Ed Lacy - Sin In Their Blood

She began counting on her long fingers. “Be the end of the high tide about... 4 a.m. I'll set the alarm. We wear boots—I have several pair around—take a thermos of hot coffee and stand on the edge of the ocean and cast—let the tide take our bait out. First we dig a couple clams for bait—but that's hard. I'll buy some tonight. It's great fun and by daybreak we'll have enough fish for a whopping breakfast, and hungry as... Let's do it tomorrow morning!”

“Well... I never was one for getting up early,” I began. “And standing in water isn't the best...”

“Oh please, Matt. It's such fun.”

She had all the eagerness of a school kid, a wonderful change from the loose, lush look. If I didn't get wet, couldn't do me much harm. “Sure, set the alarm. Now let me help with the dishes and...”

An auto horn sounded outside. The red clock on the kitchen wall said seven. “I have a... eh... kind of business appointment. Be back soon—about a half hour.”

“The Wilson killings?”

“Not exactly—new angle I'm exploring.”

“Don't be long. I'll take care of the dishes. Have some ironing to do. Went through your stuff and washed some shirts and underwear for you. See how domestic I can be?”

“It's frightening. Trying to trap me into marrying you?” I asked with a corny smirk.

“Now that you mention it, I might at that,” Mady said gently.

I stared at her as the horn sounded again and we both smiled. I suddenly realized I'd proposed for the first time in my life—and been accepted. And I liked the idea!

“We'll talk about that some more... maybe soon,” I said, slipping my coat on as I made for the door.

Joe had a light old roadster that hardly seemed big enough for his bulky figure. And when I climbed in beside him I expected the tires to explode. He said, “Let's make this snappy, my wife is sick. What about our mutual friend?”

“He's getting in my hair, via Mady. You worry, she worries and hits the bottle, and I don't like that.”

He grunted, said, “Damn, so it's like that between you and Mady! One, two, three stuff! I warned you...”

“I like you, Joe, so before you run your big mouth, let me tell you it's no jump and run stuff with us. Mady and I have a lot in common, and we'll hit it off.”

“You damn well better. I'm warning you, Matt—I won't see Mady ending up as a tramp. Not only because she's my sister, but somehow it would make Billy's dying in vain and...”

“That's a cracked crock of slop,” I said. “Everybody dies in vain. Once you're dead you're out of it. And whether your death made a better or worse world doesn't make your corpse taste any better or worse to the worms eating it.”

“I don't like that kind of talk. After all, our boys who died...”

“Died because of some old men who didn't know how to make the world run right, played checkers with the other guys' lives. A coffin can hide a fool or a hero. The idea is to stay alive, watch, the show. But let's not get off on that. The only way you can shake Harry Loughlin off your back is to tell him to go to hell.”

“And lose my job? That's a great solution.”

“Other ways of telling him to lay off. You can fight blackmail with blackmail. Harry has a king-size skeleton in his closet.”

“Yeah? How do you know?”

“Used to be his partner couple years back. We had a detective agency.”

Joe was silent for a moment. “I don't like this. You claim you picked out Mady's place—just like that. Then it turns out you worked for Saxton. Now you're Harry Loughlin's partner. You...?”

“Was his partner.”

“You FBI?”

I laughed. “You been to too many movies. Let me straighten you out—I'm only interested in you because it will help Mady. You want to keep paying Harry off— fine. Only don't come whining to us everytime he socks your pocketbook.” I started to open the door and he said, “Wait a minute,” as I knew he would. “What do you want me to do?”

“Harry has a bit of pansy in him and these days a man will do anything to keep that quiet.”

“Doesn't look queer to me.”

“He isn't—all the way. But it's in him, probably come out in the open when he's older. Works that way with some of them. Point is, I know he has his fag moments. Framing a guy as a pansy is about the lowest—and easiest—form of blackmail. First, is there anybody else in the P.O. he's after, a young kid, or anybody else who would be willing to work with us? Somebody we can really trust?”

“What do you mean trust? I don't want to get mixed up in nothing shady.”

“Listen, chances are 99.99% Harry won't run to the cops. Never do in this type of swindle. By trust I mean I don't want to run from one blackmail into another. Got anybody we can use?”

Joe thought for a moment, grunted, “No.”

“Then we'll have to do it ourselves, although you're too old and ugly for queer-bait. Listen to me carefully: tomorrow morning you call Harry, make sure you speak to him personally. Tell him you've been thinking things over, that you know of a slew of P.O. guys that are in the same boat as you—were in favor of that stuff about going on strike—be careful you don't go into any details. All you want to do is talk this over with Harry, but not on the phone. Just tell him enough to get him interested. Understand?”

“Yep.”

“You want to meet him some place for lunch. Tell him you can't take off time, so it must be a bar around the P.O. What we need is a place where you're known, but Harry isn't. Any place where you drop in regular for beers?”

“There's a joint two blocks from the Post Office. But I don't get...”

“You arrange to meet Harry there. You have a few beers with him, string him along. Give him a line about what's in it for you if you stool on the other and...”

“If you think I'll stool on...”

“Shut up and listen. You don't mention any names, merely hint you have something to sell, ask Harry what it's worth. See, you want to make a deal. Give him some stuff that you want a statement from him clearing you of any subversive leanings... and a grand in cash. He'll counter with a lower offer. Whatever deal he offers, you tell him you have to think it over, will call him later in the day. The important thing is that when Harry comes in you either introduce him to the bartender as your friend, or talk loud... anything so the bartender notices you. Then...”

“This is all over my head. Why should I...?”

“For Christsakes, listen. As soon as Harry leaves, you have a beer with the barkeep, make some crack about Harry being a fag. That's for protection, in case things go wrong. You call...”

“I'm not interested in this,” Joe said.

“Some of the dough Mady gave you today is mine, so get interested. You call Harry later, agree to meet him in the evening, about seven, in some lonely spot in the park. Since we can't get anybody else in on the deal, I'll be there—hiding with a camera, infra-red film and a flash. Means I can take pictures without being noticed. When Harry comes, you have to get him on your lap for a second.”

“What? What the hell you saying?”

“Either you sit down before he does and pull him down on your lap, or if you can't work that, pick him up—he's small—place him on your lap. I'll get the picture. Then you push him off, slug him, make a hell of a scene about he was trying to kiss you. Harry may be armed, but I doubt it. If anything like that happens, I'll step in and help you. Now if a cop should come along, you insist Harry tried to kiss you—but don't press charges. What will probably happen is, Harry will realize he's been framed and run like a rabbit.”

Joe shivered. “No. I want no part of that—it's dirty.”

“It sure is. But once we send, Harry a print of the picture, he'll never bother you again. No, you'll take the print to him, tell him that's the deal—he lays off you and you forget the pix. That's better.”

“I couldn't do anything like that. I'd feel... like... like a queer myself.”

“You want to keep paying off the bastard?”

“No, but...”

“Harry's playing the rat—we're fighting fire with fire.”

“Suppose something goes wrong? What if he arrests me? It'd make me look like a nance.”

“That's a chance we take but it's almost a sure thing he...”

“We take? I take!”

“We. It's a thousand to one he won't go to the cops. I know, Harry framed a joker like that once. Look, if worst comes to worst I'll testify in court he is a pansy. And I can get other proof. Hell, what if you are taking a chance? I'm only doing this to get you straight, so Mady and I can have a little peace. Okay?”

He didn't answer and finally I said, “He's killing your wife with his crummy blackmail and you...”

“All right, all right!” he blurted out. “I'll do it. And God forgive me.”

“You call me at the house tomorrow, about three. I'll have the camera, and we'll go to whatever park you pick to meet him.” I went over things again, to be sure he didn't screw up—Harry was too sharp to make even a small mistake. Joe didn't like it—neither did I—but I knew he'd go through with it.

When I came back into the house, Mady was ironing in the kitchen. For some silly reason it made me feel good to see her ironing my shirts. She asked, “Finish your business? Was she pretty?”

“Sure. She was a corn blonde. Want to take a walk? I'm tired but I could use fresh air.”

She turned the iron off. “I'd love to walk. Next week it will be your turn to iron and wash.”

“It'll be what?”

“You heard me. No reason a man shouldn't do his part of the housework. Wait till I get a sweater.”

I could picture myself behind an iron or washboard.

We walked along the beach, holding hands like school kids, and I really felt tired. She knew all about shells and seaweed, pointed out the spot where we'd go surf-fishing in the morning. I said, “Best I go home and pound my ear. I've had a big day—for me—and it won't be easy to get up early.”

In the house she returned to her ironing and I took my pill, got into my pajamas, asked, “I have a problem —where do we sleep, in my bed or yours?”

“Mine, of course. The landlady always has the softest bed in the house.”

I kissed her good-night and dropped off to sleep as soon as I hit the sheets. The next thing I knew she was shaking me. I awoke with a start and she was sitting up in the dark stillness beside me. The room was full of early morning cold and I yawned, asked, “Time to go fishing?”

“No,” she said. “Hell with that. It's time for something else,” and pulled my head down into the wonderful warm firmness of her breasts.

THURSDAY

It was nearly noon when I was outside Mrs. Samuels' house. When I rang the bell she answered the door, said, “So you're the one who called. Yes, I remember you.”

“Glad of that.”

“You're late,” she said impatiently. “I've no time to wait around and gossip. I have to look for work.”

We went into the only free room in the house—outside of the John—the community kitchen, and as we sat down I asked, “Anybody around? What I have to say is strictly private.”

“Everybody is where a body should be, working or calling for their kids at school. Or calling for some white woman's kids.”

“I'll pay you for the day you've lost,” I cut in. “Now...”

“What kind of policeman are you? Paying for my time.”

“I'm not a cop. I'm... a... a friend. I need your help.”

“For what?”

“I want to know William Saxton's reasons for killing the Wilsons.”