Dead End Page 6

  “You'll notice they say he has a muscular defect in his left eye, a form of phoria that—well, no point in my getting technical about it. It's a fairly rare defect. The eye has a tendency to turn up. In addition he is extremely nearsighted. The F.B.I. obviously is circularizing all optometrists and oculists in the nation because this thug wears glasses and if he should ever break the pair he has, or needs new ones, well...”

  “You mean he came in here?”

  “No, no. I saw him working in a car wash. His hair has been shaved around the temples and dyed white, and he's grown a mustache. He also has some sort of scar on his cheek. But I know it's him.”

  “Yeah? How?”

  Shep came over, put his arm on my shoulder as he pointed at the flyer with his free hand. “Bucky, I'm positive. When I was thinking of studying medicine, I wanted to go in for plastic surgery. Seemed like the best money deal. I made a study of the planes and bones of the face. When I first got this from the F.B.I. I studied his face and wondered why they hadn't put down in the physical description the fact that his ears are high up. And also notice the distance between the bridge of his nose and the big cheekbones—it's far too wide. Actually the bone structure of his face is abnormal, and that's something you can't disguise. This car washer had the same abnormalities.”

  I stared at the mug shot again. “The ears seem okay to me.”

  “You're a layman. In a normal face the top of the ear should be in line with the eyebrows, and the bottom of the ear is about in line with the end of the nose. His ears are much higher. Bucky, I know what I'm talking about!”

  Shep got off my shoulders to take another drink. I asked, “When did you see him?”

  “Day before yesterday. My car was splattered with slush. I happened to pass this auto laundry away uptown, and drove in.”

  “Have you told the police?”

  “I'm telling you. Bucky, Johnson's last job was robbing and killing an optometrist. I imagine that's how the F.B.I. got on to his faulty vision. I don't want to be the second eye man he murders. You're always talking about making that big arrest. I waited to tell you.”

  I studied the flyer again, not believing Shep. “Could you tell from his glasses—I mean by looking at him—if he had whatever you said was wrong with his eye?”

  “No, the lenses would correct the muscular condition. But he wasn't wearing glasses!” Shep said happily, as if we were playing guessing games.

  “You just told me he needs—”

  “What I meant was, he was using contact lenses!”

  “Start the record again, Shep. I'm not reading you.”

  “Don't you get it, Bucky? This proves he's your man! According to this wanted circular, Johnson is supposed to have ordered frame glasses from this Topeka optometrist, returned a few days later to pick them up, then killed and robbed the fellow, and destroyed the optometrist's office records. He did this under a phony name, but they knew it was Johnson. The F.B.I. then assumes there's something wrong with his sight, hence the reason for doing away with the records. They recheck his prison files and come up with the eye defect. All right, they were correct up to a point; but I started thinking. Johnson wore glasses all the time, even in prison, so that wasn't anything new—anything to destroy records over. Another thing: Why did he have to wait a few days for his glasses?”

  “Don't you have your customers return in a couple of days?”

  “Of course, but we usually carry a supply of various types of lenses in stock. If a customer is in a big rush, I could make up his glasses within an hour. Now, Johnson was in a hurry; it was dangerous for him to hang around for several days. Since he was going to kill the man, why didn't he force him at gun point to make his glasses at once?”

  “Why?”

  “Because he'd ordered a set of contact lenses and you have to send for them! An optometrist doesn't stock contact lenses. So when Johnson returns he not only picks up the frame glasses he ordered, but the contact lenses. He has the optometrist give them a final check, then he murders the fellow and destroys the records. The police are looking for a man with frame glasses, and Johnson is walking around wearing contacts! It lines up, Bucky.”

  “I don't know. The F.B.I. would have thought of the contact lenses, too.”

  “Why? They haven't any record of the dead man ordering the lenses. I think they slipped up. I only stumbled upon it, as I told you, because of the few days' delay in getting his frame glasses. Anyway, I'm certain this car washer has the same facial structure as Johnson and that he was wearing contact lenses!”

  I began to have a warm glow of excitement in the pit of my belly. Collar a Batty Johnson and I'd be set. “Shep, can the average person tell if a guy is wearing contact glasses?”

  “No. But I can.”

  “Doesn't a contact-lens wearer have to take them off every few hours?”

  “Now they can be worn for almost twenty-four hours. I get what you mean. You'd want to take him when he isn't wearing them. I'm sure he changes to ordinary glasses when he's in his room. Also, although he is very nearsighted, he has some vision without any glasses. He'd be able to walk the street, for example, without feeling his way, but he'd have to walk slowly, and he'd be lucky if he didn't bump into something or somebody. You see how smart he is? As I told you, the main description point is he has to be wearing these frame glasses they know the Topeka man made. But I'm certain he also had him make contact lenses.”

  “Did his height and weight match? Five eleven, a hundred and eighty pounds?”

  “The height is right, but he's put on weight. I'd judge he was close to two hundred and fifty now. Of course, that could be padding; these washers are bundled up. Bucky, I tell you I'm positive. When I was driving down here, after the car had been washed, I kept trying to place the man's face. I had a feeling I'd seen the odd structure someplace before. Then I studied this wanted flyer and on my way home I stopped in at the car wash again, and said I wondered if I'd dropped my overshoes out of the car. This time I knew exactly what I was looking for in Johnson's face—it was all there! It's an odd face.”

  “Wish you hadn't gone back,” I said, getting up. “Could have made him nervous, might have taken off. Where is this place?”

  “No, I was careful. Here's a card they gave me. It's just before you reach the park. What do you plan to do?”

  “Take a look-see at this guy.”

  “You know he's a killer?”

  “He isn't wanted for cheating at checkers.” I started for the door. “Keep this to yourself, Shep. Don't even tell your wife.... Have you told her?”

  He slipped me a silly grin. “I haven't told anybody but you. And I had to think carefully about even doing that. Keep me out of it, Bucky. I have plenty of living to do. Going after him right now?”

  “Maybe. I got to figure out how I'm going to do it.”

  As I opened the door, Shep came over and grabbed my arm. “You forgot your drink.”

  “I'm high on this info.”

  He slapped me on the back. “Be careful. They don't pay off on dead heroes.”

  “Two minds with a single thought. Thanks.”

  I rushed home and dug through Elma's magazines until I found the one with the article and pictures on Johnson. I reread the hopped-up story, then took a pair of scissors and cut out the pictures, pasted in bits of paper to cover up the eye glasses, used white paper to cover his hair—the hairline he had shaved—penciled in a moustache. I thought I had a fair picture of what he must look like now.

  Elma came out of the bathroom to yell, “What you tearing up the magazine for?”

  “Isn't reading this junk once enough for you?” I asked, checking my gun.

  “Why the gunplay?”

  “I'm on to something big that can make me a detective,” I told her, going out, thinking it could also make me a corpse. Batty wouldn't be taken without a fight. I went over to the precinct house, pretended I wanted something from my locker. I casually studied the flyers they had on him. The de
sk lieutenant said, “You're on vacation. Going for an eager beaver, Perm?”

  “Just getting in out of the cold, sir,” I told him, leaving. I dropped into a bar and had a shot of courage, told myself to cut it out: All I'd have to do was come upon Batty with my reflexes liquored up and I'd end being the most crocked man in the morgue. I didn't like facing him alone. I considered getting Ollie in on it; he was on vacation, too. But that would be dumb—sharing the credit.

  I had a kind of plan worked out and the first thing necessary was a car. I couldn't borrow Ollie's without explaining things, but I phoned and put a bite on him for twenty-five bucks until payday. I took a bus to his bank, where he was waiting for me. I mumbled something about a hot tip on a horse and he got a little miffed when I refused to give him the name of the nag.

  I hired a car for the day, and it was about 4 p.m. when I drove into the car wash. I had my gun loose in my overcoat pocket and my badge pinned to my shirt—my heart thumping a bongo under it. There was the owner, or manager of the joint, who took your money, and a big colored fellow in boots and several sweat shirts—and this fat white guy wearing rubbers and an old windbreaker. He had a wool cap on, but white hair showed; his mustache was ragged. And his eyes looked okay to me.

  They hooked the car to a moving belt and it was pulled under a spray shower while the men sponged it down with long-handled sponges. The colored guy told me, “You can stay in your car if you want, mister. But keep the windows closed. Only take a minute.”

  “I'll wait outside,” I said, studying the other guy, trying hard to be casual about it.

  “Then best you go up front. Get wet here.”

  I walked ahead, wondering when I'd try to take him. If it was Johnson, he was wearing so damn many shirts and pants I couldn't tell if he was armed. I watched the car coming through the spray, the men following it, working on it.

  For a moment I nearly chickened out. I kept thinking I was far from certain the guy was Johnson. His eyes looked ordinary to me. But more important, car washing was damp, hard work and I couldn't see a big-time goon going in for real labor. If I threw a gun on him and he made a wrong move, I'd have to plug him. If it turned out to be a mistake, I'd end up to hell and gone up the creek.

  When the car moved out of the spray, both men started drying it with big rags. The white fellow held a small hose in his left hand for spots the shower didn't take off, a cloth in his right mitt. When he finally put the hose down, I touched my gun in my pocket, took a deep breath, and went in.

  I stepped over to him, picked up the hose, as I said, “There's a mud spot you skipped.” I had the hose in my left hand, and when he turned toward me I sent a stream of water full in his eyes, then lashed him across the gut with the nozzle. He put a hand to his eyes as he bent double. I yanked my gun out.

  The Negro and the manager were coming at me, the manager with a hammer in his hand.

  “I'm a cop! This is an arrest! Get back!” I ripped my coat open, flashed my badge.

  That did it. Even though he was doubled up, fighting for air, I saw Johnson's body stiffen. The ice left my insides: It had to be him.

  The manager asked, “What's the trouble, officer?”

  “Get to the phone and call the police!” I snapped.

  “But what—”

  “Goddamn it, phone the police! You, Johnson, turn around—slowly!”

  He was still bent over, his big can up in the air, but he turned until he was facing the wall. I felt wonderful, I hadn't even told him to face the wall. I said, “Get your legs apart!” He spread his thick legs. He was in an awkward position as I ran my left hand over his hips, his chest. He was clean.

  The manager was using the phone next to the cash register. Johnson turned slowly, facing me. His mouth was open, fighting for air from the sock in the belly. He was still bent over, hands almost touching his rubbered feet. His pants went down into a pair of high work shoes, were held tight around his ankles by thick rubber bands to keep any water out.

  The manager put the phone down, started toward me. “The police—”

  “Stay where you are!” I didn't want to be crowded.

  “The police are on their way. Can't you tell me what this is all about?”

  “This man is Batty Johnson. He's wanted.”

  “Him? He's a rummy named Howie Brown.”

  “We'll see,” I said. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Johnson's right hand fumbling with the rubber bands around his right ankle, the red fingers working them loose. His ankles were thick with padding, and I'd forgotten to frisk him down there. I was about to growl at him to stop it; then I thought: No, it will look harder this way. And be safer. I have the drop on him.

  Deliberately, I half turned toward the colored guy, said, “Stay back there.”

  “Man, I ain't moving no place.”

  “That will be fine,” I said, looking at him but watching Johnson out of the comer of my eye. He was still bent over, staring at the wet floor. We all heard the wail of a siren growing closer in the distance as Johnson got a small automatic half out of an ankle holster.

  I didn't give him a chance; I emptied my gun into his head and back. It turned out exactly right. He sat down hard, then fell over on his side, blood running from him in several places. But he was holding the automatic in his right hand!

  As the barks of my gun faded, I heard the manager moan, “Oh my God!” and he got sick all over himself.

  A radio car came screaming to a stop outside.

  And a few hours later I met Doc for the first time, although I was on such a merry-go-round by then I didn't notice him.

  5—

  Opening my eyes, I saw the light from the naked bulb in the ceiling. It wasn't enough light to hurt your eyes. What was the life of a bulb? The damn thing had been burning steadily now for days. I wouldn't want it to go out, to be in this trap in the dark. But we could always take a bulb out of another socket in some other part of the house. But where was the fuse box? We ought to know, in case all the lights went out or...

  I told myself to stop worrying like a kid. I sat up and glanced at my watch. I'd dozed about fifteen minutes. I reached for my coat on the chair, looking for a butt. Doc was sleeping but even in his sleep my movement seemed to make him stiffen, as if ready to come awake and on his feet in a second.

  Yawning, I ran my tongue over my teeth, felt of my gun, then looked over at the bags. I had a silly desire to open them, play with the money. Maybe we ought to count it; counting a million would take up a lot of time. And who would we yell to if we found we were shortchanged a few hundred?

  I stepped over to Doc's cot, killing a roach on the way. Doc's coat was crumpled at the foot of his cot. I ran my hands through it, feeling the wad of money in the inside pocket, before I remembered we were out of cigarettes. Doc had smoked the last one.

  He seemed to be breathing regularly, yet I'd give odds he wasn't asleep. When I stretched out on my cot again, I saw his body relax. But that didn't make sense. Was he afraid of me? And if he was, what could he have done about it, with his gun busted? I was hungry; I wanted a drag. More important, I wanted to be doing something. I thought about going into the next room, shadow-boxing the restlessness out of my system. Instead I wound my watch, looked up at the ceiling light. I guess I had a secret horror of the bights going out, never being able to open the wall, being trapped in this room. Be something, trapped to death with a million bucks. Find us years later when they would be tearing down the house. Find our bones, but the dough would still be good.

  I said aloud, “Suppose I do have to go out tonight. I need a smoke.”

  I don't know why I talked; Doc didn't answer. For a minute I listened to his even breathing again, and the silence of the house. My eyes went back to the bags, then returned to my newest hobby—wondering about Doc. They called him Doc because he was always studying. He claimed he'd graduated college. Maybe he had. Doc sure knew a lot of things. He liked being called Doc, said someday he would finish studying for his
Ph.D. Well, he had the dough to do it, now—if we could get out of here.

  There were more than a few things about the whole deal that troubled me. Behind the doubts another idea was growing. It wasn't only the risk of going out that bothered me; I was really afraid of leaving Doc alone with all the money. Maybe that's another reason I didn't want the lights to go out. I couldn't see the money then.

  But not trusting Doc was dumb. He'd never given me a bum steer yet. I could be getting stir-slappy. But a few more days and we'd be on the move. The next time we holed up—if there had to be a next time—at least we'd find a room with a radio or a TV.

  Knowing as little as I did about police work, I couldn't see how we'd break out of town. It didn't seem to be worrying Doc. The trouble was, nothing worried him. But I wished he'd let me in on his plans. Or was he telling the truth when he said he didn't have any plans? Doc said we'd make it and I had confidence in him.