Ed Lacy - Dead End

“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 total 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?”

“Wouldn't the police give me protection?”

“Sure, for a few days, a week or so. A thug like Batty was big time, known around the underworld for years, he has to have a gang of friends. You go home and talk sense to your wife!”

He crushed his cigarette in an ash tray filled with apple cores—Elma always feeding her fat mouth. “I'll try, Bucky. It was her idea and I thought the publicity might help business, so I—”

“You'll be the busiest optometrist under a headstone! Shep, I know what I'm talking about. Why, this would be the worst thing possible for your business; people would be afraid to go into your office, afraid they might step in the way of a bullet. Make your wife keep still. And tomorrow you tell whoever you talk to downtown that it was only a lot of talk, you made a mistake.”

“I'll explain things to... at home. But I'll sure look like a fool when I talk to the inspector.”

“At least you'll be a live fool! Long as it doesn't make the papers, so you'll only be a fool to the inspector. Remember what you told me—they don't pay off on dead heroes. Now speak to your wife before she talks too much.”

“Okay, Bucky.”

“And if anybody threatens you, let me know at once.” I put an arm around his little shoulders, practically pushed him toward the door. “Explain to your wife about the spot I'd be in. I got a promotion; I'd lose it if it came out I'd lied, even to protect you.”

“I wouldn't do anything to hurt you, Bucky. You know that.”

“I know it, but do you? Don't forget, in your office, you made a point of telling me to keep you out of this. This is a hell of a time to change your mind— after I've made out my reports.”

“I'll swear I told you that.”

“Shep, my first duty is to the police department, not to you. For your safety, and my job, let's not have it come to the point where you have to swear to anything. You could be dead before you have time to swear! Now go to your wife.”

When he left I smoked a cigarette slowly, went into the kitchen and put the gas under the coffeepot. I was okay. Even if downtown believed Shep, or rather didn't entirely believe his retraction. Long as he made a retraction. Okay, so it might have been bad police work for me to do it alone, but I had made the collar. I had killed him—the headlines backed me up—so what more could the department want?

I went to the bedroom and got out my new detective shield. Yeah, whether they liked the way I handled the case or not, there was little chance of them taking this tin from me. But it would be best if they thought Shep a jerk. I didn't plan on being a third-grade dick all my life. The main thing was I had a detective badge. Not bad for a young fellow. At this rate, by the time I'd be thirty I might be a...

Elma came in with a couple bottles of beer, looked around, and asked, “Where's Mr. Harris?”

“Gone.”

“What did he want?”

“Some advice on killing a traffic ticket.”

“And I had to rush out and get beer.”

“You've had plenty of practice.”

She got off her four-letter word, several times.

I grinned. “I'm only kidding. Elma, get dressed; we're going out tonight. I still got the car and we can drive to some fancy place on the island and eat.”

She spun around, her coat half off. “Car? What car? How come you have money to step out? Bucky, you cheap bastard, you did get that reward!”

I grabbed her hand so hard she screamed. She yelled again. I let go, gave her cheek a rough pat. “Sorry, Honey, but you know how that word 'bastard' sends me sky-high. This is a big day for me, for us. Let's not fight. So get this through your head: If there was any way I could put my mitts on that reward money, I'd do it. But there isn't. I borrowed a couple of bucks from a sergeant downtown, last night, to celebrate my promotion. As for the car, I rented one yesterday.”

“You never told me. What you need a car for?” Elma asked, rubbing her wrist, which was very red.

“I met some guy who wanted to move a lot of stuff, and I thought by renting a car I could come out a few bucks ahead. But I never got to it. Forget it and get dressed. While I take a shower, make me a sandwich or something. I'm starved. I'm sorry about your wrist.” I pulled her to me, kissed her.

“I'm the one who should be sorry, Bucky. It slipped out. I didn't mean that—that name.”

“I know.”

“I'd never call you that.”

“Sure. Elma, things will be different now. We won't be so strapped for dough. As a detective, I should have more chance of picking up extra bucks.” I slapped her barrel-like rear. “Let's get dressed and have a good time.”

Under the shower a new idea hit me. If I admitted Shep's part in things, took a chance on still holding my new badge, he probably would get the reward. But would he split it with me? Twenty-five hundred bucks was a lot of folding money. But once he got the reward, or knew he was entitled to it, how could I make him split? And Shep would be stuck for the tax bite on it. A grand for Sam would only leave us four to split.

I thought about it as I dressed, had a cheese sandwich and coffee. There were two things wrong: I couldn't be sure Shep would agree to share the dough, and I didn't want to look the fool to the police brass. Still, two grand was...

The bell rang. I opened the door to see this thin, dapper man standing there. He didn't look like a reporter. He smiled, said, “Hello, Penn. Remember me, Detective Alexander? I was in the Commissioner's office this morning when he talked to you.”

“Sure I remember you,” I lied. “Come in.”

He gave me a small, amused smile as he walked in—the smile saying he knew I was lying.

As I took his coat and hat—both of them real expensive, and not the kind of clothing that had to shout how much they cost, either—Alexander glanced around the living room. His eyes said I was living in a dump. Just then Elma had to come out of the bathroom, a robe around her, a towel wrapped about her head. She looked like a walking tent. I introduced her and she giggled something about excusing the way she looked and ducked into the bedroom.

Alexander grinned at me politely. His tight smile said I was married to a pot. I asked, “Want a beer?”

“No, thanks. I'll make this short. Deputy Commissioner Oast has a dinner engagement, so he asked me to come up and talk to you. Penn, do you know a Dr. Sheppard Harris?”

“Yeah. Has an office on my old post. Why?”

“He phoned Howie—Commissioner Oast—late this afternoon, claims he tipped you off to Johnson. We're going to talk to him in the morning, so we want to get your version straight first.”