Ed Lacy - The Best That Ever Did It

I made a big impression on Danny. We started talking about strong men and Jimmy joined in. They kept bulling about the old-timers: Sandow, Hackenschmidt, Goerner. They had never even heard of John Davis, or Doug Hepburn, Grimek, or Kono. Then Danny started on wrestlers and was breezing about Grotch, Poddoubny, the time he wrestled one of the Zbyszko brothers, and how he had almost pinned Strangler Lewis. Finally, I asked, “This Franklin Andersun, was he a muscleman?”

Danny laughed, filling the air with the smell of beer. “Couldn't lift a toothpick. Boys today got it too soft, cars to take them here and there, elevators and stuff. Everything is done for them, they don't develop no muscles.”

“What do you fellows think about the killing? You knew the kid.”

The bartender said, “I think it was all a mistake, somebody thought Frank was another guy. He wasn't the kind to be in any trouble.”

“That's the truth. If you was picking a guy to be in a mess, Frankie'd be the last guy you'd pick,” Danny said, as I glanced at his sightless eyes, caused by trachoma and dirty ring canvas.

“How about Turner, the detective? Ever see him before?”

The blind man said, “I never heard him,” and Jimmy added, “That's all the cops been asking me. I keep telling 'em, I only seen him once—out there on the sidewalk, dead.”

“Any strangers in here the night of the shootings?”

“You kidding?” Jimmy said, rinsing out a rag, running it over the top of the bar. “Always a few strangers in a bar. But that night, had mostly neighborhood regulars, to hear about Frank winning the dough.”

“Brown was in,” Danny said suddenly.

“He was?” Jimmy said, rinsing the rag again. “Don't recall seeing him.”

“He was in,” Danny said. “I remember his voice—never forget his voice.”

I motioned for another round of beers, asked, “Who's Brown?”

“Some know-it-all jerk,” Jimmy said. “I been living and rooming around this block for the last... well... forty-five years at least.”

“Me too, even longer,” Danny said.

“Look down the block and you'll see an empty lot across the street. Still got some wide stone steps at the front of it. Used to be a church at one time. That was about 1915, wasn't it, Danny?”

“Right.”

“Well, just before the war, around 1917, old Rev. Atkins died in an auto accident and the church sort of went out of business, if you can say that about a church. Then some German society took it over, put in a lot of dough making it into a gym. Along comes the war and the place is shut down, then it burns, just part of the foundation and steps left. Lot of people think the fire wasn't no accident, you know how feelings ran high during the war. I never thought so, but...”

“What's this got to do with this Brown?” I asked.

“He was coming to that,” Danny cut in. “One night this Brown comes in here and gets to talking to one of the boys— Frankie, come to think of it.”

“Yeah, was him and Frankie arguing,” Jimmy said.

“About what?” I put in.

“Nothing, really. Brown says he was born around here and remembered Frankie's father and mother, that he and Andersun was born a few days apart. Just bar talk, except he said he remembered when the church burned, only it wasn't a church then, and anyway it was before his time.”

“And nobody ever remembered seeing him around,” Danny added. “Why should a guy bull about junk like that? What got me, was his voice, had a kind of twang to it, funny way of saying 'r.' Nobody born here talk that way.”

“Don't remember nothing odd about his voice,” Jimmy said.

The blind man finished his beer. “But I did. I used to wrestle a lot upstate, around Elmira and Ithaca. People talk with that kind of a twang up there.”

“That was the argument—about whether this Brown had been born around here?” I asked.

Jimmy nodded, as he washed and dried his hands. “That's all. Just remembered it because of his lying about the church burning.”

“What did he look like? Recall his first name?”

The bartender examined a spot on his white apron for a moment. “Think he had some ordinary name like Jack, or Joe. As for looks—this was months ago—didn't make any special impression on me. I'd say he was around thirty, stocky, I think, and short.”

“Dressed well?”

“Hell, I don't remember.”

“Color of his hair?”

“Yeah, yeah, I remember that—red!” Jimmy said happily. “Yes sir, real red hair. I remember because not only was it awful red, but he was arguing a lot and I was thinking what they say about redheads being scrappers.”

“He was a mean one, I could tell by his voice,” Danny said. “I think he had a friend, another guy, with him.”

Jimmy shrugged. “I don't remember nobody with him.”

“Let's get back to the night of the killings—did Brown leave before Andersun?” I asked.

Jimmy laughed, showing a mossy set of uppers. “Jeez, mac, I didn't say he was in that night.”

“But he was,” the blind man said. “I been trying to remember where I'd heard his voice before and just now, when you was asking about strangers, it came to me.”

“You only heard the voice twice, with a three-month time lapse between, and you're still sure it's the same voice?” I asked.

“Sure, it's been hanging around the back of my mind ever since the shootings. Like when something is on the tip of your tongue and you can't remember it. I don't mistake a voice. It was him all right.”

“Danny, did you tell this to the cops?”

He shook his big blind head. “Telling you, I just thought of it.”

I turned to the barkeep. “Did you tell the police about this Brown?”

“Of course not. I only saw him once before and as for his being here on the night of the murders, can't prove it by me,” Jimmy said.

The clock up near the TV set said it was ten to four. I gave Jimmy one of my cards, said I'd see him again. I shook hands with Danny and neither of us tried the grip-of-iron shake, and I took off. There wasn't time to drive to the police station so I dropped into a drugstore, phoned Lieutenant Franzino. A gruff, impatient voice asked, “Yeah? Lieutenant Franzino speaking.”

“I'm Barney Harris—the private detective Lieutenant Swan spoke to you about.”

“Aha. What's on your mind, Mr. Harris?” To my surprise his voice became mild and polite.

“Maybe nothing, but I've been talking to the bartender and a big blind man in the Grand Cafe. They told me there was a fellow named Brown, first name something ordinary like Joe, Jack, or John. He's about thirty years old, bright red hair, stocky build, and has a slight twang to his voice. He was in the Grand several months ago, claimed he was born in the neighborhood, that he knew Franklin Andersun. But nobody remembered him, including Andersun. Also, from a mistake he made in talking about a church that burned, the barkeep knew he was lying about being born in the block. The...”

“What's this add up to, Harris?”

“Maybe just a lot of bar talk. The blind man claims he was in the Grand again on the night of the killings, before the shooting. The bartender doesn't remember him being there that night, but the blind guy is positive, says he's good on remembering voices. I figure it's too much coincidence.”

“Yeah. Sure a better lead than we have now. A Tom, Dick, or Harry Brown with red hair. Be tough to locate, but we'll give it a look. Thanks, Mr. Harris.”

“Danny, the blind man, said the twang in Brown's voice reminded him of the way people speak upstate, around Ithaca or Elmira.”

“Good. We'll look into it. Guess Swan checked you out on what we know. Stay in touch, Mr. Harris. I realize you have to show some... uh... work, so I don't mind you looking about, only kind of keep out of my way. I don't like tripping over private dicks. Get me, Mr. Harris?”

“Sure. Don't worry, I never overwork myself.”

I drove uptown and over to Audubon Avenue and parked outside the private school that was keeping me broke, but with the overcrowding in the public schools it was worth the strain. It wasn't four-thirty yet and I lit a cigarette, thought about the case, about the blind muscleman, and mostly about Betsy Turner. There was something phony about her, something I couldn't quite put my finger on.

Finally the kids came out and Ruthie came skipping over to me, looking good in the dress I'd bought last month. She was all long legs and arms as I opened the door and she climbed in, kissed me twice, said between kisses, “Hello, Daddy.” Then she drew back and rubbed her lips. “You smell of beer.”

“That a way to talk to the poppa?” I said, starting the car.

“How many beers did you have?”

“A million, Miss Nosey.”

“Are we going to take a ride?”

“Maybe a very short one. Want chopped meat for supper?”

“Why aren't we going for a ride?”

“I have to go out this evening.”

“Daddy, I don't like it when you go out. Where you going?”

“Have to work. Get May Weiss to stay with you.”

“I don't like May, she's stuck-up. Always doing her homework, never wants to play. Why can't you stay home and read to me, or I'll watch you exercise?”

“Told you why, have to work,” I said, running my right hand over her silky brown pigtail. Her hair was due for a washing.

“Not sneaking off to a movie, Daddy?”

“No, honey, you're the only girl I take to the movies. And what I'm working on sounds crazier than any movie.”

We drove up to Yonkers and back, cutting over to Broadway to escape the toll bridge. Ruthie talked all the time as usual. She said she'd seen my cousin Jake Winston, the mailman, on the street. He'd stopped at the school to tell her he wanted us to come out to his place in Ridgewood on Sunday. Way all my relations kept after me, got me a little sore—I could take care of the kid okay.

I stopped at a super market and Ruthie went in with me, asked, “Can we make a Jello pie tonight?”

“Guess we have time for that. But I have to feed you, start your bath, take a shower and shave myself, and be out of the house by seven-thirty.”

“Maybe you really aren't going to the movies... taking a shave at night. Here's the chopped meat.”

“We'll get a thick steak. We're eating high on the hog tonight.”

She looked up at me with big questioning eyes. “What does that mean, Daddy?”

“Means a person is eating real meat, instead of the pig's feet, the insides, or the tail.”

Ruthie screwed up her pug nose. “But why do people eat the feet of pigs and the insides, Daddy?”

“Usually because they're too poor to buy the other parts,” I said, knowing I'd started something.

THE MORNING of April eleventh was the start of a pleasantly cool spring day, but the man rushing into a fourth-rate hotel off lower Eighth Avenue was sweating. His name was Martin Pearson and he was thirty-two years old, stocky, and of average height. He had a very ordinary face, except for his thick bushy hair, which at the moment was dyed a sandy blond. His worn tweed suit had been purchased in a Times Square store some six years before, the clean white shirt came from Amsterdam, the brown knit tie had been bought on the Rue de la Paix, and the shoes in Genoa. The old leather camera-gadget case hanging from his left shoulder had been ordered from a Sears Roebuck catalog many years ago.

Pearson was rushing and sweating because some twenty minutes before, while sipping his morning coffee and reading a paper in a Seventy-third Street cafeteria, he had decided to murder a man.