Ed Lacy - Blonde Bait

“Damn,” I said, full of admiration. “Now listen, sit tight and don't worry. I'll be along. But it will take time. I mean, I'll have to do all that twisting and turning, too, and at this hour in the morning there may not be any trains. No matter what happens, you wait on the boat.”

“I will, but hurry. Darling, you're really not hurt or in trouble?”

“No. I won't try to call you again, too risky. I'm leaving here now and I should be with you by late afternoon.”

“Be careful, Mickey.”

“Yeah. And you stay put and wait.”

I hung up and called the other hotel, asked for the house man again, and hung up. To be even safer, I phoned our hotel and asked for their rates. With two cover calls, we couldn't be traced—unless the movies were liars.

I was in luck, there was a direct bus to New York leaving in five minutes. I watched the people boarding it and didn't see anybody looking like a dick. But then I didn't know how to make a tail. Obviously big boy had been following me around ever since I left the club last night. Although he could have easily checked the hotels for a Mickey Anderson.

It was a four hour ride to New York on the turnpike and I had a headache most of the way. But when I walked out into Times Square I had coffee and felt better. I couldn't comb my hair so I bought a hat. For a few minutes I wandered around Broadway, and seeing the rushing people, the big buildings, was a charge. I glanced around like a hick, somehow expecting Hal among the crowds. I had to find out about train and bus schedules and the safest way was the phone. It turned out to be a snap to reach Asbury Park almost any time I wanted to. And now that Rose was safe, what did I have to lose by digging around a little? Maybe Rose had been telling the truth—I was sure she had— but her story was so weird there had to be more to it.

Really wasn't much looking I could do, except checking on the “Sours" in the phone book, and that wouldn't take more than an hour.

I rode a subway uptown, to say I'd been on one, and when I got off and asked for the address on West 113th Street, a street cleaner told me I'd taken the wrong train and I finally took a cab.

I found myself in a colored neighborhood and William Saure turned out to be an elderly brown man who thought I was a cop and had never heard of any Willie Sour or Josef Fedor, and was quite relieved when I told him it was all a mistake.

That left Willy Sowor on Cork Avenue—wherever that was. A cab let me off in front of a seedy looking brownstone rooming house in a block of old houses and swank new apartments. I rang the basement bell and when I didn't get any answer, trotted up the stoop steps, rang another bell.

A little old guy who could have been a retired jockey answered the door. He wore a dirty grey turtle neck sweater, stained slacks, and slippers. His face was too narrow for his features, causing them to look wrinkled and tense. When I asked for Willy Sowor he gave me a blank look and whispered something. He didn't seem to have any voice. When I asked what he'd said, he cupped his ear and told me to step inside. We were in a little hallway which looked a hundred years old, but at the same time this must have been a ritzy house a hundred years ago. A neat carpeted stairway with a fancy polished wooden banister ran up to the next floor. Several closed, thick wooden doors, with fancy scrolls and designs on them, opened on the hallway. The house sure looked far better kept on the inside.

The little man made this whispering sound again. When I asked, “What?” he opened his mouth to show he didn't have any teeth. I asked loudly, “Does Willy Sowor live here? S-o-w-o-r?”

He nodded.

“The guy has something wrong with his nose?”

He worked his head in another nod.

“Where is he?”

Motioning for me to bend down, he put one arm around my shoulders—and let it fall to my hips—as he whispered hoarsely, “He—out.” A strong blast of stale food went with the words.

I had an idea he was frisking me. “Well, when will Sowor be back?”

“Him... return... one hour. You wait?”

I straightened up. “I'll be back in an hour. One hour.” I held up a single finger like a loony. “You tell him it's important, to be sure and wait.”

The old guy gave me a gummy smile. “Me tell. Who you?”

“Friend.” The pidgin English gave me a brilliant idea. I winked at the little guy and told him, “I want to see Willy about some gals. Rose and a doll called Lucy. You know her, Me-lucy-ah?”

“I tell.”

“Good. I'll be back in an hour. Tell Willy to wait.”

“He wait.”

I went out and wondered how to kill an hour. Despite the jockey's breath I was still hungry. There was a stool joint on the corner. I had eggs and toast, juice and coffee, felt like my old self again. I was sitting so I could watch the house through the window—and see what Willy looked like. My side ached and the top of my head was still floating, but I'd felt worse than this after some of my wrestling acts.

Above all, I was quite pleased with my luck in finding Willy-boy. The quiet private house was a break, too. If Sowor didn't talk straight I'd either bribe or beat some info out of him. One way or another, in an hour I'd know the score. I bought a cigar and sat there, watching the house and belching, feeling like a stuffed Sherlock Holmes. I didn't know exactly why I was watching the house. I suppose it wasn't so much I wanted to see what Sowor looked like walking up the steps, but I had an idea he was home all the time and might leave the house.

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.