Ed Lacy - Lead With Your Left

“I don't,” I said, wondering if Owens had, in his old age.

“You must look at this as a long-range deal. You saw how I work and I mean physical work—I'm working harder than when I was a youngster at haying time. I'm too old for this, and so are my partners. In time you'll be in charge of the day shift and that means a hundred dollars a week, perhaps a share in the concern. And there's extras to be had—trucking outfits hand out cash Christmas presents. Lad, you have to see this as an opportunity, not merely as a job.”

“I certainly appreciate your thinking of me,” I said, wondering why I was wasting precious time here, “but I don't know if I'm suited for this....”

“But you are!” Uncle Frank said, bending over the desk and whispering; his breath smelled like last week's food. “You speak Jewish and Italian. You see, we employ a good many Eyeries and Jews here and you would know what was going on all the time. Let's say, if there was any union talk. And although you don't look it, you're tough, an ex-fighter and a cop. Sometimes we have a little trouble—suppose the kids we hire are a little wild, or the old-timers turn out to be drinkers. You could keep them in line. And occasionally there is some theft. Not so much with our employees, although for minimum pay we can't expect the cream, but in this area you find winos, especially at night. They swipe packages if the doors are open, or while the kids are loading a truck.”

“I'd be a combination straw boss and cop?”

“Now don't get a wrong slant. We don't have trouble every day or every week, but it does happen, and it jacks up our insurance premiums. Lad, the secret of this business is to knock off every penny of overhead possible, to save every second of—” Uncle Frank pointed to my wrist watch and shot out of his chair as if he was goosed. “Lord, where does time go to! It's three-thirty. I'm late for my appointment. Think it over, my boy, a long-range opportunity. You may be boss of the place by the time you're thirty-five. Phone me here tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is Saturday,” I said as Uncle Frank opened a locker, took off his dungarees and shirt, standing in faded pink silk shorts for a second, his legs veined and skinny. Then he changed to a dark brown suit that was sloppy around the shoulders.

“Phone me, I'll be here. Saturdays, Sundays, I'm always here.”

I stood up. “I'll think about it but I'm pretty sure this isn't for me. If I'm going to be a cop I want to be a real one, not a store badge.”

“My tie straight? Don't make any snap judgment you'll regret. You won't be a 'cop' here, you'll be a junior executive. Talk it over with Mary. When are you two coming over for supper? We have to get together more. Tie straight now?”

I fixed his tie and he grabbed his hat and almost flew out of the office. I stood there for a moment, wondering why I didn't have the guts to tell him to stick his job. Mary and her great ulcer deals.

I used his mirror to comb my hair, take a few specks off my suit, then picked up his phone and told the switchboard operator I wanted an outside line, dialed Rose. She was home and I said I was on my way up.

“I'll be in the rest of the day, working. I haven't had any more trouble, not even a phone call. I'm grateful. What do you want to see me about?”

“A few questions about something else.... I'll be up in a half-hour.”

After the bedlam of the freight company the street was practically quiet and the sunlight clean. I wanted to buy Ma a box of candy or some flowers but I had less than a buck on me. On the subway ride uptown I kept thinking of the blackmail angle: Owens and Wales might have been working with a third character, perhaps a licensed private jerk—although what made having a license so important? They got shady jobs—nobody turns to a private dick unless there's a reason why he can't go to the police—and worked small-time blackmail on businessmen like Wren. If they got four or five grand at a clip, made a couple of scores a year, that could account for Wales' money belt—he could have saved eleven grand over a span of half a dozen years easily, the frugal way he lived.

But where was Owens' dough? Or was this their first job and Owens refused to split, that's why Wales gunned him? Couldn't be their first job. Where did Wales' bundle come from?

But I couldn't buy that at all, or any part of it. You don't kill because somebody holds out a grand. Maybe a punk did but not an old time conservative cop like Wales. Cop—damnit they were good cops, why should they be doing something crooked in the last years of their lives? Why was everybody so sure Wales had killed his partner? Wasn't for the gun, there wouldn't be any connection between the crimes. But there was the gun. Perhaps the gun had been planted in his room when the killer finished Wales? Or was Wales so dumb as to keep a murder weapon around?

I made a note of that, wondered why I'd overlooked the angle before. A planted gun added, kept Wales in character. Only what kind of character if they were shakedown artists? And to use Wales' gun, then plant it, a guy would have to be a close friend of Wales. That could be the third party, the private dick, perhaps using Wales and Owens without their suspecting? Nuts, they were old hands, they'd know. And they had to know or how did Wales get all the dough, Owens the four grand?

I made another note, as I got off the subway, to have a talk with Data, Inc. Saturday morning. Not impossible Owens had been working for them, or if Wren had wanted to get Owens, he would have arranged it through Data. They could give me the dope on what was cooking in the private eye racket. Be a joy talking to them: when I mentioned murder they'd squirm, forget their toy gadgets!

Rose was barefooted in thin black cotton Chinese pants and a loose red pullover that showed curves whenever and wherever the shirt touched her. A warm smile followed her “Do come in.”

The place looked even smaller, maybe because of the piles of papers and open books next to her typewriter. As I sat down on the couch I told her, “Turn around, please.”

She spun around, looked puzzled.

“I like the outfit. You look good enough to have for dessert.”

She hesitated, smiled and said “Thank you” and added, “Do you want to take off your coat? It's been so muggy.”

“I'm okay, won't keep you long. How's the article coming?”

“Fine. I'll be finished in a few days. Want a cool drink? I have an interesting concoction—coconut milk and ginger beer.”

“I'll try some. How did you dream that up?”

“Always drank it down in the islands,” Rose said, walking to the tiny refrigerator, moving like a dancer. She poured two glasses of what looked like thin milk.

She sat beside me as she handed me a glass, watched my face as I took a cautious sip, then gulped it down. It was cool and spicy. “This is the best. Can you buy coconuts around here?”

“Science marches on. Coconut milk is now canned in Puerto Rico.”

“Ought to take a can up to my mother. She's always experimenting on the stove.”

“I'll give you a can,” Rose said sipping her drink. “I get them on the cuff—I write advertising copy for one of the Spanish-speaking newspapers. Want some more?”

“A little.” She poured part of her drink into my glass and I got so excited I was certain I was blushing. It was crazy but the intimacy of it gave me ideas—and the cold drink ended them. I said, “Your buddy, Edwin Wren, must have had this in mind when he told me about a new drink.”

“Edwin Wren? What were you talking to him about?”

“He suddenly cropped up in another case. Why I'm here. What do you know about him?”

“Almost everything. He's fifty-seven, an engineer, married, has two daughters—one goes to Smith and the other is married to a doctor out west someplace. His wife is active in the usual middle-class civic organizations. They live in an old duplex apartment on Riverside Drive and Eighty-second Street and he goes in—”

“He lives on Riverside and Eighty-second?” I asked. That was only three blocks from where Owens was killed.

“That's right, lived there for many years. He goes in for modest cars—in fact the Wrens live modestly, although over a five-year period he has averaged $25,000 a year, above taxes. Wren & Company was almost a one-man affair till the war. He landed a couple of big subcontracts, and was able to expand and—”

“Was he ever in any trouble—criminal stuff?”

“Never. This case—what's it all about?”

“I'm working on a double murder and his name popped up in connection with a... check,” I said, knowing I was talking too much. Wales had warned me about that. Had he talked too much himself? “Where is Wren from?”

“Born here, graduated into the depression, tried to get a job in South America but—”

“Hold it. What part of South America and when?” I cut in. Susan Owens worked in S.A.

“He never got the job, he lacked experience and in those days a company could get its pick of engineers. He worked on WPA for a few years and along about 1934 opened a small factory in the Bronx, made doorbells and cheap electric chimes. He moved to his present plant in 1949 and has been growing ever since. If they can swing this wire-paint monopoly he'll be in the millionaire bracket. All this of any help to you?”

“He sounds like a solid, aggressive business joker. You sure he's never been in any beef with the law?”

“Not the criminal law.”

I must have looked blank for she gave me a full smile and said, “Mr. Detective, let me remind you there are such things as civil laws too and they also can be broken. As my article will prove, Wren and the others are acting in restraint of trade and—”

“Easy there. I'm too tired for a lecture. What I want to know is, was he ever in any lawsuits, jams, anything like that?”

“Plenty,” she said going over to a file cabinet and returning with a folder of notes, newspaper clippings and booklets. She sat on the couch, feet under her, stubby painted toes near my hand. Dumping the folder out all over her lap, she said, “He's had the usual manufacturer's lawsuits—suits claiming he had received damaged raw material. Here, in 1939 he was sued on a buzzer patent and won. One of his trucks ran down a man in 1946 and Wren settled out of court for $2,700. In 1949 he sued a bank for $20,000 claiming somebody named Butler had forged his name to a check for that amount and it was the bank's responsibility to check his signature. Handwriting experts agreed it was a forged signature and the bank had to make good to Wren.”

“In 1949. What month? You know Butler's full name, if he was ever collared?”

“Collared?” “Arrested?”

“No. I only have a brief note on it. You said 'he.' I don't recall if Butler was a man or woman. But you can check the '49 papers or a newspaper morgue. Can't you tell me what you're looking for? I might be of more help.”

“I'm hunting for that corny needle in the haystack. Fishing blindly, hoping I'll come up with something.”

“But how does Wren fit into this 'something'?”

“I'm not sure he does except I don't believe in coincidences and he's beginning to figure in too damn many. But it doesn't add: I'm looking for a killer and he's just a business sharpshooter.”

Rose gathered up her notes. “Do I detect a chamber-of-commerce sanctimonious sound when you said 'business'? The bigger the business, the more ruthless the—” “Hey, get off the soapbox.”

“It's true. In the name of business whole islands and countries have been—and are—kept in poverty, strikers have been killed.... Hitler went to war to increase German markets and in my own Puerto Rico the—”