Ed Lacy - Lead With Your Left

Exactly at one she came out of her house wearing a neat red suit which wasn't for her—it didn't do much to her chunky figure. She held a large paper folder and a pocketbook under her left arm. I watched the doorways, the parked cars, but couldn't make anybody shadowing her as she slowly walked toward Broadway. I stayed a half a block behind and on the other side of the street. We reached the subway okay-and I still didn't see any tail. Rose looked herself over in a gum machine mirror without glancing at me. There were only three other people besides us on the platform and seven people in the subway car. I didn't bother with the people in the car—a good tail wouldn't be riding in the same car. I kept my eyes on Rose, as if I was a stud on the make looking her over... and she looked fine: the dark hair, the sullen hot mouth, the strong figure. Even if nothing happened, it was a good way of killing a few hours. I wondered if Rose's friends would ask if I was a corrupt goon?

We walked along Forty-second Street on opposite sides of the street. Alongside Bryant Park they got her. There was a tall wiry guy who fell in behind her—did it fast then slowed down. He was about thirty-five, wearing a new coconut palm hat and one of these corny gray flannel suits, as if sure it made him look the executive type.

Coming toward her was a lumpy joker built like a fat football player, dressed in an old plain brown suit and no hat on his noggin, baldness giving his thin hair a horseshoe shape.

He seemed to be reading a letter. They were damn good. The guy back of Rose closed in and lumpy in front of her walked into Rose. He knocked her backward against wiry who neatly hit the folder and pocketbook out from under her arm as he caught her. The papers and the pocketbook landed in the gutter which a sanitation truck had sprinkled a few minutes before.

Beefy boy was all apologies while wiry pointed to his ankle, rubbed it, and said something to Rose—probably told her to watch where she was walking. Bully boy even picked up her wet papers, “accidentally" stepping on her purse. He handed the stuff to her, fat puss still full of apology.

I'd read about rough-shadowing but this was the first time I'd ever seen it. A two-hundred-and-fifty pound lump walking into you is a rugged wallop. Rose seemed shaken but not hurt. She continued on to the library while horseshoe head went over toward Broadway. I followed him wishing I'd had Danny with me to tail the wiry joker. But if I'd called Danny on his day off he would have given me a stiff ha-ha.

Bully boy took his time walking up Broadway, window-shopping in a couple of shlock stores, stopping for an orange drink. He turned into an office building and we both went into the same elevator. The light panel said there were sixteen floors. When he called out, “Ten,” I said, “Eleven.”

I walked downstairs to the tenth floor and looked around. There were fourteen offices on the floor but fortunately a big rug outfit took up six doors. I narrowed it down to three offices, two of them without names on the doors, and one with DATA, INC. in small black letters.

I walked into DATA, INC. ready to give them a bull yarn if I was wrong. It was quite an office. I wasn't wrong.

It was narrow with a desk, phone, typewriter and two file cabinets as you entered. Then it opened into two cubbyhole offices—one was a regular office and the other had a work bench, tools and a stack of electrical gadgets.

Bully was hanging up the receiver and he stood up as he asked, “What you want, boy?”

I spread my feet as he stepped toward me, met him with a perfect left hook above his belt buckle. He let out a gasping, hissing scream as he slid to the floor, gave up the orange drink. The wiry character came out of his office on the run, coat off. He led a sucker right:. it was a feint and his left banged the side of my face. I missed a left to his gut because his blow knocked me backward, but I blocked another right and kicked him on the knee. He cursed, limped back till he hit a chair, sat down, rubbing his leg.

The side of my face was numb and when I took my hand, away it had blood—the smart bastard was wearing a heavy ring. Fatso was still moaning on the floor. I stepped away from his big feet as wiry gave me a hard look, said, “You're in trouble, kid, I'm a detective.”

“What trouble? I came in and before I can open my yap this lump starts pushing and swinging on me.”

Wiry reached for his back pocket. It looked too flat for a gun or knife but I told him, “Take it slow or you'll be on the floor too.”

He got a wallet out, flashed one of these gold private dick badges the state gives you with your license. He stood up, painfully, still rubbing his knee with his long left hand. “I said trouble and I mean it. You'd better come up with a good story and fast. What you doing here?”

“Maybe working my way through reform school. Put that hunk of gold plate away before you scratch yourself. I have a real one.” I pushed my coat back so he could see my badge on my belt, and part of my shoulder holster.

Fatty stopped moaning and stared up at me and then over at his chum, whose expression could best be called thoughtful. He said, “My name is Frank Flatts and I'm a licensed and bonded private investigator. I'm asking you to identify yourself.”

“Detective David Wintino, 201st Squad. That okay, investigator? Tell lardass to get up slowly and behave himself.” “I'd like to see your badge again.”

“Sure.” I held my coat open and he copied down my number on a phone pad, along with my name, asked, “What precinct was that again?”

“Two hundred and first. And this act makes me simply shake in my pants.”

“I'm within my legal rights in asking for identification,” Flatts said. “Is this an arrest?”

“You certainly are within your legal rights. And deliberately jostling a person might be within your rights too— except it's breaking the Penal Law.”

Flatts grinned, maybe he was relieved. He said, “So that's it. Come into my office and let's talk about this.”

“Your office is too small for the three of us to be comfortable. Talk here.”

Fatty got to his feet and sat down at his desk. Flatts limped over to the workshop, brought out a stool, asked, “Have a seat?”

“Why not? Let's keep things on a polite level,” I told him, laughing at myself for sounding like one of last night's bridge players. I sat on the stool and Flatts found a chair. I wiped my cheek with a handkerchief. It wasn't much of a cut but still bleeding.

Flatts said, “Sorry I bruised you, Wintino, but you came busting into my office and—”

“My story is I was pushed before I had a chance to say a word. Baldy is good at pushing.”

“This is my associate, Mr. Tasman. I think we should get down to cases, I have a busy afternoon ahead of me.”

“More women to jostle?” I asked.

“If you are referring to the young woman, that was an accident. I don't go in for rough stuff.”

“You don't? What was that, a feel?”

“Perhaps you don't realize it, few people do, but the modern private investigator is a long way removed from the popular version of the private eye, or even from the old-time investigator, I don't go in for rough stuff, or guard work, and rarely take a criminal case. We are essentially a business service. Our work is in the nature of research, we supply businessmen with information about their competitors. And we use the most advanced scientific methods. Electronics has replaced the gun, the—”

“Too warm for a lecture. What are you trying to sell me, Flatts?”

“Simply that striking you was the first time I've hit anybody since I was a college student. And the first time I've been hit—or rather kicked. I want you to clearly understand you're dealing with respectable businessmen not goons.”

“I knew that. That was some very respectable rough-shadowing you did put there.”

“Let me also enlighten you about the law. Section 7228 of the Penal Law was passed against pickpockets and specifically defines jostling as a crime only if it is done for the purpose of picking a pocket or purse. As for the young lady, we never saw her before she walked into me. I assumed it was an accident on her—”

“Stop it, you're getting my shoes dirty. You've been annoying her on the phone, making inquiries at her apartment house, and pushing her around on the street. I know all about the article she's writing and the four companies that hired you.”

Flatts gave me a cool smile. “I haven't the smallest idea of what you're talking about. Let me remind you again that making inquiries is not breaking any law. And I doubt if you can prove any of your other allegations. There's one more point I didn't reach in my lecture, as you so quaintly termed it. I couldn't operate in my business without a lot of connections. I'm not threatening you, understand, but you do look very young to be a detective. But in a uniform, pounding a beat, I'd say you would look far more natural. Now I'm asking you for the second time, are you here to arrest me?”

“I didn't even say I was here as a police officer. You pulled a badge first. Matter of fact I'm off duty. Let's say I'm here, at the moment, as a citizen who is a friend of Miss Henderson.”

Tasman suddenly spoke up, grunted, “Don't you know she's a Spick, her real name is Hondura?”

“Lardy, I don't like my friends called Spicks. And for a girl you claim you never saw before you certainly know a lot about her.” I stood up. “Let's stop the chatter. This isn't an official visit, although Miss Henderson has made a complaint with the precinct. If you annoy her once more I'll return and run you both in for disorderly conduct and/or jostling—let a judge determine the law.”

“The law states—” Flatts began. “You've already hit a cop.”

“In self-defense,” Flatts chimed in fast. “And I have a witness.”

“Even in self-defense it might not be healthy for you and your witness around the precinct house. I'm giving it to you straight: Stick to your phone taps and the rest of your 'legitimate' crap. Lay off Miss Henderson or I'll scramble your features.” I started for the door.

“Are you threatening me, Wintino?” Flatts called out. “Yeah. I'm telling you both to stop it or I'll work you over.”

Flatts cupped one ear. “What did you say?” “That I'll beat the slop out of you if you keep annoying Miss Henderson. Did you hear that or do you want a free sample?”

I turned toward him and he flicked his hand at the desk, must have turned on a switch, that cold smile engraved on his wise-guy face. The office was suddenly filled with a playback of our conversation. I was astonished at how shrill my voice sounded. I said loudly, above the recording, “It still goes. You'll be listening to that in a hospital!”

I headed for the door again as Flatts cut the playback, said, “I trust you have strong arches, Wintino.”

Tasman got to his feet as I passed him. I put my open hand against his big face and pushed, sending him back into his chair. I told him, “Don't bother to get up,” and walked out.

I was so angry I couldn't think straight—falling for a clumsy feint like that right hand. It wasn't two yet so I took the subway down to the moldy-domed monstrosity they call Headquarters Building, went up to Criminal Identification and got a yellow sheet on Sal Kahn. He didn't have much of a record. Collared in a raid on a dice joint in '26 and spent two months on Rikers Island. He'd been pinched once for simple assault, charge dismissed for lack of evidence. In '29 he'd been picked up as the owner of a speedboat riddled during a rumrunning chase up the Hudson, but never came up for trial. Of course the last rap was the shooting in 1930.