by Jada M Davis
Waiting for a cab, he decided how to act. He’d be gentle, make love, promise marriage—anything—to get her back.
Something delayed the cab. Irritated, he walked to the curb to wait. For the first time he noticed that the wind was gone, and with it, the sand.
The sun was low in the west, the slant of its rays orange-tinging the scattered clouds. It was almost cool, but the air was heavy with gas fumes from the fields.
A battered cab whirled around the corner and pulled in at the curb. He snapped the address to the driver and sat forward in the seat without relaxing, thinking, She’ll be madder’n the devil. Shouldn’t have hit her. A woman scorned is a hell on wheels.
The cab pulled up, and he stepped out.
“That’ll be fifty cents,” the cabby said.
He flipped the coin and trotted up the steps. He opened the door, and knew she wasn’t there. The apartment felt empty, and it was.
And the leather chair was gone.
She’d found the dough!
But why should she move the chair? He had to have that money!
He had to fight to control his breathing, and his body seemed paralyzed. He had to will his limbs to move. The chair wasn’t in the small bedroom. It was silly, he realized, but he looked in the closets and in the bathroom.
The front door opened. Laura? Cops? Laura.
“It’s you,” she said. Her face was bruised. One eye was puffed, and her lip was cut.
“Yeah. Look, honey....”
“What did you do with him?”
“Threw him in the clink,” he said, not meaning to say that.
“Wesley—in jail?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?” (She didn’t believe it.)
“Why in hell do you think I beat him up in the first place? The guy was taking graft! We’ve been watching him.” He knew she didn’t believe it, but she wanted to.
“How’ll he look to the public if he’s in jail?”
“They won’t know it. He’ll leave town. Later we’ll announce he resigned.” He was confident now. He had her.
“Look, honey,” he went on, voice low, apologetic. “I’m sorry about hitting you. It was instinct. I was out on my feet and didn’t know what I was doing. And, after all, you did hit me with that damned bottle and things went black, sort of.”
“Why did you bring him here?”
“That was a mistake. I meant to take him out of town, see. You can’t work a guy over in jail. Well, we were driving by and he jumped out of the car. Another car came by, so I just ducked in here when I caught him.”
“Where is he now?”
“In the jug, like I said.”
“What’ll he do when you let him out?”
“Head for Mexico, or California. We can’t prosecute, because it’d give the department a black eye.”
“Maybe he’ll cause trouble.”
“He can’t afford to.”
“I guess you’re telling the truth,” she said. “I don’t know.”
“Drop it for now. It doesn’t matter to me whether you believe me or not.”
She tossed her head and sulked.
“I’m sorry I hit you, baby,” he said. “Like I said, when you hit me with that bottle, I just hit out of instinct.”
“I’ll make coffee,” she said.
He walked nervously from kitchen to living room.
“Where’s the chair?” he asked.
“Papa took it for his study.”
She must have noticed the expression on his face.
“Why?” she asked, when she noticed the expression on his face.
“Well, hell!” he said. “It was my favorite chair.”
She laughed. “There are plenty of chairs. Sit down. Coffee’ll be ready in a minute.”
So there goes my dough, my slice of life. Wouldn’t Wesley laugh? Wouldn’t Baldy laugh?
“Only a good-for-nothing coward would kick a man like you kicked Wesley!”
“What?”
“I said only a good-for-nothing coward would kick a man like you kicked Wesley!”
“He had it coming.”
“Maybe. But I thought you were a man.”
“I thought I proved that.” He said, grinning.
“Now I believe all I ever heard about cops!”
“Some cops are good and some are bad.”
“You’re bad.”
“No, just in between.”
“Then I’d hate to see a bad one.”
“You saw one—Wesley. He was taking graft. We couldn’t punish him by law, because we’d only make the people think all of us took graft. So, I punished him. Even at that, he got off light.”
She went to the kitchen for coffee.
“Where did you say your folks are living?” he called.
“Rockford.” She came out of the kitchen, carrying pot and cups on a tray.
“What denomination is your dad, anyway?”
“Methodist.”
“His church right in Rockford?”
She poured coffee and said, “Edge of town.”
“This study he’s fixing up—is it in the church or in his home?”
Her hand jiggled his cup. “Church. Why?”
“Just wondered. I’ve never gone with a preacher’s daughter before. What say we run over there one day and meet your folks?”
“I’d like that.”
He finished his coffee and glanced at his watch. “Well, I’ve got some business.” He reached for her hand. “Listen, honey. I’m not good at talking, especially apologizing. Anyway, I’d rather lose an arm than hurt you. Honest, it was reflex that made me hit you.”
“What made you talk like you did?”
“I don’t know. Believe me, will you?”
“It’s all right,” she said. “After all, I hit you, too.”
He fingered his scalp. “So you did. Pretty damned hard, too.” He bent over, kissed her cheek. “Say, I dropped back by here that night. You were gone.”
“I spent the night with Rita. I was upset.”
“See you tomorrow night.”
“Night.”
He closed the door gently.
Chapter Nineteen
Cliff Barrick made a tour of the town, and the town was wide open.
Every honky-tonk had a game going, and some of the better ones had plush rooms complete with tables and wheels.
He dropped a few dollars and went back to the office to write his column.
“The town is wide open,” he wrote. “City and county officials are closing their eyes to open gambling, and that can mean but one thing.
“Graft.
“Gambling itself, open or not, is bad enough. When honky-tonks can invest money for elaborate rooms in a town where gambling of any form is illegal, it means that the law is not feared. Gambling begets graft and attracts hoodlums.
“Somebody’s getting paid off.”
Two day later he ran the column and waited for something to happen.
One minister dared speak from the pulpit.
Barrick talked to the minister, a young and earnest man.
“There’s little we can do,” the Reverend Howard said. “We can preach about it and hope the people will listen, but I can’t get any backing from the other ministers.”
“Have you tried?”
“I called them all to a special meeting last night. I was the only one present.”
“What had you planned to do?”
“Well, I thought if the ministers called on the sheriff and the police, they’d listen. That’s what I told the other ministers when I called them to come to the meeting.”
Barrick laughed bitterly. “I’m disillusioned.”
“You mustn’t be. Ministers are just like everybody else—most of them. They have to make a living. Security has come to mean a great deal to them, and you see few who are willing to take a firm position on a, shall we say, a political matter.”
“Well,” Barrick said, “I guess it’s mor
e my job, anyway.”
“We can keep trying,” the Reverend Howard said. “We can try and hope and pray.”
Chapter Twenty
It was forty miles to Rockford.
Ree wanted to go at once, but was afraid to ride a bus. Tomorrow he’d have a car. The city furnished a car for the chief, or would furnish a car. He’d insisted, and tomorrow it would be delivered. Tomorrow night, then, he’d go.
He was tired.
If, he decided, he had the forty thousand, he’d go to Europe. Or to South America, or Mexico, and buy a ranch. Get married.
He walked along, head down and shoulders sagging, thinking. He had to get that money. Here he was, walking, living like a cop on a cop’s salary because to do otherwise would make people talk, wonder where he got the money. If he had that forty thousand—and Baldy’s share of what they’d taken—he’d go to Europe, or South America, or Mexico. Maybe Australia.
Baldy hid his share of the money before he—died. Ree wondered where.
In his room, in underwear, he had a drink and tried to read the paper.
A knock on the door.
“Chief Ree?” the landlady said.
“Yes?”
“Telephone.”
“O.K. Thanks.”
He slid into his slacks, donned a shirt, and wondered who wanted him on the phone. Laura, maybe. He padded into the hall, barefooted, and picked up the receiver.
“Hello.”
“Ree?”
“Yes.”
“This is Ben Halliday. Like to have a little talk with you.”
Now what? Had Wesley returned? Halliday had said only yesterday that Wesley must have gone on a binge because he didn’t get the job as chief. His hand, on the receiver, trembled. Maybe, he thought.
“Sure thing. When?” he asked.
“Right now, if you’re not tied up. I’ll drive over and pick you up.”
“O.K. I’ll be ready.”
Maybe Wesley was back, blowing the whistle, or threatening. Well, maybe he could take care of Wesley.
Halliday’s car pulled up as he reached the curb.
“Evening, Ree.”
“Evening.”
He circled the car and entered, sat tensely as Halliday drove.
“Sorry to bother you, Ree, but something’s come up I thought you ought to know about.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Halliday sighed. “It’s the Barrick boys.”
“Barrick?”
“You know. They run the Traveler.”
“Oh! The punks that put out that rag! What’s the matter? Have they written something nasty again? Have I robbed a bank or something?”
“Well—”
“Anyway, I thought the pressure was going on those boys.”
“They raked up some money somewhere. They’ve been prying down at the Hall all day. Morris, he’s the city clerk you know, says they’ve been talking to his secretaries. They even asked him a lot of questions. I don’t know who else they talked to.”
“About what?”
“Paving contracts, for one thing. Building permits, liquor licenses, garbage. They’ve been checking everything.”
Ree choked back laughter. “That doesn’t trouble me.”
“No. Not directly. But this will. I have a friend—a woman—on the south side. She runs a house. Well, she tells me those boys have been to see her. Tried to get her to talk.”
“She doesn’t have anything to talk about—yet. We haven’t collected a dime.”
“No, guess not. But she knows by now that you’ll collect, not the sheriff. And those boys have wind of it or they wouldn’t have gone down there.”
“The sheriff, maybe. The sheriff did some talking out of school.”
“Maybe so, but it could have been one of the madams.”
“Why should they talk? Messner clipped them and they didn’t squeal.”
“Man!” Halliday said. “Messner was taking his cut, but you’ve raised the ante! How do I know? Messner told me! And I know that Sergeant Swing is your contact man, too, and that he’s passed the word to the girls. Well, do you think the girls are happy? Do you think they’re going to pay off with a smile?”
“No, I guess not.”
“Of course not! They’re sore! Sore as hell! And those Barrick boys are smart enough to get a hint of what’s happening. They’re smart enough to stir up the girls while they’re mad!”
“A whore wouldn’t make much of a witness.”
“She wouldn’t have to! Wake up, man! People will believe what they read in the papers, and they’re not going to sit around and wait for a public hearing before they act! They’ll kick you out faster than you can think! Where’d you be then? Where’d I be?”
“You’d be out too.”
“That’s right, and I don’t want that.”
“Well, what’s the answer? What do you want?”
“Throw a scare into the Barrick boys! Buy them if you can’t scare them! If they won’t play ball, discredit both of them!”
“How?”
“That’s your problem! Just do it!”
“Now, wait—”
“Wait hell! You’ve been clumsy as a virgin about this whole damned thing! I thought you had brains and I risked a good set-up in the hope that you’d make it better! Instead, you’ve about frigged the whole business!”
“You want a frame! All right, you’ll get a frame! Those boys are not going to scare or sell, or they’d have gone under before this!”
Halliday didn’t answer. He drove Ree home and drove away with a curt good night.
Ree went inside and had a drink, a stiff one, and fought down bitter bile tasting rage.
Halliday, with a tramp for a friend, and scared. The bastard must have a mama whore tipping him off, because he knew the whole score.
Well, trouble, bound to come, had come,
If he just had his hands on that forty grand!
He slept soundly.
Sergeant Swing was admiring the new car when he got to the Hall.
“Wish I was a chief,” the sergeant said.
“Stick with me and you’ll have something better than this.”
The car had two-way radio. On the door, stenciled in gold letters, were the words:
Breton Police Department
Chief of Police
“That’s me, sergeant.”
Ree spent the day in the office, but he couldn’t keep his thoughts away from the red leather chair. He grinned at the thought of Laura Green’s father sitting on forty thousand dollars.
Once he heard someone outside saying, “Those Barrick boys are out for blood.”
He asked Swing how the prostitutes had taken the news he’d passed.
“They were mad as hell,” Swing said. “The bookies and gamblers said nothing at all. But the cats blew their tops.”
“Let them rave.”
“I can’t stop them.”
“Did you tell them you’d do the collecting?”
“Yeah. That O.K.?”
“O.K., but figure a safe place and a safe way. Can’t take any chances.”
“You’re not wolfing! Those Barrick boys are nosing around already. They’ve got wind of something.”
“So I heard.”
“I thought I’d rent a room in some joint on the south side,” Swing said. “I can set up a dummy office and do my collecting at night.”
“Let somebody else rent the place. And stay away from it except on collection nights.”
“O.K.”
Ree wondered about the Barrick boys, if they were tough and smart. What do they want? Money. Everybody wants money. Halliday said they were on a shoe string, in debt, so they could use money. Maybe, he thought, that was the answer. The boys needed money. They had been smart enough to know there was a vice pay-off, and smart enough to get the tramps mad. So maybe they meant to get part of the take.
“Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Where’
s this Traveler rag?”
“‘Ten blocks north on main and two blocks left. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks.”
The new car smelled of baked paint, drove well, and it felt good to drive it.
Ten blocks north on main and two blocks left. Frame building, not large, needing paint. There was a sign across the front, a couple of cars parked at the curb. The windows were cracked and dirty.
Ree pushed against the rickety door and went inside. The front office was clean. Machinery clanked somewhere in the rear.
A woman leaned over the counter.
“May I help you?”
“I’d like to see the Barrick boys.”
“Ed Barrick is in,” the woman said. “If you’ll wait a moment.”
There were a couple of tables with typewriters, a few chairs, and a desk piled high with ledgers, copy paper, proofs and books. The walls were painted blue, but the floors were of rough pine.
The woman returned. “Mr. Barrick will be with you in just a moment. You’re Willa Ree, aren’t you?”
“That’s right.” He smiled.
“I’m Clara Speed,” she said. “Society editor, reporter, classified ad chief, janitor, chief cook, and bottle washer.”
“Do you set the type?”
“I never learned, thank goodness!”
“They must keep you busy.”
“All the time, day and night.”
Ed Barrick appeared, hesitated at the door.
Ree advanced, hand extended, smiling. “I’m Willa Ree.”
“Yes, I know. I’m Ed Barrick. My brother’s out just now.”
Ree sized him up as Barrick led the way to his small office. The man was rangy, with sandy hair, wide blunt face and rusty freckles. His brows were bushy, eyes light blue, and he had big ears. He was gangly and embarrassed. There was ink on his hands, black smudges on his shirt sleeves.
The office was poorly lighted. One desk and two chairs, a calendar on the wall.
“Have a seat,” Barrick said. “I guess you really want to see my brother, but maybe I can help you.”
“I’ve never met your brother.”
“Well, he really runs this rag. I help out, but he’s the newspaperman.”