by David Goodis
Chapter 3
About five minutes later the police car arrived. Then more police came in. And after that it was the captain from the 37th Precinct. Finally it was a few plainclothes men from city hall. Questions were asked and answers given. There were no complications; it went exactly the way Grogan wanted it to go. The plainclothes men made some notes for their reports and walked out. The police stayed around while the two corpses were placed on stretchers, then hauled away in the morgue wagon. It was cut-and-dried, it was over and done with in a quarter of an hour.
The captain was the last to leave. At the door, the captain and Grogan stood with their arms around each other’s shoulders. They were close friends and Grogan was asking about Sally and the kids. The captain said they were fine. More friendly talk, some chuckling, and then the captain gave Grogan a playful punch in the stomach and said, “Still hard as a rock.”
Grogan smiled. “It’s the rowing, Tommy. You oughta try it.”
“Who’s got time for rowing? And who needs exercise? I get enough from Sally.”
They both chuckled again. Then they were quiet and looked at each other in a long moment of deep communication. As they shook hands, they smiled warmly.
The captain opened the door and said “Good night, Walt.” Then he leaned close to Grogan and added in lower tones, “For Christ’s sake, be careful, will you?”
Grogan said, “I’m always careful, Tommy. You know that.” The Captain patted Grogan on the shoulder, turned and walked out.
Rafer and the five men had resumed their seats at the table. There were no cards on the table and they were just sitting, some of them smoking and others cleaning their fingernails. Corey stood alone on the other side of the room. He was thinking about the police from the 37th Precinct.
They didn’t even say hello, he thought. Aside from the routine questions, they didn’t so much as look at me. And the captain. Good old Captain Tommy. He walked right past me as if I wasn’t even here.
So what?
So nothing, he told himself. And he shrugged.
At the table, someone produced the cards and started shuffling. Grogan walked to the table and sat down. The shuffling went on and Rafer said, “All right already. Let’s have ’em.”
The dealer passed the cards around. Grogan leaned back in his chair, ignoring the cards. He was looking at Corey Bradford. They were waiting for Grogan to bet, he was high with a king.
“Your bet, Walt,” someone said. Grogan didn’t seem to hear him. Grogan’s eyes remained focused on Corey.
Then very slowly Grogan got up from the chair. He moved toward the side door. He opened the door and beckoned to Corey Bradford. They walked out together.
***
Grogan’s house was less than a block away from the Hangout. From the outside, it appeared no different from the other shabby wooden dwellings on Second Street. On one side there was a narrow alley. The other side gave way to a vacant lot littered with rubbish. The windows were grimy; there was no paint on the front door and in places the wood was cracked.
Grogan unlocked the door, opened it and they walked in. Corey had never seen the interior of this house; but he’d heard talk about it and he’d thought the talk was exaggerated. Now he looked around and his eyes widened. The motif was Chinese, extremely expensive and elegant. The furniture was ebony and teakwood; the lamps and vases and ashtrays were rose quartz and jade. On the walls were silk-screen prints that looked like museum pieces. In one corner of the room there was a massive bronze statue of Buddha. From where he was standing, he could see into the dining room. The decor in there was also oriental, and through the dim green lamplight he saw an intricately carved table inlaid with ivory. Then he looked around at the furnishings in the parlor again. It’s really something, he thought. It’s like what you see in picture magazines.
He sensed that Grogan was watching him, waiting for some comment. He looked at Grogan and said, “Well, I heard about it and now I believe it.”
“It all comes from China,” Grogan said. “I’ve always wanted to see China. Never had the chance to go. Too busy. So I do the next best thing. I bring China here.”
As Grogan was speaking, there was sound from the stairway. Corey looked and saw a female coming slowly down the stairs. She wore a silver-and-orange kimono. She was of medium height, very slender. Her hair was platinum blonde. Contrasting with her deep, dark green eyes.
Corey had seen her before, but only from a distance. He’d seen her driving the Olds, and climbing in or out of the Olds when it was parked outside some store on Addison Street. It was always a candy store or a grocery store, and the only item she bought was cigarettes. She never went near the Hangout.
From what he heard about her, she stayed in the house most of the time and seldom spoke to anyone in the Swamp. She’d been with Grogan for more than three years; and that was a long time for Grogan, considering he was fickle with women. The others had lasted only a few months. But she seems to fill the bill, Corey thought. You can tell from the way he looks at her. He’s hooked, all right, he’s really got it bad. I’d say she’s about twenty-four. Another thing I’d say, she ain’t no ordinary shack job out for free bed-and-board. Just look what she’s got in her hands.
In one hand she had a pair of reading glasses. The other hand held a book. Corey could see the title on the cover. He didn’t know much about philosophy but he sensed that the book was strictly for deep thinkers. It was Nietzsche, it was Thus Spake Zarathustra.
She hadn’t yet noticed Corey. She stood talking to Grogan, her voice low but clear, her speech precisely enunciated, her grammar flawless. She was telling Grogan that she’d been in town today, shopping. She bought shoes and a handbag and then went to the beauty parlor. She had dinner in town and attended a lecture at the art museum.
“It was a very interesting lecture,” she said. “It concerned the French Impressionists and the lecturer came out with some highly original theories. It was really worthwhile.”
“That’s fine,” Grogan said. “I’m glad you had a nice evening.”
“It’s delightful at the museum. I wish you’d go with me sometime.”
“We’ll try to arrange it,” Grogan said.
“You’re always saying that.”
“Well, you know how it is. I just don’t have the time.”
“You could find the time.”
“Not hardly,” Grogan said. “Believe me, dear, I’m up to my neck in work.”
“It isn’t that I’m complaining,” she said. “It’s for your sake as well as mine. You shouldn’t work so hard. If only you’d slacken up a bit. You look so tired.”
“I’m not tired.” There was a tightness in his voice. “It’s just that I’m—”
“Walter, please.”
Grogan turned away, his head lowered. He was biting his lip. He muttered, “—tells me I’m tired.”
“Don’t,” she said quietly but firmly. “Don’t start that.”
But whatever it was, it was started and Grogan couldn’t stop it. He went on muttering, “—it’s one thing to be tired. It’s another thing to be fed up. I tell you it’s getting to the point where I’m—”
“Not now,” she said warningly, and Grogan looked up and saw Corey standing there.
He was quiet for a moment, then looked at her and mumbled, “All right, all right.” It was like a curtain lowered for a change of mood. Grogan rubbed his hand across his mouth, as though to wipe away the tightness and replace it with a soft smile. He went on smiling as he gazed down at the elegant carpet. He murmured, “Lita, this is Corey Bradford.”
Lita nodded politely to Corey. Then she took a backward step, as though to get a fuller look at him. It started with his shoes. And he thought, she sees sad-looking shoes with the leather cracked, no shine at all and the heels worn down. And pants that need pressing and wouldn’t last through another cleaning, with a jacket to match. Now she’s looking at the necktie. It’s an old necktie, the threads are coming loose. Same
applies to the shirt. So all right, so we’re not exactly up there with the ten best dressed. Let’s let it go at that. But no, she won’t let it go, she’s looking at the shoes again—
He heard himself saying, “I have a pair of new ones, but these are more comfortable.”
“Really?” She folded her arms lightly across her middle. “Do you really have a pair of new shoes?”
“No.” He grinned. “I was kidding.”
She gave him a side glance. It was ice.
He went on grinning at her. “Just kidding,” he said. “Can you take a little kidding?”
Lita didn’t answer. She turned her back to him, said good night to Grogan, and moved toward the stairway. Going up the stairs, she put on the reading glasses and started leafing through the pages of Thus Spake Zarathustra.
Grogan waited until she was upstairs. Then he faced Corey and said, “You should’na done that. It don’t take much to get her annoyed.”
Corey shrugged. “So next time I’ll know.”
Grogan frowned at him. “You take life real easy, don’t you?”
He shrugged again. Grogan went on frowning, studying him. Then Grogan said, “Sit down.”
Corey sat, leaned back in the chair and watched Grogan pacing back and forth in front of him. It went on that way for some moments, and Corey thought, don’t say nothing, just wait it out. And whatever you do, don’t play tag with him. You can see he’s in no mood for games. The man is having aggravation and aside from his other worries he’s got himself a bedroom problem. It’s fifty to one he ain’t getting much these days.
Grogan stopped pacing. He sat down in an ebony armchair, facing Corey. “All right, here it is,” he said. “I like to give credit where credit is due. What you did tonight at the Hangout, it took talent. It was clean and fast and I guess you got as much style as I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen the best.”
Corey leaned further back in the chair. He thought, well, that’s nice to hear. But I can’t put it on a plate and eat it. And then he saw Grogan reaching into a pocket and taking out a wallet.
“Here,” Grogan said, and handed him some ones and fives and tens. It amounted to seventy dollars.
Corey said, “Thanks.”
“Thanks nothing. You’re gonna work for that. That’s your first week’s salary.”
“Doing what?”
“Investigation,” Grogan said. “I want to know who hired them.” Corey looked down at the money in his hand. He murmured, “Well, it’s bread and I damn sure need it. Except—”
“Except what? What bothers you?”
“Well, it ain’t like steady employment. I come up with the answer; I’ll be out of a job.”
“You come up with the answer, you won’t need the job.”
Corey’s eyes widened slightly.
Grogan said, “It’s like this—the seventy is just a drawing account. If you score, you’re in for velvet. You get fifteen thousand dollars.”
“Fifteen what?”
“Thousand.”
Corey sat motionless. Fifteen thousand dollars, he thought. The man said fifteen thousand. Should we tell him to say it again, just to make sure we heard him right? No, we heard him right. He said fifteen thousand dollars.
“Well?” Grogan murmured. And then, a trifle louder, “Well?”
“It’s velvet, all right.” Corey gazed past Walter Grogan. “I’m wondering why it’s worth that much to you.”
The silver-haired man slowly lifted himself from the ebony armchair. Annoyance came into his eyes. “I don’t like it when they start getting cagey.”
“It ain’t that,” Corey said. “I just want a little briefing here.”
“That’s out,” Grogan said. “Ain’t nothing I can tell you.”
“How come?”
“I just can’t.”
Corey smiled dimly. “You can’t or you won’t?”
Grogan gave him a look. Just a look. The look said, you want this job or don’t you?
The dim smile faded. Corey shrugged and said, “After all, I’m not a cat. I can’t operate in the dark.”
It was quiet for some moments. Grogan moved slowly toward the other side of the parlor, stood facing the massive bronze Buddha. Then he moved closer to it as though he was consulting the Buddha. Finally he turned and looked at Corey; his eyes slits like the eyes of the Buddha.
“Well now, you got me thinking. Just standing here wondering how much I should tell you. If I tell you too much, you’ll know too much.”
Corey decided not to comment.
“On the other hand,” Grogan went on, “you can’t go to work if I don’t give you nothing to work with.”
Then it was quiet again. Corey sat and waited.
Walter Grogan came across the room and stood beside the ebony armchair. He ran his hand along the glistening black wood. And then, his voice low, the words coming slowly, “Whoever hired them hoods, it was someone playing for high stakes. Someone who knows—” and he stopped.
Corey said, “Knows what?”
Grogan took a deep breath, let it out. “Some lettuce. I got some lettuce put away.”
“In a vault?” Corey asked. “Safe deposit?”
“Safer than that.”
“Stashed?”
Grogan nodded. He kept rubbing his hand along the back of the ebony armchair. He said, “It’s what they call unlisted assets. Or let’s call it unreported income. From certain deals I’ve been in on. All paid off in cash.”
“It’s warm money?”
“It’s very warm,” Grogan said. “Piled up over a period of years. If the government ever gets wise, I’d pull ten to twenty or maybe even twenty to forty.”
“Just for tax evasion?”
“They get me for tax evasion, that’s only the beginning. Then they really go to work. Them Federal agents, they get onto something, it’s like white on rice. So one thing leads to another. Some joker gets scared and opens his mouth and that drags in some other joker and so on. And finally they wrap it up; they get all the money tabulated—who paid off and why.”
“It comes to a lotta money?”
“Plenty.”
“How much?”
“I’m not gonna tell you how much,” Grogan said. “You got a gleam in your eye already. Next thing you’ll ask me where it’s stashed.”
Corey ignored that. He thought aloud, “A bundle of money hidden somewhere—”
And then they looked at each other. Grogan said, “You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”
“Well, it’s an angle.”
“You’re damn right it’s an angle,” Grogan said. “There’s people who know my financial setup. People close to me and maybe others not so close to me. So let’s say one of them latches on to an idea. Just plays around with it. Tells himself that Grogan don’t live in a mansion and Grogan don’t play the races and what it all comes down to, Grogan ain’t a big spender. So what does Grogan do with all his money? Christ’s sake, of all the money Grogan’s been making, there’s gotta be more than what’s in the bank and what’s in stocks and bonds. Sure, there’s gotta be a lot more than that. But where?
“And that’s the question. And there’s only one way to get the answer. Get it from Grogan. Get Grogan in some nice quiet place and sit him down and have a friendly conversation. Then maybe a little pressure, and sooner or later Grogan spills.”
Corey was gazing at the floor. “It’s possible.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It adds, anyway. I mean, it checks with what them hoods did. The way they played it. They wanted to get you outta there alive.”
Corey kept gazing at the floor. Then he slowly got up from the chair, started walking around, not looking at Grogan. His forehead was creased and he was biting his lip.
“You’re letting it show,” Grogan said.
Corey looked at him.
The silver-haired man was smiling thinly, knowingly. “You’re wishing,” he said. “Wishing you had the badge.”
Correct, Corey th
ought.
Grogan went on smiling. “With the badge it would be a breeze. You could go around knocking on doors and asking questions. In no time at all you get a lead. And then another lead. And then another lead. And still another—”
“If I had the badge,” Corey cut in dryly.
“If you had the badge,” Grogan said, not smiling now, “I wouldn’t give you the job.”
“How come?”
Grogan’s voice was toneless. “I don’t trust anyone who carries a badge. Not even my good-time buddy Captain Tommy; and I been doing business with the captain for years. In his heart he’s a thug and that’s why we get along. Up to a point, that is. It comes to anything important, I remember his badge and that’s the stoplight.”
“But why?”
“You oughta know why,” Grogan said. “You and the captain are in the same groove; both out for the extra dollar. But tell me,” his eyes were lenses probing deep, “weren’t there times when you saw the badge lookin’ at you? When you heard the badge talkin’ to you?”
Corey blinked hard.
“Get what I mean?” Grogan murmured.
“Let’s drop it.” He looked away from Grogan.
There was a soft chuckle. “It kinda tickles me,” Grogan said. “No matter what he does on the side, a cop is always a cop—until they take the badge away. Then he is what he is.”
“Look, whaddya say we drop it?”
“Sure, sure.” Grogan patted Corey’s shoulder. “Sure,” and his tone was soft with understanding.
His hand stayed on Corey’s shoulder. Then he was guiding Corey toward the front door. As they neared the door, Corey took out his wallet and inserted the seventy dollars. He pocketed the wallet, made a move to open the door, and heard Grogan saying. “There’s one more thing.”
They looked at each other.
“This deal is you and me,” Grogan said. “Just you and me. That understood?”