Ed Lacy - The Men From the Boys

Five

Sam gave me penicillin tablets and a slug of medicine that tasted like stale Scotch. “That will knock it out, Marty. If it doesn't, see a doctor. You got yourself a real cold. I... uh... trust you've been careful with those sleeping pills.”

“Threw them away. You're right, Sam, why mess with that stuff.”

The relief almost oozed over Sam's heavy face. “That was smart. Go back to the hotel and get some sleep. Best thing for a cold. You look awful sad.”

“I don't feel exactly overbright,” I said.

He started gabbing about a fight he'd watched on TV the night before. I didn't listen, for in the back of my head I had this feeling something was out of place.

“... There's this big muscle-bound dope with his knees buckling. Instead of staying away, what does he do but come in. Wham! He's clipped again by the right and it's all over. I'm telling you, Marty, pugs today don't know their business.”

“Yeah, it's always easier to know what to do when you're outside the ring,” I told him. “I remember...” All of a sudden I felt good—Lande had played it the way I figured, after all! The damn cold must have had me groggy—it was eleven minutes before he came out of the shop, looked for a cop. Then he went back in and phoned the police. That meant he'd called somebody else first, had been told to call the cops.

It fitted—I was still in business—even if I didn't know what business.

“As you were saying ...?”

“Nothing, except sometimes it's tough to think in the clinches. I'll see you, Sam.”

I was in business but still in the dark about the link between the syndicate and a small-timer like Lande. I went back to see the driver again. He was packing a truck, told me to wait a few minutes. He was wearing what looked like a motorcycle racer's lined leather hat, only it was too big for him and he looked like the comic in an old burlesque.

He was busy taking slabs of fat out of the freezer and when he finished he said, “I got about ten minutes for talk,” and pulled off the hat, ran a comb through his thick hair. He looked at the comb, said, “Lousy hat is dirty.”

“Hot for a hat,” I said, wiping my nose.

He laughed. “I feel for you. Nothing as uncomfortable as a summer cold. And the freezer is the place to get one. Stay in there for a few minutes without a hat and you'll get yourself a hell of a cold. Some of the brain juices freeze.”

“Stop it. You mean you shake your noggin and hear the icicles rattle?”

“I sure do mean it,” this Lou said. “Guys that work in the freezer keep every part of them covered, including a muffler over their faces. Let me take you in, show you how cold it is.”

“I believe you. What they need a freezer for? Special meats that won't keep in the icebox?” I asked, and I had a fair idea what the link was—the punks must have been reading too many detective yarns. This was an old gimmick, although I'd never heard of it being actually used except in the movies and books.

“Look, you buy a case of turkeys or a side of beef, whatever it is, it don't move. After a few days in the icebox the meat starts getting 'slick'—a little slimy. It's about a day from turning. You toss it in the freezer, keep it till you get a call for turkeys.”

“Freezing make them any better?”

“No better, no worse. Soon as they thaw out they're as good as they were when you put them in. We keep them covered in bags so the skin won't get a freezer burn. Before they had freezers, the butchers were forced to buy carefully or throw out...”

“All right, Lou,” I cut in, “I'll never be in the meat business. Tell me, has Willie been around to see you since we last talked?”

Franconi shook his head. “Should he have?”

“Yes and no. I'll level with you, Lou. I been fishing and not coming up with anything. Looks like my hunch has worn thin.”

“Like I told you, Willie hasn't the iron to be crooked. How's the cop that was slugged?”

“He'll live. Do any ship stewards buy supplies from Lande? He's right on the water front.”

Lou grinned. “Mister, you ain't even warm. Supplying ships is real big business. Willie would give both arms to be able to get in that.”

“Lande have any sailor friends? Maybe from the old country, dropping in to visit him?”

“Willie had no time for any friends. What's all this salt air about?”

“Like I said, fishing. I thought Willie might be mixed up in a dope deal.”

“Pal, you're way off base.”

“How do you know—for sure? He could have a hundred grand worth of heroin in a box smaller than a canned ham.”

“It ain't like that, mister. Aside from Willie not going in for phony deals, I'm with him all morning, part of the afternoon. And every other night I sweep and mop down the joint—ain't a spot in the shop I ain't cleaned. I even help him with the books. He couldn't hide anything from me. I'm like a partner, except for the dough. If I ever hit a horse or a number I'm going to suggest to Willie we become real partners.”

“Suggest it to his wife—Willie may not be around too long. What about the wife—any boy friends?”

“You ain't ever seen Bebe, or you wouldn't ask that. All spread and a yard wide. Lucky she has Willie.”

“Well, thanks, Lou. Remember, keep your mouth shut about our little talks.”

“They couldn't beat a word out of me.”

“Don't be too sure of that. That's why I want you not to tell anybody about our talks. Maybe I'll see you again.”

“My wife gives the kid a lot of brown sugar in warm milk for a cold—try it. How did you get yours?”

“It was so hot last night I stuck my head in the ice-cube tray,” I cornballed, walking up the street. I hadn't gone a hundred yards when I got that old feeling I was being followed, like a hound dog striking a scent. This street was a cinch for a shadow. It was full of cars and trucks and people.

I dropped into a candy store, phoned Bill Ash. After we said it was a hell of a hot day and I found out how Lawrence was—he was up and around in a wheel chair—Bill said, “Got something in your mouth—voice sounds funny.”

“All I got in my mouth is a lousy cold. Bill, will you humor an ancient cop and put a tail on a Lou Franconi? He's Lande's driver and working now at the Bay Meat Company, a wholesale outfit. And do it fast.”

“Is it okay if I ask why?”

“I'm sure somebody is tailing me, and like a clown I just led the tail to Franconi. We did a lot of talking out on the sidewalk. He's a nice kid and I don't want to see him slugged. Only need a man on him for a day or two.”

“Still playing cop, Marty?”

“Aha, and the game's getting interesting.”

“I got something that should interest you. Your buddy Lande's shop was broken into last night. You playing burglar too?”

“Why should I bust into his store? Too hot to eat meat. Anyway, he was only taken for a canned ham and a tongue. Bill, you going to put a man on the kid—right now?”

“Okay, but it seems like a wild goose... How did you know only a ham and a tongue was lifted? Marty, I want to see you damn quick! You're not here in ten minutes I'll bring you in!”

“You're slow this morning, Sherlock Holmes. I was waiting for you to make that sharp deduction. Frankly, I was surprised Lande went to the cops—almost upset all of my bright deductions. Don't forget a man on Franconi, and make it fast because he's starting on a delivery route.”

“I want to see you right away!”

“On my way up. I'm serious, Bill. Put a man on the kid.”

“For the love of tears, I said I would. Now drag your rusty up here on the double.”

“At the moment my rusty is higher off the ground than yours. I'll be up in a few minutes.”

I walked slowly to the station house, considering going out to Jones Beach for a dip and some surf casting. Except for fishing I was never an outdoor man, but with only a day or two left, there were a lot of “last” things I ought to do. Still it was a relief to know I'd never have to do a damn thing again.

Bill looked worse than poorly; all the dapperness had fallen away. As I sat down he began, “Marty, I warned you to stop acting like a goddam tin hero. Breaking into ...”

“Stop it, Bill. No one knows about it.”

“I know about it!”

“Then forget it. What did Lande lose—a busted door glass, a couple of pounds of meat. He's probably insured. Relax, Bill, you look tired.”

Bill rubbed his chin. “I've never been so tired—can't go for two or three days steady any longer. Thought I'd get some rest last night, but the girl was sick with her virus and you know how up in the air Margie gets when there's sickness. Tell me, Humphrey Bogart, what did you find in that store besides meat?”

“Nothing but a cold.”

“I don't understand you. In the old days you never broke your back over anything—here you work like a pig over nothing. Still think you're being tailed?”

“I know I am. Bill, I know I'm acting nuts, but there's too many coincidences in this for me to be drawing a complete blank. The kid being beaten after sticking his nose into Lande's business—that now-you-see-it, now-you-don't fifty grand—and now me being tailed.”

“What does the guy look like?”

“I've never been able to spot him—just have this feeling.”

Bill jumped up, started walking the room. “Jeez, you have a feeling? Marty, I just wasted a man on this Franconi when I doubly need every man I have. And your Mr. Lande, he's ready for a padded cell—never saw a guy so nervous.”

“Why do you think he's so jumpy?”

Bill gave me a long look. “You're acting like a damn school kid! He finds his store's been entered. Why shouldn't he be nervous? Marty, for old times' sake, or for any reason you want, wait till I get off this Cocky Anderson hook. Then you can play cops and robbers all you wish. The case is driving me batty without any help from you.”

“See by the papers you're no place.”

“Lousy papers. I've tried everything and can't get a lead worth peanuts. I've never been a third-degree loon, but I'd like to give Bochio a taste of the rubber hose! He's too sure of himself. Even with his alibi he should be more caret than these statements about he's sore somebody beat him the punch, and all the rest of the slop that makes good headline reading.”

“Bochio still down in Florida?”

Ash nodded, rubbed his neck. “What can we bring him back on? That's another crazy angle. You always stumble upon some strong lead, even if it proves a dead end later. But in this case we don't come across a damn thing. And I've squeezed and pushed everybody who might know a damn thing. So has Homicide. Nobody knows a thing!”

“I'd still bring Bochio up—try talking to him.”

“Talk to him about what, shooting off his mouth? He knows we don't have a thing. Bring him up and we'll have to turn him loose in a minute, make us look like fools. The smart louse has even volunteered to come back to New York if we ask him to!”

“These wops are oily jokers.”

Bill stopped pacing the office, stood in front of me shaking his head sadly. “Marty, sometimes I wonder how you were ever lucky enough to break the cases you did, with a mind as narrow as a pipe cleaner. For what it's worth, Bochio isn't Italian.”

“With a handle like that? I always thought he was.”

“His real name is Boch—and don't tell me all Dutchmen are oily jokers. He was raised by an Italian family from the time he was a kid. That's where he got the accent from, and they added an 'io' to his name and he had it legally changed to Bochio a long time ago. He's married to an Italian girl, considers himself Italian, and ...”