Blonde Bait Page 12

  The joint began to fill up with construction workers, all of them wearing plastic helmets and full of loud, corny talk. It was noon and my stool was being eyed, so I went outside to take a little walk, buy a roll of tape and put it on my sore side. As I stood on the corner, looking around for a drugstore—debating about being out of sight of the house—two big kids stopped and asked if I could spare a match. They looked like college students and the one with the cigarette in his mouth was as tall and thin as a basketball player.

  The last thing they looked like were pros. The tall one with the cigarette stood in front of me, while the other one, a tweedy, stubby character wearing heavy frame glasses, stood at my side and back. I took out a pack of matches and started to say he could keep them—when I felt guns pressing my stomach and back. The basketball type said softly, “No trouble, please. We will not hesitate to use these.”

  I was so astonished I couldn't talk. This kid could be nineteen or twenty and he wasn't hard looking or a nut, yet his eyes said he wouldn't worry a second over plugging me. Whoever they were, they weren't cops. I asked, “What is this?”

  Tweedy at my back said, “Don't go for dumb.” He had a deep, rough voice.

  The basketball player held his right hand in his pocket and with his left gently pulled my cigar from my mouth, lit his cigarette, and shoved the cigar back between my lips. It was a simple movement, and it gave me a helpless feeling. He said softly, “Walk with us.” He suddenly laughed and putting his arm around my shoulder, kind of pushed me up the avenue. His gun was on the wrong side, away from me, but deep voice walking behind us warned, “One false move and you get it. Be smart and we won't hurt you.”

  We walked up the avenue, the tail one talking loudly about baseball, slapping me on the back now and then. Maybe he was an actor; the three of us looked like buddy-buddies.

  We turned into a side street, walked a short block. This was where the construction workers came from and it was a startling sight—like the shelled cities I'd seen on the Italian coast during the war. For several blocks on either side of us there was this leveled area full of the rubble of torn down old buildings, with part of a wall standing here and there. A block or two over were the bulldozers and cranes but where we walked was deserted. The one at my back said, “Let's get to work. Where is it?” He ran his hand over my clothes.

  “Where is what? I don't know what you jokers are talking about. What is this?” A punch in the long gut of the basketball player would take him out but there wasn't anything I could do about tweedy behind me.

  The tall one said, “You asked for Sowor. We don't know who you are or on what side. We have no desire to kill you, but we will if necessary. That's up to you. Where is it? Where's the girl?”

  “What the hell is 'it?'“ I wished I had on one of the construction helmets, another crack on my sore head would...

  Basketball whipped out his small automatic and tried to push it through my belly. “Who are you? What do you want to see Sowor about? Did she send you?”

  I didn't know what to answer.

  Tweedy growled, “Come on, where is it?”

  One gun seemed to be cutting my stomach muscles. I said, “I only wanted to ask Willy about some Oriental chippy named Me-lucy who I understand is a good number in the hay. A buddy told me to ask...”

  Tweedy said, “Don't go for cute, mister!”

  The tall one added, “Please don't make us prove we are serious. Where is it?”

  “Look, boys, since you're holding the guns stop talking in riddles. At least tell me what you want?”

  Tweedy's deep voice hit me like a club. “My God, he's playing it cute! I get nauseous when anybody feels they have to be coy. For the last time, cut the...”

  A bullet whistled by us. We turned to see a short swarthy man coming over the bricks at our left—across the street—a sawed-off carbine in his hands. He yelled something I couldn't understand. The two boys turned from me and let go a wild volley of shots, sharp barks lost in the air. I saw his carbine flashing and then there was the sound of a car coming down the street toward us, and a guy had his hand out, firing as he drove. From the distance the driver might be big boy from Atlantic City. The boys were firing in all directions now as they started to run. I wheeled to my right and hit the ground. Making like a frightened lizard I crawled over the rubble, heading for the street on the other side.

  I crawled, stood up and ran, dived into a gully between piles of stones. Crawling, running, falling—A basic training star—I reached the other street and lay behind half a stoop, my lungs pumping. The air was quiet, the heaving of my own chest the only sound. I slowly stood up behind the stoop and looked back; the other street was empty. I studied the rubble for a few minutes. No sign of any movement and not many hiding places.

  I was a mess. My coat and one pants leg were torn and there was a long mild gash on my thigh. I'd lost my hat and I was covered with various kinds of dirt and dust. I moved away from the stoop, still watching the bricks and stones. I was alone. In fact I felt as alone as I would on the moon. Trying to brush myself off, I saw my pants' pocket had been ripped open and my wallet was gone. I'd only crawled about a hundred yards but there were a million crevices in the block of rubble into which the wallet could have fallen.

  I waited another few minutes, then started back—not even sure I'd crawled in a straight line. It was worse than finding that needle in a haystack. But I had to have money and there wasn't anything to do but look and hope my college gunmen didn't return. I started walking, stooping down to push bricks aside, every muscle stiff and hurting. I'd covered about fifty feet when a voice called, “What are you doing in there?”

  A young cop was coming down the middle of the street, swinging his night stick. I couldn't have run if I'd wanted to. I climbed back over the junk and reached the street. My left shoe was sliced open on one side.

  The cop had a freshly scrubbed baby face, clean and neat as his blue uniform. He was compactly built, not very tall, and didn't look over twenty-one. This was my day for kids. He ran his eyes over me, made sure he didn't come too close, as he said, “You're in a bad way. Don't you know you're trespassing?”

  “I know I lost my wallet with all my dough crawling over this stuff. Listen, two big kids walked me down that street over there, covering me with guns. Then a guy with a sawed-off rifle came firing at us, and a fellow in a car drove up, also banging away. I hit the dirt and crawled over here.” I heard my voice dying: I could hardly believe the story myself!

  The cop let me have a good natured grin. “You must have been on an all night binge. What were you guzzling, pure King Kong?”

  I moved toward him, blowing my breath. “Smell any liquor?”

  He jabbed me lightly in the stomach with his stick. “That's close enough.”

  “You smell any booze on me?”

  “No. What happened to all these... er... gunmen?”

  “I don't know. Maybe one of them is wounded or dead?”

  “Let's look.”

  I started over the bricks but he said, “Come on, we'll walk abound—using the street.”

  As we walked he asked, “Was it a stickup? How many men were shooting?”

  “Four, that I saw. No, it wasn't a stickup.”

  “What were they... eh... shooting at you for?”

  “I don't know. Two kids stopped me on the avenue over there, asked for a light. Looked like college boys— no older than you. Then they throw guns on me and walk me here, where the shooting started.”

  The cop glanced over the deserted streets, gripped his night stick. “You been sick recently, mister?”

  “Look, you think I crawled through that crap for exercise? I'm telling you straight! Lord, there was a small war going on, didn't you hear any gunfire?”

  We'd reached the spot where it had started, there wasn't any blood, no body, not even an empty shell. Babyface stared at me. “I turned the corner from over there about three minutes ago. I didn't hear shots. Have you any iden
tification?”

  “Told you, I lost my wallet. See how my pocket is ripped? Damn it, do you think I cut myself up like this as a practical joke!”

  “Don't shout. Got a home?”

  “Yeah. That is, I came into town this morning to see the sights and...”

  “No sights around here. What's your business?”

  “I'm a shrimp buyer down in Tampa.”

  “Your clothes are a mess but you don't look like a bum. Let's go to the precinct house and call a doc to...”

  “Doctor? I'm not crazy! I'm telling you the truth! There were at least a dozen shots fired, the slugs must have hit something. Find them and...”

  He shook his head sadly, his eyes running over the leveled blocks. I realized how stupid I sounded: it would be impossible to find any lead in this mess, even if they might be imbedded in the remains of the few walls still standing. He said, “There's a construction office way over there, somebody would have come running, or reported shots.”

  The office and equipment was a good four blocks away, they couldn't have heard the shots. And most of them were at lunch. I gave up. “Officer, whether you believe it or not, I'm telling you the truth. I'll go back to my... hotel and change.”

  “Nothing I can hold you for. Sure you're feeling okay?”

  “Yeah.”. I glanced at my wrist watch. The crystal was smashed but the watch was still ticking. Sowor would be back by now. I'd sure killed an hour!

  The cop pulled out a notebook. “Give me your name and address, list of any papers you had in the wallet, and how much money. In case it's found you'll be able to claim it.”

  “There was over six hundred bucks in the wallet; nobody will turn it in. I'm late for a business appointment. So long, officer.” I headed toward the avenue. He didn't stop me. Turning the corner I glanced back to see the young cop still standing where I'd left him, swinging his club vigorously. For a second I wondered if he wasn't too young to be a policeman. Passing a store window I saw my reflection. My face and shirt were dirty, my clothes torn. All told I looked like the wrath of God.

  There was this dull little bar and I went in and asked the fat bartender where the men's room was. He pointed to a narrow door, asked, “You been playing potsy with a truck?”

  “I fell in the remains of the houses around the corner,” I said, making for the John. I heard him call out, “Then sue 'em.”

  The men's room wasn't much bigger than a coffin but I was able to clean up my face and hands, brush most of the dirt off my torn clothes. I still looked terrible, a few bruises on my face, and my hands full of cuts. I tried to comb my hair with my fingers and felt blood on the matted hair. When I came out the barkeep said, “You look like you need a belt. What will it be?”

  “I sure need something. Rye neat... Wait.” I felt of my pockets. I didn't have a cent on me. “Never mind, I lost my wallet in the bricks. Unless you want to take a slightly busted wristwatch in payment?”

  The barkeep glanced at my watch and shook his head. A little guy wearing a stained butcher's white coat and a battered straw hat who was reading a track tip sheet and sipping a brew at a table said without looking up, “I'll pay for his shot, Jim. If he needs one half as bad as he looks, be inhuman not to give him a taste.”

  I thanked him. He winked as he told me, “I know how you feel. I go on a bender for a couple days myself. Anyway, soon as they build this project, all us storekeepers are going to be rich. That's why they jack up my rent now, when they're just tearing down the houses and ain't even started the project foundation. Darn shame...”

  I gulped the rye and thanked him on my way out. I didn't have time for bar chatter. The drink didn't work any miracles, I still felt sore and hurt, but it cleared up some of the fog. I knew one thing. Rose hadn't been imagining a single incident. I also knew I was going to get to the bottom of this fast, and on the way I'd get hunk with somebody for the beatings I'd been taking the last dozen or so hours.

  Reaching the brownstone I went up the steep stairs, rang the bell. The toothless old jockey in the dirty turtle-neck gave me both gums in a smile—which vanished as he took in my torn clothes. I asked, “Sowor here?”

  He nodded, pointed toward one of the heavy wooden doors, and whispered, “You go—in there.”

  I suppose in the old days this must have been the sitting room. I slid the big doors open and it was still a sitting room. Two burly men were sitting there. They scrambled to their big feet and one of them flashed a small badge. “We're detectives. We'd like to talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “A few questions. Nothing to worry about. Come with us.” One of them took my arm at the elbow, the other walked with his hand brushing my free arm. They certainly looked like cops, yet I had a hunch it was phony —too fast and pat. Turtleneck opened the front door and we went down the steps and toward a plain car. I stopped walking, shook my arm free. “Where are we going for this talk?”

  “Just to our office.”

  “I want to call my lawyer before I go any place. Let me see your badge again.”

  “No need to be alarmed. I said we only want to ask you a few questions. May be a good deal for you...”

  “The badges!”

  The guy at my elbow said, “You've nothing to get 'em in an uproar about,” and flashed a badge in a leather case. I knew what had hit me as wrong before. The badge seemed too small. I grabbed his wrist and read enough of the tin to know he was a private snoop!

  I spun him against his partner and, lunging backwards, kicked out with both my thirteens. It was the old drop-kick, only we used to be careful to kick the other guy on the shoulder or chest, and as he was expecting it, he'd be falling away and wouldn't get hurt. Now, one of my shoes caught a dick on the side of his head—and I could feel it up to my knee—while the other clown stopped a shoe on his arm. He had good reflexes. He stumbled back, then turned and ran. His partner dropped to the sidewalk—out cold.

  I saw all this in a flash as I was in mid-air. In the ring you broke the fall by landing On your shoulders and rocking forward on your backside. I never found a ring canvas soft but compared to the sidewalk it would have felt like a foam mattress. I hit on my back with a thud that knocked all the air out of me and sent my sore head spinning like a drunken rocket.

  For a long time I couldn't get up. I wasn't out, merely lying on the hard sidewalk in a kind of dizzy comfort. A few people began to gather on the other side of the street. They looked like a distant horizon to me. I sat up and held the sides of my face to keep my head together. The dick I'd kicked in the head was still crumpled near me. The crowd came into focus, it had more people. I heard the sound of running feet, a voice asking, “What's going on here?” The voice sounded slightly familiar.

  I looked up into the baby face of the young cop. He said, “You cover my post better than I do. Now what happened?”

  “This lump and another guy claimed they were police officers and tried to force me into that car over there. They're private detectives and I refused to go with them.”

  “You been knifed—your neck is full of blood,” the cop said as he knelt beside the private eye. “I hope this one is alive. What did you slug him with?”

  “My foot.”

  “Cut the jokes and tell me a straight story.”

  “I am. Listen: I came to this house to see a man. Some old little guy in a turtleneck sweater who doesn't speak much English told me the fellow would be back in an hour. I was walking around when two young fellows pulled guns on me—all that stuff I told you happened back where they're knocking down the buildings. When I left you I returned to this house and these two jokers were waiting for me. When I found they were private peepers, I refused to go with them.”

  “Where were they taking you? What did they want?”

  “Beats me.”

  The young cop sighed. “Everything happens to you.” He pulled out his notebook. “What's your name and address?”

  I told him Mickey Anderson, a phony address in
Tampa. A radio car drove up and two more cops came over, went into conference with Babyface. The private eye finally sat up, groggy as hell, a little blood on his ear. I managed to stand and the young cop grabbed me as I started for the snooper. “No more roughhouse, Anderson.”

  “I'm getting fed up with it myself. I'm too old for these falls. But I want to ask this character what the devil this is all about.”

  The other cops were helping him to his feet and my cop told me, “They're going to take him to the station house, see if he needs a doc. You can use a medic yourself, your neck is all blood.”