Ed Lacy - The Men From the Boys

He sat down opposite me, pleased with himself. “Well, I'm not exactly a real cop. I'm with Civil Defense and we put in a few hours a week doing patrol duty—sort of practice for us, in case there ever should be an emergency, a bombing and all that. But I'm going to take the police physical next fall. I've been building myself up for it, go to the college gym every day.”

“How's your mother?” The kid had always been muscle-happy and cop-crazy. Maybe because he was always so delicate and sickly.

“Just fine. Guess you know she married again?”

“Yeah, I heard. Right after the war, and to some duck working in the aircraft factory with her. Hope she's happy. I gave Dot a rough time.”

“Mom never understood you,” Lawrence said. He had a good voice, deep and relaxed, and when you looked at his eyes for a while, you knew he was no longer a kid but a man. “Marty, I didn't mean to barge in on you so late, but I was just assigned to this precinct, and... uh... I thought you'd still be up.”

“I never hit the sack before three or four in the morning. Lately I've had some bum food and my stomach won't let me sleep anyway. You say you're going to college?”

He nodded. “Law school. I wanted to work and go nights, but Dot has been simply wonderful—insisted upon putting me through day school.”

“What's the idea of this tin-badge deal?”

He flushed. “Actually, I thought it would help me, give me a working idea of the force, so when I pass the physical and become a real...”

“You're studying to be a shyster—why you want to be a cop?”

He smiled as if I'd said something clever. “With the name Bond, what else could I be? Some of the men at the station, the regular police, asked me if I was related to you.”

“Down in this precinct—they remember me?”

“Every cop remembers you.”

“Are you... uh... defense cops under the precinct captain?”

“No, we have our own setup. Before this I was assigned to a station house up in the Bronx. But I mingle with the real cops.”

“They giving you a hard time because of me?”

He opened his collar, pushed his cap back, said flatly, “No one gives me a hard time, not the son of Marty Bond, the toughest cop on the force.” He sounded pretty hard. The kid could be more rugged than he looked—or nuts.

“That what they still call me?”

He turned his palms up, waved them. “Oh, a few said something about the... uh... Graham case, that you gave the force a black eye. But I told them off, reminded them you were the most cited man in the history of the New York City police force.”

“Graham—that lousy black bastard!”

“How's the hotel business?”

“Dull. Forget being a cop, Lawrence. It's a no-good job, everybody hates your heart.”

“I wouldn't say that. Laws are vital, living things to me that need protection, proper enforcement.” He lowered his voice. “After all, I not only have your name but my father died in harness. I belong on the force. And if I can only put on a little more muscle, I'll make a good cop.”

I was about to tell him there wasn't any such animal as a “good” cop, there couldn't be, but it was too warm to argue. So I said, “Hear there's a lot of college boys on the force.”

He grinned again and if it wasn't for his skinny neck he'd look okay. “Who isn't a college grad these days with the G.I. Bill? Did you know I put in two years in the army?”

“Get overseas?”

“No such luck, I never even got out of Fort Dix.” He looked around my office which seemed even crummier in the nighttime. “All this—hotel business—must be rather tame for you, isn't it, Marty?”

“Bounce a drunk now and then, catch a character running out with all his clothes on. That's about it.”

“Ever try your own agency?”

“That's strictly movie stuff.” There was a moment of silence till I kicked the drawer of my desk, asked, “Want a shot?”

“No, thanks. Are you still married to that dancer, Marty?”

“She wasn't much of a dancer. No, we busted up after a year or so. You married?”

“Not yet, but I will be soon as I get on the force.” His eyes studied my face. “Somehow you look... lonely... Dad.”

“Been a lot of years since you called me that.” The silly kid was always calling me Dad or Daddy.

“I always liked calling you Dad. Made me feel proud.”

“Yeah? So you think I'm lonely. I work and I sleep and the days go by. Except for this bad food I must have eaten last week, I get along okay. Suppose you've met Lieutenant Ash at the station house?”

“Indeed I did. Funny, I didn't recall ever seeing him, but he stopped me, asked if I wasn't Lawrence Bond, knew all about me. He looks like a square shooter, competent. How long were you partners?”

“Never added it up—maybe fifteen years. We were a good team. Used to say I was the brawn and he was the brains. Yeah, Bill Ash knows his business... I guess.”

There was another silence and the more I stared at the kid the more he looked like his father, except the senior Lawrence had been beefy. I never knew him—he'd walked into a stick-up and with a gun in his back had gone for his own revolver. I was pounding a beat then, and when the boys passed the hat for the widow, I was elected to bring the money to her. I often thought of Dot, the four years our marriage held up. She was a sweet girl, a real homebody. And Lawrence had been a quiet stringbean who thought I was the greatest thing ever.

I must have been daydreaming for quite a time, for suddenly he said, “Look, Marty, I've wanted to see you for a long time. But it was only when I talked to Lieutenant Ash that I even knew where you were. However I've also come to you for advice. A queer... uh... incident happened on my post a couple of hours ago and nobody at the precinct house is interested.”

I laughed. “I know how it is, your first collar always seems the greatest crime.... Wait a minute, can you volunteer cops make an arrest?”

“Yes, while we're on duty. Technically we're peace officers while in uniform. It's true this is the first... case... or trouble I've had, but I don't think that's a factor,” Lawrence said seriously.

I could hardly keep from smiling. Maybe he was twenty-one or twenty-two, but he still acted like a kid with a box-top badge. “What was the arrest?”

“There wasn't any arrest. You see, we do patrol duty in pairs and I was walking along Barren Street with my partner, an older man named John Breet. Well, the truth is he stopped at a bar to see if he could get a drink on the cuff. I don't go for that nonsense so I was standing outside the bar. A few doors down there's a small wholesale butcher, the Lande Meat Company. Not much, a double store with the windows painted black. The fact is, Wilhelm Lande, the owner, has had the place closed for the past several weeks. Willie, that's what they call Mr. Lande, says he had a stroke and his doctor advised him to take it easy. He's rather a nervous type.”

“What did he want you to do, steady his hand?” I corn-balled, thinking how batty a joker has to be to do police work for free.

“Marty, this isn't any joking matter. I have a feeling there's something seriously wrong here.”

“All right, you haven't even told me what the beef is.”

“Well, you see, they have to give us night tours, but they try to keep them during the light hours as much as possible. It was a little after 7 p.m. when a kid ran up and told me somebody had just broken the window of the butcher shop—from the inside. I didn't wait for Breet. I ran over to the shop and the door wasn't locked, and inside there's Lande the butcher tied up. He'd been robbed and trussed up around 6 p.m. according to his first statement, had finally managed to get ahold of a stapling machine, threw it at the window. I should say he was hysterical, almost in a state of shock as I untied him. He yelled he had been robbed of fifty thousand dollars by two teen-age kids.”

“Fifty grand? He must have a big insurance cover,” I said.

“That's one aspect of the case that has a false ring,” Lawrence said. “While I was taking down the details, and he gave me a fairly clear description of the kids, he suddenly shut up. Might call it abrupt, the way he did it. Said he had to make a phone call. Now, he has a little office in the store and a desk outside the office with a phone, and he dialed a number, whispered something about the holdup. I think I heard him say, Tm not sure, they knocked me out.' I wouldn't swear to that, but I thought he said that. The point is, he must have mentioned that a cop was there—you see, he thought I was a real policeman—for I saw him glance at me and nod as he said 'Yes, yes.' He listened for a couple of minutes, then hung up. When he came back to me, Lande was a new man, very calm, all one big smile. This will amaze you, he did a complete about-face in his story! He said the robbery had been something he dreamed, went to his icebox and brought out a canned ham, offered it to me, telling me there never was any fifty thousand, nor any two holdup men. Told me to forget the whole thing.”

I asked, “Where's the ham?”

“Marty, the man was trying to bribe me!”

“All right, all right, so you passed up a ham. How did he explain his being tied up?”

Lawrence pulled out a pack of butts, offered me one. I hadn't been able to smoke a cigarette all week, made me gag. I shook my head and as he lit one, sent a cloud of smoke out of his nose, the kid said, “That's the very first thing I asked about. He couldn't think very fast, gave me some clumsy cock-and-bull story about he'd seen an actor in a movie tie himself up, and he was trying it when he had an attack, felt he was choking, had thrown the stapling machine at the window to get help. He kept changing his story after the phone call. I wanted him to come to the station house with me, but he kept telling me to forget it, not to make a report. That's it. Like to see my on-the-spot notes?”

“No. What's the beef? He claims there wasn't any holdup.”

“But...”

“Lawrence, far as you're concerned it's over. Don't go looking for work, even when you're playing at being a cop.”

The kid flushed. “I don't consider this exactly playing— while I'm on duty I am a peace officer with certain powers.”

“All I meant was, don't stick your neck out unless you have to.”

“Wait till you hear the rest of it, Marty. I was in there about three-quarters of an hour. When I came out Breet wasn't in sight. I phoned the station house and the sergeant—our sergeant—bawled me out. Said Breet had returned and what the hell was I doing on patrol alone, all that. Our sergeant is a bit of a pompous old jerk, had me return to the precinct, wouldn't pay any attention to my story. So I went over his head, told Lieutenant Ash—he told me to forget it, too.”

“But of course you didn't?” I almost felt sorry for the kid, he was so badge-happy it was comical.

“No, I didn't. Truth is when we were dismissed I went back there—about an hour ago—and Lande was still in his shop. As I told you, he's nervous, talks a blue streak. Well, he made a slip. In his chatter he said, 'I got the money back.' I distinctly heard him say that although he denied it when I questioned him. He made a joke of it, asked where in the devil would he get fifty grand. As it happens, when I was returning to the station house I made a few casual inquiries in the neighborhood, at a bar and at a restaurant—Lande has been selling meat there for the last seven or eight years, does his own butchering, but has a small panel delivery truck and employs a driver. Everybody agrees he was lucky to clear five thousand dollars a year and...”