Ed Lacy - Shoot It Again

Foster's name was there but I didn't have enough nerve to go directly to his apartment. I walked along a delivery alley to the super's place. Sweating like a pig, I knocked on his door. A little faded man wearing worn over-alls and an old work shirt opened the door. His pale face was narrow and pointed, thick glasses giving mild eyes an owlish expression, few grey hairs on top of his egghead. In what sounded like a Northern European accent he asked, “Yes, mister?”

Glancing over his head I looked into a cool and darkened apartment. Far as I could hear, he was alone. “I read in the papers about somebody in this house dying. I wonder if the apartment has been rented?”

“You mean Mr. Foster's place? It was a great shock. I always thought he was a tobacco salesman.”

“Of course if his wife is living here...

“He had no wife. Such a quiet man.” The soft eyes blinked up at me. “Are you a friend of his?”

“No. I merely read about him in the papers and well, you know how difficult it is finding a flat these days. I'll make it worth your while, Mr. —”

“Lund. I don't know about Mr. Foster's lease. Also, I don't handle the renting. I'll have to phone the agent. I don't take anything under the table, SO...

“How about five hundred dollars, Mr. Lund?”

He swallowed, Adam's apple dancing as if choking on a peach, pit, the magnified eyes blinking with surprise, or it could have been—fear. His pink tongue licked a faint moustache. “That's a lot of money, Mr....”

“Brown—Adam Brown.”

“Well, come in, Mr. Brown. Ill phone the agent.”

“I... eh... know I'm kind of breaking the law, by offering you money, Mr. Lund, so... can we talk someplace where we'll be alone?”

“Come in, Mr. Brown. I've been a lonely widower for years.”

“I didn't want to cause you any trouble,” I told him, stepping into the cool and dark little apartment, quite pleased with my acting ability.

I followed Lund into a damp living room which, aside from an old-fashioned round dining table and a few chairs, had a long low work bench holding two huge mossy-green fish tanks. The only light in the dim room came from the faint hallway bulb. “Raise tropical fish, Mr. Lund?” I asked, casually.

“No sir. For years I've been trying to cultivate pearls and now...”

“There's oysters in there?” I peered into one of the tanks. Through the foggy green water the bottom seemed covered with odd-shaped cobblestones. “These must be fresh water oysters, like they have in the Mississippi River.”

The pinched face brightened. “You know about them, sir?”

“I've read of fresh water pearls.”

“Few folks have. Always been a frugal man and long ago I read of the Japanese injecting sand into an oyster, growing pearls. The idea fascinated me. For years I spent a lot of money, put in much work, learning the feeding habits of oysters, the right water temperatures... oysters are such delicate creatures. Carted brackish water from the Hudson River up here five times a day... without any results. Six years ago I read of fresh water oysters forming pearls. Would you believe it, I even took a trip South to buy some?”

“You're a real hobby fan,” I said, cleverly.

“A hobby? More of a tragic dream.” Lund looked at his mossy tanks with pride. “The dream was to make my fortune with pearls. Now, when I have finally grown some small pearls, and in this batch may have large ones—cultivated pearls have become so cheap, it's hardly worth the work. It takes so much of my time and effort, but what else have I to do with my free time?”

“There's an easier way to make money, Mr. Lund: that five hundred I mentioned—even more if we're lucky.”

“Lucky?” In the dim, greenish light his eyes looked ghostly. Still, he didn't weigh much over one hundred pounds. “The agent rents...”

“Forget the agent. I really don't want to rent the apartment. Listen to me, Mr. Lund, I'm a writer for fact crime magazines. You've seen the mags on the stands—a blown-up rehash of actual crimes which have a sensational...”

“I read only the classics.”

“You're to be admired, Mr. Lund. The deal is this: I take a hot crime yarn—like the Foster shooting—dig up old pictures, a few puff facts, sell it to one of the mags. That's where your five hundred comes in. But, if it turns out Foster was an important gangster, why all this might end as a book, a motion picture sale, and your cut larger. All you have to do is tell me what you know about Foster —little things—any friends he might have had, girls, etc. No danger to you, I mean, you won't even be mentioned in the article, unless you want to see your name and picture in print. Of course I'll need to see Foster's apartment, take a few snaps, snoop around. Okay?”

“Mr. Brown, as I told the police, I don't know much about my tenants. Keep to myself and my oysters. I...”

“Mr. Lund, for letting me look at his apartment, a few pictures—and I assure you I won't take a thing—you make yourself five hundred dollars!”

“Well, I don't see any harm in that. The agent has the key to the apartment. I'll phone him now —tell him there's a leak up there. Office isn't far, he'll send it over with the office boy.”

“Fine. But remember, the bit about the article has to be kept between us.”

“I understand, sir. The phone is right in the other room. Just take me a second, Mr. Brown.”

He stepped across the hallway into what must have been the bedroom—it was too dark to see for sure—dialed a wall phone. Peering into one of the tanks, I touched the water with my finger—it was almost ice-cold. Lund called out. “Careful, mister. For eleven months now I keep the water free of any impurities and...”

“Don't worry, Mr. Lund.”

He began talking over the phone, voice so low I couldn't make out what he was saying, but I heard him mention “apartment” and “leak” a few times. I was examining a faded and corny photo of FDR framed on the wall near the hallway. There was a thick silence: Lund was listening and nodding his head. Then I heard him mutter, “Yes, Lieutenant, I phoned like you...”

I didn't wait to hear any more—the sly bastard was phoning the cops! I pulled one of the tanks off the bench—it hit the floor with a crash of glass, water, and his scummy pearl-raisers. With a shrill cry of horror, the janitor dropped the phone, ran to kneel among the oysters as I raced out of the place.

I headed down West End Avenue fast as I could, without running, sweating with fear. Expecting to hear the sad wail of a police siren any second, I crossed to Broadway and the subway. Opening the locker, I grabbed my duffel bag, ran down the steps to the platform. Taking off my coat, rolling up my shirt sleeves and opening the dumb tie, I leaned against a post, wiped my sweating face— and damn near fainted—a subway cop was smiling at me! This tall, young, freckled-puss cop came over, said, “Another lousy hot day. This summer's a dog. You have the right idea, heading for the beach. Reis Park?”

“Yeah.”

“Flatbush Avenue train be along next. Ride it to the last stop, then a bus to the beach. Working the subways in the summer is rugged. If I was off, be swimming myself.”

I mumbled something about just finishing work and when the train pulled in, I sat down, so frightened I didn't know what to do. Sitting on a beach didn't seem a bad idea—with my duffel bag and towel, I'd at least look the part. Would this young cop remember me, if the other police came asking? With my coat off, the duffel bag—might call that a form of disguise. At least I was on the move— the cops probably would be searching the 72nd Street area.

Sitting directly under a fan I cooled off a bit, tried to think. I needed eating and room money. Racking my mind for the names of any old friends I could touch, the address of my first wife... I gave it all up, merely sat there in a daze: be stupid seeing anybody who knew me—with the papers full of my name.

At Flatbush Avenue I got off, looking much like the other beach-bound jokers, but a bit uneasy at the number of queers around. It was a couple of minutes past noon when I came up and out on the sunny street, saw a long fine of people and kids waiting for the Reis Park bus. Standing in fine —I smelt this heavy perfume odor, turned to see Lucille smiling at me—with slightly puffed lips. She said, “Knowing you're a beach bug, figured I might find you here, Tony. I've been waiting over...”

I glanced around frantically, waiting for the police to close in. Taking my hand, Lucille said, “It's okay, Tony, I'm with you. Listen...” her voice dropped to a whisper... “I don't give a damn about you knocking off Gus. I didn't think he'd cross you like... Oh, why he it up: we were going to take you, but hon, that's over! I'll do anything you say, Tony, I swear it. Or I wouldn't be here now! Tony, you must believe me—I have to do what you want, you have the bag. Honey, we've nothing to worry about.”

“What... what did you do with... Gus?” I asked, whispering in a nightmare.

“Stuffed his body into a camphor bag. Nobody come to the apartment until next month, when the rent's due. Even if Gus starts to stink, he'll take time coming through the camphor bag. Look, we can get a room, I'll make money for us... we'll have a couple weeks to work out something. Tony, I'll never cross you again, believe me!”

I didn't believe her, kept looking around wildly, almost expecting to see Gus' smirking face. About a half a block away, over the heads of the other people, I sure saw somebody—Mr. Ping coming toward me.

I started walking in the opposite direction, pushing people out of my way. Lucille ran after me. “Tony, please! Please! For the love of God... don't leave me! I need... At least give me some...!”

I shook her hand off mine but she grabbed my shirt. I said, “Damn you, shut your face and let go of me! You brought the killers!”

“What?” She looked around.

“Mutt and Jeff down there!” I said, nodding toward Ping—and his runty buddy—who were pushing through the people waiting for the bus. I kept shoving down the street, even looking for a cop. Lucille ran after me, panting, “I don't know them! Tony, really, I don't!”

There wasn't time to argue, people were staring at us with cynical amusement. Reaching the other end of the block, I turned the corner, Lucille after me. It was a street of smaller stores, few people shopping in all the heat. I'd been a fool to run—people were my only shield from the silencer—the tall punk wouldn't dare use his gun in a crowd. There was no going back now, I half-ran down the street, Lucille's high heels clicking behind me. The damn duffel bag seemed to weigh a ton.

The stores stopped at the end of the block—then came a row of small apartment houses with even less people on the street. I stood there, not knowing what to do. Lucille was shoving her purse at me, panting, “Tony—take this.” I kept turning away from her. A small crowd of plump women shoppers stopped to stare at us—sure they were seeing a man-and-wife fight. Crowds... Digging into my coat pockets I finally found the piece of chalk. Kneeling on the hot sidewalk I feverishly began to sketch a copy of Goya's “Naked Maja, but actually getting down the way Lucille had looked in bed last night.

More people surrounded us, snickering at the breasts I was drawing. Through the fleshy forest of heavy bare legs and slacks I saw Ping and Shorty round the corner. I worked faster on the thick curves of the hips as the crowd grew. A high feminine voice said, “What gall—drawing a dirty picture right on the sidewalk!”