Ed Lacy - The Men From the Boys

“All right, don't get ahead of me. I have to ask these questions. Is there anybody, for any reason you know of, who might have hated Lawrence? Maybe another CD cop, maybe a guy in college—anybody who even disliked him?”

“No, nobody.”

“Thanks, you've been a help. Good-by.”

“Well, I've told you the truth, answered...”

“I know, and I mean it—about your being a big help. Thanks.”

Outside I stopped for a glass of iced coffee, tried to remember the name of the CD cop Lawrence had been teamed with when Lande said he was robbed. My memory was still good and it came to me—John Breet. I looked in all the phone books—no Breets.

Long as I was downtown I dropped in to see the joker at the license bureau. He had the list of owners, but far as I knew none of them were racket people.

I went into a bar and used their bathroom, had a hamburger. Maybe I was rusty, being away from the job all these years, but I felt like an amateur. Bill was right, I was spouting off about Hilly Smith like a comic-book dick. If Bob was in this, there had to be a tie-up between the kid and the syndicate, or Lande and the crime mob. The kid seemed clean, and what the hell would the syndicate care about a two-bit butcher? Lande could be a numbers drop, but the driver would have hinted at that—unless he was in on the deal too. But that didn't add up, the store was too isolated; the longshoremen played their numbers right on the docks. Still there had to be some connection, or Smith was out— and so was the little favor I planned on his doing for me.

I found F. Frank Flatts in the phone book, in the ritzy part of the East Side. I took a gamble and sweated out a subway ride up there. The colonel lived in an apartment house with a doorman and a guy with a death mask for a puss who operated a switchboard. Flatts was in, and when I explained I was Lawrence's father, he had me up.

He looked like a real character, brushed gray hair, wearing a heavy smoking robe and slippers, nose and lips like knives, and he walked and stood like he'd swallowed a broomstick— the erect military posture, or something. He was a guy with dough; he even had a butler.

Of course he had to speak with a clipped, society accent, biting off and freezing each word. He said, “My dear man, I can't tell you how upset I am about what happened and I assure you I'm doing everything possible to find the culprits.” His eyes took in my sweaty shirt, my baggy clothes.

“Look, Colonel, save the oil. I'm a former army officer myself....”

“Regular army, sir?”

“Nope, just a clown who lumbered through OCS. Also, I'm an ex-cop, retired.”

“Then you certainly understand how disturbed I was at...”

“Colonel, let me tell you why I'm here. When I was on the force I was a hot-shot detective. Well, today I've found out it's rugged working on your own. In the old days, while I was hunting down a lead, the department would have a dozen other men running down minor clues. That's what I'm up against now; I can't do this alone.”

“You have my complete co-operation, and I think your civic pride is to be commended.”

“That's what I want—your co-operation, your influence. The cops are busy now, won't work with me. I figure you can put a little pressure on them, get them to find out a few facts for me. I want some records checked; for example, I want to know more about one of your men, a John Breet, who was with Lawrence the night...”

“My dear sir, there is no need to question any of my men —they have all been screened before joining the force. As for the police, I am sorry to say they have not co-operated with us, nor appreciated our efforts in the least. I am not talking about any particular police officer, but the department as a whole. They seem to think we are a kind of joke, a stumbling block, underestimating our effectiveness.”

“Colonel, there's a big murder hunt on at the moment— the heat is on the force. In fact the heat is on pretty much all the time—they haven't the time to work with your men.

But that's not what I'm here for. I take it you're wealthy, have influence, not to mention your position in CD. What I want you to do is pull strings, insist somebody in the department work with you—then you can get me the dope I need.”

He shook his head. “Mr. Bond, I assure you that we, as an auxiliary police force, are doing everything we can to solve this beating. Also, I am sure that the regular police force isn't...”

“Colonel, you just said you'd give me full co-operation. Well, that's what I'm asking for.”

“I will in any official capacity. As for pulling... strings, using special influence, favoritism, I have always been against that. I will do everything I can—through channels.”

“Through channels? Are you for real? This has to be taken care of now, today, tomorrow, or it never will be solved.”

“As a former officer you must see my position. I can't...”

“I don't see no position—I ain't playing checkers. All I'm asking you to do is make a few calls for me. Won't take you more than a couple of hours, and with the information I'll be able to hook up, or throw out, a lot of loose ends in the case. Will you do that?”

“If you tell me what you want, I will suggest it to the police department, and to my own...”

“Flatts, do you know the police commissioner, or know anybody who knows him?”

“As it happens, I know the commissioner quite well. I also know the mayor, but I fail to see ...”

“Will you call the commissioner right now, tell him to put you in touch with a detective who will work with you?”

“I see no reason for...”

I headed for the door. “Colonel, those eagles on your shoulders must have dropped something—your head.”

He was starting to draw himself up as I left.

There was one check that would take a lot of phoning, so I went back down to the Grover. Dewey was on, said, “King left a message for you—unless you call him right away, you're through.”

“I haven't time to worry about that underfed mouse. Any trouble last night?”

“One of Barbara's customers tried drinking in the lobby, but left after I talked to him. Don't know what's happened to Lilly; we've been short a maid now for the second day. Oh yeah, this Dr. Dupre was in, wants you to call him. Marty, see the doc—you must be sick, screwing up a good job like...”

“Don't worry about me, Dewey. Give me an outside line in my room.”

I undressed and took a sponge bath, then started calling guys I knew in the department. It took over an hour, and a lot of “Where you been all these years, Marty old boy?” before I found one who had an in with the Immigration Department. He gave me a name to call and I got my info in a few minutes—nothing. Lande's real name was Landenberg. He'd come to this country in the late 30's with his wife, and a relative in Jersey City, a Herman Bochstein, a bricklayer turned building contractor, had stood bond for him.

That was that—I'd spent all day running in empty circles. I stretched out, but it was too hot for sleep. It was after four and I decided to go over to the hospital, see how Lawrence was, give him a talking to.

As I left, Dewey asked, “When will you be back?”

“I don't know.”

“What shall I tell King if he calls?”

I told him what to tell King and went out. The streets were like an oven as I headed over toward Seventh Avenue. One of the maids, a big wide dark woman, was walking ahead of me, and as I passed she said, “Heat is a brute, isn't it, Mr. Bond? That Lilly, we got to work twice as hard with her out.”

“It's tough all over. Maybe she'll be back tomorrow.”

“She don't—you'd better get an extra woman to fill in or you going to have me out.”

She turned the corner and I hadn't walked more than a few hundred feet alone when I had this feeling I was being followed. I've never been wrong about a hunch—when it came to being tailed. Because of the heat, the streets were pretty empty; I did all the usual tricks, but I couldn't make my tail or throw him off. Finally I ducked down some subway steps, put a token in the turnstile. There were less than a dozen people along the uptown platform, and I kept watching the turnstiles. Nobody came through except an old dame—yet I knew I was being followed.

I jumped on the first train that came in—a Bronx express. I sat down, and all this rushing made me sweat—wet. I was going to shake the tail by jumping off at Times Square, hop another train, or bluff it... then I got a better idea. It was too hot for all that work—I'd take my tail for a little ride—up to Harlem.

Except for a few days, I'd never worked in Harlem and it was just as well—the place gave me the shakes. I felt like an open target: a burly white man in Harlem could only be a cop. I've known cops who said working Harlem was a good deal, but not me. I expected to be jumped any and every moment, was full of this uneasy fear.

I tried spotting my tail in the store windows—there weren't many whites walking around—but I couldn't make him. I hoped he was as nervous as me.

Lilly lived in a room in an old brownstone with about ten bells at the entrance. I rang her bell four times, like it said above her name, and before she could buzz back, the door opened and two big dark men came out, rough-looking jokers. The way they looked at me as I went in, I thought they were going to try and stop me, but they just went on out, down the steps.

I walked up two flights of stairs, full of the smells of too many people living in one place, wondered what the hell I was doing up here. It wasn't the money—I sure didn't need dough now—it was just the idea of being screwed, somebody putting something over on me.

Lilly's dark face was at a door opening, and from what little I could see of her, she was in a nightgown. She looked astonished when she saw me but didn't make no move to open the door. I said, “Hello, Lilly.”

“What you doing up here, Mr. Bond?”

“Just dropped in to talk to you—but not in the hallway.”

“I'm in my bed clothes, not dressed to admit no men. Don't the hotel believe I'm sick? Got a cold in my shoulder that's about killing me. When I come back I'll bring a certificate from my lodge doctor and...”

“Cut it, Lilly, you know why I'm up here. Where's my dough?” I kept my voice down.

“What money, Mr. Bond?” she said, her voice loud in the quiet of the house.

If her room faced the front, I might make my tail from the window, although he didn't seem that sloppy. “Let me inside and we'll talk it over.”

“No, I'm not letting you in my room. You drunk again, Mr. Bond?”

“Don't get fresh—drunk again.”

“What you mean, fresh? I'm not feeling well, and there's a draft here. What you want?”

“Look, Lilly, I did you a favor. I got that five bucks for you from them drunks, and this is the way you pay me back. Trouble with you people, try to be nice and...”

“What you mean by you people? Aren't you people, Mr. Bond, a human being?”

I was getting sore. “All right, cut the lip. You were going to put a buck in for me on 506, remember?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Number 605 came out that day.”

“So?”

“Lilly,” I said, fighting to keep my voice low, “nobody plays a number straight. You combinated the number—means I had about fifteen cents of the buck on 605—I want my seventy-five bucks.”

“You must be drunk! I play 506 straight, always. And if you'd won I'd have brought you your money, even if I had to leave my sickbed.”

“Lilly, don't play me for a sucker. I don't want no trouble but...”