The Best That Ever Did It Read online

  Franzino was a surprise... a small man, shabbily dressed, with his suit wrinkled and a button missing. He had a thin face with a banana nose that had been busted a long time ago. An old hat was pushed back on his head, covering most of the iron-gray hair, and he looked serious, humorless, and very capable.

  His voice was low and polite as he lit a fancy-looking pipe, sent out a cloud of aromatic smoke, asked, “What's on your mind, Mr. Harris?”

  “Any news?”

  “Not a thing. Put a dozen men on the Brown angle—no dice, so far. Running down one or two other things, but to date not a sniff of anything promising.”

  We were silent for a moment, and of course he didn't bother to ask if I'd found anything. “About Turner's wife, what's her alibi?”

  “Says she was home alone. The super of the house was installing a lobby light between ten and midnight—he didn't see her leave. Got anything on her?”

  “No.”

  There was another dull silence, then he asked in a mild voice, “What made you think your client might have done it?”

  “Told you, nothing. Merely checking on all alibis.”

  He smiled and his teeth were a tobacco yellow. “You can be sure we've worked over every alibi. How's it feel to be in on a murder case? Swan told me this is your first criminal case.”

  His voice reminded me of the patronizing housewives at the washing machine. I lit a cigarette, let him have it gently. “By the bye, I found out what Turner was doing on the block, the night he was killed.”

  Franzino straightened up, like I'd stuck a pin in him.

  “He was playing around with a woman named Louise who lives in the basement of 515. She's selling it and seems Turner was competing with her pimp, guy named Cliff Parker, a waiter. Ed Turner was a little sex-screwy and was waiting in his car, playing the jealous lover—or jealous pimp. Parker has a good alibi that checks, working a wedding at the Pigalle that night. Louise says she had a girl friend with her at the time of the bang-bang stuff.”

  “When did you find this out?” The voice was like a whip now.”

  “Yesterday. I was checking on Franklin Andersun—he was one of her customers—and she had Turner's picture in her room. Talked freely about...”

  “Andersun too! Damn!” Franzino got to his feet and it was like pulling him out of a hole—he was over six feet tall, but all legs. “Why the hell didn't you tell me this yesterday?” he shouted as he strode to the door, yelled at the desk sergeant to bring in Louise and Cliff.

  I reached over and grabbed his arm. “Now wait up....”

  “Get your goddamn hands off me!” he actually growled, his eyes narrowing.

  I let go of him and he went back to his desk, sat down and somehow got his long legs under the desk. He said calmly, “One thing I can't stand, anybody holding me. What's the idea keeping important info to yourself?”

  “Maybe because I knew you'd act just as you did. Sure, they're a whore and a pimp, but they're still people, and you can't ride roughshod over...”

  “Harris, this is a hell of a case. Everything ends up against a blank wall. Two people have been murdered, one of them a cop. In these tough cases, these impossible deals, one small break usually knocks everything wide open. We have the first and only link between Andersun and Detective Turner, and you sit there like a goddamn stuffed dressmaker's dummy, handing me some crap about a whore and a pimp! What's with you, sentimental over mudkickers? And what the hell do you think I'm going to do to 'em... cook 'em and serve 'em with apples in their mouths?”

  “I think you'll beat the slop out of Cliff, make life miserable for the girl. I don't make any pretense of being a good detective, but I know this—if either of them had been guilty, or implicated in any way, they wouldn't have talked, or had Turner's photo around. I don't want you to push them about—I sort of promised her they wouldn't be in a jam for talking, and that Cliff wouldn't be made the fall guy for...”

  “You made them a promise!” Franzino cut in, and for a thin guy he sure got a lot of power into his voice. “Who the hell are you to make promises? What makes you think we'd frame this pimp? Harris, what the hell do you know about the Police Department?”

  “Not much, but everybody knows...”

  “Everybody—everybody isn't a cop! Harris, that badge you carry is one degree above the kind they give out with box tops to kids.” He yanked open his drawer, came out with a blue cardboard box which held a gold medal about the size of a half dollar. “I've been a cop all my life, even before I came to New York City. It's my profession and I'm pretty good at it, and proud of it. This medal was given to me by the Lieutenants Association for my general skill as a policeman. No matter what the hell you think or read, I don't go about beating people with rubber hoses, or busting their heads with a blackjack. We'll bring in this Louise and Cliff, question them. Maybe they won't like it, but I don't care about that. If they give me straight answers, and we don't have to hold them as witnesses, they can go. As for her hustling, that has to stop—in my precinct. Let her set up shop someplace else.”

  I shrugged. “That's a fair shake. I'll hold you to it.”

  He gave me an evil grin. “That's swell of you, Harris. And what else can you do about it?”

  “Not much I can do,” I said carefully. “Except this case has been good headline bait. When it breaks, everybody concerned will be interviewed. If Louise and the pimp are innocent, as I believe, and you give them a hard time... well, papers are always interested in police brutality—when they can tie in a sex angle.”

  “Son of a bitch—and you call yourself a detective!”

  “Mainly I call myself a human being. I didn't have to tell you about Louise nor did she have to spill to me. Well, she did, and co-operation is a two-way affair.”

  He studied me for a moment and I could almost feel his eyes on my face. “Won't be any trouble for me to revoke your license.”

  “Don't threaten me. If you're so good at your job, then you don't have to resort to threats. Just be a cop—don't be a judge and jury too.”

  “That's all I ever try to be—a cop. An underpaid and overworked cop.” He did that jack-in-the-box stunt again as he stood up. Walking to the door he said, “Wait here, I'm going to take a leak.”

  I picked up the medal—it was real gold. I was thoroughly steamed—but mostly at myself. I was doing things cockeyed and here I was sore at Franzino for playing it right. Only I wished he hadn't sent out the order to pick up Louise and Cliff. All they had to do was try to take a powder now and they'd be practically convicted.

  Franzino returned and lit his pipe again as he sat down. “Sorry I blew up,” he said quietly. “You're right. Under the law everybody is equal, even a pimp who operates on the wrong side of the law. Look, Harris, only a fool tries to give people a hard time. Sure, I'll admit I'm rushed and under pressure and there's a million laws we can't enforce and these petty lawbreakers in time make for the big crimes. Guy gets away with spitting on the sidewalk, he begins to feel a little above the law. We're living in a goddamn jungle and as long as it stays a jungle...”

  “You have to use a whip?” I asked.

  “I don't know. Mr. Harris, this morning a wino and his girl were in the grass on the Drive, juiced up. For no reason he suddenly stabbed her. She's in the hospital now. Two people saw him do it. Seems simple—a man has done an act of violence, he'll be punished, and the law is being upheld. But when they brought this drunken bastard in here, he suddenly says he didn't do it, starts screaming for a lawyer. Should I have argued with him politely for hours that I can't spare? Or do you blame me for belting him in the guts and telling him to shut up?”

  “Lieutenant Franzino, you just said little crimes are the start of bigger ones. Same goes for a 'little' violence—like being a 'little' pregnant—ain't no such thing.”

  “Guess there's a lot to be said on both sides. If we had more men and the jungle didn't make winos, well... hell with all this. Swan tells me you're a crackerjack mechanic. I
nterested in motors and cars myself. Got a shack out on Long Island and an old Bugatti racer I picked up for a few hundred.”

  “Does she run?”

  “You bet. Sometimes I take her out late at night—so not to attract attention. Clip off sixty or seventy miles an hour. You been out to the auto museum near Southampton?”

  We sat around and bulled about cars for a while and it got to be five o'clock and we were arguing about the advantages of front-wheel drive when his phone rang, and he grunted into the receiver, “I'll be right out.”

  He stood up. “Excuse me, Harris, I'm wanted at the desk. Be back soon.” He went out and I wondered if they had picked up Louise so soon. The door opened and Al Swan walked in, dressed all in blue. Dark blue serge suit, gray-blue shirt, deep blue tie, and a baby-blue fedora. I didn't dare look at his socks. He said, “Hello, brother-in-law.”

  “Hello, Al. When did they send for you?”

  “Happened to drop in and Franzino just told me you've come up with something big. You astonish me, Barney. Could be you're a detective after all.”

  “Save that bull for the cold weather.”

  Al brushed off a corner of the desk with a blotter, then carefully sat down and looked at his nails, as if not sure they were all there. Then he said, “Barney, I put you onto this case because I knew it was easy dough. We got the police force of New York, Elmira, and Syracuse working on this, and all by your lonesome you've turned up the best lead we've had so far. Now maybe you're sleeping with this whore and...”

  “Stop it, Al. All I'm asking is that she and this Cliff get a fair shake.”

  “Jesus—hell! A cop has been killed!” Al rasped.

  “So what? He had a badge, not a halo. And this particular cop was part pimp. Also, there's a very ordinary young fellow named Andersun was killed, too. I want to find the killer as much as you do, only it won't be solved by the brass quieting the papers by playing tag with two innocent lives, making them 'it.'”

  He shook his head. “We don't frame people, not even a whore and a pimp.”

  “Fine, then there's no argument. No reason to send for you.”

  He sighed. “Don't get you, Barney. If this turns out to be the break in the case, the publicity will make you a big-time agency. Instead of helping us, you start slopping over a pimp, talk like a cop fighter that...”

  “Al, don't sell me, or put words in my mouth. You know I'm not a cop hater, and as for this pimp, I haven't any use for him, but that doesn't make him a murderer. Your side is raising the fuss, not me.”

  “You don't understand,” Al said, trying to smooth his sandpaper voice. “The big boys downtown hear of your attitude, they can put you out of business. Barney, this can make or break you. Why, withholding evidence is damn serious, but you seem to think...”

  “I'm not withholding a thing—came here under my own power,” I said, and looking at Al trying to sell me this bum bill of goods, I thought of what Betsy Turner had said and how right she was—after a while the hunter and the hunted become one. “Al, these people have volunteered information—don't punish them for it.”

  “Don't worry, Franzino is a good man.”

  “I know, he's got a medal.” I pointed to the box.

  Al picked up the medal, said, “Never saw one of these before. —they don't come easy. What's this stuff about Turner being a pimp?”

  I told him and he put the medal down and shook his head. “And the way his wife is stacked. Hard to figure these young guys today. Take Turner, breaking his back to get to be a plain-clothes man. Big deal—why, a cop's best protection is his uniform. Not one in a thousand will shoot a cop, but by the time a dick gets his badge out—he'd better get his gun out first and... Hell with talking about Turner. I have to be moving. Say hello to Ruthie. She need anything?”

  “Not unless you want to give her your new Caddy.” Al laughed too long. “Barney, you're not only getting good, but funny, too. Just remember, we're all on the same team. Franzino is a good cop. Take my word for it. When you coming out to the house?”

  “One of these days. Visiting my cousin Jake tomorrow. Give my regards to everybody at home.”

  “Sure thing, strong man.” Al slapped me on the shoulder on his way out.

  Like in a one-set play, Franzino came in soon as Al left. He sat down at his desk, propped the chair against the wall. He didn't say anything, and after a moment I told him, “I have an uncle out in Philly. Want to send for him too?”

  He smiled. “Not treating you like a kid, Mr. Harris. Called Swan because... I'm not used to arguing with people, especially people I don't have to argue with. Your opinion isn't worth a snowball in hell around here, but at the same time, no point in fighting you. Thought maybe Swan could tell you that better than I.”

  I glanced at my watch, stood up. It was six o'clock. A cop stuck his head in the doorway. “Got 'em, Lieutenant.”

  “Bring 'em in here—before you take 'em upstairs.”

  Three cops walked Louise and Cliff in. Her face was red and puffed—from crying—and she looked older than I'd thought. The lapel of Cliff's fancy sport jacket was torn and his glossy hair mussed. When she saw me, Louise sent me a look of hatred and contempt that turned my stomach. I was about to tell her she'd be okay, when one of the cops tossed a switch blade on the table, said, “He was packing this.”

  Cliff asked in a shrill voice, “Where's your warrant? I demand you release...!”

  Franzino reached over and slapped him hard across the mouth. “That's my warrant! Take these punks upstairs.”

  Cliff's lips were bleeding a little as the cops walked him, and Louise, out of the office.

  I picked up the medal, put it between my thumb and forefinger—it bent easily. Tossing it back on the desk, I said, “The gold's real—at least,” and walked out.

  There was a candy store across the street and I went in, started to dial New Jersey, tell Ruthie I wouldn't be out— when I got a better idea. I called Mrs. Turner, told her, “This is Barney Harris. Would you do me a favor, Mrs. Turner? I have to call for my kid over in New Jersey at eight. I thought we might have supper together, now, instead of my going to your apartment.”

  “I suppose this goes on the expense account?”

  “I hadn't thought of that,” I said, just as sarcastically. “Maybe it will, and maybe it will be on me. But if you'll have supper with me, I'd appreciate it.”

  “Call for me in twenty minutes.”

  She didn't dress up and the effect was good—she looked exactly like what she was, a rather simple and pretty kid of twenty-three. Her hair was in a horse's tail, drawn sharply back from her face. She had on flat ballerina shoes, a purple, pleated, swirling skirt, and one of these white elastic shoulderless things that look like an inverted girdle. It showed off her fine shoulders, the bold outline of her breasts. She had a purple knit stole over one arm, and as we rang for the elevator, she glared at me as if ready to bite my head off. I looked her over, said, “If I was younger, I'd sure whistle.”

  She suddenly grinned, the big red mouth splitting her face. “I can't stay angry at you, Barney.”

  “Glad of that, Mrs. Turner. I acted like a rough loon last night.”

  “Mrs. Turner, Mrs. Turner,” she mocked me. “Going through that again? I could have killed you last night but now...”

  “Easy on that kind of talk,” I cut in, only half joking.

  “... I realize you were right. I wasn't telling you everything and... What do you mean, easy on that kind of talk?”

  “Anybody even vaguely connected with two unsolved murders might be... misunderstood.”

  There were other people in the elevator. We walked through the lobby and she nodded at the doorman and when we were in my car, she said, “That was a terrible thing to say. I'm getting mad at you again.”

  “Told you that for your own protection. What do you want to eat?”

  “I don't care. Anything you want.”

  “I want Italian food drowned in melted cheese.�
��

  I drove over to the East Side and down to Twelfth Street, to a place called John's. Mrs. Turner was like me—a good eater— and we put away one of those satisfying heavy meals, from clams Casino to whipped-cream Italian pastry. I told her about Louise and Cliff, Franzino, ended up with, “Maybe Franzino and Al were right. I sure haven't come up with clue one. Only, Louise trusted me and I ...”

  “You didn't ask them to.”

  “But still, I threw them to the lions. God knows what Cliff is going through right this minute.”

  “He's being beaten?”

  “Maybe. And maybe I've just got the jitters.”