Ed Lacy - Shoot It Again

“Yes, the fellow I told you about, Gus.” Lucille sounded very nervous. “Tony, this is Gus.'

We nodded at each other and he grinned at me, licked his skinny lips, while his eyes raced to the duffel bag in my right hand. Sitting on the table, swinging his cheap Italian-styled shoes, Gus said, “Okay, big boy, let's see what you're peddling.”

She said, “It's pure, a real banger, Gus! I already scored.”

“I know you did, a free night for a free take-off, stupid tomato!” He suddenly smiled at me—Gus had the whitest teeth, was obviously quite proud of them. “Let's see how much you have, Tony, then we talk.”

“One pound of uncut heroin,” I said, suddenly getting the scene in focus—this was her pimp. I had a hopeless feeling of wasting time. “I want five grand for it. Since you don't look like you can raise five bucks, bring me somebody who flashes the long green and I'll show my wares.” I glanced at Lucille. “Thought you were going to get me your pusher? I don't need a pimp for...”

“Business manager,” Gus cut in, voice harder.

“Gus is my connection, gets my white stuff,” Lucille began.

“Shut your face, Lu! Big boy, let us all get straight: you're dealing with me. Lu's mine, so talk with me.”

“Gus, I think the whole bag is full of horse!” Lucille said.

“Too much chatter,” Gus said, flashing his choppers in a smile at me. “Tony, the bag.” He held out a slim hand.

I tried to grin coldly. “First let me see the sight of welcome green.”

“Sure.” He pulled a snub-nosed pistol out of his pocket. “How's the color of this? Lu told me you're a great talker, but don't try to outtalk a .321 Open the bag!”

I knew I'd been had, and I didn't give a goddamn. It was all such a helpless mess—me broke and carting around three million dollars without the slightest idea of how to cash it in. For a split second—perhaps it was a hangover from my months of dejection in Europe—I felt it would be best to let this pushing punk kill me. Of course, I wouldn't stand still for a beating or... Resigned, I tossed the bag on the table, mumbled, “Easy Gus, don't let that rod get too good to you. A gun shoots both ways.”

With his left hand, Gus pulled out the damp towel, then looked positively stupid on seeing the plastic case full of heroin... eyes actually strained to leave his skull as he zipped the pillow case open, put a fingertip full of the white powder on his tongue. Screwing up his thin face, he gasped, “Jeez, it is uncut!”

Lucille came over to gaze into the bag with all the respect of a person peeping at the Future. Gus pushed her away and the same anger swept her crude face as when I'd slapped her.

While he was busy with her, I reached for the bag, stepped next to the window. Gus spun around, pointed the gun at me. “Put the bag back! At the races I'm a lousy hunch player, but now... I've won me the biggest daily double with a hunch! Heard a rumor of a large shipment got screwed-up yesterday... here I have it! Put the bag on the table before you get hurt.”

“Stop waving that silly gun like it's a magic wand,” I said, wondering why I bothered—but the hope of three million, or even fifty grand dies slowly. “Told you a gun works both ways: if you knock me off—and you'll have to kill me to get this —then you'll have a murder rap hanging over your thick head... be the best heeled creep ever to sit in the chair.”

“I'm warning you, Tony, to...!”

“Oh, shut up. Keep the tough act and I'll toss the stuff out the window into the...”

“God, don't do that!” Lucille gasped.

I actually laughed at her. “I don't need you two small-timers. Let's say I... eh... stumbled across this junk-pot. If I can't sell it, all I do is hand it over to the police and I'm in the clear. But suppose we give it one more try, stop acting like angry bulldogs, talk a little sense? As the worn phrase goes, there's enough here for all of us. I need a path to the top men, to sell this at a fair price. I offered Lucille 10%. Since you're in now, I'll make you the same offer. I know this is worth about $70,000. Bring me anybody able to buy it, and you each get a 10% slice.”

Gus seemed to be listening intently as I talked; now he slipped me his practiced smile, said, “Fatty, you are a talker! Act like you're on the stuff yourself, although Lu says you ain't a weed-head. So, you're offering me a deal?'

“Yes, if you can produce the right buyer.”

“Fatty, you're forgetting—I'm aiming the Chairman Of The Board at you, the gun makes the final decision! But I'm willing to talk—a little. You ain't tossing that out the window, or blowing any whistle: I got you figured—you're this artist-football character the cops are looking for in the Al Foster gunning. Sure, you're the courier who brought the junk in. Run to the cops and they'll slap twenty years on you, if they don't rap you for the killing! Remember the airline hostess who claimed she didn't know she was bringing in H—thought it was powdered perfume: she got twenty years because she wouldn't say—or didn't know—who was behind the business. It was in all the papers. If you want twenty years, you're dumber than you look. Also I came here prepared, big boy.”

“For what?” I asked, resting the bag on the window sill.

“When Lu first phoned me last night, I thought she was high. But this morning, after she phoned again, I give them a feeler, and man were they all ears! What I mean is, I'm not playing a lone hand in a deal this big. Yeah, you must be the guy Foster was to meet. Well, courier, your job is finished, you ain't necessary no more! If they agree, and you don't cause me no trouble, I may give you a couple grand. I said, may! Man, you ought to be happy you're alive—you'd be with Foster if they'd seen you yesterday.”

I gulped as I said, “If you take over the courier job, you'll be dead on delivery, too.”

“Don't worry about little Gus, fatty. I'll make the sale but not like a dummy. Now don't go for stupid, make me hurt you—give me the bag! I'll see you get a few grand, even take care of you the way you want.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You're the biggest one I ever seen, but faggots come in all sizes. Ever take it into your head to make money?” Gus cackled with horrible laughter.

“You and me will have a swishing good time—I treat all my gals good. The bag!”

Gus stepped toward me, cocky grin on his stupid face, so sure of himself the gun was pointing toward the floor...

In college they had the football squad try out for track. For a couple of weeks I was a hammer thrower. Now, I was so blind-angry at his daring to call me a swish, I said, “Here's the bag!” Swinging the sixteen-pound bag by the string hard as I could, pivoting all my weight behind it....

... Gus walked into the arc, the duffel bag striking the side of his ratty face. His entire head seemed to fold over at an unreal angle, then he collapsed into a crumpling heap at my feet. Picking up the .32 with my left hand, I smashed it down into his pale face again and again.

Lucille grabbed my arm. “Tony! You're hitting a dead man! You broke his neck! Tony, you and I...”

With the bag still in my right hand, I punched her thick chin: she went sprawling on the floor, blood gushing from the nice lips. “If we get this settled... we both might go to the beach today...'“ I panted, trying to mimic her warm voice. “Whore! Lying bitch, setting me up from the jump!”

The words echoed in the room, seemed to strike my face—wake me up. Lucille was out cold: I was talking to an unconscious woman and a corpse. Shoving the towel back into the duffel bag, I ran out of the room, thundering down the wooden steps and onto the street... got the full impact of what I'd done. Painting bum, dope courier, wanted by the cops...

Now I was a murderer.

CHAPTER 9

Killing Gus also killed my panic and indecision. Figuring I was safer off the streets, I boarded an uptown bus at the corner, my mind sure of one thing—I wasn't going to fry for the death of that dreadful, smirking, toothy, stupid pimp! Calling me a swish... well, his last thought must have been one of absolute shock!

I felt proud, almost virile, at having killed—no remorse. Best of all, I was thinking clearly. If small-time crooks like Gus knew about the attempted hijack at the Hotel Tran, it was safe to assume the police also knew, that they didn't want me for the killing of Al Foster, but only suspected I was smuggling dope. It would take the police time—since I'd been out of the country for almost two years—to get my picture and description. At least a day or more. In fact, I doubted if dizzy Arlene across the hall in 305 would admit I'd been sharing her room. Nor would Amy be anxious to come forward—so there wasn't anyone to give them a working description of me. True, once Gus was found and Lucille arrested, she could give a decent word picture of me.

I had to tear up my passport, destroy all evidence of Clayton Biner. Oh I could appreciate the ironical twist—it was the loss of my passport which started me in this mess. As plain Joe Blow I'd have about twenty-four hours in which to contact the syndicate. If I could only find a pipe-line to 'them,' the rest would be fairly simple—remembering Gus' pearls of wisdom I'd work out a deal where my services as a courier wouldn't be over until I safely had some loot. I wouldn't be hard to deal with— hell with fifty grand—I'd settle for... ten or fifteen thousand... enough to give me a few years cooling off time in Mexico or the West Indies. Yeah, I'd offer 'them' the greatest bargain ever seen.

If I still hadn't any real idea of how to do this, at least I'd lost my depressed mood, was ready to fight. I had one thread to the syndicate—Al Foster. Somebody at Foster's home address, perhaps his wife, would know his friends... give me a clue which would take me to the syndicate.

Okay; it wasn't much of a plan but I was done with my aimless wondering, fooling with cheap hustlers and whores. The original news story had given Foster's address on West 78th Street. I took the crosstown bus at 79th Street, sweating more than the day called for. At Broadway I walked down to 72nd Street and into the Automat for a sandwich and iced tea. In the men's room—not without a pang of deep regret—I tore up my passport and the few other pieces of identification on me, flushed them down the commode.

I rode a cab across 78th Street to the Drive. The late Al Foster had lived in an old and modest apartment house. Far as I could see, there weren't any detectives in sight. I walked back to the subway station at 72nd, found a group of dime public lockers. I sweated more at the thought of leaving three million bucks in a locker, but in case Foster's place was staked out, I couldn't risk being picked up with a duffel bag of junk on me.

At a barber shop I took a close haircut—although it hurt like hell to have my good hair end on the floor—manicure and shave. Next I bought a white shirt and conservative dark tie, changed in the men's room of a swank cafeteria on 73rd Street. (Hell, I was practically living in men's rooms I) But now I looked the part I was going to play, although my suit was badly wrinkled. Having less than twenty dollars, I had to stay with the old suit.

With the locker key securely in my left sock, I walked over to the apartment house, studying the parked cars and few passing people: I didn't see anybody looking like a dick. The house was a walk-up, remodeled into small apartments some years ago, judging by the condition of the mail nestboxes.