Ed Lacy - The Men From the Boys

“While you're checking, look right around here. Somebody in this station house must have tipped off whoever did it that Lawrence was coming in for some extra patrol work.”

“Maybe the kid was followed, maybe it was one of those things where the guy happened to see him and let him have it. Marty, these CD cops have their own setup. The guy in charge here is some retired West Pointer, a big society buddy —he wouldn't have any part in a beating. Don't start turning my precinct on its head with a lot of wild ideas.”

“I got some wilder ones. Listen to me: all Lawrence remembers is dimly seeing a guy that looked like Dick Tracy and...”

“Dick Tracy? For the love of...!”

“Bill, listen. I think that Dick Tracy stuff is a good make. He also heard the guy cursing him before he blacked out. The guy kept saying, 'Bastid! Bastid'—like a growl. I think it was Bob 'Hilly' Smith!”

Ash stood up, kicked the table. “Between the brass, the reporters and you, I'll be ready for a strait jacket! Why would a top operator like Smith go around slugging a tin cop?”

“I don't know the why, for now, only that there's a lot of loose ends to this thing. The kid was worked over by a professional, and Bob is the best in the business. Remember what Bob was known as before he became so big? 'Pretty Boy' Smith they called him. He has those over-clean-cut features, the strong face of a Dick Tracy. Finally, he came up from the tobacco road, a mountain boy, and don't talk so good. I remember his favorite word was bastid. Never bastard but bastid.”

“Damn it, Marty, all the booze you've lapped up has softened what few brains you ever had,” Bill said, his voice snotty, like he was talking to a lunkhead. “There's a million so-called clean-cut-looking punks. There's also about four million people in Brooklyn alone who use the word bastid. As for it being a professional going-over, that's bunk. A maniac can do a better job than any paid hood.”

“No, he can't—and remember me, I'm an authority on how to beat up a guy. All right, a nut may kill faster than a professional, but this wasn't a killing—this was a beating, a warning. The doc at the hospital says Lawrence was beaten in a matter of seconds; the guy didn't waste a blow—that's a pro muscleman. Maybe it's wacky, but I think the kid stepped into something with this nutty butcher, something big enough to make a Bob Smith scare him off. This Wilhelm Lande is phony, he never had a stroke—or he would have had one just now. And he's scared, real scared.”

Ash walked around the tiny drab room. His pants were wrinkled, his shoes unshined. “Marty, hold up a minute, don't go off the deep end on this. I like the kid too, I'm not sloughing this off. But think what you're saying—Hilly Smith is the top syndicate cop. Even if he wanted to slug a CD rookie, he wouldn't do it himself. And he isn't walking the streets. We've been looking for him, routine pickup on Anderson, and Smith can't be found. As for that butcher mess, Marty, do you realize what you're saying? For the love of tears the guy wasn't robbed to start with—there's no charge —and now you want me to believe a lousy little butcher hired the best muscleman in the rackets to beat up an auxiliary police kid who was horsing around with a robbery that never was!”

I shrugged. “All right, I'm not saying this is the blueprint, and I know it's a wild hair, but I think it's worth looking into. Or is Bob Smith so big and protected you're afraid to touch him on a minor case?”

“Cut that kind of wind. There's nothing I'd like better than to get that muscle rat—on anything. Marty, you know me, I'm no hero but I never side-stepped anything because of the angles. I got a man working on Lawrence's case, and with this Anderson thing all over town, it's hard to spare a man. What you forget is there can be a hundred reasons why the kid was slugged—a drunk, a cop-hater, a nut, and maybe something in the kid's background neither of us know about.”

“Don't cover me with it, Bill, it's up to my shoes now.”

He stopped walking and came over to me. “What makes you so all fire sure, Marty? This is the first time you've seen Lawrence in ten years, maybe longer. You don't know a damn thing about him. I think he's a good kid and I'm not saying he's mixed up in anything, you understand. But neither am I dropping everything and buying a crazy yarn about a two-bit butcher and a top racket man being interested in beating up a cop-happy kid, who wasn't on duty, wasn't even empowered to act as a peace officer. He was just an ordinary citizen who got into a fight, and because I happen to know the kid, I'm doing more than I should to find who walloped him!”

I got up. “So long, Bill.”

“I got more to tell you, Marty. Close the door for a second.”

I shut the door, leaned against it, my stomach rumbling.

Ash glanced down at his dirty shirt, as if realizing for the first time that he'd been up all night. Then he looked at me and tried to smile as he said, “Marty, this is tough to say because in our own way we've been pals for a long time. I know you got a lousy temper, fly off the handle. Maybe your toughness was a kite and I was the tail when you were flying high. Marty, I try never to kid myself. I know I've been lucky and therefore ...”

“Too hot for a speech—what you want to say, Bill?”

“Just that you're no longer a cop, Marty. You can't go busting into people's places, question them—slap them around. In short, you can't take the law into your own hands. It wasn't exactly legal when you had a badge—now you haven't any badge. You have a burr up your prat about the kid, I understand that, but... Hell, Marty, for your own good I'm telling you this in front—don't make me run you in; this is my precinct and I'm dancing on enough hot coals now —if I catch you playing cop again, I'll have to throw you in the can.”

“The gold on your badge is making your eyes bloodshot, Bill. There's an angle you don't know here. This means a lot more to me than getting hunk for a badge-happy kid, especially if it is Hilly Smith. You and me, we've made a lot of collars, some good scores, but always the two-bit punks, the small-time hustlers, the little operators. For once I want to nail down a big boy, a top apple. Maybe to make up for all the slobs I've pushed around.”

Ash stared at me, then his tight face relaxed and he burst out laughing. “This is a new one—never thought I'd see the day your conscience would be bothering you—I thought it was made of pig-iron. Marty, I'm not being the big cop with you because I like the idea, but I haven't time for anything till this Anderson deal is...”

“Cocky's death is just another headline to me, another dead crook.”

Bill sighed. “Okay, Marty, Cocky's death is my job and I got to get back to it. But remember, I'm warning you to stop playing cop.”

“Let's both of us play this warning game. Keep out of my way, Bill, or you'll get hurt.” I walked out of his office. Downstairs I stopped at the desk, asked, “Where's the guy in charge of the auxiliary police unit here?”

“Colonel Flatts is downtown, arranging about the transfer of his men out of here.”

“Flatts—what's his first name?”

“F. Frank Flatts. All f's—his mother must have had that on her mind.”

I went out into the morning heat, got a couple of packages of mints and an ice-cream soda, took a bus downtown to the license bureau. I was lucky—one of the old-timers I knew hadn't gone out to lunch yet and I took him out for a fat sandwich and a couple of beers, listened to the details of his wife's fallen womb, gave him the list of Lande's customers, and told him I would call later to get the names of the real owners.

Then I taxied up to a couple of gin mills off Broadway, asked around for two good stoolies I used to own. But “used to” was a half a dozen years ago and they'd disappeared. Then I called a detective in the midtown area to have him check on Lou Franconi's record—only to find the sonofabitch had retired four months before.

I phoned Dot, asked, “Where can I find this girl Lawrence was running around with?”

“She works in the office of a lawyer named Lampkin, near Chambers Street. Why do you want to see her?” There was more life in Dot's voice.

“Routine stuff, can't overlook anything—the trouble is there should be six of me to handle all the details. You been to the hospital this morning?”

“I called. Lawrence is sleeping comfortably, went to sleep as soon as he talked to you, the doctor said. Marty, I was a little hysterical last night, but I really appreciate this.”

“All right. As usual I have my own reasons for looking into this. Dot, was the kid mixed up in anything? I know he isn't the type, but with kids these days... He wasn't in any gangs, stuff like that?” It was a wasted question to ask a mother.

“Of course not. And Lawrence isn't a kid—he's a man.”

“You bet. Look, what's the name of his babe?”

“Helen Samuels.”

“Can't you talk him out of marrying a Jew-girl, Dot?”

I heard her sigh over the phone. “Marty, will you ever grow up?”

“Honey, I'm way past the growing stage. Maybe I'll see you at the hospital.”

I took the subway down to Chambers Street, looked up this Lampkin in the phone book. He shared a suite of offices with a football team of other lawyers. A pretty, big-eyed girl, with a solid bosom, was at the reception desk. When she asked what I wanted, I said, “Are you Helen Samuels?”

“Yes.” Her eyes got that wary look most citizens get when anybody “official looking” asks for them.

“I'm Marty Bond, Lawrence's stepfather.”

“He's talked about you often.”

“Can we chatter for a couple of minutes? Here? Or will it get you in a jam?”

“We can talk here. I just called the hospital. Larry is much better.”

“Look, Helen, you know about me—I'm an ex-cop. I'm on my own and trying to find who beat up Lawrence. I have to narrow down any and all leads, so I'm going to ask you a couple of questions that may sound silly, but give me the truth.”

“I understand. What do you wish to know, Mr. Bond?”

“How long have you known Lawrence?”

“Oh—about three years. We met in college.”

“I take it you know him sleeping well. Was he mixed up in anything shady? And before you shout no at me, think. A lot of kids try dope for a kick these days, find themselves in a swindle.”

“Larry was not in anything like that, I'm utterly positive.”

“All right, utterly. Did he do any gambling?”

“Of course not. Sometimes we played bridge for a half a cent a hundred, or penny poker, that's all.”

“Where'd he get all his money from?”

“What money? Why, we were using my salary.... Oh, that's a trick question, isn't it?”

“A clumsy one. You have any other boy friends... jealous ones?”

“No. I haven't dated anyone but Larry since we met.”

“Lawrence wanted—wants—to be a lawyer. Was he mixed up in politics, hanging around any of the clubs?”

“Never. You see he didn't plan on practicing law; he expects to be a policeman.”

“You like that idea?”

She shook her head, a big shake that made her breastworks dance. I wondered if Lawrence was man enough to handle all that. “No, I didn't, not at first. But then when I understood how much law and law enforcement mean to him, I wanted him to become a police officer.”

“Believe me, he'll be better off as a lawyer. There's a difference of religion—your parents object to Lawrence?”

“Not after they met him. And I haven't any brothers who hated Larry either!”