Ed Lacy - The Best That Ever Did It

Louise and Cliff hurried out and as I started after them to explain, Franzino called me back. He pulled his bent medal out of the drawer. “I'm afraid to hammer this—might crack. Think you can straighten it out again, muscle head?”

I got it fairly straight.

CHAPTER 6

WHEN IT looked like we were really closing in, we fell flat on our collective faces. Not a thing happened Monday or Tuesday, except New York had one of those unexpected muggy heat spells. The air seemed to vibrate with heat waves, and as usual, the heat knocked me out. The passport photo places had never seen either Brown or Smith, and the State Department was “reasonably” sure nobody looking like either of them had used a passport since the murder.

On Wednesday Al Swan called for me and we went down to an office in the Federal Building on Foley Square. Franzino was there, along with two big apples from the Police Department, and an assortment of Feds. Except for me and Franzino, everybody was dressed like he'd been torn out of the men's fashion page of Esquire.

I was in fast company and I sat and listened. A State Department man made a short speech that added up to one thing —we were still no place. They'd found two other false passports, one issued to a light tan Negro named Alvin Hunt of Patterson, New Jersey, and one to a Richard Cohen of Brooklyn. Neither of these men had ever made an application for a passport; both vaguely recalled bar conversations some months ago about where they were born. In the passport pictures, Brown looked swarthy, his hair dark and close-cut, and he did something to his cheeks to make him look full-faced. Smith was sporting a heavy head of blond hair and didn't have a mole. A check on the rooming houses used by “Hunt” and “Cohen” gave us nothing—the guys had lived there for a few weeks, moved as soon as they got their passports. The talk ended with, “We have no way of knowing how many false passports these men planned to secure. But it is our theory that the killings will frighten them off the whole idea.”

“Meaning the case is closed?” Franzino growled. “Why, damnit, a policeman has been murdered and we're going to find the murderer whether you guys play ball or not!”

One of the police brass curtly told him to shut up, asked, “You mean they'll stop trying for any more passports?”

“Of course we're as anxious to find these men as you are, but it is our theory they will destroy the passports, drop the whole scheme.”

“Leaving us with Turner's death unsolved!” Franzino snapped.

The Federal man said, “These men are clever, and a clever man knows when he's had it. If they stop now, they're comparatively safe. Since their own passports may have been issued any time within the last four years—if they renewed them— it's almost impossible to check the thousands of passports issued during those years, so we can't find their real identities.”

There was a moment of silence and I sat there, sweating gently and feeling sticky and uncomfortable. I asked, “What happens if a person abroad sells his own passport?”

“Usually they report it as lost or stolen, and unless we can prove otherwise, we issue them a special travel permit, good only for returning to the States.”

“In other words, if they did get to Europe, they could sell their own passports and continue to live there, long as they didn't travel?” I asked.

“Yes. It's also possible for a man to travel about without a passport, once he reaches foreign shores. There are still soldiers who deserted during the last war, who are hiding out in France, Algiers, London. If a man tries to rent a hotel room, get a job, or leave a country, he has to show his passport or identity card. But if a deserter was living with a girl in her room, didn't work or travel, small chance of the local police catching up with them. And of course, there are such things as forged identity cards, too. Why do you ask?”

Before I could answer, one of the Police Department brass asked in a stage whisper, “Who the hell is that big guy?” and hit the ceiling soon as he heard I was a private badge. When Al and Franzino did a lot of whispering into his big ears, and this little storm died down, I cleared my throat, said, “Seems to me we still have a chance to take them. For one thing, they don't know we're on to their passport racket. And if they were going to chuck the whole deal, they wouldn't have shot Andersun, risked a murder rap.”

The Fed said, “If you think they'll try for more passports, why of course we plan to keep a running check on that.”

“What I think is this,” I said slowly, trying to keep my voice from dancing. “They have four phony passports we know of. That means a big hunk of money if they can sell them—and don't sell their own. You say they're clever. Okay, they've put in a lot of time and patient work on this deal, and I can't see them tossing away all that dough. My idea is—why don't we try and decoy them?”

Another silence greeted me. I kept sweating like a pig, wondered if I was making an ass of myself. The thing seemed so simple to me; somebody else had to think of it too!

But they all sat there without saying a damn word. After a long moment I went on. “We plant two phony stories in the papers, give them a big play. First, that the police have the killer—this is all off-the-top-of-my-noggin thinking—but something about a guy who was brooding about Turner slapping him around months ago—thought Andersun was a buddy of his— killed them both. Whatever the story, has to look good.”

The silence was still upon me like a hot blanket. The Fed asked softly, “And where does all this take us?” Maybe there was sarcasm in his voice—maybe it was my imagination.

“It makes Brown and Smith feel safe, that they can go after the jackpot. Now at the same time we plant another story. Hunt or Cohen... no, best we make it Spear... Irving Spear is picked up in a big crap game and makes the papers on some legal point about the police have no right to the pot. That stinks. I don't know what the gimmick will be exactly, but Spear comes into a hunk of change, maybe because of Andersun's death, and announces he's going to Europe. As I said, have to be a gimmick that would make the papers. Believing they're safe, Brown and Smith will try to knock off Spear, only we'll have him staked out. That puts it up to them—either they have to dump the idea, or knock off Spear and take off for Europe, or wherever they plan to sell the passports.... It will make them move, jump.”

You could still cut the silence with a blunt knife. I wiped my sweaty forehead with the back of my hand. The Fed man looked at the cops and the Fed said, “Granted it's a hell of a long shot, but since we don't have anything better, why not try it?”

“And if it doesn't work, we make the Police Department look like damn fools!” the police brass shouted.

“Who will ever know it didn't come off?” I asked. “The dummy we use will never come up for trial. Case will be forgotten—unless the Andersun family or Mrs. Turner make a stink, and I think we can talk them into co-operating with us.”

Federal shook his head. “We can't have too many people in on this, too much chance of a leak. For all we know Brown and Smith are in touch with the family—I mean see them on a social basis, under other names. As for the reputation of the Police Department, no trouble there. If nothing comes of this, the D.A. will dismiss the case for lack of evidence, or an alibi comes up. All done quietly. More I think of it, better I like our chances.”

“My client, Mrs. Turner, has to be in on it.”

A Fed who hadn't spoken till now asked, “Afraid you'll lose out on a day's pay?”

“That's an idea,” I said, fighting to sound calm. “I don't want Mrs. Turner to think I've solved the case when I haven't. Her interest—and mine—in all this is solely why and how Ed Turner was killed, and we're still a long ways from bringing that under the wire. Also, in my opinion—for what it's worth— you can foul things up easier by trying to hush this than by letting the people concerned know the score. That's why I've ruled out Hunt and Cohen. No point in starting with a new set of people. As for Spear, he's going with Andersun's sister, so he'll tell her. Our best bet is explain it to them and...”

“We'll work out the details,” a police bigwig said curtly. There was a little more chatter, and the conference was over. All the way uptown Al Swan kept telling me how, ”.... Can't get over you, Barney boy. Just keep surprising the crap out of me. You been hiding a brain under that bushel of wild hair.”

I felt uneasy, and when I left Al I went to the office, looked through the ads I called mail. I began to feel even more jittery. I kept telling myself it was the muggy heat, but that wasn't entirely it. I drove around to look up the last known addresses of a couple of deadbeats, then I went home to take a shower. I gave myself a stiff workout with the weights, ended in a river of sweat, and still restless. I finally got in the tub and cooled off, and of course started sweating again as I dried myself. I kept telling myself they had taken my ideas, yet I felt odd, on edge. I drove over to the school and when Ruthie climbed in beside me and I asked what she wanted for supper, she said, “Betsy said we can eat at her house.”

“We're not eating at Mrs. Turner's house. And don't call her Betsy.”

“Aunt Betsy?”

“Call her Mrs. Turner. That's good manners.”

“Daddy, when you know somebody good, like I know Betsy, then you call them by their first name.”

“Not little girls and big people.”

“Well, why can't we have supper with her? She bakes swell and I want to see my new dresses.”

“You'll see them some other time,” I said, driving toward the super market. “We're eating home. Maybe a salad and...”

“But why, Daddy?”

“Because I say so!” I snapped and immediately wished I'd bitten my tongue.

Saying that made me jump back twenty-five years. The only real fight I ever had with my old man was once when I was eleven years old and he told me that, instead of giving me a reason. The old guy had raced with Oldfield—that's why he named me Barney—and as far back as I can remember he was always working on a garage on Sixty-fourth Street—a stoop-shouldered man, dirty with grease, an old skull cap pushed back on his big head. I was so mad I burst into tears and that got him; he made me explain what I was boiling about. Then he said, “Fair enough, a kid is entitled to a reason for everything— if I can give you one. Tell you what, next time I ever slip you that 'Because I say so,' you belt me.” And I'd said, “But, Pop, I can't reach your jaw.” And he'd laughed as he told me, “Don't worry, Barney, you're tall enough to belt me where it would hurt worse than on the kisser.”

There was a group of chauffeurs hanging around—I always disliked them for being snotty know-it-alls. My old man's crack made them hysterical and when I asked Pop why, he said, “That's a reason I can't give you—yet. See, it's kind of a joke. Has to do with sex—something I'll explain when you're older.”

About a year later, Mom overheard me arguing with a friend about Jean Harlow's breasts, whether they were “big” or not, and that night she told Pop it was time to “talk to him.” Being a slum kid, I had a very clear idea of how sex worked, but I went for a walk with the old man, listened to him stammer it out. I remember he started with, “Barney, time you learned other people besides pimps and gangsters drive Cadillacs...”

Now I glanced at Ruthie as I parked the car; she was looking away from me, her little lips a tight line. I told her, “Honey, I didn't mean to jump you. I'm nervous today—maybe because of the heat. And—I'm working for Mrs. Turner, and we can't mix business and pleasure.”