Ed Lacy - Lead With Your Left

“It should bring Washington down on them for violating the antitrust laws. The least it will do is force them to open up the field to others, and thus the public will benefit from the low cost.”

“A bunch of doorbell manufacturers are spending, two grand a week to stop your article? Hardly seems worth all—”

“This 'bunch of doorbell manufacturers' figure not only to split some three millions in profit in the first two years, but there are untold uses for this wire paint. When perfected it might do away with all wiring in cars, for example. Don't you understand, once they control this, they'll be in a position to drive competitors out and in time send prices sky-high.”

“And the magazine, this Spectator, what are they doing about your troubles?”

“At the moment I'm not involving them. They can only do what I've done—call in the police. After all, I'm just a free-lancer and the magazine hasn't the money to fight these companies. The Spectator is lucky to break even each month.”

“What are you getting for the article?”

“Two hundred dollars.”

“Why don't these outfits spend a few grand in advertising and buy off the magazine?”

“Because it isn't that type of magazine. Any more questions?”

“You're not getting much pay for all the work you're doing on this. What's in it for you?”

“Partly I do it because they're breaking the law, rooking the public, and I'm part of the public. Also I'll benefit in other ways. The publicity if the article makes enough noise will get me other assignments. Now, do you think I might get some protection from the police instead of a grilling?”

“I wasn't grilling you, we have to check all sides of a story. I'll report this back to my boss, Lieutenant Reed. We've been busy on a murder and I doubt if he can spare a man to guard you twenty-four hours a day. But he might put a tap on your phone, try and trace those calls. I'll let you know what we can do,” I told her, getting up, heading for the door, a little high from her perfume.

“When will you let me know what will be done?”

“Probably late this afternoon. I'm not sure: I don't run the department.”

She shrugged and everything that moved was a boot to watch. “At least you still don't think there's some love-struck idiot after me.”

“I haven't ruled that out.”

“What?” she said loudly. “Can't you see that these—”

“Sure, I can see and I don't rule out a nutty boy friend because... Miss Henderson, let's not fence for compliments, every time you look into a mirror you see an exciting young woman. You certainly know that.” I tried to sound casual but I blurted the words like a schoolboy.

Her face was a slow blush, then came this warm, almost tickling laughter. “I suppose I should say thank you. Thank you, Mr....”

“Wintino, Dave Wintino.” I took out an assignment slip, wrote my name and precinct phone number on it. “Next time you're pushed around on the street, if you're sure it was deliberate, tell the nearest cop to hold the man and have the cop call me. Show him this card.”

“Thanks. I won't leave the house till I hear from you.”

“Miss Henderson, the Police Department is understaffed so I can't promise we'll give you an escort, but even reporting this, having it on the precinct record, is some protection. And don't worry, well keep an eye on you, perhaps have the beat cop stop by now and then.”

We said good-day and I walked down to the basement, keeping an eye out for mutts, and found the super. He was an old mousey duck in dirty overalls and I asked, “Been any men around inquiring about Miss Henderson up in 3C?”

“You another one? I'm too busy to be answering questions all the time.” He had a weak voice and some kind of mild accent. Eating would be a problem for him, he only had a couple of mossy teeth in his mouth.

“Another one? How many men have been here asking about her?”

“Don't rightly recall. I'd say five, six. They come late at night or early in the morning, get me out of my bed to ask about her. And I need my sleep, I work hard.”

“What do they ask?”

“All kinds of things. One asked did I know she was Spanish, a greasy Spick he called her. Guess you saw her name, Hondura, on the mailbox. She's Puerto Rican, and uses the name Henderson to write under. Does she entertain men, these men ask, does she have meetings in her flat, is she a Red? Was one creepy old man yesterday about scared the living life out of me just to see him, he wanted to know if I thought she was selling dope. I understand they been asking some of the tenants too, getting them out of bed. I told them I knew was she was a quiet girl who kept to herself and paid her rent on time.”

“Any of these men give you their names, say what they were?”

“Nope, They just fired questions at me.”

“Can you describe them, would you recognize any of them again?”

“Nope. Except for the creepy one they was all well-dressed, classy-looking men. I told you I ain't got time to be answering a lot of questions.”

“But you have time to shoot your big mouth off. Why didn't you ask who I was before you talked to me?”

“See here, don't you raise your voice to me, young man. Well, who are you?”

I showed him my badge. “Detective Wintino, 201st Squad.”

“A cop. Say, Miss Henderson done anything crooked?”

“No. She complained about some jerks annoying her.” I took out my notebook. “What's your name? How long you been employed here?”

“Heitman. Teddy's the first name. Been here going on fourteen years this August. What you writing me down for? I don't want no trouble.”

“Relax, Mr. Heitman. Have a phone here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Here's my name and police phone number on this slip. Keep it handy. Next time anybody comes asking around about Miss Henderson before you tell them a thing, ask to see their credentials, write down their name and address. Even if they say they're police or government men ask for—'”

“You'll get me into trouble.”

“You can get into trouble by talking too damn much. Know who you're talking to before you run your gums. I want you to do me a favor, phone me as soon as anybody asks about Miss Henderson. Leave your name if I'm not in and I'll call you back. Don't make a fuss about it but try to get the name of whoever asks about her, ask to see their credentials or badge, then phone me. Got that?”

“Yes, sir,” he said, clutching my card. “I never had no run-in with the police, never. I don't want no trouble. No, sir.”

“Aw, stop drooling about trouble. And don't be so ready to give out information about your tenants: tell 'em to go ask the tenant. Remember, if they ask about Miss Henderson, phone me soon as you can.”

“I'll do that.”

“Fine,” I said, walking away, knowing he was too scared to do anything. I walked up the basement steps and the humidity was like a blanket. I stopped to run a comb through my hair, glanced up and down the street, trying to make her tail.

The street was empty, so were the parked cars. Little ways up the block there was a tall guy of about twenty-five wearing dungarees and a shabby black leather jacket leaning against one of the buildings. What made me forget about my hair was the crumpled wire coat hanger he was toying with in his right hand.

I slipped my badge on my belt as he glanced around like a ham actor, crossed the sidewalk to the Jaguar and shielding the hanger with his body, started working the wire into the rubber lining of the front window. He was less than two hundred feet from me and having a rough time with the window.

I edged up toward him, ready to sprint if he saw me, but he was too busy and I was behind him and on his left side when I asked, “Lost your keys?”

He spun around, one of these jokers with eyes too large for his long thin face. He nodded, tried to smile as he said, 'Yeah, misplaced them.” Looking me over, he turned back to the window.

“How you going to start the car if you haven't any keys?”

“Get lost, buddy. Mind your business.”

“I'm a police officer. Keep your hands in sight and face me!”

He turned quickly, his narrow face frightened pale. I opened my coat with my right hand so he could see my badge, part of my shoulder holster. I told him, “Drop the hanger—do it slow and easy.”

He dropped it.

“Turn around and place both your hands on top of the car. Now keep them there And spread your feet.”

He spread-eagled his big feet. He was sweating badly as he stuttered, “Give me a b-break, b-buddy. This is my first t-time.”

“Quiet, punk. You'd bust a car open to get a jacket you couldn't hock for more than a few lousy bucks,” I said, frisking him. He was clean. At least he had good taste, he was after the tweed sport coat I'd liked. “Don't move till I tell you or you'll get hurt.” I got out my notebook, put down the time, the license number of the car, the nearest building address. Across the street I saw the excited face of a fat old lady at the window, then she disappeared. She was probably calling the police. I put my notebook away, told him, “Stay the way you are and don't try anything.”

“Please, give me a chance. I swear I'll never—”

“Bullslop. A chance to do what, bust into another car, give me more work making the rounds of the hock shops looking for a damn stolen jacket? Keep your trap shut and don't move.” The busybody was back at the window, her face eager.

A car passed us, then another I saw a cab coming. I called, “Taxi,” and when it stopped I flashed my badge, told him, “I'm a police officer taking a suspect to—”

A radio car turned into the street—fast. The old gal hadn't wasted a second. I told the cabby to drive on and he went, looking relieved. When the radio car stopped both cops came out on the run. They were a couple of middle-aged guys I knew—only by sight. The first one asked, “What's up, Junior?”

“Caught this clown breaking into a car One of you stay here and see if you can locate the owner of this foreign heap. The other take us up to the station.”

One of the cops gave me a mock slam-salute. “I'll stay. Some car, Al, you ride them up and don't be all afternoon coming back for me—hot in this sun.” He jabbed the punk in the ribs with his night stick. “You, get in the car and don't try nothing stupid.”

I picked up the coat hanger.

At the precinct house I took him right up to the squad room. Reed was there. I had the guy empty his pockets An old wallet with one buck in it said his name was Henry Moorepark, that he lived on East Fourth Street. He said he was a dye worker, unemployed since last February, gave me the name and address of the last concern he'd worked for. Besides the wallet he had a single key, a plastic case with his Social Security card on one side, a snap of a potty-looking babe on the other, two hock shop tickets dated five and eight days ago, and a busted cigar holder. He said he was unmarried, lived with his folks, had never served time. I had him roll up his shirt sleeves and pants legs—he wasn't a junkie. He said again, “Like I told you, I found this hanger and was trying to straighten it out against the car, figured I could take it home.”

“What you doing this far uptown?” I asked.

“Just walking around.”

“And you found this hanger and were busy straightening it out, and busting the rubber on the car window, when I saw you. That your story?”

“Yes.”

“You expect me to buy that?” I said, putting force in my voice. “If I did you'd be the most surprised guy in this room. Come on, give me a straight story.”