Dead End Read online

  Only I wasn't sure I had a million dollars worth of confidence in anybody.

  I stared at his narrow back, the dirty shirt. When I first became his partner, Doc had told me, “Kid, partners must get to know each other so well they know automatically how the other will react to anything. It's like a marriage—you even have to know how many sugars the other takes in his coffee.”

  In the year or so we'd been working together, I never really made Doc, completely understood him. But then, there was a lot he didn't know about me. I'd never told him about Nate, for example.

  One thing was for sure: Doc was the smartest man I had ever known, on or off the force. Nate had been smart, but in a smalltime way. Doc wasn't afraid to take a chance. He'd stepped over the line plenty of times, but always playing it clever. He'd never been caught. And he certainly wouldn't do anything to risk his life now. As he'd said, we were in this all the way, together. He'd been the one who thought of taking the money. It was crazy; the idea never came to me. Yeah, it was Doc's show; I was just along to help spend the loot.

  Still, sometimes Doc's very cool cleverness worried me—a little.

  6—Shep Harris

  It seemed like a great hand whisked me up out of the car wash and pulled me through the air for the rest of the day and night. So many flash bulbs popped in my face I could barely see. Reporters were firing questions at me; the Commissioner personally made me a detective third grade, said he was going to put me in for a citation. At one point I made a filmed interview for TV, and at another time during the night I remember signing some sort of contract and getting three hundred-dollar bills—a queer-looking character was going to do a story under my name on how I captured Johnson. It gave me a charge to imagine Elma seeing it in one of her magazines.

  Matter of fact, the first Elma knew of things, she told me hours later, was when she saw my name and picture splashed all over the front page of the morning paper. I was going to send Nate a copy of the papers but I figured that was playing it crude; he'd read about it in California anyway.

  If I was in a happy daze, I snapped out of it when some of the police brass cross-examined me. They went at me so hard, for a second I thought they had things mixed up, took me for Johnson. They kept assuring me it was only for their record and the publicity; they were going to make the most of a local cop capturing the F.B.I.'s top wanted man. After a few questions I got the message: They were a little sore I'd made it a one-man show.

  A deputy commissioner, a sharp-faced joker named Oats, or something like that, was the chief examiner. He kept firing questions at me over a silly smile, as though we were making small talk in a coffee shop. I was sitting in front of his desk, wishing I was on my feet. Doc was standing around, along with some other guys. Doc was leaning against the wall, a kind of bored look on his face. But he never took his eyes off me. Of course, I didn't even know his name then.

  Sharp-puss and I went through dialogue that sounded like something off a TV crook show:

  “Now, Penn, you say you were never in this car laundry before?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You just happened to drive your car in this afternoon?”

  “It's not my car. I only rented it for the day,” I told him, weighing my answers, careful not to lie too much.

  “You rented the car?”

  “Yes sir. You see, I can't afford a car, so sometimes I rent or borrow one for the day, drive around like it was mine. I like cars.”

  “If it was a rented car, how come you had it washed?”

  “I told you, sir. I like to pretend it's mine. It was dirty with snow and mud, so I drove into this car wash. I was lucky.”

  “Be a good background bit,” sharp-face said, writing it down on a scratch pad. “Let the papers play up the fact a patrolman isn't paid enough to buy his own car. So by luck you drove into this car wash? Tell me, Penn, how were you able to recognize Johnson so quickly? He had quite a disguise.”

  “I didn't pay any attention to the dyed hair, the padding. When I first studied the wanted flyer on him, I noticed his ears were high up on his noggin, and his cheekbones unusually far apart. I kept those in mind, knowing he couldn't change those features.”

  “Do you study all wanted flyers that carefully?”

  “Why, of course, sir; it's part of my job. Another thing, I knew he had bad eyes, so I sprayed the water in his eyes first.”

  “It's a wonder Johnson could work without his glasses. His lack of glasses made us think, at first, you had made a big mistake.”

  “Mistake, sir?” I repeated, playing it cool. “Don't forget he went for his gun. And he was wearing glasses, contact lenses. I had him figured for those, too.”

  “How?”

  “Well, sir, when I read about his killing the optometrist, I got to thinking. He'd only got fifty-three dollars in cash, so money wasn't the reason for killing. We know he wanted glasses, but why destroy the office records? I told myself he did away with the records because he'd had this eye doctor make him contact lenses, but he wanted us to think he was wearing frame glasses.”

  “That's damn good brainwork, Penn, although how could you tell he was wearing contact lenses?”

  “I didn't worry about it, sir. I assumed he was wearing contacts but based my identification on his ears and facial structure. I was merely going to hold him for a routine check, but he threw a gun on me. I was lax there. I mean when I frisked him, I should have thought of an ankle holster.”

  “Don't worry about it, Penn; you did some real police work. Now let me see; according to your statement, and that of the witnesses, you pulled your gun on him and asked the owner of the laundry to phone the police. Then when Johnson—”

  “Sir, in my excitement I accidentally hit him in the stomach with the hose.”

  “Yes I know about that accident.” There was a faint hint of sarcasm in sharp-face's voice. “Of course you had to defend yourself, and you're a young cop—that's why you didn't frisk him completely. And if you'd had help, Johnson wouldn't be dead. We wanted to question him about a score of cases.”

  I didn't say a word. I was getting angry. I give them the number-one goon on a slab and they're kicking!

  “We don't like our men taking needless chances. In this case, if you hadn't been so quick on the trigger, you'd be dead. And so would the rest of the car-wash crew.”

  “I don't think I took a needless chance, sir, or any chance. As soon as I made Johnson, I had the owner phone in for help. While I didn't expect Johnson to pull that hidden-gun trick, I was... well... kind of ready for it. I saw a great deal of that sort of gunplay in Korea.”

  “Ah, yes. Thanks for reminding me. I see by your record you were awarded the Purple Heart in Korea, twice. Naturally we'll make sure the papers get that. I also note your quick thinking once saved a suicide. And your file says you're quick with your hands, too—a ball of fire with your fists. Off the record, Penn, I'm all for a police officer being tough.”

  “Thank you, sir. My wife doesn't believe in posthumous awards.”

  “A good line for the papers. Well, that's about all, Penn. Allow me to congratulate you on a very important collar, on some splendid police work.”

  “Thanks, sir.”

  “Oh, I mustn't forget to tell the reporters you were on vacation, too. Police work is a twenty-four-hour job. But above all, police work is teamwork. I'm not talking about you, understand, merely making a general statement. No room on the force for grandstanding, a going-it-alone attitude. Of course, in this situation, I'm sure there wasn't any other way you could have captured him. Let me shake your hand, Penn. I'm certain you will make a excellent detective and go far in the ranks.”

  I shook hands, thinking: Giving me all this smart talk, this hinting—and all he does is park his fat ass behind a fat desk. But it's over. I got a new badge and I didn't let this rat-faced jerk trip me.

  It was ten in the morning when I finally got home. It was a good thing I fell over that article dough—I owed another d
ay on the car. The second I opened the door, Elma looked up from the TV, yelled, “Bucky! When do you get the money?”

  “What money?” I asked, walking toward the bedroom.

  “Don't hand me that 'what money' line! You think I'm blind—it's all over the papers.”

  I started to undress, wondering how she could possibly know about the money I got for the article. I told her, “Hon, I've been up for over twenty-four hours. I'm groggy for sleep. I don't know anything about money or—”

  “The papers say there was a five-thousand-dollar reward for his capture!”

  “There is? I didn't know that. And if there is a reward, it will go to the police fund. Now let me sleep.”

  “Bucky Penn, are you holding out on me?”

  “Stop yapping like a damn fool; There isn't any dough for me. A cop can never claim a reward. But I'm a detective now. That will mean a raise and—”

  “Sure, a great ten bucks a month. Here I was dreaming of using that five grand to buy... Nothing works right for us.”

  “I'll be damned!” I said, undressing fast, too pooped to take a bath. “Here I been busting my hump to get a raise, risk my life to finally get one, and all you can do is gripe about a reward I can't touch,” I added, determined not to tell her about the money I had in my pocket.

  Elma shrugged, a weary motion with her rolls of fat shaking. “Hurray! Hurray! You're a hero! No—I don't mean that. Of course I'm glad you made good. It's just that—Oh, I was so certain we had the reward. Want some breakfast?”

  “I'm full of coffee and sandwiches. All I want is sleep,” I said, getting into her bed.

  “I'll keep the TV down low. Say, your friend Shep, the eye man, called. Said he wanted you to phone him.”

  “Later,” I said, dropping off into a wonderful deep sleep. I vaguely remember Elma shaking me awake once, telling me some radio program wanted me “at once” for a noon interview. She said, “You'll get a wrist watch for appearing. What shall I tell 'em?”

  “Tell them I'm bushed. Anyway, I have a watch.”

  “Yeah, I'll tell them you have a toy watch! Come on, they're on the phone, what shall—”

  “Just let me alone,” I mumbled, sinking back into the lush softness of sleep.

  The next thing I knew she was shaking me awake. “Bucky, Mr. Harris is here to see you.”

  I yawned, feeling great. “I told you to let me sleep.”

  “My God, the phone has been ringing all the time. Ollie called. So did your platoon sergeant. Reporters phoned. This Mr. Harris—Shep—has called about five times. I kept telling him you were in bed but he... You know you're all over the afternoon and evening papers and on the TV news? Why, one reporter even came up here to talk to me.”

  “Evening papers?” I repeated, staring at the drawn shade. “What time is it?”

  “Around six. Want supper? I went out and got a steak for...”

  I yawned again. “What did you tell the reporter?”

  “Which one?”

  “The one who came here.”

  “The same as I told those that called. That you took a chance with your life and it was a shame you aren't getting the reward.”

  “From now on keep your trap shut,” I said, getting out of bed. “The department might not like your opinions. Tell Shep I'll be with him in a minute.”

  I came wide awake under the cold-water faucet in the bathroom. It was ten after six on my pug watch. I slipped on my old ring robe and went into the living room. Shep blinked at me behind his powerful glasses as I told Elma to get some beers.

  “We haven't got any.”

  “Run down to the store, Honey. Shep, guess you've met my wife, Elma.”

  “Yes. I've been talking to her on the phone most of the day. Bucky, I can do without beer. I want to—”

  “I want some. Elma's been cooped up in the house all day,” I said, giving her the sign to scram. She didn't like it.

  When she left, I slapped Shep on his narrow back, told him, “Well, I'm a tin hero, thanks to you.”

  “That's what I've been trying to talk to you about,” he said, his hands shaking as he lit a cigarette.

  “I was up all night,” I said, sitting on the couch. “What's there to talk about, Shep?”

  “Well—” he began, blowing smoke down at our worn floors. I never got around to waxing them any more. And I wished he hadn't seen Elma. “Well, it's like this: All this publicity and—My wife thinks I should be part of it!” The words came rushing out.

  “Yeah?” My mind tightened up fast. “Why? You told me you wanted to keep out of this. That's why I made a special point of not mentioning you.”

  He nodded. “I know. That's what I said, but—”

  “But now that Johnson is dead you think it's safe,” I cut in.

  “No. I mean... Look, Bucky, it isn't me, it's my wife. I feel lousy about saying this, but she thinks I should get the reward money.” Shep looked up at me, his eyes miserable.

  “That goes to the police fund. I never even knew there was a reward, and anyway, I don't get a dime.”

  “That's why I'm here. You can't get it, no matter what, so it doesn't make any difference to you. But I could claim it, if they knew the part I'd played in his capture.”

  “Shep, the part you played was gassing about it over a shot of rye in your office,” I said, knowing I had to shut him up or look like a phony downtown. Sharp-face and his talk about grandstanding.

  “Bucky, this is tough to say. Don't get me wrong. I'm not taking anything away from you. It's the reward. I can use the money.”

  “I thought you were loaded.”

  “We're... comfortable. But it's all her money. Her family set up my office and—well, it takes time to get established. You know my business hasn't been raising any hell. They keep nagging her—me—about it. You know how it is. So if I had the five thousand... You understand. And it isn't as if I'm not entitled to it. I did give information leading to his arrest.”

  “Shep, you wouldn't get a cent.”

  “That's not what the inspector downtown told me. He said—”

  I jumped up. “Goddamn you, did you talk to anybody?”

  He backed away from me, his eyes blinking. “Bucky, I tried to phone you first. She's been on my neck all afternoon. I merely called downtown to see if I was eligible and... I'm to see them tomorrow morning. That's why I had to come up here.”

  “Shep, you're a fool!” I shouted. “Listen to me. When you see them you have to say it was all a mistake, make like you're a crackpot. You want to be killed, get your wife and kid murdered?”

  “I don't—”

  “And think of the spot you've put me on, all the lying I've done to protect you!”

  “Protect me from what?”

  “You remember what happened to Arnold Schuster after he fingered Willie Sutton? He was shot down on the street! You know why? He told a cop about how he had recognized Sutton. After the cop arrested Sutton—and kept Schuster's name out of things—well, a few days later Schuster got into the picture, with a lot of publicity about how he had first put the finger on Sutton. Then Schuster began getting threatening calls and a few days later he was shot dead. If he'd kept quiet, he'd still be alive!”

  Shep swallowed. “I remember. Gang revenge?”

  “Why didn't you remember before running your mouth! Who knows why he was gunned? They've never collared the killer. Maybe it was an organized thing, revenge, or maybe some jerk wanted to make a name for himself. Punks can be crackpots, too. You go right home and tell your wife to shut up. Or would she prefer being a widow for five grand?”

  “But Johnson is dead!”

  “So what? Willie Sutton was behind bars when Schuster was killed. Nobody ever accused Sutton of doing it. Do you know what pals Johnson had? Killing you would be safe for them. One of his buddies gets hopped up, or drunk, says, 'I'll get hunk with the little louse who fingered Batty!' So one night or day, maybe tomorrow, a week from tomorrow, or a year from now, a tota
l stranger walks up and kills you, or your wife or kid. You want to live in fear the rest of your life?”

  Shep thought for a second, so scared he nearly burned himself with his cigarette.

  “These same guys might try to get me,” I went on, “but they know it's bad business killing a cop. And they don't blame me, know it's my job. But you, doing their pal in for money—they'll never forgive or forget that. The minute your name is mentioned in the papers you become a walking target! For Christ sakes, why do you think I've gone out of my way to keep you out of this?”