The Men From the Boys

“What did you mean when you said this was a rat race?”

Franconi took a deep breath, rattled off, “In this racket there's two things you got to watch: one that the bar or restaurant don't fold owing you a bundle, because some of them go out like flies—the overhead is big, you understand. The other things is—watch out a rival don't take your customers. Take Willie, for example; on a new account he takes it easy the first few weeks, keeps his prices down so maybe he's only breaking even, even losing a few cents. Then he slowly raises them. If the restaurant is a sharpshooter, when he feels the wholesaler is trying to goose him, he switches to a new one. But he has to play it careful too—if he should miss a day's meat, for example, he'd be in a spot, maybe have to close up. In the meat business—in the food business—everybody is screwing the other guy—but not too hard.”

“Lande doing much business?”

Franconi let out a sharp laugh, a bark. “That's a good question, mister. He had a fair business, good steady accounts. What he has now is anybody's guess, probably nothing. And the way he played it smart—the cook is the key man in these places, and Willie would treat them right—a turkey here, a couple of steaks any time they wanted them, bottles of rye on Christmas wrapped in ten-buck bills. This way, if the meat is grade C instead of A, or a little under the weight, they don't say nothing. And if a guy called up and needed anything in a hurry, I'd dash right over. A nice setup, so about three weeks ago Lande chucks it all.”

“Why?”

Franconi shrugged. “Willie come down on a Monday and says his ticker did a double jump over the week end, and the doc told him to either take a rest or plan to live in a wooden box. You see the story now: his customers got to have meat, so they'll turn to a new butcher—Bay has a couple of them already—be fed low prices for a while. A week from now when Willie gets back in business, he'll have to start from, scratch.”

“Let me get this straight—Lande worked years to build up a set of customers, then threw them over like that?”

“That's the picture. I don't get it because if his ticker is bad he could have hired a butcher, and sat on his can. Okay, Willie wouldn't have made dough, but he would still have his customers. Of course he give me four weeks' salary so I can't kick.”

“And he expects to open again in about a week?”

“That's what he told me—come back in a month.”

“Did Lande act sick?”

“Look, boss, I ain't no doctor and in this business most of the owners act like nervous wrecks all the time, but about two months ago, maybe six weeks, I notice Willie is up in the air a lot. I can tell—he starts forgetting things, and cursing.”

“Cursing? He call people sons of bitches, bastards?”

“Naw, he only has one curse, something in Dutch that means may your spit turn into stone. What you guys after him for, unpaid taxes?”

“Why, does he keep a double set of books?” I asked.

“Naw, at least not that I know, and I know about everything in the business. He's like all the rest: he'll shortweight you and maybe slip in some poor-grade meat, but I can't picture Willie doing anything real crooked. He's just another hard-working slob, a little tight with the buck—that's why I near dropped dead when he hands out four weeks' salary like that. Jeez, I paid off my TV set.”

“Anything doing at Lande's store while he's shut down? He seems to be down at the shop a lot.”

“Naw. The market is like a fish bowl—everybody knows what's going on. I stick my head in every day when I go back to the old coffeepot for lunch. He isn't doing anything but cleaning up his books, trying to dun some of his bad accounts.”

“Did you know Lande reported a stick-up a few days ago? Then denied it? Claimed two punks got him for fifty grand in his store.”

Franconi stared at me like I was telling him a dirty joke, then burst into real laughter. “I never heard that, but fifty grand! Why Willie never saw more than five hundred bucks at any one time. Fifty grand—say, hey!”

“There's rumors his wife has a new mink and a car, Willie gamble?”

“He wouldn't bet a dime on tomorrow showing. Mister, you don't get him—he's one of these refugees, you know, work hard and no sense of humor. Funny thing, one of the other guys in the market mentioned seeing Bebe—that's his wife—driving a Caddy. I thought it was just a lot of hot air. Maybe it belongs to a friend or something.”

“Lande have anyplace he might get a bundle of dough from? Any rich relatives or friends, or did he collect an insurance policy lately?”

“You got me there. I don't know his pals, but he usually put in a sixteen-hour day so he didn't have much chance to sport it up. Think he once told me he had some cousins in this country, but most of his people were bombed out in the war. He ain't no spender or ...”

Hatchet-face came over and said, “Lou, run over to Rosey's and pick up a hundred pounds of pull-its, and watch out for his scale.”

1 stood up, walked him out to his panel truck. “Thanks, Lou, and keep this under your hair. Willie is nervous and nothing may come of all this, no sense getting him excited.”

“Mister, I ain't the talkative type. Anything else you want to know? Don't pay no attention to him,” he jerked his thumb back toward the store, “I ain't breaking my ass for them.”

“That's about all, wanted to get a general idea of the business. You know how it is, we have to look into all the corners.”

“I know, I been to the movies,” he said, winking. “Mister, I'm not one to tell you your job, but Lande wouldn't do nothing real crooked. Plenty of times I had a chance to buy us some hot meat, but he was too scared.”

“That's why I want you to keep things quiet—all this may be a waste of time. Lou, one more thing, can you get me a list of the restaurants, bars, night clubs, Willie sold to? All the customers he'd had this last six months or so?”

“Easy, only about twenty-five of 'em. I delivered to them every day. Hold still, I'll write them out.” He reached into the truck and took out a piece of wrapping paper, started writing.

When he gave me the list. I thanked him, told him again to keep his trap shut, and maybe I'd drop in to see him again sometime.

“Glad to work with you—only don't get me in no trouble.”

“Can you get into trouble, Lou—got a record?”

He shook his head too quickly. “No, sir. That is, nothing but a lot of traffic tickets... expect that when you're delivering and... yeah, I once did thirty days on the island for disorderly conduct. Kid gang stuff.”

“All right, don't worry and just keep working with me. See you.”

I started for the precinct, and the day was already so hot the heat waves were making me dizzy. I stopped at a couple of bars, not for beers, but to relieve my gut—my lousy tumor was really acting up.

It was just before nine when I reached the police station and Ash wasn't in yet. The desk sergeant was an old-timer whose face I remembered. He told me, “The lieutenant is a busy beaver these days, Bond. We're trying to check where the hell Cocky Anderson was before he died and it seems he dropped completely out of sight for at least a week before he ate lead. Want to see the lieutenant about anything special?”

“I'll drop back. When do you expect him?”

“Now, this afternoon, any time. Downtown is putting the screws on. You know these big cases, somebody will be the patsy if they don't come up with the killer pronto, so Bill—the lieutenant—is rushing around like he swallowed a firecracker.”

“I'll be back sometime this morning. Tell him to wait for me,” I said and walked out.

I didn't know how to kill an hour or so. I could go back to the Grover and catch some shut-eye, but I'd certainly have a run-in with King and that nance Lawson, and I didn't want to be bothered with petty arguments this morning.

I had some orange juice and a plate of French fries, and went down to the Lande Meat Company, Inc. The door was slightly ajar and I walked in. There was nobody around, but after a couple of minutes a little guy wearing a sweater under a white butcher coat, and an old homburg atop his thick face, stepped out of the icebox room and almost jumped through the ceiling when he saw me. He said, “Got the wrong store. I'm not open.” He spoke with a slight accent.

“I got the right store, Lande.”

“What is this—what you guys want?”

“What guys?”

“You don't fool me, you're a cop. You want a salami sandwich?”

“Too hot for salami—I want to talk to you.”

“I'm a sick man, an honest businessman taking inventory. I ain't parked by a hydrant or nothing, I give to the PAL— let me alone.” He had a fast way o£ talking, skipping from phrase to phrase.

“Where did you get the fifty grand from?”

He smacked himself on the chest. “Me? Do I look like a man with fifty thousand dollars?”

“Bebe bought a mink recently, a Caddy—she didn't get them with soap coupons.”

“You got no right to ask me questions—I didn't do nothing,” he said, going to the other end of the store and taking a handful of sawdust out of a barrel. “We had some dollars in a safe-deposit vault. When I got a stroke a few weeks ago, I tell the wife, What we keeping this for? We can't take it with us, let's spend it.”

He spread the sawdust on a wooden chopping block, then took a steel brush from the wall, started scraping the block top.

“Willie, those two kids who were bumped off over in New Jersey—one of them talked in the hospital before he died, said he'd stuck you up for fifty grand.” It was a clumsy lie and he didn't tumble, kept cleaning the block, both hands on the brush.

“We're passing this on to the income-tax boys—they're interested.”

“Interested in what? Let anybody find an income of fifty thousand for me and I'll be glad to pay—give them half.”

“Lande, maybe you don't know how the tax boys work once they bite into a case. All right, maybe they can't find no record of the cash, but they watch you. Maybe five years from now you think it's safe to take the dough out of your mattress. The second you buy a house, a car, take a cruise, they crack down on you like white on rice, asking where you got the dough from.”

I could have been talking to myself. Lande put the brush away, waved the tails of his coat over the block to brush off any remaining sawdust.

“Willie, the young cop you first reported the robbery to, he was almost killed yesterday.”

He jumped at that, paled, fought to get control of himself. He went into the icebox and came out with a liverwurst. He sliced off a piece, began eating it—nearly choking on it.

I walked over and he put the knife down, motioned for me to cut myself a hunk. I slapped him on one fat cheek, knocking him halfway across the store. A loud stinging slap will scare a joker more than a solid punch that might put him away. Get slapped right and you think they've pulled the world down around your ears.

“Willie, this ain't a picnic, a time for sandwiches and...”

Lande let out a shrill scream of fear. I'd made a mistake; I'd knocked him near the door and he turned over, got to his feet, ran outside. It seemed only a second later when he returned with two cops, yelling, “Get that—him—out of here!”

Through the open door I saw a radio car at the curb as one of the cops gripped his night stick, asked, “What you doing in here, Mac?”

“Slicing liverwurst with Lande.”

“He's a cop and he threatened me, punched me!” Willie shrilled; he was on full steam, ready to explode.

“Got a shield?” one of the cops asked me.

I didn't answer.

The other cop said, “Impersonating a policeman, that's a...”

They were both young cops, probably on the force less than half a dozen years. I said, “Get the hay out of your ears, boys. I'm an ex-cop, retired. I never told Willie I was a cop. Ask him if I ever said I was a cop. Come on, Willie, tell them you don't want no trouble because you and I know it might be big trouble, awful big.”

Lande swayed on his feet, face flushed, trying to think— think hard. He sort of gasped, “Yah, we were kidding around over a hunk of liverwurst, then he hit me.”

“Just slapped him,” I added.

“I think he's drunk,” Willie said.

“Did he claim he was a cop?”

“I ain't making no charges,” Willie said quickly. “Please, all I want is for him to get out of here, leave me alone!”

“Did he say he was a cop?”

“Tell him I never said nothing,” I said.

One of the cops turned to me. “Close your kisser, let him talk.”

“No, he never... said... no,” Lande said.

The first cop turned to me. “What's your name?”

“Marty Bond.” I didn't make the mistake of reaching for my wallet-to prove it. I could see the cop trying to recall where he'd heard the name before. Then he asked, “That tin-badge cop they sapped up yesterday—that your boy?”

I nodded.

He motioned to his partner and they had a whispered conference for a moment as Willie wailed, “Cops, cops, all I get in my store is —”

“Now take it slow,” the cop said. “Where's your phone?”

Lande nodded at his office. One cop called in while the other leaned against the door, wiped his sweaty face with his free hand. Willie whispered to me. “Please, mister, leave me alone! I'm a sick man! I don't know what you want... but leave me alone!”

“That's right, Willie, all this might give you another stroke —or a bullet in your back.”

The flush in his face got deeper, then sheet-white as he grabbed at the meat block and crumpled to the floor. The cop at the door said, “Heat's got him!” and started for the sink. He stopped, told me, “You! Go over and get him a glass of water.”

He was a smart cop.

I got a glass of water and let Lande have it on the puss. The other cop came out of the office as Willie opened his eyes, shook his head like a groggy fighter. The cop asked, “Want to go to the hospital?”

Lande sat up, struggled to his feet. “No. No. I'll see my own doctor. I have these attacks and ...”

I asked, “Who's your doctor?”

“Shut up!” the smart cop told me. He turned to Willie, “you feel okay?”

“Yah, yah. I'm fine. I'll go home now and rest.” Willie looked around. “You boys want some liverwurst?”

“No wonder you passed out—that stuff will kayo you in this heat,” the cop who phoned said. He jerked his thumb at me. “Come on, Lieutenant Ash wants to see you at the station house.”

“You mean you're taking me in?”

“Cut the clowning, Bond. You're not under arrest—I only have orders to bring you in.”

“I suppose it beats walking.”

The three of us went out to the radio car and I looked back and Wilhelm wasn't in the doorway—I wondered who he was phoning.

One of the cops got behind the wheel, then I got in, and the other cop turned his gun belt around so it wasn't next to me, and squeezed in. He was pretty good, only forgot one thing—he should have frisked me.

It was a short ride to the station house and nobody talked. The desk officer motioned toward the stairs and when one of the radio cops started walking back with me, the desk said, “That's all, get back to your car.”

Bill looked like he'd missed a lot of sleep and for the first time since I'd known him he was wearing a dirty shirt. I sat down as he shut the door, and walking back to his desk he asked, “For the love of tears, Marty, you gone nuts?”

“Forget me—for a moment. I been trying to see you. What are you doing about Lawrence besides sticking a guard outside the hospital room?”

“We're getting these volunteer cops out, stupid ever having them here. I told them...”

“Forget the volunteer cops, what about Lawrence?”

“I have a detective out checking on his friends. Usual routine.”

“That all?”

“That all? What do you expect me to do, Marty? Put out a dragnet because some drunk or an old buddy of the kid's finally catches up with him? I got troubles with my own kid —Margie says she had a hundred and four fever all night. Lousy doctors, when they don't know what it is it becomes a 'virus.' And on this goddam Anderson mess, I'm running into enough blank walls to build a damn house.”

“Things sure have changed—when I was on the force if a cop in uniform was slugged we'd turn the town upside down. No matter whether he was wearing a phony uniform or not, whoever slugged the kid thought he was a cop. I bet you haven't even questioned the boy yet.”

“The docs said he couldn't be talked to till this afternoon. Marty, I been up all night, out with five men, checking on Cocky Anderson's pals. Marty, Marty, I know he's your son —stepson—but for the love of tears don't make a big thing out of this. What do you expect me to do?”

“I want you to forget Cocky Anderson for a few minutes and listen to me. I talked to Lawrence early this morning. Somebody called him into a hallway and ...”

“Hell, I know the details. It's one of those ritzy small apartment houses—most of the people were out. Nobody heard anything, saw anything, till an ad man who lives on the third floor came home and found the kid. We've checked the tenants; none of them knew the kid. They're all big shots, not the criminal type.”

“While you're checking, look right around here. Somebody in this station house must have tipped off whoever did it that Lawrence was coming in for some extra patrol work.”

“Maybe the kid was followed, maybe it was one of those things where the guy happened to see him and let him have it. Marty, these CD cops have their own setup. The guy in charge here is some retired West Pointer, a big society buddy —he wouldn't have any part in a beating. Don't start turning my precinct on its head with a lot of wild ideas.”

“I got some wilder ones. Listen to me: all Lawrence remembers is dimly seeing a guy that looked like Dick Tracy and...”

“Dick Tracy? For the love of...!”

“Bill, listen. I think that Dick Tracy stuff is a good make. He also heard the guy cursing him before he blacked out. The guy kept saying, 'Bastid! Bastid'—like a growl. I think it was Bob 'Hilly' Smith!”

Ash stood up, kicked the table. “Between the brass, the reporters and you, I'll be ready for a strait jacket! Why would a top operator like Smith go around slugging a tin cop?”

“I don't know the why, for now, only that there's a lot of loose ends to this thing. The kid was worked over by a professional, and Bob is the best in the business. Remember what Bob was known as before he became so big? 'Pretty Boy' Smith they called him. He has those over-clean-cut features, the strong face of a Dick Tracy. Finally, he came up from the tobacco road, a mountain boy, and don't talk so good. I remember his favorite word was bastid. Never bastard but bastid.”

“Damn it, Marty, all the booze you've lapped up has softened what few brains you ever had,” Bill said, his voice snotty, like he was talking to a lunkhead. “There's a million so-called clean-cut-looking punks. There's also about four million people in Brooklyn alone who use the word bastid. As for it being a professional going-over, that's bunk. A maniac can do a better job than any paid hood.”

“No, he can't—and remember me, I'm an authority on how to beat up a guy. All right, a nut may kill faster than a professional, but this wasn't a killing—this was a beating, a warning. The doc at the hospital says Lawrence was beaten in a matter of seconds; the guy didn't waste a blow—that's a pro muscleman. Maybe it's wacky, but I think the kid stepped into something with this nutty butcher, something big enough to make a Bob Smith scare him off. This Wilhelm Lande is phony, he never had a stroke—or he would have had one just now. And he's scared, real scared.”

Ash walked around the tiny drab room. His pants were wrinkled, his shoes unshined. “Marty, hold up a minute, don't go off the deep end on this. I like the kid too, I'm not sloughing this off. But think what you're saying—Hilly Smith is the top syndicate cop. Even if he wanted to slug a CD rookie, he wouldn't do it himself. And he isn't walking the streets. We've been looking for him, routine pickup on Anderson, and Smith can't be found. As for that butcher mess, Marty, do you realize what you're saying? For the love of tears the guy wasn't robbed to start with—there's no charge —and now you want me to believe a lousy little butcher hired the best muscleman in the rackets to beat up an auxiliary police kid who was horsing around with a robbery that never was!”

I shrugged. “All right, I'm not saying this is the blueprint, and I know it's a wild hair, but I think it's worth looking into. Or is Bob Smith so big and protected you're afraid to touch him on a minor case?”

“Cut that kind of wind. There's nothing I'd like better than to get that muscle rat—on anything. Marty, you know me, I'm no hero but I never side-stepped anything because of the angles. I got a man working on Lawrence's case, and with this Anderson thing all over town, it's hard to spare a man. What you forget is there can be a hundred reasons why the kid was slugged—a drunk, a cop-hater, a nut, and maybe something in the kid's background neither of us know about.”

“Don't cover me with it, Bill, it's up to my shoes now.”

He stopped walking and came over to me. “What makes you so all fire sure, Marty? This is the first time you've seen Lawrence in ten years, maybe longer. You don't know a damn thing about him. I think he's a good kid and I'm not saying he's mixed up in anything, you understand. But neither am I dropping everything and buying a crazy yarn about a two-bit butcher and a top racket man being interested in beating up a cop-happy kid, who wasn't on duty, wasn't even empowered to act as a peace officer. He was just an ordinary citizen who got into a fight, and because I happen to know the kid, I'm doing more than I should to find who walloped him!”

I got up. “So long, Bill.”

“I got more to tell you, Marty. Close the door for a second.”

I shut the door, leaned against it, my stomach rumbling.

Ash glanced down at his dirty shirt, as if realizing for the first time that he'd been up all night. Then he looked at me and tried to smile as he said, “Marty, this is tough to say because in our own way we've been pals for a long time. I know you got a lousy temper, fly off the handle. Maybe your toughness was a kite and I was the tail when you were flying high. Marty, I try never to kid myself. I know I've been lucky and therefore ...”

“Too hot for a speech—what you want to say, Bill?”

“Just that you're no longer a cop, Marty. You can't go busting into people's places, question them—slap them around. In short, you can't take the law into your own hands. It wasn't exactly legal when you had a badge—now you haven't any badge. You have a burr up your prat about the kid, I understand that, but... Hell, Marty, for your own good I'm telling you this in front—don't make me run you in; this is my precinct and I'm dancing on enough hot coals now —if I catch you playing cop again, I'll have to throw you in the can.”

“The gold on your badge is making your eyes bloodshot, Bill. There's an angle you don't know here. This means a lot more to me than getting hunk for a badge-happy kid, especially if it is Hilly Smith. You and me, we've made a lot of collars, some good scores, but always the two-bit punks, the small-time hustlers, the little operators. For once I want to nail down a big boy, a top apple. Maybe to make up for all the slobs I've pushed around.”

Ash stared at me, then his tight face relaxed and he burst out laughing. “This is a new one—never thought I'd see the day your conscience would be bothering you—I thought it was made of pig-iron. Marty, I'm not being the big cop with you because I like the idea, but I haven't time for anything till this Anderson deal is...”

“Cocky's death is just another headline to me, another dead crook.”

Bill sighed. “Okay, Marty, Cocky's death is my job and I got to get back to it. But remember, I'm warning you to stop playing cop.”

“Let's both of us play this warning game. Keep out of my way, Bill, or you'll get hurt.” I walked out of his office. Downstairs I stopped at the desk, asked, “Where's the guy in charge of the auxiliary police unit here?”

“Colonel Flatts is downtown, arranging about the transfer of his men out of here.”

“Flatts—what's his first name?”

“F. Frank Flatts. All f's—his mother must have had that on her mind.”

I went out into the morning heat, got a couple of packages of mints and an ice-cream soda, took a bus downtown to the license bureau. I was lucky—one of the old-timers I knew hadn't gone out to lunch yet and I took him out for a fat sandwich and a couple of beers, listened to the details of his wife's fallen womb, gave him the list of Lande's customers, and told him I would call later to get the names of the real owners.

Then I taxied up to a couple of gin mills off Broadway, asked around for two good stoolies I used to own. But “used to” was a half a dozen years ago and they'd disappeared. Then I called a detective in the midtown area to have him check on Lou Franconi's record—only to find the sonofabitch had retired four months before.

I phoned Dot, asked, “Where can I find this girl Lawrence was running around with?”

“She works in the office of a lawyer named Lampkin, near Chambers Street. Why do you want to see her?” There was more life in Dot's voice.

“Routine stuff, can't overlook anything—the trouble is there should be six of me to handle all the details. You been to the hospital this morning?”

“I called. Lawrence is sleeping comfortably, went to sleep as soon as he talked to you, the doctor said. Marty, I was a little hysterical last night, but I really appreciate this.”

“All right. As usual I have my own reasons for looking into this. Dot, was the kid mixed up in anything? I know he isn't the type, but with kids these days... He wasn't in any gangs, stuff like that?” It was a wasted question to ask a mother.

“Of course not. And Lawrence isn't a kid—he's a man.”

“You bet. Look, what's the name of his babe?”

“Helen Samuels.”

“Can't you talk him out of marrying a Jew-girl, Dot?”

I heard her sigh over the phone. “Marty, will you ever grow up?”

“Honey, I'm way past the growing stage. Maybe I'll see you at the hospital.”

I took the subway down to Chambers Street, looked up this Lampkin in the phone book. He shared a suite of offices with a football team of other lawyers. A pretty, big-eyed girl, with a solid bosom, was at the reception desk. When she asked what I wanted, I said, “Are you Helen Samuels?”

“Yes.” Her eyes got that wary look most citizens get when anybody “official looking” asks for them.

“I'm Marty Bond, Lawrence's stepfather.”

“He's talked about you often.”

“Can we chatter for a couple of minutes? Here? Or will it get you in a jam?”

“We can talk here. I just called the hospital. Larry is much better.”

“Look, Helen, you know about me—I'm an ex-cop. I'm on my own and trying to find who beat up Lawrence. I have to narrow down any and all leads, so I'm going to ask you a couple of questions that may sound silly, but give me the truth.”

“I understand. What do you wish to know, Mr. Bond?”

“How long have you known Lawrence?”

“Oh—about three years. We met in college.”

“I take it you know him sleeping well. Was he mixed up in anything shady? And before you shout no at me, think. A lot of kids try dope for a kick these days, find themselves in a swindle.”

“Larry was not in anything like that, I'm utterly positive.”

“All right, utterly. Did he do any gambling?”

“Of course not. Sometimes we played bridge for a half a cent a hundred, or penny poker, that's all.”

“Where'd he get all his money from?”

“What money? Why, we were using my salary.... Oh, that's a trick question, isn't it?”

“A clumsy one. You have any other boy friends... jealous ones?”

“No. I haven't dated anyone but Larry since we met.”

“Lawrence wanted—wants—to be a lawyer. Was he mixed up in politics, hanging around any of the clubs?”

“Never. You see he didn't plan on practicing law; he expects to be a policeman.”

“You like that idea?”

She shook her head, a big shake that made her breastworks dance. I wondered if Lawrence was man enough to handle all that. “No, I didn't, not at first. But then when I understood how much law and law enforcement mean to him, I wanted him to become a police officer.”

“Believe me, he'll be better off as a lawyer. There's a difference of religion—your parents object to Lawrence?”

“Not after they met him. And I haven't any brothers who hated Larry either!”

“All right, don't get ahead of me. I have to ask these questions. Is there anybody, for any reason you know of, who might have hated Lawrence? Maybe another CD cop, maybe a guy in college—anybody who even disliked him?”

“No, nobody.”

“Thanks, you've been a help. Good-by.”

“Well, I've told you the truth, answered...”

“I know, and I mean it—about your being a big help. Thanks.”

Outside I stopped for a glass of iced coffee, tried to remember the name of the CD cop Lawrence had been teamed with when Lande said he was robbed. My memory was still good and it came to me—John Breet. I looked in all the phone books—no Breets.

Long as I was downtown I dropped in to see the joker at the license bureau. He had the list of owners, but far as I knew none of them were racket people.

I went into a bar and used their bathroom, had a hamburger. Maybe I was rusty, being away from the job all these years, but I felt like an amateur. Bill was right, I was spouting off about Hilly Smith like a comic-book dick. If Bob was in this, there had to be a tie-up between the kid and the syndicate, or Lande and the crime mob. The kid seemed clean, and what the hell would the syndicate care about a two-bit butcher? Lande could be a numbers drop, but the driver would have hinted at that—unless he was in on the deal too. But that didn't add up, the store was too isolated; the longshoremen played their numbers right on the docks. Still there had to be some connection, or Smith was out— and so was the little favor I planned on his doing for me.

I found F. Frank Flatts in the phone book, in the ritzy part of the East Side. I took a gamble and sweated out a subway ride up there. The colonel lived in an apartment house with a doorman and a guy with a death mask for a puss who operated a switchboard. Flatts was in, and when I explained I was Lawrence's father, he had me up.

He looked like a real character, brushed gray hair, wearing a heavy smoking robe and slippers, nose and lips like knives, and he walked and stood like he'd swallowed a broomstick— the erect military posture, or something. He was a guy with dough; he even had a butler.

Of course he had to speak with a clipped, society accent, biting off and freezing each word. He said, “My dear man, I can't tell you how upset I am about what happened and I assure you I'm doing everything possible to find the culprits.” His eyes took in my sweaty shirt, my baggy clothes.

“Look, Colonel, save the oil. I'm a former army officer myself....”

“Regular army, sir?”

“Nope, just a clown who lumbered through OCS. Also, I'm an ex-cop, retired.”

“Then you certainly understand how disturbed I was at...”

“Colonel, let me tell you why I'm here. When I was on the force I was a hot-shot detective. Well, today I've found out it's rugged working on your own. In the old days, while I was hunting down a lead, the department would have a dozen other men running down minor clues. That's what I'm up against now; I can't do this alone.”

“You have my complete co-operation, and I think your civic pride is to be commended.”

“That's what I want—your co-operation, your influence. The cops are busy now, won't work with me. I figure you can put a little pressure on them, get them to find out a few facts for me. I want some records checked; for example, I want to know more about one of your men, a John Breet, who was with Lawrence the night...”

“My dear sir, there is no need to question any of my men —they have all been screened before joining the force. As for the police, I am sorry to say they have not co-operated with us, nor appreciated our efforts in the least. I am not talking about any particular police officer, but the department as a whole. They seem to think we are a kind of joke, a stumbling block, underestimating our effectiveness.”

“Colonel, there's a big murder hunt on at the moment— the heat is on the force. In fact the heat is on pretty much all the time—they haven't the time to work with your men.

But that's not what I'm here for. I take it you're wealthy, have influence, not to mention your position in CD. What I want you to do is pull strings, insist somebody in the department work with you—then you can get me the dope I need.”

He shook his head. “Mr. Bond, I assure you that we, as an auxiliary police force, are doing everything we can to solve this beating. Also, I am sure that the regular police force isn't...”

“Colonel, you just said you'd give me full co-operation. Well, that's what I'm asking for.”

“I will in any official capacity. As for pulling... strings, using special influence, favoritism, I have always been against that. I will do everything I can—through channels.”

“Through channels? Are you for real? This has to be taken care of now, today, tomorrow, or it never will be solved.”

“As a former officer you must see my position. I can't...”

“I don't see no position—I ain't playing checkers. All I'm asking you to do is make a few calls for me. Won't take you more than a couple of hours, and with the information I'll be able to hook up, or throw out, a lot of loose ends in the case. Will you do that?”

“If you tell me what you want, I will suggest it to the police department, and to my own...”

“Flatts, do you know the police commissioner, or know anybody who knows him?”

“As it happens, I know the commissioner quite well. I also know the mayor, but I fail to see ...”

“Will you call the commissioner right now, tell him to put you in touch with a detective who will work with you?”

“I see no reason for...”

I headed for the door. “Colonel, those eagles on your shoulders must have dropped something—your head.”

He was starting to draw himself up as I left.

There was one check that would take a lot of phoning, so I went back down to the Grover. Dewey was on, said, “King left a message for you—unless you call him right away, you're through.”

“I haven't time to worry about that underfed mouse. Any trouble last night?”

“One of Barbara's customers tried drinking in the lobby, but left after I talked to him. Don't know what's happened to Lilly; we've been short a maid now for the second day. Oh yeah, this Dr. Dupre was in, wants you to call him. Marty, see the doc—you must be sick, screwing up a good job like...”

“Don't worry about me, Dewey. Give me an outside line in my room.”

I undressed and took a sponge bath, then started calling guys I knew in the department. It took over an hour, and a lot of “Where you been all these years, Marty old boy?” before I found one who had an in with the Immigration Department. He gave me a name to call and I got my info in a few minutes—nothing. Lande's real name was Landenberg. He'd come to this country in the late 30's with his wife, and a relative in Jersey City, a Herman Bochstein, a bricklayer turned building contractor, had stood bond for him.

That was that—I'd spent all day running in empty circles. I stretched out, but it was too hot for sleep. It was after four and I decided to go over to the hospital, see how Lawrence was, give him a talking to.

As I left, Dewey asked, “When will you be back?”

“I don't know.”

“What shall I tell King if he calls?”

I told him what to tell King and went out. The streets were like an oven as I headed over toward Seventh Avenue. One of the maids, a big wide dark woman, was walking ahead of me, and as I passed she said, “Heat is a brute, isn't it, Mr. Bond? That Lilly, we got to work twice as hard with her out.”

“It's tough all over. Maybe she'll be back tomorrow.”

“She don't—you'd better get an extra woman to fill in or you going to have me out.”

She turned the corner and I hadn't walked more than a few hundred feet alone when I had this feeling I was being followed. I've never been wrong about a hunch—when it came to being tailed. Because of the heat, the streets were pretty empty; I did all the usual tricks, but I couldn't make my tail or throw him off. Finally I ducked down some subway steps, put a token in the turnstile. There were less than a dozen people along the uptown platform, and I kept watching the turnstiles. Nobody came through except an old dame—yet I knew I was being followed.

I jumped on the first train that came in—a Bronx express. I sat down, and all this rushing made me sweat—wet. I was going to shake the tail by jumping off at Times Square, hop another train, or bluff it... then I got a better idea. It was too hot for all that work—I'd take my tail for a little ride—up to Harlem.

Except for a few days, I'd never worked in Harlem and it was just as well—the place gave me the shakes. I felt like an open target: a burly white man in Harlem could only be a cop. I've known cops who said working Harlem was a good deal, but not me. I expected to be jumped any and every moment, was full of this uneasy fear.

I tried spotting my tail in the store windows—there weren't many whites walking around—but I couldn't make him. I hoped he was as nervous as me.

Lilly lived in a room in an old brownstone with about ten bells at the entrance. I rang her bell four times, like it said above her name, and before she could buzz back, the door opened and two big dark men came out, rough-looking jokers. The way they looked at me as I went in, I thought they were going to try and stop me, but they just went on out, down the steps.

I walked up two flights of stairs, full of the smells of too many people living in one place, wondered what the hell I was doing up here. It wasn't the money—I sure didn't need dough now—it was just the idea of being screwed, somebody putting something over on me.

Lilly's dark face was at a door opening, and from what little I could see of her, she was in a nightgown. She looked astonished when she saw me but didn't make no move to open the door. I said, “Hello, Lilly.”

“What you doing up here, Mr. Bond?”

“Just dropped in to talk to you—but not in the hallway.”

“I'm in my bed clothes, not dressed to admit no men. Don't the hotel believe I'm sick? Got a cold in my shoulder that's about killing me. When I come back I'll bring a certificate from my lodge doctor and...”

“Cut it, Lilly, you know why I'm up here. Where's my dough?” I kept my voice down.

“What money, Mr. Bond?” she said, her voice loud in the quiet of the house.

If her room faced the front, I might make my tail from the window, although he didn't seem that sloppy. “Let me inside and we'll talk it over.”

“No, I'm not letting you in my room. You drunk again, Mr. Bond?”

“Don't get fresh—drunk again.”

“What you mean, fresh? I'm not feeling well, and there's a draft here. What you want?”

“Look, Lilly, I did you a favor. I got that five bucks for you from them drunks, and this is the way you pay me back. Trouble with you people, try to be nice and...”

“What you mean by you people? Aren't you people, Mr. Bond, a human being?”

I was getting sore. “All right, cut the lip. You were going to put a buck in for me on 506, remember?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Number 605 came out that day.”

“So?”

“Lilly,” I said, fighting to keep my voice low, “nobody plays a number straight. You combinated the number—means I had about fifteen cents of the buck on 605—I want my seventy-five bucks.”

“You must be drunk! I play 506 straight, always. And if you'd won I'd have brought you your money, even if I had to leave my sickbed.”

“Lilly, don't play me for a sucker. I don't want no trouble but...”

“I'm catching cold talking to you.” She started to shut the door and I stuck my foot in.

She stared at me, said evenly, “Mr. Bond, get your foot out of my door. This isn't the Grover; you ain't no kingpin up here.”

“Keep your voice down! I ...”

“You don't scare me, you lout! When you dig a grave for me—dig two—one for yourself!”

For a moment I was so frightened I couldn't talk, then I asked, “Lilly, what made you say that—dig a grave for myself? You see something on my face? Or... Tell me, Lilly, forget the dough and tell me why you said that. Dig a grave. I...”

I took my foot out of the doorway and she slammed the door shut. For a moment the house was terribly still, then I heard other doors opening slowly, whispers. I looked around. From the floor above, a dark-faced little girl was staring down at me with frightened eyes.

I turned and walked down the torn carpeted wooden steps, knowing people were watching and listening behind the closed doors. I reached the street in a hurry, started walking fast. By the time I reached Lenox Avenue I felt better, a little sore at myself for being frightened. Hell, I'd smacked more than my share of black boys and never ...

At Lenox, like a chill wind, I got this feeling again about being tailed. I almost laughed. If my shadow was following me to see who I was working for—as he probably was—this trip to Harlem would sure puzzle the hell out of whoever he reported back to.

Anyway, maybe Lilly had played the number straight, and what difference did it make to me—money wouldn't buy nothing where I was going.

I rode the subway back down to Fourteenth Street. In St. Vincent's I phoned the police station, got Bill. “What's the idea of putting a tail on me?”

“A tail? Why should ...? Marty, will you leave me alone! Downtown just chewed my end out again. I haven't even thought of you.”

“Don't bull me, I'm being followed.”

“Then maybe Dick Tracy is tailing you!” Bill snapped, as he hung up.

Stepping out of the phone booth, I wiped the sweat from my puss with a damp handkerchief and grinned. Now that I was sure Bill didn't have a man on me, it was time I started carrying my gun. The fish were biting so good even a rusty old fisherman like me could land a shark... the man-eating kind. Smith would be my sleeping pills, my...

Dig a grave. Why would a sick old woman call me a lout?

Four

Whoever said youth is the best medicine had the right dope—it was remarkable how Lawrence had recovered from the beating in less than twenty-four hours. Of course he was still in bed, but his voice was good and they'd taken off some of the bandages on his face—I could see his blackened eyes, his lips and scrawny neck. The doc told me he hadn't found any more internal injuries and it would be at least a month before Lawrence would be able to walk out of the hospital.

As I saw the sparkle in his eyes when he saw me, and as I sat beside the bed and told him what I'd done, even my ideas about Bob Smith, I felt sorry for the boy. Maybe it was that skinny neck between all the bandages of his chin and chest. I decided once and for all I'd talk the kid out of his silly box-top ideas.

The boy listened without interrupting, finally said, “I don't know, Marty. As you say, the big thing is the link, and what possible connection can there be between Lande and the top crime syndicate? Somehow, I agree with Lieutenant Ash— it doesn't make sense.”

“Sure, it don't make a bit of sense—now. But it's something big, all right. I'm being tailed. That means soon as I left Lande this morning he got on the phone, yelled—to somebody. Somebody big because hiring a tail is an expensive deal.”

The eyes nodded. “Be careful, Marty, although I know you can handle anything that comes along. I can't understand Ash's not working with you, but as you say he must be busy. Anything new on the Anderson killing?”

“Haven't had a chance to read a paper or hear the radio. Look, Lawrence, when you get out of here, I want you to promise me something—that you'll leave the auxiliary force and forget about taking the police exam.”

Now his eyes actually blazed. “Why? Because I was ambushed you must think I'm not tough enough to be a real cop!” The words came out hard, almost curt.

“Lawrence, stop talking like you're a wide-eyed twelve-year-old. Know the true definition of 'tough'? It means you're scared. The tougher the joker, the more the coward. I found that out for the first time the other night—the hard way. So let's stop talking like children about being tough or brave —that's for the birds. I want you to forget trying to be a cop because you're an intelligent boy and you'll only break your heart. I tell you to forget it just as I'd tell you to forget any other lousy job.”

“This is new—Marty the cop-hater!” he said, mocking me, his eyes sort of smiling at me above the bandages.

“I don't hate cops, it's only that we're called upon to do an impossible job. Kids rob because they're bored, thrill-happy, want a bang—but mostly because they're broke. So you stick them in jail and they come out broke, and other kids continue to be broke, and it goes on and on. What the hell real good do cops or laws do unless you change the cause of the lawbreaking?”

The cut lips parted in what passed for a smile, and his eyes became tender, like a gal's. “Marty, you astonish me— you have a social consciousness under that hard-boiled front.”

“I haven't a social anything, but I've been around, seen the facts.”

Tin glad you have a sense of social welfare,” Lawrence said. “And you're right—at best laws are only a salve for deeper social sores, but a salve is better than nothing. And until we reach an Utopian era, I'll continue to love the law, try to see it is carried out and obeyed.”

“You kidding? I told you the other night that not an hour goes by without mister average jerk citizen breaking a law—spitting on the sidewalk, sneaking a smoke in the subway, jaywalking. You can't enforce all the laws so right off the bat, because of a lack of time and men, a cop has to close his eyes to things... and a cop with his eyes shut isn't a good cop. There is no such animal.” Suddenly I didn't know why I was even talking to the silly kid. I felt tired, impatient with the dope—all bandaged up because he was a lousy tin hero and still arguing with me.

“You're wrong. You were a good cop,” he said, “a real pro. And you still could be. You've been on my... this beating... less than a day and you've already narrowed it down to a point where you're ready for the break. That's efficient police work.”

“Lawrence, kid, I'm a stumblebum. That's what I'm trying to tell you—I've been one all my life but never knew it till now. Let me give it to you straight, even if it won't be exactly pretty. I gather you think Bill Ash is what you call a 'good' cop?”

“I certainly do. I think he's capable, industrious, and steady.”

“Let me show you something else he is, has to be. When I... uh... retired I needed a job and police work was die only thing I knew,” I told him, talking slowly so he wouldn't miss a word, and because it was a little rough to put it in words. “I didn't have the connections for private jobs, the time and money to build up a clientele. I either had to be a guard in a bank, a walking gun, or luck up on something... like being a hotel dick at the Grover. You've seen the joint; most hotels that size haven't a house man. You know what I really am there? I'm a combination bouncer and pimp. Yeah, p-i-m-p.”

His eyes flashed surprise as he said, “Are you kidding? What are you telling me, Marty?”

“What is sometimes known as the truth, boy. We have from three to a dozen or more girls working there, with the money filtering up to one of the most respected real-estate outfits in town. All right, I had to take the job, as it was, or no job. Now let's get to Bill Ash. When we were partners we took our share of cushion, nothing big, a gift of a shirt or a hat here, a free supper or a bottle there—you come upon a stick-up and there's a lot of bills on the floor, you pocket a few, in a ...”

“Marty, I know cops are humans, and wear badges not halos.”

“Kid, I'm trying to show you what a trap a cop's job is. The Grover is in Bill's precinct and was paying off the cops before he ever took over. Bill keeps a little hunk of the graft, the rest goes higher up. Here's your capable and decent Bill Ash—and he really is—who gets himself a fat promotion after twenty years of hard work. He knows the Grover is running a house—if he cracks down, the real-estate bigwigs with connections will have him booted out to the sticks before he can reach for his hat. Suppose Bill doesn't take the pay-off, merely shuts his eyes to things? All right, maybe he isn't being your 'good cop' then, but neither is he in the pimp business. But he can't even do that because the pimps would be jittery, never knowing when he would crack down. Of course he could bust the whole thing wide open, expose everybody from the police brass to the real-estate tycoons. In that case, I'd give odds that Bill would be framed, maybe even murdered.”

The scorn in the boy's eyes almost cut me. He said, “My God, Marty, you're sick, crazy sick!”

“Not the way you think. I merely want to show you what you're getting into. Everybody hates a cop, the crooks and the so-called honest citizens. We all have some larceny in us, so at heart we're all anti-law. You're hated and pressured and overworked and underpaid, and no matter how honest you think you are, especially the big brass, you have to play politics in one form or another to keep the job—the graft machine is too well oiled to be stopped by a single cog.”

He didn't say anything; his eyes searched the ceiling as if he didn't know I was there. Then he said, “How can you be so cynical, Marty? It sounds cheap coming from you, if you'll excuse my saying it. You, the most decorated cop on the force. I remember the time you rushed into a room with two gunmen waiting, and disarmed them. It gave me a kick to read the stories in the paper to the kids, tell them that was my dad. Tell me, why did you risk your life so often if what you say is true?”

I grinned, to hide a belch, my mouth filling with the lousy taste. “Lawrence, I did it partly because I was a fool, fell for the phony glory, my name in the paper, the jerks slapping me on the back. Maybe I was stupid-brave and maybe I wasn't such a brave joker—all the cards were marked in my favor. The average punk will rarely shoot a cop. In most cases it's when they don't know the...”

“You forget my... my father—shot down in uniform!”

I shook my head. “I said they rarely shoot, not that they never shoot. A rat will fight when he's cornered. Kid, in my book your dad was a fool. They had a gun in his back when he went for his own gun. Shooting him was almost a reflex action on the part of the hood. And according to regulations, your dad had to go for his gun. They expect you to risk your life when the odds are way against you—on what other job would you take that kind of crap? Jobs where you risk your life, normal risks, sandhog, steeplejack, high construction work, at least they pay you for the risk—here they reward you by letting you pay for your own bullets!”

“Marty, I wish you hadn't come here. I have to say this: you're old, slipping. No matter what you say, you put in many years, the best part of your life, in useful work as a cop. What's happened to you now, I don't know.”

“Lawrence, care to hear about some of the 'useful' work I did as a cop?”

He shut his eyes. “No.”

“Maybe it's what you need. Dot says I'm your ideal. Let me tell you about a few cases 'ideal' had. There's ...”

“I don't want to hear them.”

“Lawrence, remember how interested you always were in any crime case? You'll like these. There's Mrs. DeCosta. I've...”

“I'm not interested.”

“Yes, you are,” I said. “I've been dreaming about Mrs. De-Costa lately—nightmares. I don't know why. One night, at eleven-twenty, we get a call that three men are robbing a grocery store. Bill and I are due to go off duty at midnight, but we have to go over to the store. It hadn't been entered but the door is partly jimmied. We go across the street to this Mrs. DeCosta who phoned in. She was living in the basement of a private house. One of these stocky, healthy-looking blondes, about thirty-five. She was wearing a bathrobe and I remember all the nice creamy white skin of her shoulders.

“She says as she was getting ready for bed she glanced across the street, saw three young guys trying to force the door of the store. Says they ran as soon as our car turned into the block. All right, by now it's almost midnight and I'm stuck on this lousy case. So I'm pretty sore, in a rush. Dot was playing bridge, expected me to call for her at ten after midnight—we didn't like to leave you alone much. One of the troubles of being a cop, never sure when you'll be off, can't make even ordinary plans.”

The kid still had his eyes closed and I wondered if he was sleeping. Then he ran his tongue over his dry lips and I knew he was listening. I told him, “I run out and scout the block. On the corner I come on three wops, although one of them turned out to be a Jew. All a little juiced. In this business one rule you can go by is that nine times out of ten the guy nearest the crime did it. That's common sense. I flashed my badge, took the kids back to the DeCosta apartment for her to identify them. She says it was too dark to make out anybody's face and she doesn't think it's these three because two of the three she saw only had shirts on while all of these guys are wearing jackets. Of course she has to blab this out in front of them and they start smiling.

“By now it's near one and I'm getting no place. The three ginzos of course deny everything, even though one of them has a big screwdriver in his pocket that could be used as a jimmy. Bill even pulls the roper line about he's a witness, not a dick, keeps saying, 'That's them, all right. I'm positive,' but the lice don't admit a thing. All right, three kids tried busting into a store, three kids are found within a block of the place. I bang them in the gut a couple of times—to scare them—when this DeCosta dame gets hysterical and shouts, 'What are you beating them for? I told you I can't identify them!'

“She's making a racket and from a curtained bedroom off the living room I'll be damned if a skinny colored guy in pajamas don't come limping into the living room, walking with canes. It turned out the guy was a spick, but to me they're all black, all dinges. He asks what's going on and the blonde says he's her husband. All right, maybe to your way of thinking it was none of my business, but I was tired and sore, and she had all that nice white bosom.... You see the way things add up, work out? I ain't got time to sit down, work by the book, question these monkeys. I belted one of the ginzos in the gut, flattened him. When the blonde opens her yap I told her to shut up. This crippled guy starts with, 'See here, you can't talk to...'

“He moved one of his canes and I thought he was going to slug me and... Oh, hell that's a crock—I was damn sore at him for laying this fine white stuff so I slapped him. When he fell he did swing at me with a cane and I kicked him in the side. The blonde came at me and I let her have it across the face—what she deserved. The...”

“Marty Bond, cop, judge, brute, and little god!” Lawrence said suddenly, his voice so cold and sharp it made me jump.

“Somebody beat you to the punch tonight, called me a lout. And I only asked for money due me but... All right, kid, I'm not saying aye nor nay at the moment, only telling you what the 'useful' years were like. This DeCosta babe screams at me, 'You thug with a badge!' Told you, been dreaming about that, hearing the words lately, first time in years. To cut this short, the wops get scared and try making a run for it and for a second I'm belting everybody. We never had a chance to pin a thing on them, not even resisting arrest.”

“Are you done?”

“No, I want to give you the complete picture, the full dose. Turns out the spick was an artist and a ship's radio officer who'd been hurt in a wreck. When I kicked him I knocked his spine out of whack. The blonde was a buyer for a department store, a big job. She sues the city for a hundred grand. Downtown had to back me up and we started giving her the works. First she lost her good job when the store found out she was married to a brown boy. It took over a year before the case reached court and we visited her every week, pleading, threatening. We got to her lawyer, threatened her landlord with violations, and he had them move. No papers would give them any publicity except the radical rags. The net result was the case never came up because she had a breakdown and was sent to an institution.”

He opened his eyes, hard eyes. “What's the moral, Marty?” he asked bitterly. “When you see a robbery don't call the police?”

“I don't know what the moral is—I'm only telling you about one Marty Bond, the toughest cop out. The trouble with you, you think police work is like in the movies, clever, smart, and...”

“You're the movie cop, taking a short cut, belting the 'truth' out of everybody! Marty Bond's version of old lady justice, a left to the gut!” His eyes were glaring at me, angry eyes.

“Maybe my version is the right one. You know me—the most decorated cop, the hero of small boys.”

“Why don't you leave me alone?”

“I will. You see, Lawrence, I never thought of myself as a... a... bad guy, not even a nasty joker. But I suppose I was. After the DeCosta mess, Dot wouldn't have anything to do with me. Guess I wasn't her 'ideal' cop any longer. What she didn't understand is, I wasn't punch-happy—it's simply when you're going good you want to keep going at a fast clip. And most times I was right. Usually a person mixed up in a crime, no matter how, usually he's guilty. Take that Rogers-Graham case that got me bounced. I was...”

He tried to turn his head away and couldn't; his eyes filled with pain. “I don't want to hear about it.”

“I want you to hear about it. And I want to talk—makes me feel better. You see, boy, something happened to me a few days ago that set me to thinking about my life, my past.”

“But I know all about that case—you made a mistake.”

“I sure did. Only what you don't know is this: that Rogers bastard claimed I was out to get him. Well, that's the truth. You see he was one of these smart black boys. A young snot working as a delivery boy for a hardware store. Here's what you don't know about the case—about seven months before the mugging, I was called to Central Park West on a purse snatching. At ten in the morning some rich old biddy is on her way to the subway when she's knocked over by a guy in blue denim work pants—that's all she saw—and her purse is taken. She had ninety dollars in it. I got there a few minutes after it happened and there's Rogers, in blue dungarees, coming out of an apartment delivery entrance. I frisk him and he has a wad of seventy dollars on him—gave me some bull about a horse coming in for him. I curled him once and he stopped talking and I booked him. The biddy couldn't say if it was a white or colored guy who knocked her over, but she was sure of one lousy thing, the time—ten o'clock on the nose. So ...”

“Please, Marty, I don't...”

“Shut up, and listen! You always liked to hear crime cases. This snotty Rogers don't deny anything but when he's arraigned in night court he calls the wife of a big magazine publisher who swears Rogers came up with a delivery and was repairing her baby carriage from nine-thirty till ten-fifteen. She's positive about the time because she had an appointment with the baby doctor at eleven and kept telling Rogers to hurry. The wise guy couldn't tell me that, made me look like a fool. The judge bawls me out, to make an impression on the publisher, and I told Rogers I'd get him. Months later when the guy was mugged and killed in the park, I went right over to the hardware store, found Rogers was out on a delivery near the park. I worked a confession out of him before we reached the station house, and even the one witness backed me up—all colored look alike. I got a tough break when they picked up Graham a year later and he started confessing to everything—including this killing. Papers played it up big and you know the rest—the department gave me a break, retired me fast. But I still think Rogers had something to do with the...”

His eyes almost popped. “Marty, please, please—shut up!”

“I haven't even told you about some of my other cases, the...”

He yelled, or maybe it was a sort of scream. A nurse came rushing in, along with the cop on duty. Lawrence said, “Get him out of here!”

The cop grabbed my arm and I jerked it away, walked out of the room. The cop followed me, asking, “What you trying to do?”

“What are you going to do about it?” Suddenly I felt too tired to care. There was a funky taste in my mouth and I went over to the water fountain, then hit the sidewalk.

Along with a breath of cool air I got this sure feeling I was being tailed as I walked down Seventh Avenue. I stopped for a couple of hamburgers, some Java, and a slice of watermelon. The taste of the onions on the hamburgers stayed with me as I rode back to the Grover.

As I came in, Kenny the bellhop called me over, said, “Been waiting for you, Marty. Some guy in shorts and a knapsack, one of them health nuts, registered this afternoon. Two more clowns in shorts went up to visit him, walked up— that was several hours ago.”

Dewey came over. “They're in 419. Registered as a single.”

“All right, I'll go up.”

I knocked on 419 and didn't get any answer, so I used my pass key and almost stumbled over two jokers sleeping on the floor in sleeping bags.

They were all kids, under twenty, and the one on the bed, a crew-cut blond, said, “What is this? My friends are merely resting and...”

“Cut it, chum. You got this room as a single for two and a half. Your friends want to rest, let them register, or pay another two and a half each.”

The three kids were blushing and finally the one on the bed said, “Look, mister, we're hosteling, and we haven't much money. It's only one night. Can't you give us a break?”

“And if I lose my job because of this, who'll give me a break? Tell you what, pay another two and a half and you can stay here.”

“Can we get a larger room?”

. “Look, I can throw you all the hell out of here! A larger room is another five bucks. What's it going to be?”

The three clowns held a short conference, then got up two and a half. I told them, “Next time, don't try pulling any crap like this,” and opened the door.

One of the crew-cuts sitting up in his sleeping bag asked, “Do we get a receipt?”

“You want one?” I asked, giving them the growl, stepping back into the room.

Blond-boy said quickly, “No, that's okay.”

I went back down to the lobby, gave Kenny and Dewey a buck to split, went to my room and showered, even put powder between my toes—as though it made any diff if I got athlete's foot now.

Stretching out on the bed I listened to my belly rumble and thought about Lawrence, and if I'd been too rough on the kid. I'd only told him the truth, except for that line about rushing home to Dot. I was on my way to see a babe. But it still was the truth—I never two-timed Dot; nothing came of that night because I never got to see the babe.

The house phone buzzed. Dewey said, “Outside call for you, Marty.” A second later Bill Ash asked, “Marty?”

“Aha. What's up?”

“Nothing much. Your former wife Flo called me, wanted your address. I gave her a line about I'd try and find it, to call me back in the morning. What shall I tell her?”

“Give her the Grover. Anything breaking on Lawrence?”

“No. We finally dug up a witness, some fishing bug named Bridgewater who lives across the street. He was practicing flycasting in his room and...”

“He was what?”

“Told you he's a fishing nut. He was trying out a new reel, hitting the open window with the fly from across his room. He says he saw Lawrence—a cop—go into the hallway— and a couple seconds later, when he was casting again, he saw a tall man, well dressed, in a coconut straw, leaving the house. Didn't see his face, and of course didn't think anything about it at the time. It isn't much to go on.”

“Smith is tall.”

“For the love of tears, break it off, Marty! There's over two hundred thousand tall men in New York City.”

“But if it had been a runt, that would rule Bob out. Now, we...”

“Marty, Marty, slow down. I just came home, trying to take a bath, relax, so don't get me worked up. Ah... Marty... Flo... uh... what's this she said about you saying you expect to be dead by the end of the week?”

“What? Oh, that—I was jazzing around with her. You know, guys our age never know when the old ticker gives the final chug. Flo is the dramatic type.”

“She sure is. Well, I'm going to get some rest now. You do the same. Yeah, don't get Lawrence excited. Don't know what you told him, but the hospital complained to us, and Dot is up in the air.”

“You know how badge-happy he is. I was merely letting him in on some of the fine aspects of our trade. Take your bath, Bill.”

We hung up and I lay on the bed, fanning myself with a newspaper. I glanced at the paper. Seems they still hadn't found Mr. Mudd, the mad bank robber. The rest of the paper was full of tripe about Cocky Anderson, so I went back to fanning myself, thought about Flo, about Bill taking the trouble to worry about me after we'd almost slugged each other. All the years we were a team Bill and I were good friends, yet never too close. He was married from the start, never chased around. And one cocktail was enough for Bill —said only an unhappy man drank. Might be something to that.

Closest I ever came to really making Bill's character was when we killed time by playing penny rummy. He'd make a stack of ten pennies, then pile the rest of his coppers into stacks even with the first one... and then carefully count the pennies in each pile.

But Bill minded his own business, never said a word when I was tanked on the job, or when I made a fool of myself over a broad—that's enough to find in a friend. And the way he stuck to his plump Marge, a real pot. He never liked Dot and me busting up, and he sure couldn't figure Flo, although you could see his desire for her in his eyes. I remember once, when she hooked me into buying her a fur cape, Bill asked me, “What does she do right?”

“Bill, I look at her and there's nothing she can do wrong,” I'd told him, but he couldn't understand that. He liked to think of himself as a “family man,” but that was a lot of slop; to him a woman was part of the home, like a rug— once you got a rug you had a rug and that was it.

I reached over and picked up my wrist watch from the bed table. The band was almost rotten with sweat. It was after ten. I got up and started to get dressed, including my gun and a flash. I went out to the lobby and Dewey was totaling the day's phone charges. He said, “Still muggy. Sure wish it would rain and break this heat.”

I took a linen-closet key from the key rack when he wasn't looking, told him, “I'm going to my room and I don't want to be disturbed.”

“Starting that again, Marty?”

“I have some business to take care of, but if anybody asks I'm still in my room. I'll be back in about an hour or so.”

“Marty, you know I'm not strong. What if somebody starts a rumpus?”

“Sock 'em with one of your wine bottles—a full one,” I said, walking back toward the service elevator. There was a back entrance to the Grover that was rarely used—my tail might or might not be covering it, but at the moment I didn't want to see him.

I ran the elevator up to the eighth floor, quietly walked by an open door where Barbara and a girl named Jean were sipping iced tea and playing gin.

When the Grover was built, there had been an apartment house set smack up against one side of it. A fire is said to have wrecked this building back in 1910 and it was made over into business lofts. Two years ago we started missing a lot of linen till I found some jerky wino had noticed that the fire escape of the loft building at one point practically touched the window of the eighth-floor linen closet. I'd put a folding steel gate on the inside of the window.

The damn closet was full of hot stale air, and I was running sweat by the time I got the bars out of the way, the window open. It was a snap to step out on the dark fire escape, go over the roof, then down a rear fire escape. These industrial joints are deserted at night and this one was too small for a night watchman. Not a soul was on the street when I stepped out, my gun in my pocket.

I wiped the sweat from my hands and face, stopped at a drugstore to buy a package of mints and roll of tape, headed for Lande's store. They were unloading at the docks nearby and had the big lights on, but the rest of the street was deserted. I taped off a section of the door glass close to the lock, quietly busted this with my gun, put on my gloves, and stuck the pieces of glass and tape in my pocket. Then I reached through the hole and opened the door.

Inside I shut my eyes for a minute and when I opened them I could see pretty good in the semidarkness. I don't know what I expected to see or find, but I didn't see a damn thing—it looked like the inside of the Bay meat store. The icebox was a square room about 15' x 15' and I stepped inside and flashed the light a few times, covering all but a thin ray with my hand. There was a big grinding machine and a large flat tin pan for holding the chopped meat, scales, rows of empty shelves with long white enameled pans, meat hooks on the wall, a roll of liverwurst and one of salami hanging from two hooks. In one corner there was a pile of canned hams, and under the chopped meat table I saw a box of smoked tongues. There was a light layer of fresh sawdust covering the floor. And a clean chopping block with knives and a cleaver stuck in one end of the block.

Everything looked all right—the trouble was I didn't know enough about the butcher business to know what “all wrong” would be.

But at least it was comfortably cool inside the icebox and through a window I could watch the store and the street. The hams came from Germany and being so close to the docks, Lande could be running a dope depot. I took a cleaver and busted open one of the cans of ham, split a smoked tongue in half. The tongue tasted fine. The ham was all cold grease—but ham.

I took the busted ham and tongue out with me and it was like stepping into a damp oven. I opened the door of the freezer next to the icebox. No light came on, but a cold blast of air gave me the creeps. Fumbling along the wall I found a switch, and the light went on. I jumped inside and slammed the door shut—through the open door of die freezer the light could be seen from the street.

There wasn't any window in the freezer and I didn't like the deal—if anybody had been following me, or if the broken door glass should be discovered, I was up the creek—a cold one. Anyway, I wasn't sweating about it—it was too damn cold. My breath turned to fog and my head felt like an icicle.

The freezer was loaded with meats—steaks, cans of livers, pork loins, tripe, pig's feet, turkeys and chickens—all of them frozen stiff and neatly packed in plastic bags with tags on them. From the wall hooks large turkeys and sides of meat hung, all wrapped in bags. On the sawdust floor I saw large wooden and cardboard boxes full of slabs of fat, pig's knuckles, cans of lard. I tried opening one of the bags of steak, but the meat was hard as a rock.

It was so cold I could barely breathe and every time I glanced at the thick door I felt like I was locked in a tomb. I unscrewed the bulb and there was a bad moment when I finally found the door and couldn't open it. You had to press the handle hard and hit the door with your shoulder. I came tumbling out into the dark store, shook for a second with a chill, then the muggy heat got me and I started to sweat, or thaw out.

I shut the door and the boom of the door closing filled the store and I stood very still for a moment, hand on my gun. But everything was all right. I went into Lande's office, pulled out two drawers and took them back into the freezer, screwed the light on. All I saw was bills and orders. I went through his checkbook and everything looked okay. These wholesale cats even had a daily news bulletin giving them the names of all restaurants and stores being sued.

I screwed the light off, went out and put the drawers back, picked up some mail and a cashbox, went back to my ice den. There was a key sticking in the tin cashbox and about six bucks in change, petty-cash vouchers for stamps and string. The mail seemed all ads and bills. I went out, slamming the door in a hurry so the light wouldn't be seen, returned the box and mail to the office. The store was a bust as far as I was concerned, although if he was running dope that would be the link, and you can have a fortune of the junk in a pound candy box.

I took the ham and the tongue, made sure the street was empty, then stepped out and walked up Front Street. I dumped the glass and tape from the door down a sewer opening, left the tongue and the open can of ham atop a garbage can—if the cats didn't get it, the market bums would when they made rounds, collecting for their Mulligan stew.

Via the fire escapes I got back into the Grover, put the gloves, flash, and gun in my room, then walked casually out to the desk. I'd been gone exactly an hour and thirty-three minutes. “How's things?” I asked Dewey.

“Nothing much. Marty, this Doc Dupre called again. Why don't you call him and get him off my back? You owe him money?”

“He wants his pound of flesh, rotten flesh,” I said, enjoying my own little joke again and suddenly realizing that for the first time in days, at the moment I felt swell, no stink in my mouth, no tight feeling in my gut.

Dewey said, “Also, I keep telling you to call King. He said to call him at his house tonight.”

“All right, you told me. Dewey, anybody check in today?” If my tail was a clever slob he might be stopping at the Grover.

“Those kids. And a trucker.”

“The trucker—old customer?”

“Yeah, the fat one who hustles watermelons up from Georgia.”

“Where's your empty-room check sheet?”

He arched the shaggy eyebrows over his watery eyes. “One minute you're stroking the duck, the next you're an eager beaver. Here's the sheet.”

“Dewey, I want a favor. Keep your bottle under the desk, don't go into the back room tonight, don't leave the desk. If anybody looks funny, or if anybody registers, call me in my room at once.”

“In a jam?”

“I don't know, could be.”

I went into the-office and phoned King at his house. He shrilled, “It's near eleven—what do you mean by calling me so late, Bond?”

“Want me to hang up?”

“See here, Bond, I'm sick of your high-handed ways. Either you stay on the job or...”

“Oh what? King, people in glass cat houses shouldn't talk so loud, or make any trouble.”

“How dare you talk to me like that? I'll have you thrown out of your room and ...!”

“I didn't call to hear you blow your nose. Listen, King, far as you're concerned I'm on vacation for a few days, so stop pestering me, keep out of my way.”

“As manager of the Grover, neither I nor the office will stand for such impertinence from...!”

“Bag of bones, J won't tell you twice to stop running your mouth. As for that fancy office, tell them I'm coming down and underneath all the gold lettering on the door, where it says real estate, appraisals, insurance, I'll add... pimping. Now, don't make waves!” I hung up, then went from floor to floor, starting with the check room in the basement, full of a lot of old trunks and boxes, checking the empty rooms. It isn't hard to sneak into a hotel, especially the fourth-rate ones, and there's little chance of getting caught if you only stay a night.

The rooms were okay. I dropped into, the girls' room. Barbara was playing cards with a new babe—a tall strong blonde who looked fresh from the farm. Barbara asked, “Marty, where you been? Still feeling punk?”

“I'm okay. Who's this?”

“Agnes. A friend of Harold's is breaking her in and since Florence was sick tonight, Harold sent her.”

“Isn't Jean here?”

“Sure, she's working. Why?”

I went over to the closet. Next to Barbara's square makeup bag—“like all the show girls have”—there was a small cardboard suitcase that would be Agnes's. As I opened it the big blonde asked, “What's the idea? Who you?”

“'Who you?' is Marty the house dick,” Barbara told her. “What you looking for, Marty?”

There wasn't much in the bag—a dress, stockings, a change of underwear. If this was the syndicate I was wrestling with, a woman hood wasn't impossible.

Agnes came over and asked again, “What's the idea, lumpy?”

“Watch your mouth, honey,” I told her, “or you'll be packing your vaseline and on your way out of here.” I put the suitcase back and walked out into the hall—only had to wait a moment before Barbara came out, asked, “What's wrong, Marty?”

“Nothing, thought she might be a junkie. You know this hick?”

“I've seen her before, if that's what you mean.”

I squeezed her hand. “All right, that's good enough for me.”

“Ain't like you to be jumpy. Something up? Hope there ain't going to be a damn raid. I hate the...”

“Everything is okay, honey.” Looking at her closely I saw the remains of a black eye expertly covered by make-up. “Rough customer?” I pointed at the eye.

“Harold. He never understands that when it's so hot and muggy, business slumps. I'm glad you're back. I feel better with you around.”

“I bet you tell that to all the boys.”

She gave me a startled look, burst out laughing. “Get you, old two-ton turning coy.” She dug a ringer into my stomach. “Seriously, you know what I mean.”

“All right,” I said, to say something.

She dug a finger again. “You're losing weight, Marty.” She slapped my pockets. “Knew you'd forget it.”

“Forget what?”

“The perfume you promised me.”

“You're wrong, I did buy it, but it broke in my pocket.” I took out a couple of bucks. “Do me a favor and buy it yourself. You know what you want.”

She shook her head. “It won't mean nothing unless you buy it, even if it comes from the dime store. Let me pet back to Agnes—she's jittery. Hey, who's the scouts we got here with short pants?”

“Couple of health nuts. They ain't got a buck between them, so leave them alone. Don't work too hard, honey.”

I put the keys back on the office rack, went to my room. I set the alarm for seven in the morning, took another shower, and went to bed. I felt good, like my old self. I wondered if I was being overcautious, but then I didn't want my boy Smith to find out I didn't know a thing, and lay off me. Although Lande would be bait any time I wanted Bob to come running—if it was Bob. Only it had to be him, and he'd do that little favor for me. I wanted a cigarette and a shot, decided to hell with it, dropped off into a deep sleep.

About a half hour later the phone buzzed and I had to jerk myself up a thousand yards of good sleep before I managed to sit up, growl, “What the hell you want?”

Dewey said, “A guy just registered.”

“So what?”

“You off your noggin, Marty? Didn't you tell me to let you know if anybody registered?”

“All right, all right, this a new customer?”

“Never saw him before. Well dressed.”

“Where is he?”

“Room 431. Name is Al Berger. In from Stamford City. No baggage and paid in advance, of course.”

I dressed, wore my gun, and went up and knocked on 431. A young guy, lean build, opened the door—the type that could be anything. He had his coat and tie off, and his white shirt was damp with sweat. There was a shadow of a line running across his chest—the kind of indentation the strap from a shoulder holster could make. He looked me over coolly, asked, “What do you want?”

“I'm the house dick—want to be sure everything is okay,” I said, pushing the door open, spinning him around and bending his arm up behind his back before he knew what the play was.

He sort of yelled, “What the hell is this?” He was so damn scared I knew I'd made a wrong move. But I had to bluff it out or he could sue the Grover, although I didn't know why I should care, so I snapped, “Got a license to carry a gun?”

“What gun?”

“That's a holster crease across your shirt.”

“A what? I... oh, for... that's from the strap of my gadget case. It's on the bed.”

I glanced over at the bed and there was one of those leather bags camera nuts sport their gear in. I gave him a quick frisk, let him go. He rubbed his arm for a second, then pulled out his wallet, showed me a card in some photographers' society, then an announcement that the society was meeting in New York City.

“Sorry, Mr. Berger, I made a mistake. But we run a respectable hotel and I have to...”

“I know how respectable—a girl solicited me in the hallway a few minutes ago!”

“I'll correct that. You see, you look like a guy that caused trouble here once before. No harm done. I apologize, Mr. Berger,” I said, crawfishing out of the room.

Kenny took me down to the main floor. I wondered what in hell I was so jumpy about—even if it was Bob, he would only be mildly curious about me. But if he was tailing me ...

The door to my room was ajar and I couldn't remember if I'd left it closed or not. I sure was losing my touch. I stood there for a moment wondering if I should take my gun out—I was only in this to stop a slug. But I'd talked myself into getting Bob Smith at the same time, if I could.

I took the gun out of the holster, put it in my pocket as I inched the door open. Harold was sitting on my bed, smoking a pipe and reading the morning paper. I asked, “What you doing in my room?”

He didn't look up, merely nodded as he muttered, “Your door was open, Marty. I knew you wouldn't be in the sack so early. Not yet midnight.”

I closed the door. He kept on reading the paper. Harold didn't look like a pimp, although “few look like the movie version; the greasy joker with an evil handsome face. I always figured all pimps as part queer.

Harold didn't even go for sharp clothes. He was a fat, thick-necked guy who looked like a longshoreman. He was wearing a crumpled white sport shirt and cheap slacks, blue canvas shoes. The only thing queer about him was his long dark hair which he kept wet and carefully brushed, every hair in place. Of course Harold was also queer for expensive cars.

I walked over to the bed and he folded the paper, started in with, “Marty, we got us a sweet little racket here, quiet and hidden away. Everybody is taken care of—be silly for any of us to spoil it or...”

“Barbara call you?”

“That Barbara acting up? Giving you any trouble? King called me. He was upset.”

“Tell him to lay off me. Also tell your mudkickers to stop soliciting in the hallways. Kenny and Dewey get them enough business. And quit socking Barbara—black eyes don't look good in the romance racket. Now, get out, I'm sleepy.”

“No rush, Marty old man, we haven't talked for a...”

“Where do you get off, old-manning me?” I said, hooking him in the belly with my right. I may have lost my touch, but my punch was still there—Harold shot off the other side of the bed, landed on his head, and did a clumsy somersault before he spread out on the carpet. His fat mouth was fish-spread, fighting for air. I was waiting for him to sit up so I could clip him again—for Barbara—but I decided that would only make the jerk beat her more. I had a better idea.

Taking the scissors from the bathroom, I cut off as much of his hair as I could, a chunk here, a chunk there, while he moaned, “No...! Aw, Marty.... No!” I didn't know which was hurting him more, his belly or the sight of the hair on the floor.

“Harold, it's easier on-your puss and my hands than if I belted you around. Now, stay the hell out of my room, out of my way.” I dragged him up by one shoulder, dumped him in the hallway, locked the door. Making sure the alarm was set, I undressed and dropped off into a fine sleep.

I didn't need any alarm to get me up at seven—I was up before that, coughing and sneezing, running a temperature, with the worst damn summer cold I ever had.

My head was stuffed, and my eyes and nose running. Between sneezes, as I dressed, I got down a fine hooker of rye and almost laughed—my gut felt fine and my mouth was sweet—so I was probably dying of pneumonia!

It was dawn outside and Sam wasn't open yet. The streets were almost deserted, only a few cars parked, and I slowly walked my sniffles over to Hamilton Square. I bought some paper handkerchiefs and a box of cough drops in a cigar store, certain I wasn't being followed. I had some Java, eggs and bacon, then took a cab over to the middle of Twelfth Street. I got out and walked slowly toward Fifth Avenue. The street was asleep. No car nor man followed me. I got another cabbie, had him take me up to Twenty-third Street, then downtown. I took a plant behind some parked trailers, watching Lande's place, eating the box of cough drops and wiping my nose every few minutes.

I was still there at nine—not sure Lande would show. I bought some oranges from a guy with a pushcart and felt better. My fever seemed gone and except for my running nose, I felt pretty good.

At a quarter to ten an old station wagon parked in front of the meat store and Lande got out. He was halfway across the sidewalk when he saw the hole in his door. He ran into the store.

Exactly eleven minutes later he rushed out and looked up and down the street—for a cop—then dashed back into the store. A few minutes later a radio car came screaming to a stop and two cops jumped out.

I walked away, stopped for a hot dog and bottle of soda, then went up to Sam's. I felt a little foolish. I'd been certain Lande wouldn't call the cops.

I wondered what I'd done with the cereal—for I felt I was acting like a junior G-man with a box-top badge.

Five

Sam gave me penicillin tablets and a slug of medicine that tasted like stale Scotch. “That will knock it out, Marty. If it doesn't, see a doctor. You got yourself a real cold. I... uh... trust you've been careful with those sleeping pills.”

“Threw them away. You're right, Sam, why mess with that stuff.”

The relief almost oozed over Sam's heavy face. “That was smart. Go back to the hotel and get some sleep. Best thing for a cold. You look awful sad.”

“I don't feel exactly overbright,” I said.

He started gabbing about a fight he'd watched on TV the night before. I didn't listen, for in the back of my head I had this feeling something was out of place.

“... There's this big muscle-bound dope with his knees buckling. Instead of staying away, what does he do but come in. Wham! He's clipped again by the right and it's all over. I'm telling you, Marty, pugs today don't know their business.”

“Yeah, it's always easier to know what to do when you're outside the ring,” I told him. “I remember...” All of a sudden I felt good—Lande had played it the way I figured, after all! The damn cold must have had me groggy—it was eleven minutes before he came out of the shop, looked for a cop. Then he went back in and phoned the police. That meant he'd called somebody else first, had been told to call the cops.

It fitted—I was still in business—even if I didn't know what business.

“As you were saying ...?”

“Nothing, except sometimes it's tough to think in the clinches. I'll see you, Sam.”

I was in business but still in the dark about the link between the syndicate and a small-timer like Lande. I went back to see the driver again. He was packing a truck, told me to wait a few minutes. He was wearing what looked like a motorcycle racer's lined leather hat, only it was too big for him and he looked like the comic in an old burlesque.

He was busy taking slabs of fat out of the freezer and when he finished he said, “I got about ten minutes for talk,” and pulled off the hat, ran a comb through his thick hair. He looked at the comb, said, “Lousy hat is dirty.”

“Hot for a hat,” I said, wiping my nose.

He laughed. “I feel for you. Nothing as uncomfortable as a summer cold. And the freezer is the place to get one. Stay in there for a few minutes without a hat and you'll get yourself a hell of a cold. Some of the brain juices freeze.”

“Stop it. You mean you shake your noggin and hear the icicles rattle?”

“I sure do mean it,” this Lou said. “Guys that work in the freezer keep every part of them covered, including a muffler over their faces. Let me take you in, show you how cold it is.”

“I believe you. What they need a freezer for? Special meats that won't keep in the icebox?” I asked, and I had a fair idea what the link was—the punks must have been reading too many detective yarns. This was an old gimmick, although I'd never heard of it being actually used except in the movies and books.

“Look, you buy a case of turkeys or a side of beef, whatever it is, it don't move. After a few days in the icebox the meat starts getting 'slick'—a little slimy. It's about a day from turning. You toss it in the freezer, keep it till you get a call for turkeys.”

“Freezing make them any better?”

“No better, no worse. Soon as they thaw out they're as good as they were when you put them in. We keep them covered in bags so the skin won't get a freezer burn. Before they had freezers, the butchers were forced to buy carefully or throw out...”

“All right, Lou,” I cut in, “I'll never be in the meat business. Tell me, has Willie been around to see you since we last talked?”

Franconi shook his head. “Should he have?”

“Yes and no. I'll level with you, Lou. I been fishing and not coming up with anything. Looks like my hunch has worn thin.”

“Like I told you, Willie hasn't the iron to be crooked. How's the cop that was slugged?”

“He'll live. Do any ship stewards buy supplies from Lande? He's right on the water front.”

Lou grinned. “Mister, you ain't even warm. Supplying ships is real big business. Willie would give both arms to be able to get in that.”

“Lande have any sailor friends? Maybe from the old country, dropping in to visit him?”

“Willie had no time for any friends. What's all this salt air about?”

“Like I said, fishing. I thought Willie might be mixed up in a dope deal.”

“Pal, you're way off base.”

“How do you know—for sure? He could have a hundred grand worth of heroin in a box smaller than a canned ham.”

“It ain't like that, mister. Aside from Willie not going in for phony deals, I'm with him all morning, part of the afternoon. And every other night I sweep and mop down the joint—ain't a spot in the shop I ain't cleaned. I even help him with the books. He couldn't hide anything from me. I'm like a partner, except for the dough. If I ever hit a horse or a number I'm going to suggest to Willie we become real partners.”

“Suggest it to his wife—Willie may not be around too long. What about the wife—any boy friends?”

“You ain't ever seen Bebe, or you wouldn't ask that. All spread and a yard wide. Lucky she has Willie.”

“Well, thanks, Lou. Remember, keep your mouth shut about our little talks.”

“They couldn't beat a word out of me.”

“Don't be too sure of that. That's why I want you not to tell anybody about our talks. Maybe I'll see you again.”

“My wife gives the kid a lot of brown sugar in warm milk for a cold—try it. How did you get yours?”

“It was so hot last night I stuck my head in the ice-cube tray,” I cornballed, walking up the street. I hadn't gone a hundred yards when I got that old feeling I was being followed, like a hound dog striking a scent. This street was a cinch for a shadow. It was full of cars and trucks and people.

I dropped into a candy store, phoned Bill Ash. After we said it was a hell of a hot day and I found out how Lawrence was—he was up and around in a wheel chair—Bill said, “Got something in your mouth—voice sounds funny.”

“All I got in my mouth is a lousy cold. Bill, will you humor an ancient cop and put a tail on a Lou Franconi? He's Lande's driver and working now at the Bay Meat Company, a wholesale outfit. And do it fast.”

“Is it okay if I ask why?”

“I'm sure somebody is tailing me, and like a clown I just led the tail to Franconi. We did a lot of talking out on the sidewalk. He's a nice kid and I don't want to see him slugged. Only need a man on him for a day or two.”

“Still playing cop, Marty?”

“Aha, and the game's getting interesting.”

“I got something that should interest you. Your buddy Lande's shop was broken into last night. You playing burglar too?”

“Why should I bust into his store? Too hot to eat meat. Anyway, he was only taken for a canned ham and a tongue. Bill, you going to put a man on the kid—right now?”

“Okay, but it seems like a wild goose... How did you know only a ham and a tongue was lifted? Marty, I want to see you damn quick! You're not here in ten minutes I'll bring you in!”

“You're slow this morning, Sherlock Holmes. I was waiting for you to make that sharp deduction. Frankly, I was surprised Lande went to the cops—almost upset all of my bright deductions. Don't forget a man on Franconi, and make it fast because he's starting on a delivery route.”

“I want to see you right away!”

“On my way up. I'm serious, Bill. Put a man on the kid.”

“For the love of tears, I said I would. Now drag your rusty up here on the double.”

“At the moment my rusty is higher off the ground than yours. I'll be up in a few minutes.”

I walked slowly to the station house, considering going out to Jones Beach for a dip and some surf casting. Except for fishing I was never an outdoor man, but with only a day or two left, there were a lot of “last” things I ought to do. Still it was a relief to know I'd never have to do a damn thing again.

Bill looked worse than poorly; all the dapperness had fallen away. As I sat down he began, “Marty, I warned you to stop acting like a goddam tin hero. Breaking into ...”

“Stop it, Bill. No one knows about it.”

“I know about it!”

“Then forget it. What did Lande lose—a busted door glass, a couple of pounds of meat. He's probably insured. Relax, Bill, you look tired.”

Bill rubbed his chin. “I've never been so tired—can't go for two or three days steady any longer. Thought I'd get some rest last night, but the girl was sick with her virus and you know how up in the air Margie gets when there's sickness. Tell me, Humphrey Bogart, what did you find in that store besides meat?”

“Nothing but a cold.”

“I don't understand you. In the old days you never broke your back over anything—here you work like a pig over nothing. Still think you're being tailed?”

“I know I am. Bill, I know I'm acting nuts, but there's too many coincidences in this for me to be drawing a complete blank. The kid being beaten after sticking his nose into Lande's business—that now-you-see-it, now-you-don't fifty grand—and now me being tailed.”

“What does the guy look like?”

“I've never been able to spot him—just have this feeling.”

Bill jumped up, started walking the room. “Jeez, you have a feeling? Marty, I just wasted a man on this Franconi when I doubly need every man I have. And your Mr. Lande, he's ready for a padded cell—never saw a guy so nervous.”

“Why do you think he's so jumpy?”

Bill gave me a long look. “You're acting like a damn school kid! He finds his store's been entered. Why shouldn't he be nervous? Marty, for old times' sake, or for any reason you want, wait till I get off this Cocky Anderson hook. Then you can play cops and robbers all you wish. The case is driving me batty without any help from you.”

“See by the papers you're no place.”

“Lousy papers. I've tried everything and can't get a lead worth peanuts. I've never been a third-degree loon, but I'd like to give Bochio a taste of the rubber hose! He's too sure of himself. Even with his alibi he should be more caret than these statements about he's sore somebody beat him the punch, and all the rest of the slop that makes good headline reading.”

“Bochio still down in Florida?”

Ash nodded, rubbed his neck. “What can we bring him back on? That's another crazy angle. You always stumble upon some strong lead, even if it proves a dead end later. But in this case we don't come across a damn thing. And I've squeezed and pushed everybody who might know a damn thing. So has Homicide. Nobody knows a thing!”

“I'd still bring Bochio up—try talking to him.”

“Talk to him about what, shooting off his mouth? He knows we don't have a thing. Bring him up and we'll have to turn him loose in a minute, make us look like fools. The smart louse has even volunteered to come back to New York if we ask him to!”

“These wops are oily jokers.”

Bill stopped pacing the office, stood in front of me shaking his head sadly. “Marty, sometimes I wonder how you were ever lucky enough to break the cases you did, with a mind as narrow as a pipe cleaner. For what it's worth, Bochio isn't Italian.”

“With a handle like that? I always thought he was.”

“His real name is Boch—and don't tell me all Dutchmen are oily jokers. He was raised by an Italian family from the time he was a kid. That's where he got the accent from, and they added an 'io' to his name and he had it legally changed to Bochio a long time ago. He's married to an Italian girl, considers himself Italian, and ...”

I sneezed, a hell of a sneeze that shook my toes, near tore Bill's little office apart. He jumped back, ran a hand over his face. “You pig. Told you my girl was sick. Why don't you cover your mouth?”

I was on my way to the door. “Be grateful for that sneeze. It rattled my brains—could be the break in the Anderson case.”

Bill's long face seemed to sag as he touched my arm, said, “Marty, why don't you see a doctor?”

“I already have. Be good and maybe I'll give you Cocky Anderson's killer all bound up in pink handcuffs,” I said, walking out.

In the old days when a case broke it was like being on a drinking jag, the same high feeling. Now it didn't do a thing to me except amaze me how a little thing always trips a big deal.

I didn't have proof yet, but the way the pieces were falling into place, I knew it had to be the link. The secret of police work is digging into every fact—and Bill had overlooked a couple of small ones, just as I had. And of course, you got to have luck—like my chewing the fat with Bill and him breaking things right over my head, without knowing it.

It took me a couple of dimes and a quart of sweat in a phone booth to get ahold of the guy at Immigration again. He said he'd check and call me back at the Grover after lunch.

I had time to kill and because it was on my list of “last things,” I took a cab to the Battery and the ferry to Staten Island, the cheapest and most interesting voyage in the country.

In Staten Island I went into a spaghetti joint and had a pizza pie and a couple of glasses of beer. There were a dozen or so guys eating in the joint and I wondered if my tail was among them. But it didn't matter; I had him on a string and he'd jump whenever I yanked it.

I was back in the Grover by one and Lawson told me, “I wish you would stay around to take care of your personal business, Bond. A Dr. Dupre has been calling you every hour. And a rather striking-looking woman was here, left this number for you to call. She claimed she was your ex-wife.”

I crumbled the paper with Flo's number. “What do you mean, claimed?”

“How a gorgeous woman would ever fall for you is beyond my ken.”

“Your what? Look, Nancy, don't let it worry you—you'll never get within fondling distance of anything like Flo, and if you did, you wouldn't know what to do. I'm expecting a call—put it right through to my room.”

“Mr. King is in the office.”

“Who cares!”

I was feeling so good I overdid it—in my room I knocked off a big slug of rye for no reason and my belly began acting up, as if to remind me of the reason I was in the deal.

Shortly before two Barbara dropped into my room and when I asked why she was at work so early, she said, “I never went home last night. Gee, Marty, you shouldn't have cut Harold's hair. He thinks you're sore at me and if I'd gone home last night he would have whipped the hide off me.”

“Going home tonight?”

“Maybe,” she said, pouring herself a small one.

“Look, you take one of the rooms here—permanently—and if that fat punk tries to ...” I stopped talking. I wouldn't be around much longer to take care of Harold, or anybody else. It was an odd feeling, like somebody had pulled me up short.

Barbara finished the drink. “Thanks for worrying, but it will be okay when I go home tonight with two days' dough. With Harold, I always got to build him up—he has to be the big I-am. And money is the best builderupper. I did swell last night—a ten-buck tip. Nice-dressed guy—asked about you.”

“About...? What did he ask?”

“Nothing exactly, but a whole lot. I pegged him for a racket-fellow. I think he was casing the setup here, but then he got off on you—how long had you been here, you have any side jobs, any dough? Lot of questions that didn't add up. He knew about you being on the force. You know me, I knew from nothing.”

“What did he look like?”

“Big, hard body, out-of-towner with a twang. Sort of good looking in a ...”

“Look like Dick Tracy?”

She stretched all her lipstick in a large grin. “Say, I kept thinking he reminded me of somebody and that's it—Dick Tracy, all them sharp features, hat low on his head.”

“What time was all this?”

“Oh... about one, two. Why you so interested?”

“Why didn't you call me, or tell me?”

“Marty, you toss Harold out and he tells me to stay away from you. And you been so grouchy these days and I figured you were asleep. Anyway, the guy wasn't tough or nothing, very friendly and casual like.”

“He use the word bastid? Not bas-tard but...?”

Barbara stiffened. “Please, what kind of conversation you think we were having?”

She wasn't kidding, so I let it drop. “Dewey see him come in?”

“How do I know? But that wino was off last night, stinking, and I know Kenny had to run the elevator and cover for him most of the night. Gee, Marty, so a guy asked about you—all friendly-like. What's so important about all this?”

“Nothing.” That had been a slip on my part, not alerting Kenny. Dewey, the damn lush! And last night, Smith probably didn't know about the store being broken into, so he was just looking around. Must be puzzled as hell about me sticking my nose in things.

“Marty, you angry with me?” Barbara asked, playing coy, coming over and putting her hand on my shirt, making it stick to my damp skin.

“No, honey. Wait here for a couple of minutes. I'll be back.”

“Mind if I take a shower? I smell like a couple of other gals.”

“Take a brace of showers,” I said, going out. I called Sam from the desk, asked what his most expensive perfume cost. It was twenty-seven bucks with taxes and I told him to send over a bottle right away.

Lawson was on the elevator with King keeping an eye on the desk. He came out of the office, told me, “Mr. Bond, it's time we had a little talk. You have not only been impertinent, but also negligent in your duties as a...”

I went over to him. His skin was waxy and drawn tight over his bony puss. “Why don't you change your record? You're an old man and I guess you want to live longer, although I can't figure why or...”

“You can't bully me!” He actually made his little hands into fists.

“Yes, I can, King. I can bully you all I want because if I feel like it, I'll belt that funny-looking chin of yours, bust all the bones, including your store choppers. I can do that with one punch, one good ...”

“Roughneck!” He almost screamed the word at me as he retreated into his office.

I don't know what it was, maybe the hatred in his eyes, but it was like looking into a crystal ball, seeing my life, and that one word, “roughneck,” summed it up. Roughneck, lout, bully... they covered the years, my lousy stupid life, all of it. It made me feel crummy.

King got courage, and some color back in his face, stuck his stickpin head out of the office door. “You think you can push me around because you're all muscles. Well, there will be an accounting soon that will...!”

“All right, don't crowd your luck with a roughneck,” I growled, and walked to the front of the small lobby, sat down, wondering why the cockroach had upset me—and he had. I sat there for maybe ten minutes, thinking of nothing, almost wanting to bawl.

Sam came over himself and I paid him for a bottle that looked like a watch charm, it was that small, but Sam wasn't the kind to gyp me. He asked if my cold was better, told me to drop over for some more pills.

Back in my room I found Barbara dressing. I placed the tiny box in her hands as she pulled on her dress, asked, “What's this?”

“A time bomb—what does it look like?”

She unwrapped it and stared at the little bottle, then up at me, and began to cry a little. “Lord, Marty, this is Arpege!”

“Sure is,” I said, as if I knew what she was talking about.

“I've bought the toilet water but... this is the perfume!”

She came over and gave me a sloppy kiss, whispered, “Hon, it's been a long time for us.”

“Sure, but you just took a shower, no sense getting sweated up. Some other time.”

She pulled away, rubbed her nose with the bottle. “You're a funny one—lately. Before you were so tough and ...”

“Being tough is a lot of crap,” I said, slapping her hips.

“... and now you're sentimental.”

“You bet I am. We've had some good times together. And being sentimental over a whore is getting down to the tacks of life.”

“Why did you have to use that word, Marty?”

“Why not? We never kidded ourselves. Let old poppa Marty tell you what I've learned the last few days—this is a whoring world and it makes us all whores in one way or another.”

Barbara slipped me the coy look again. “I suppose what you said is awful deep or something; I'll have to think about it. Marty, was the girl asking for you this morning really your wife?”

“Yeah.”

“She looks like what I used to dream about when I was a kid—being real big-time, real beautiful.”

“You should have seen her eight or nine years ago.”

“No, she looks beautiful now because she knows she isn't any kid and still she has it—what a figure.”

“Maybe she was too pretty.”

“How come you let something like that go?”

I slapped Barbara's hips again. “Something like that let me go. But by then it didn't matter. Flo was like a pug in training—all the time. Couldn't do this or that because it might spoil her figure, surf casting roughened her skin... all that. Now she wants me back and she has a swell setup.”

“No wonder you've been fluffing the duff here—you're going back to her.”

“No, it's too late for that.” I was suddenly bored with all the small talk. “Honey, want to take a walk, or something? I need some shut-eye.”

“Okay. Thanks for the perfume. Guess it is too muggy to do anything but sleep.”

When she left I sat on the bed, wondering how to kill the afternoon—my last afternoon. Be good to get drunk, but with my gut it might spoil things for tonight—and it was going to be tonight. Jones Beach was too much effort and ...

The phone rang—my boy in Immigration. He told me what I expected, and of course it fitted, as I knew it would. There it was, all wrapped up. I could pull the string now by merely calling Bill—they'd make him a captain at least for this—only there was my own very special angle, the only thing that mattered for me.

I still had the rest of the afternoon and my room depressed me. I went out and Lawson asked, “Where you going, Bond?”

“I'm going to break your nosy head!” I said, making for the desk.

He backed into the office. “I'm only asking in case you get any calls.”

“Tell them I'm out counting the pansies in Washington Square,” I said, turning toward the door.

I walked over to Seventh Avenue, stopped for pie and iced coffee. I was still being tailed. I decided to tell Lawrence good-by.

The doc wasn't happy to see me, said, “Mr. Bond, you upset him badly the last time you were here. I'll find out if he wants to see you.”

He returned in a few minutes to tell me I could go in. “But please make it brief and be careful what you say—no arguments.”

The same cop was on the door and he gave me a hard look as I went in. The boy was in a wheel chair, tape over his nose, the top of his head bandaged. He was bare to his waist although most of his ribs were taped. I said, “Well, kid, you're coming along fine.”

“That's what they tell me.” His eyes seemed to be studying me. “Glad you came by, Marty. I've thought over what you told me—I'm still going to become a cop—at least try to. I'll be a good cop if for no other reason because I'll stop any other Marty Bonds from abusing their authority.”

I shrugged. “You do that, Lawrence—if you can. All right, if you're still badge-happy, pass the exam and they'll welcome you with open arms.”

“Is this another of your... uh... jokes?”

“Kid, you stumbled on the hottest thing going. You stick to your story; you always knew this was big.”

“I don't understand you.”

“You will by morning. And don't be modest. Blow your horn loud. The cops wouldn't listen, but you knew there was something fishy about Lande from the go. Don't rap the department, but don't let the reporters forget you. I'm giving you full credit for ...”

“You've cracked it?”

“By tomorrow you and I will have cracked New York City wide open. Now don't ask no more questions—just wait.” I shook his hand. “So long, kid.”

“Marty, what's all this about?”

“You'll know tomorrow. I hope this beating has taught you something, but I doubt it. Maybe it may teach you not to learn things the hard way. Good-by, Lawrence.” I let go of his hand.

“But, Marty...? Wait!”

I opened the door as he called, “Dad—wait!” I closed the door softly, winked at the cop, and walked out onto Seventh Avenue.

It was a few minutes after three and for no reason I walked across the street and bought a ticket for Loew's Sheridan, lost myself in the darkness. It was cool and the movie was one of these color jobs shot over in Europe, and I got a kick out of seeing the streets of Rome and Naples I remembered from the war. The story was silly as hell and the other feature had Hollywood winning the West from the Indians for the millionth time. I chewed mints and worked on my running nose, wondered if my shadow was enjoying the pictures.

It was almost seven when I came out into the hot end of the day, feeling rather sorry for myself—a guy who didn't know what to do with his last hours but spend them seeing slop on the screen.

I walked over to Eighth Street and had a good sea-food supper. It was a big meal and didn't seem to bother my gut, although when I reached the Grover I had to dash for the John. I came back to the lobby, shut off the radio in the office. Dewey came in from the desk. “Hey, I'm listening to a story.”

“Take the radio out to the desk, I have some typing to do. I told you to lay off the back room last night—a guy came in while you were getting your wine chilled.”

“That's a lot of nonsense. I never left... How did you know?”

“Forget it and get out of here.”

It took me an hour to peck out a letter, with a carbon, telling Bill how Bochio had knocked off Cocky Anderson. I played up Lawrence big in my report. I even suggested sweating Willie for the exact details. After I sealed it, I wrote my name over the back of the envelope so Dewey's curiosity wouldn't get the best of him, put Bill's name on the front, along with the phone number of the station house.

I went to my room and shaved and showered like a bridegroom. Dropping some weight made me look in shape—on the outside I looked healthier than I had since I was a teenage punk. I made sure my gun was in working order before I slipped it and some extra shells into my pocket. I dragged an old suitcase from the closet, took out my army .45 which I'd smuggled into civilian, life, checked it, strapped it above my right ankle.

It was eight-twenty and starting to get dark. One thing worried me—Lande might not be home when I phoned him. He could easily be at a movie, or something. But he'd have to come home sooner or later.

Out in the lobby I motioned for Kenny to take over the desk and walked Dewey to my room. He took a swig of the pint of sherry in his hip pocket as he sat down, asked, “Now, what's cooking?”

“We're cooking without wine. Dewey, when you finish that pint, that's going to be all for the night.”

“You a reformer now, too?”

I pulled out all the bills I had in my pocket: three tens, a five, and four bucks. Tearing them in half I gave him one part, said, “After tonight you get the rest, go on a week's drunk if you want. But for the next couple of hours you're working for me, and don't forget it.”

Dewey fingered the torn money. “Marty, why the green salad?”

“A reminder that if you make a mistake I won't be around to give you the rest of the lettuce,” I said, pocketing the torn bills. “Your job is simple: I don't want you to leave the desk —not for a second, even if the Grover is on fire. You're being paid to stay by your phone. And to take good care of this.” I placed the letter addressed to Bill in Dewey's lap. “Don't let anybody get ahold of that letter, even see it—till later. Understand?”

Dewey nodded.

I gave him a slip of paper with Lande's store phone on it. “And keep this handy, too. All right, here's the deal. Starting at ten o'clock you call this number every fifteen minutes. No matter if the desk is busy or not, every fifteen minutes you call. I'll answer and say, 'Lawson is a fag.' That's all. You don't answer anything except one word, 'Okay, Marty.' But if ...”

“That's two words.”

“All right! Goddamnit, Dewey, you just answer, 'Okay, Marty.' Not another sound. Now, when you ring and there isn't any answer, or if somebody else answers, says, 'Hello?' says anything but 'Lawson is a fag,' you hang up—and call Bill Ash fast at the number on the envelope. That's the police station. Tell him—or whoever answers at the precinct—that you want a cop damn fast. If Ash answers tell him you have something important and he must come and get it—at once. You only give this letter to Ash, and ask to see his badge, or to a uniformed cop. Got it?”

Dewey swallowed, his eyes watered, and he touched the envelope like it was hot. “Marty, you in something... something... real bad?”

“This is all the way for me, Dewey. That's why I want you to stay off the wine and on the ball. Remember, if anybody answers with anything but our passwords, don't you say a single word, just slam the receiver down and call the police. And for Christ's sake, be sure you're dialing the right number, the one on the slip. Now, tell me what I told you.”

Dewey stuttered through it and we went over it again. Then I told him, “Good. Finish the pint—you'll need that. Stay at the desk, and remember—start calling at ten sharp. Even if you have to go to the John—stay at the desk!”

Dewey stood up, put Bill's letter in his back pocket, Lande's phone number in his shirt pocket. He asked, “Marty, what are you in? Will I ...?”

“You'll be a lousy hero. One more thing, don't blab about this to Kenny, Barbara—nobody.”

“Listen, Many, you know hew I am—maybe I won't be able to ...”

He was shaking a little and I slapped him on the back. “Just do what I told you and everything will be okay. Hell, we're pals, you're the only one I can trust. Get going. Remember, you start phoning at ten sharp—about an hour and a half from now. 'Lawson is a fag.' If anybody says anything else, even if you think it's me, hang up and call the cops. Get going.”

When he left I put the carbon of the letter in an envelope, addressed it to the kid in the hospital, then put the rest of the torn money in another envelope addressed to Dewey. I dug up a couple of stamps, locked my door, and dropped the letters in the mail chute off the lobby. I took the self-service elevator to the eighth floor, opened the linen-closet window, stepped out on the adjoining fire escape—the weight of the .45 at my ankle making me clumsy.

I went up and over the roof, down into the alley, moving carefully. After last night they'd be wondering how I got out of the Grover. Dropping into the alley as softly as my two-hundred-odd pounds would allow, I stood very still in the darkness.

I had company—somebody in front of me was breathing heavily.

I stood there for a long moment, fingering the gun in my pocket, retasting the sea food, trying not to belch.

Whoever was sharing the alley with me was making a lot of noise with his breathing. I waited, but my buddy was playing it cool. I got my flash out, knelt and placed it on the cement alleyway, pointing it in the general direction of the breathing.

I got my gun out and leaning way over to the right, I reached out with my left foot, pressed the button. I spotlighted an old bum huddled in one corner. I grinned as he blinked his bleary eyes to get me in focus.

I pocketed the gun and picking up my flash I started toward him. He said, “Put that light out, you big sonofabitch.”

“They making you winos braver these days?” I asked.

I was on top of him and he sort of grinned and his teeth were too good for a wino and his eyes were too bright—he wasn't drunk—he was on junk. He was sitting with both hands on the cement and he raised himself off the floor a few inches as his legs struck out, scissored around mine.

I fell on top of him, kicking, swinging with my flash... and thought I heard the swish of a sap behind me before my head exploded in a burning white flame.

Six

I came to on my side, part of my head and neck feeling big as a ton—a numb ton. There was light near me and after blinking a few times, I managed to sit up and look around. The wino decoy was lying a couple of feet from me, blood streaming from his head: I must have followed through with my swing before I conked out.

Turning made my head spin, but I finally faced the light. The face above the small flashlight was Hilly Smith's, all the sharp, overneat features. His eyes were as cold and impersonal as dry ice. For a moment I couldn't see any hands, then I realized he was wearing dark gloves. He must have been holding my Police Special in his right hand—it seemed suspended in the dim light—the business end pointing at me.

I belched and my head hurt. But I moved my legs a little. Bob wasn't any ball of fire; he hadn't found the .45.

We stared at each other for a while. I'd seen him once or twice over the years, but never this close. He was a handsome punk, tall and lean, with wide sloping shoulders. His face was hard and without an ounce of fat, or maybe it was the shadows that made him look so hard.

I put my elbows on the cement ground and relaxed, wondering what the next move was. I'd walked into a trap, but it didn't make any difference to me. Dewey would call Bill at ten when I didn't answer. Even if the wine got to Dewey, Lawrence would have the carbon copy of the letter in the morning and then they'd pick up Bochio, maybe Smith. All I had to do was see to it I didn't leave the alley alive. And if Bob made a mistake, I'd like to knock him off. Sort of a going-away present to somebody... maybe myself. A kind of...

He said, “What's ya story, ya bastid?” There was something wrong with his lips, like they were too big for his mouth— they didn't stop at his face, went inside his mouth. Or maybe that was the shadows too.

“I was going to tell it to you—in Willie's shop. But this is just as good a spot.” My voice sounded strong in the stillness.

“Figured that. But didn't want to knock ya off in the store, too much explaining.”

“What explaining?” I said, mocking him. “You could do me like you did Cocky, knock me off in the freezer, then dump the body any time you felt like it. Bochio must have thought he was real clever; shoots him, then goes down to Miami and establishes his alibi. Couple of weeks later you dump the body in the Bronx, it lays in the heat all day and no medical examiner can say it was frozen, that Anderson wasn't shot the night before. That's old stuff—he wasn't so smart.”

“A knife in the back is old—but it still works.”

The “bum” near me groaned and then was silent again.

Bob stared at him for a moment, then turned to me, asked, “What was ya doing, giving a public lecture?” He moved fast, jumped to my side and kicked me before I knew what was happening. As I doubled up he split the side of my face with my own gun.

I didn't black out, but for a long time I couldn't move, could hardly breathe. Blood was flowing into my shirt collar, down my side like syrupy sweat. I began to doubt Bob was going to make a mistake.... Then I had a frightening thought: Maybe he wasn't going to kill me, only work me over to scare me off?

I waited till I could sit up again, sure I could move my legs. My only play was a corny one; the decoy had used it on me.

Smith said, “I know all about ya, big hero copper now a two-bit lush, a lousy hotel dick. Who ya working for on this?”

When I opened my mouth, blood ran in and damn near choked me.

“What ya trying to do, make a name for yourself, get back on the force?”

“I want in,” I said, and it sounded like I was talking through a mouthful of mud.

“In—a shakedown?” He laughed, but no sound came out.

I tried to nod and my head seemed to be coming off. “Killing me won't do no good,” I said, and my voice came back strong and clear the more I talked. “I sent a letter to myself care of general delivery, with a cop as the return address. If I don't call for it... tomorrow... it goes back, will be opened.... You and Bochio will fry.” It wasn't much of a story, but it would do.

“Ya think ya're playing with kids, ya bastid!”

“No, I think it's time to separate the men from the boys, Bob.”

He didn't say anything for a moment, those ice-eyes watching me. I was in a sudden panic he might walk away, leave me. I said, “I never would have got onto this if you had learned to talk straight. You talk like a backward...”

He kicked me in the ear. For a second my head seemed to balloon up, then everything became clear again. “Every kick only jacks up the price. You and Bochio made a lot of mistakes by shooting Cocky in the freezer—don't make no more. Why did Bochio have to become a hood again after all these years? Start messing around with a perfect crime, no less?”

The “decoy” groaned again and Bob clouted him with the gun, knocking him into silence.

He said to me, “I told ya, no lectures!”

I was getting weaker, my whole shirt wet with blood. I lowered my voice as if I was passing out, said, “Everything is in... the... letter. Bochio probably never even knew Lande... was... a... relative. Or maybe Willie never knew. Then... old Bochio gets this... this... yen to kill Cocky. Maybe saw this freeze deal in a movie... or something. Looks around for a butcher, a freezer, and there's... one right in the family. All in the... the... letter.”

“Ya lousy chiseling bastid, whatcha want?”

“Ten grand,” I whispered.

Bob bent over me a little. “Whatcha say?”

“Ten grand.” I wanted to smile. Bob Smith the syndicate cop—a dumb punk.

He was almost stepping over my legs as he repeated, “Tea grand?”

I muttered, “If... I... die, you're done.”

“Ya think we're dumb enough to pay off, so ya'll keep shaking us down!”

I waved my hand. “Sure I will... but small stuff. I... I know when not to... overplay my hand.” I ended this in a mumble of double talk.

“What? Talk louder.”

I gasped out something neither of us could hear and inched my right leg out. Even if I didn't make it he'd shoot me dead.

“Ya're a muscleman—ya know I can do things that will make ya talk, beg for the finisher!”

“The letter... remember that,” I said loud enough for him to hear. “Get me to a doc before... I die.”

He hesitated and I mumbled, “I'm... dying!” and stiffened like a ham actor—getting my right leg way out.

Bob bent lower. “Hey! Ya get the dough! Hey!” he repeated like an idiot. Blood was forming in my mouth and I gargled with a little of it, sounded like a death rattle.

He stood up and I thought I'd overdone it. But he pulled out a fistful of money, bent down and waved it in my face. “Here, ya get the dough! Ya hear? Ya get...”

I put everything I had into swinging my right leg—with the .45 strapped against it—into a long arc as Bob tried to straighten up. There was the blast of my own gun—in his hand—that seemed to go off in my eyes as my leg clouted him on the side of his face.

Smith fell over sideways as I tried to sit up in the blast that blinded me. After the flash of gunpowder, the darkness was awful dark and it took me a long time to see. But it didn't take any time to feel the pain in my shoulder where he'd shot me. I could move my left arm so it wasn't too bad, but it took me a lot of years before I was able to stand. On my feet I felt much better.

I picked up Hilly's flash and looked at the “bum.” His head and face were all blood, but he was alive—the blood was bubbling at his lips. I straightened up. Bending down hadn't done me any good. I was dripping blood so badly it was really sloshing around in my shoes.

Blood never worried me and I had things to do. I took a deep breath, like a weightlifter, and dragged Bob over to a corner of the alley, set him up where he would be a dead duck in my private shooting gallery. The effort about kayoed me and I had to lean against the wall myself for a bunch of seconds. It was funny, the way I could move now, wasn't scared when I wasn't doing my own killing.

Bob started to move and I kicked his head against the wall, careful not to kill him... ruin my angle in this mess. I put the flash down so it covered us and frisked him. He had a gun on his hip and another up his sleeve. The sleeve job would be a lousy small-caliber deal, meaning only a lucky shot or a brace of slugs would do me in. I didn't touch the sleeve rod—that had to be it. The money he'd offered me was laying in his lap and for some stupid reason I picked up a few of the hundred-dollar bills, then picked up the flash with my left hand. My left was too bloody and the flash slipped out, and broke on the cement.

I stood up in the darkness, trying to steady myself, cursing my stupidity. Both Bob and I would need light. I bent over Bob, ripped off part of his coat, stumbled over to the bum and ripped off his coat and pants. I made a pile of the clothing, dropped the money on top of it. Then I made a small pile of a few crumpled bills twisted together, lit them with my lighter. I put Bob's gun and my Police Special near him where he could see them, but out of his reach. I wiped my hands and put the .45 in my pocket. The burning bills died out and I leaned against the wall, shut my eyes till my head cleared... and waited.

After what seemed hours and had to be seconds, I heard Bob moan, then sit up. I got my lighter out and lit the bills atop the clothing.

Bob stared at me through bloody eyes, one side of his face puffed and out of shape. He rubbed his wrist against his thigh and probably smiled behind the blood, thinking I'd overlooked the gun there. I don't know why but suddenly, for the first time in my life, die sight of blood, beaten skin, made me a little sick.

Swaying in front of him, right hand on the .45 straining my pocket, the stinking fire throwing crazy shadows all around us, I said, “At last I got me a real big hood. The top syndicate cop. You thought you were outside the law, outside of me, had your own law. Even took care of the punks who robbed Willie. Were you scared they might have seen Cocky's corpse in the freezer? But for once I...”

“The money!” Bob gasped. It sounded like his jaw was busted. “Ya're... in!”

“In what? You dumb clown, I don't want no money. I'm going to work you over, beat your brains out, leave you crippled for life... if you live.” I wasn't hearing my own words. I was thinking beating a punk no longer seemed important or necessary to me.

The fire was dying and I said, “I'm going to leave you so you'll never hurt another ...”

Bob really was good—a snap of the wrist I might never have noticed if I didn't know about the gun, and one of these runty European automatics was in his right hand. Maybe it was the weird light from the fire, but the gun seemed to spark like a toy cap pistol. All I felt was two sharp quick stabs in my gut.

Smith actually hissed as he said, “Bastid copper! Dumb bastid copper!” as I came toward him. Two more of those toy sparks and I knew I was hit in the gut again. Now the pain came, deep and burning.

I was almost on top of him when he let me have the last two. It didn't seem possible but I only felt one stab—the jerk missed with the other shot.

The dizziness and pain were mounting fast, but I could still handle my gun... although I knew I was swaying like the shadows from the last of the fire, and smoke seemed to fog my eyes as I said, “All right, that's me—a copper!” and let him have the .45 from my coat pocket.

Part of his head bounced against the wall as the boom of the .45 covered me with thunder—thunder that had nothing to do with me starting to fall backward.

Outside of Bridgehampton out on Long Island there's a wonderful lonely beach called Sagaponack, an Indian name. It's miles of clean sand and high dunes and sometimes thundering waves. It's the finest beach I know for surf casting, and we'd usually get the idea around nine or ten at night, hop into somebody's heap and be out there by midnight, fish till morning. The pounding waves send up a salt spray that fills the air, and when the sun starts to come up, this haze turns a faint pink, shot through with a hundred rainbows. Sometimes, when I was out there alone, it all seemed out of this world, really out.

When I opened my eyes I saw this pink fog moving gently around me and when I could drink I thought, If there is such a thing as Heaven or Hell I'm sunk, played my cards wrong all down the line. Or am I back on the beach? And how did I get here?

I didn't try to move, just stared at the pink air. Then I got it figured—I was still in the alley seeing daylight through the blood on my face. But I should be a corpse... no man lives through the night with five slugs in his belly, a busted head and a ...

The pink faded to a mild yellow and then after a long time became a clean hard white. I kept working my eyes and damn if I wasn't in a hospital room!

There couldn't be any doubt. Although I couldn't seem to move my eyes much, I saw the white metal stingy table and chair you find only in a hospital. I tried moving, but even turning my head was such a big deal I gave it up. Something red and white flashed before my eyes. I got the frightened face of a red-headed nurse into focus, heard her call “Dr. Moorepark! Dr. Moorepark—he's regained consciousness!”

The redhead disappeared and there wasn't a single sound after that as I stared at the white table. I'd sure slopped up things. Then I heard voices, felt something on my skin and finally a pinprick that seemed a mile away. I could almost feel real strength, hot and firm, rushing through me. A joke who looked like a movie doctor—the quiet puss with the brushed gray hair and terribly tired eyes—shoved his big head into view, asked, “Mr. Bond, can you hear me?” The voice was deep and sure.

He was so near I could hear the sloshing sound his moving lips made. “Sure, I can hear you. Why ain't I dead? What went wrong?”

The face came even nearer, the lips seemed on top of my eyes. I could see all his fillings. “Mr. Bond, can you hear me?”

“Said I could. Get out of my face.”

The thin wet lips moved again. “We have very little time Mr. Bond, and you're not making any sound. If you hear me, will you please blink your eyes.”

What was wrong with my mouth? I could hear my own voice—this joker must be deaf. I blinked.

“Mr. Bond, we've given you a... You will sleep shortly so I must be frank with you. You were—and are—badly hurt. It's only a surgical miracle you are alive at all. I am telling you this because you are strong and have a good chance of living—if you fight for it.” The lips moved faster as the voice took on a selling tone. “I know you want to live because you are the biggest name in the news these last few days, a national hero! You have a big future before you, a ...”

I shut my eyes. There was more talk I didn't listen to, something about Flo waiting for me.... Then a new voice said, “Marty, please look at me.”

I opened my eyes to see Art Dupre, the rugged earnest face before me. He had that bursting-with-good-news look in his eyes as he said, “Marty, you old iron man! I happened to be... Marty, when they brought you in all shot open, I had a sample made—you haven't got cancer!”

Art took a breath, almost shouted in my face, “Marty, do you understand, your tumor is not malignant! Truth is it's not even a tumor but a kind of pocket in the intestines in which food gets caught and decays and... Hell, Marty, you get it, you were all wrong about cancer! All you have to do is work with us and in a few weeks you'll be up and around, good as new. Marty old man, you have to ...”

I closed my eyes, the lids were starting to weigh a ton.

“Marty, tell me you've heard me, that you know you haven't cancer?”

I blinked as fast as I could, saw Art's lean puss run over with relief. Then I kept my eyes closed and after a while I was back in the pink haze, the voice lost in the distance.

For a split second I wanted to work out signals with my eyes, tell Art. But it was too tiring and complicated and it didn't matter. Net even cancer or being free of cancer mattered.

How could I ever explain to Art—or why should I?— that I had seen Marty Bond a little too clearly these last few days, that I didn't want to live. Marty the bully-boy should never have been born, never have...

The pink mist became a deeper red. The sun must be coming out stronger, but the air and the sand were damp and cold. Something jerked at the rod real sharp, then another big jerk. I dropped my beach blanket as I stood up, grabbed the rod. I sure had a fighter hooked, I could barely hold the rod. I said, “Watch me reel this baby in. Got something big, maybe a baby tuna or a hell of a blue. Will you look at the battle the slimy fool is giving me—damn near snapping the rod.”

“His pulse is getting weaker. Mr. Bond! Mr. Bond!”

The rod was straining so I couldn't turn to see who was talking. The fish never slacked up. Instead it seemed to grow stronger, hitting the line again and again with a steady pull. It was a hell of a fish. My arms began to ache, the rod was slipping out of my hands. It was a regular damn whale. I don't know how the line held, but the jerking was too much for me to haul in, or even hold on to.

The rod began to shake and I made one last effort to hold it—

Then I let go.