty as ever and all that but... I can't explain it, baby, but it's over for us. Has to be that way. I don't want to hurt you but that's...”

She bent down and kissed my hand and I yanked it away, said, “Goodbye, Flo.”

“No, we'll talk some more about this. Matt, there isn't any other chick?”

“Nothing like that, it's merely that...”

“Then we'll talk more about us.”

“Maybe.” I waved and walked into the station, looking at the lipstick and spit on the back of my hand, wondering what it would show under a microscope. The desk sergeant was a cop I didn't know and I asked. “Captain Max Daniels in?”

“Who's calling?”

“Matt Ranzino.”

He glanced at me with mild interest and picked up the phone. I asked, “Where's the can?”

He pointed toward a door I should have seen and I went in and washed off her spit, carefully washed my face and hands with strong soap. I was taking out one of my pills when I heard Max's hoarse, “Where is he?” and then he came barging into the John, slapped me twice on the back with his right—knocking the pill out of my hand—and threw a left at my shoulder. I stepped inside the punch and pushed him away, said, “Still carrying your left too low.”

We shook hands like mad and Max said, “You old miserable unbathed bastard, it's great to see you!”

He'd changed a little—his hair was graying along the edges and his face was fatter. But his clothes were still crumpled, he still didn't know how to shave—there were little patches of stubble on his face—and of course there was a big dent where I'd broken his nose.

He gave me the old double slap on the back again, asked, “What we standing here for? Come into my office—not that it looks any better than this craphouse.”

Max's office was a plain room with a battered and butt-burned desk, two chairs—one of them with a broken back—and on his desk were framed snapshots of his fat wife and the two little girls. On one of the green walls there was a small picture of Max in a fighting pose, cut out of the papers when he'd won the Golden Gloves heavyweight title. Max had been riding the gravy train as police department boxing champ for several years till I came along and beat his brains out. It was the start of a real friendship.

Max bent down to get his pint out—why do they always keep it in the bottom drawer? The top would be more convenient—and I said, “Not for me.”

He kicked the drawer shut, tilted his chair, the good one, against the wall. “Matt, I've missed your ugly puss. Going into the agency racket again? You want, I can get you back on the force, being a vet of two wars and all that. Hell, you're only 33, still retire before you're 50.”

“You mean retire to one of these two-bit night watchmen or messenger jobs so I could live on my pension?”

Max sent an oyster of spit into the tin wastebasket. “Going to get your license again?”

I stared at the wastebasket. Max? I'd never thought of that, could be.

He asked, “What's the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“What's your plans, champ?”

“To do a lot of nothing. Get a quiet room on the ocean front, take care of myself.”

Max looked at me with troubled eyes, rocked his chair. “Matt, what's wrong? You talk like a washed-up old man. You're still a kid, and you used to be tough as...”

“That's it, Maxie... used to be. They took all the toughness out of me in Korea, and in the hospital. I lay there for months, sweating out dying, losing a lung, fighting with them not to cut away my ribs... give me air.... I don't know, Maxie, I've always had confidence in myself, in my body, but now... I have to treat myself like I was made of delicate glass from now on. I can't risk...”

“What crap! I was in touch with the docs at the hospital; all you have is a scar on your lungs. Why half the people in the world have a scar on their lungs, had TB at some time and never even knew it. For all I know, maybe I have. And I heard about your running out on that goon Tops Anderson today. For Christsakes, what's happened, Matt, lost your grip?”

“Could be. Now I have to figure things like this: if I swing on a Tops, get into a brawl, I might open the scar again, really fix my wagon. Another thing, the docs said I probably got the germ in my lung before Korea—everybody has the germs inside them. So when I look at a Tops, or even you, I keep wondering if this is where I got it, if this bastard is the one who...”

“You've turned soft, sound like a dizzy hypochondriac. Why two years ago you would have slapped Tops loose from his teeth for even looking at you wrong!”

“That was two years ago. Max, why do we make such a big deal of being tough? All we see on the screen, the radio or TV is some joker bragging how tough and rugged he is. I didn't have much to think about in the hospital, so I figured out toughness. It's for the birds. Unless a guy is ready to take a stand—and that means ready to die—on anything, even getting called a louse or a SOB, then being tough is all a bluff, being a coward. And if you're really tough, ready to kill or be killed over a hard look—then you're stupid.”

“Sweet God, you talk like you're half dead, a...”

“That's what I am, half dead. And I don't give a damn about anything but seeing I don't become all dead. That's why I'm here—besides wanting to see you again —want you to do me a favor—get me a pistol permit.”

“Your hands are the best weapons you'll ever have. What you need a rod for?”

“You want me to make it formal? As a citizen I'm asking for a gun permit for protection. From time to time I'm going to run into other slap-happy characters like Tops, guys I once slugged, and this running is tough on my lungs. With a rod I could bluff my way...”

I stopped, for Max's fat face was twisted up as though he was going to cry. He shook his head sadly. “What's wrong with you? Running!... And you know I can't give you a permit on those grounds. Also you damn well know there's no point in packing a rod unless you're going to use it. That'd be great, getting sent up for knocking off a slob like Tops because you're scared to...”

“You won't get me the permit?” .

“No!”

“Okay. I'll make application for one at police headquarters, anyway.” I stood up. “Say hello to Libby and the kids....”

Max got to his feet. “Wait a minute, can't we talk? For crying out loud, we're old friends and...”

“Sure we are, always will be friends. Only we each have to play things the way we see them. I...”

His phone rang and he waved a big hand at me, snapped at the receiver, “Yeah?... When? Headquarters... the bastards! 241 Hilldale Drive... Beatrice Wilson... Mrs. Get me a car, right away!” He slammed the receiver down, told me, “Got a juicy murder in my precinct. Come over with me.”

I glanced at my watch. It was almost three. “No, time for me to take my afternoon nap. I'll see you some...”

“Nap?” Max growled, grabbing his hat and then my arm, rushing me toward the door. “We can talk while in the car. What the hell, maybe the sight of a stiff will get you in harness again.'”

I didn't want to waste energy wrestling Max. I turned my head away from his, wanted to tell him I'd done my share of killing recently, seen too many bodies—mass murder. But I didn't say a word, and we picked up a young cop and jumped into the car waiting at the curb.

Max put the siren on and started cutting through traffic. The cop asked, “What's up, Captain?”

“Found a dame out on Hilldale Drive with her head bashed in.”

“Hilldale?” the cop repeated. “Ritzy neighborhood. What is it, robbery?”

“How the hell do I know? I got a phone, not a crystal ball!”

Max raced through the streets—although he was careful to slow down at the crossings when we didn't have the light—and within a few minutes he pulled up in front of a fairly new brick house—one of these expensive picture-window jobs set back on a well-kept lawn. There were several radio cars there and a cop keeping back a curious crowd of housewives and kids.

The cop next to me muttered, “Headquarters already here.”

We went inside and a fat cop pointed up a short flight of stairs. We rushed up and I said, “Take it slow, Maxie,” and we came into a large bedroom full of detectives and cops. The fingerprint men and photographers were already busy.

It was a nice bedroom, with pink drapes and candy-striped wallpaper. The bed had been slept in, the sheets were mussed, a dressing table and a couple of chairs were overturned and the dressing mirror smashed. The corpse lay on the bed, clothed in a blue silk negligee, a good deal of her naked, dead body showing—it had been a fairly interesting body, firm thighs. She was lying on her back and from what I could see, she'd been average pretty, maybe cute, for a dame in her late thirties. The back of her head was smashed in, her thick blonde hair messy with matted blood. A little metal table lamp lying near the head had evidently been the skull-cracker.

One of the detectives was standing by the bed, apparently measuring the setup with his eyes. He started to take off his coat, then, his eye catching something red, suddenly dropped to the floor on his hands and knees and peered under the bed. But it was only a pair of fuzzy red bedroom slippers. I guess he was disappointed.

Looking at the woman, I thought it had been years since I'd seen a dead white woman... but I'd seen so many yellow and brown dead women. In death, as in life,, they all looked the same except for the color of their skin. There was a joke that went something like that, Harry would know it. The only difference was this woman had died in her lush bedroom, the others I'd seen—you found dead yellow women along the roads, in the bombed and burned-out huts, or in the grotesque positions of those frozen to death. There'd been the one without any...

I was starting to feel uneasy again and I went into the adjoining bathroom, with its black tile and striped shower curtain and took my pill, cupping my hand under the faucet for water.

I came back into the room and stood around, and a guy from homicide talked to Max who seemed more interested in learning why headquarters had been notified before the local precinct. The homicide man said, “Who knows why? The maid, a Mrs. Florence Samuels, came in at noon. Thought Mrs. Wilson was out, started her work downstairs. When she came up here to clean, she found the body—looked up headquarters in the phone book.”

“Funny she didn't just ask the operator for the cops,” Max said. “And how come she starts at noon?”

“Seems Henry Wilson, husband of the victim, has been missing for a couple days. Mrs. Wilson was up late, worrying, and the maid didn't go home till after eleven. Claims Mrs. Wilson told her not to come in till noon on account of working late.”

“What's with the missing husband?”

“We haven't anything on him, yet. Evidently they had some kind of fuss, and he returned last night and knocked her off. Neighbors says the light was on all night in the bedroom, and they heard the sounds of a man arguing with Mrs. Wilson.”

Max said, “That doesn't mean it was the husband, could have been another John who...”

“One moment, sir!” a voice boomed and this heavy-set joker who had been sitting in one corner of the room, holding his head in his hands, came over. “I won't have you talking about my sister like that. There wasn't any man in her life except her husband. She was my sister, not a tart. And why must she be left half exposed like this?” He stooped to straighten out her robe and Max yanked him up hard, said, “Cut that! Who the hell are you?”

“Her brother,” the headquarters man said. “Mr. William Saxton, III.” He said it like he had big dough.

Saxton's meaty face broke into tears as he told Max, “Excuse me, I didn't mean to hinder you. It's simply that this... has been more than a terrible shock, the impossible thing one never expects to happen to his own. Poor Beatrice, I...” He burst into quiet sobs.

Max said, “Sure, this is tough on you, Mr. Saxton, a hell of a strain, but I want some info—and now. Where's Henry Wilson?”

“He couldn't have done this. Good Lord, he and Beatrice had a beautiful life, seven years of happiness and devotion, wonderful...”

“Nobody said he did it,” Max cut in. “Where is he?”

“I don't know where Henry is. I spent all day yesterday looking for him. Simply vanished two days ago— Friday night after he left the office—with two thousand dollars of the firm's money. Henry and I are partners in the manufacture...”

I wasn't interested in Max's or Saxton's troubles and the woman's limp dead arm reminded me of the arm of a guy in the hospital whose lung had suddenly collapsed on him during the night—his dead arm was hanging from the bed in the morning... like the woman's. I'd missed my nap and felt tired, and it was time for my milk.

I went downstairs and there was a swinging door leading into the kitchen, only the damn thing was warped and I had to put my shoulder to it before it opened. The maid was a thin, dark-skinned colored woman, maybe fifty, maybe older. She had a towel wrapped around her hair, was wearing a plain house dress, her stockings too big for bony legs that disappeared into a pair of old slippers. It was pretty unusual for a person to bother looking up the police number in a phone book when calling in a murder.

She was cleaning the gas stove and two young cops were sitting at the white kitchen table, smoking. One of them said, “Come on, Aunty, make us a cup of coffee. Got any doughnuts handy?”

“I'll Aunty you!” the maid told them in a high voice. “Get out of my kitchen!” ..

“Don't get tough, you old bag,” the cop said. “You may be in our kitchen soon—we do a special hose job on shines. All I'm asking is for a cup of Java and...”

“Shines! You have your filthy nerve! And don't you call me a bag, don't even speak to me! Sitting there so big, cluttering up my place and all because you got a badge, a...”

“Watch it,” the second cop said, “or you'll get that fresh mouth of yours slapped shut. Make us some coffee!”

“I'll make you some lye first!” the woman said, on the verge of tears.

“You're asking for a boot in the ass,” the first cop said. “Now get that...”

I said, “Captain Daniels didn't bring you here for coffee, or to be hanging around the kitchen.”

The two of them looked me over, trying to figure who I was, if I was from headquarters. They both crushed their cigarettes on the kitchen table and shuffled out.

The maid took a rag and wiped the table, muttering, “Pigs!”

I sat down and she said, “What do you want? Ain't no murder been done in my kitchen—stay upstairs where you belong!”

“I wonder if I could get a glass of milk, Miss Samuels?”

She looked at me for a moment, then said, “At least you got enough manners to call me Miss. And it's Mrs.”

She took a container of milk out of the big spotless icebox, poured me a glass. I sipped it slowly so as not to chill my guts. She asked, “You a detective?”

“The detectives are upstairs.”

“Hump! lot of good they'll do. Even if they find the killer—lot of good that will do. They won't touch him.”

“If they find him, they'll take care of him,” I said, thinking how sure she was it was a “him,” wondering why she had hesitated before phoning the police.

“Will they?”

“They usually do. Cops like convictions.”

She grunted, turned on me and said fiercely, “They'll do nothing, not a mumbling thing—you'll see!”

I finished my milk and wondered if I could leave, go back to my hotel and get my nap. Waiting around the house would only get me a ride back to town, and more of Max's pep talk.

Mrs. Samuels kept puttering around the stove, mumbling, “Them asking me all sorts of fool questions. As though I wanted Miss Beatrice to die. Or hinting Mr. Henry murdered his wife. Like asking the earth if it killed a seed. Say that to say this, wasn't a sweeter, more lovey-dovey couple than them two. Fine people, good to work for. Woman keep her dignity working for them. Why I wouldn't do nothing to...”

“Yeah. Well, thanks for the milk,” I said, getting up. The door wasn't stuck from the kitchen side.

My timing was lousy. I was crossing the hallway when Max and this Saxton came down the stairs. Max said, “Matt, have something for you.” And I didn't like the happy note in his hoarse voice.

Saxton said, in a selling voice, “I understand you are a crackerjack private detective.”

“If you mean I come with corn—yeah.” They didn't get my little joke. “I used to be a private dick.”

“Listen, Matt,” Max cut in, “Mr. Saxton mentioned he was so anxious to clean up the death of his sister, he was going to hire a private investigator to help us. Of course I thought of you.”

I almost laughed in Max's puss. That private investigator stuff, and a copper likes to have a private dick around a case the same way a rat loves to have a kitten around. But Max was going to rehabilitate me—as though the hospital hadn't tried enough of that.

“I can't take a case, I'm not licensed,” I began.

But Saxton boomed, “I know, and I want you to start at once—this very second! Suppose I don't hire you as a detective but as a... eh... secretary? I want everything possible done on this... case. The smallest detail investigated. I'm willing to pay you fifty dollars a day, starting as of this minute.”

“Be wasting your dough,” I told him. “Been over a year since I've worked and...”

“Fine! Fine! I like that—honesty, a rare quality,” Saxton said.

“And you couldn't find a better man. Matt was tops in his field,” Max said, giving me the eye.

I didn't say anything and Saxton said, “I don't expect miracles, but thorough work. Now Mr.... eh...?”

“Ranzino,” Max said.

“Are you working for me, Mr. Ranzino?”

“Well...” I was far from flush and even if I worked two days it meant a hundred—almost a month's pension. And this joker was too eager to give me his dough.

“Take it, Matt,” Max said, giving me the double pat on the back that annoyed me. “Wouldn't ask you unless I thought you could help.”

“Okay,” I said. “But you know in front where I stand, I'm rusty and...” I was about, to add, “And not too well,” but Saxton boomed, “I understand,” and shook my hand. He had a big hand and a powerful grasp. “I'll give you a retainer. Hundred do?”

I nodded and he pulled out a checkbook, looked around for a table, then pushed the kitchen door open with one finger and we all went in and he sat down and wrote me a check.

I waved it to let the ink dry and Max said, “Now let's go down to the station and talk. Start from the beginning and see what we end up with.”

I said I'd stay there and Saxton told me to keep in touch with him and I said I would and they went out. I pocketed the check and the maid asked, “You a detective now?”

“Seems so.” I went out and tried the kitchen door again. It was still stuck. For a man his age—or any age—Saxton was damn strong... or I was weaker than I thought.

Outside, I took a fairly deep breath and looked around for the nearest bus. I walked to the corner, noting the fine houses on the block, thinking of that old fine about the rich and poor having one thing in common—death. I felt tired and hailed a cruising cab— now that I was in the dough.

In my room I undressed to my underwear and went to bed. It took me some time to fall asleep. I thought of Harry and how the nance in him was coming out more and more. I could see it after being away all this time. Flo got hooked up with the wrong guy this trip—even for the car and the money. And having to sleep with the creep as a topper. It was a crazy scared world I'd returned to—frightened worse than the world of the hospital. There it was simple: either you lived or you died. Here... nothing added up. And I was the silliest joker of them all—getting fifty bucks a day for a case I didn't give a damn about, didn't intend to do any work on. Maybe that maid was right when she said nothing would be done—maybe she had me in mind, ..without knowing it.

But Saxton was crazier—he was paying me. And Max, the Big Brother, helping me rook Saxton.

But I didn't feel bad about the rooking. I didn't feel anything, one way or another, except tired.