by David Goodis
“It ain’t for inspection,” Corey said. He held onto the grin. “You wanna check on me, they got it all on paper at the Hall of Records. You can start with my birth certificate.”
“I’ve already done that,” McDermott said. And something in his tone caused Corey to stiffen inwardly. McDermott seemed to sense the stiffening and his eyes narrowed just a little and he said, “You’re thirty-four years old. You were born here in this city.”
“So?”
But McDermott went on with it. “Your mother’s name was Ethel. She died when you were seven.”
“So? So?”
“Your father’s name was Matthew. He died before you were born. He was a policeman.”
Corey blinked a few times. He squirmed slightly. He felt a twinge very high on his thigh near his groin. It was only for an instant, it faded before he could wonder about it. But in that instant his eyes were shut tightly, his mouth tight and twisted with something close to pain.
But now he grinned again at McDermott. He said, “Go on, I’m listening.”
“He was a policeman.”
“You said that already.”
“I want you to hear it again. He was a policeman.”
Corey mixed the grin with a scowl. “Whatever hurts you, Sergeant, you really got it bad.”
McDermott smiled softly, almost tenderly. “I guess that makes two of us,” he murmured. And then abruptly the smile faded and his voice was crisp and technical. “All right, here it is. I heard the talk about that party tonight, with them two hoods barging in and showing guns and so forth. The talk is, you stopped the show and you did it very fancy. So that gets me to thinking—”
“Forget it,” Corey said.
McDermott didn’t seem to hear him. “I’m working with six men, and I need a seventh.”
“Just forget it,” Corey said. He stood up and started toward the door. Then something stopped him. He was thinking in terms of fifteen thousand dollars. Specifically he was thinking that in order to maneuver toward the fifteen thousand, he needed a certain tool.
That certain tool was the badge.
He heard the detective-sergeant saying, “You wanna be reinstated?”
He nodded slowly.
There was the scraping sound of wood against wood as McDermott opened a desk drawer. Then there was the clinking sound of metal hitting wood. Corey turned his head and saw it shining on the desktop. Before he knew what he was doing he reached for the badge and when he had it in his hand he stared at it.
“And here’s your card,” McDermott said.
Corey took the card. He saw his name typed under the printed designation, police department, and stamped slantwise across the card was the lettering. It read “Night Squad.”
Corey muttered, “You had me reinstated before you knew I’d say yes.” He looked at the detective-sergeant. “What made you so sure I’d say yes?”
“I wasn’t sure,” McDermott said. “I was just hoping you would.”
“That grooves it sorta deep,” Corey muttered. “What this all amounts to, you got some special reason for wanting me on the squad.”
McDermott didn’t reply to that. He sat motionless for some moments; then got up from the desk chair and moved toward the window. He stood at the window with his back to Corey Bradford. There’s something missing, Corey thought. There’s something missing here, all right.
The detective-sergeant turned and went back to the desk. He didn’t sit down. He gazed at the desktop and said, “There’s a job I want done. It’s a big one. It’s the biggest on our list. We been on it for years and we’re nowhere. I’m thinking maybe you can handle it.”
“Why me?”
Again McDermott was quiet for a long spell. He gazed down at the desktop. Finally he said, “We know who we want but we can’t move. We got nothing on him. He’s listed as a solid citizen, honest taxpayer and respected member of the community and so forth. He’s got money, he’s got connections, he’s got a lot of people scared. The ones he couldn’t scare, you don’t see around no more. You don’t see them because they’re in boxes; buried.”
Corey stiffened slightly.
“What we need is evidence,” McDermott said. “We need tangible proof that he’s a lawbreaker. And I don’t mean jaywalking. It’s gotta be something big and it’s gotta be airtight and—what’s the matter?”
Corey was shaking his head.
“What’s the matter?” McDermott said. “You backing out? You don’t wanna know who he is? You afraid to know?”
That just about says it, Corey told himself.
The detective-sergeant spoke very softly. “You got the jitters, there’s no use talking further. We’ll call it off and you can walk out.”
Corey moved his hand toward the trousers pocket where he’d put the badge and the card. His hand went in and he told himself to take out the badge and the card and toss them onto the desk and go for the door. Do it, he begged himself. Get out while the getting is good. Like that fly got out. That fly who didn’t hafta be told twice.
His hand moved deeper into his pocket and came in contact with the metal of the badge. In that instant he felt a twinge very high on his thigh near his groin.
He grimaced. He took his hand from his pocket and there was nothing in his hand. He heard himself saying, “All right, I’ll go to work on it. Who is he?”
“I’m trusting you with this,” McDermott said. “You come in on this, you’re in all the way. You’re under oath—”
“All right, all right,” Corey cut in irritably, impatiently. “Lemme have it. Who is he?”
McDermott said quietly, matter-of-factly, “His name is Walter Grogan.”
Chapter 5
It was ten minutes later and Corey sat in the rear of a taxi headed toward the Swamp. He asked the driver what time it was and the driver said twenty after four. Then the driver yawned. The taxi was moving very slowly and the driver steered with one hand, his free arm resting languidly across the top of the backrest. Ahead a signal light showed green and the driver made no effort to get through it before it flashed red. But when it was red the taxi went past it. A milk truck was crossing the intersection and the truck and the taxi almost collided. The driver of the truck leaned out and yelled, “You louse!” and the taxi driver waved wearily and said, “Go shove it—” and then let out another yawn.
“You sleepy?” Corey asked the taxi driver.
The driver didn’t answer. The taxi was crawling, doing less than twenty miles per hour.
“You wanna sleep, do it in bed,” Corey said.
The driver turned and looked at him.
“You heard me,” Corey said.
Facing the windshield, the driver muttered, “I like when they tell me how to drive.”
“You call this driving?”
The driver gave him another look. “Why don’t you relax?”
“All right,” Corey smiled dimly. “Let’s both relax.”
The taxi made a turn. Corey saw two tiny points of light sliding across the rearview mirror, then vanishing. Some moments later the points of light showed again in the rearview mirror. The taxi made another turn and it happened again.
The driver said, “I’m not hard to get along with. I’m just tired, that’s all.”
“Look, I’m not pushing you,” Corey said mildly. “Just get me there, all right?”
“Sure.” The driver sat up straighter and steered with both hands. The taxi picked up to thirty miles per hour. The rearview mirror showed two tiny points of light. The taxi made a turn; the points of light faded from view. Corey waited to see it again and it showed again. Now the taxi was nearing the bridge that connected the city with the Swamp. In the rearview mirror the twin lights were the eyes of a goblin saying, peek-a-boo, I see you. And then, crossing the bridge, the interior of the taxi was slashed with the ribboned reflections of the bridge lights and it interfered with the pattern in the mirror. Corey turned and looked through the rear window and saw the headlights far behind
. The taxi was doing thirty-five. He said to the driver, “Slow down just a little.”
“What’s the matter now?”
“Just slow down. Not too much.”
The taxi continued across the bridge at a little over twenty-five miles per hour. Corey looked back at the headlights of the other car. The distance between the two cars remained the same.
Then the taxi came off the bridge and onto Addison Avenue and Corey said, “Make a turn. That next little street.”
“You said Fourth and—”
“Forget that,” Corey said. “Just make the turn.”
“Left or right?”
“Either way.”
As the taxi made the turn onto the narrow side street, the driver said, “What’s happening here? What the hell’s happening?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Corey said. Just then he saw the headlights of the other car showing in the rearview mirror. Against his side he could feel the pressure of the police pistol, issued to him just before he’d walked out of Room 529 in city hall. The pistol was loaded and for a moment he allowed his fingers to glide along the leather of the holster under his shirt. The taxi was slightly more than halfway down the narrow street and he looked at the meter and saw it read a dollar-twenty. He said to the driver, “Stop here.”
The taxi came to a stop. Corey gave the driver two dollars and got out of the taxi, slowly, not looking backward. The driver started to hand him the change and he said, “That’s all right.”
“Thanks.” The driver looked as if he was caught between worry and curiosity. Then it was only worry, and he was in a hurry to get away. He faced forward, his grip tight on the steering wheel. The taxi moved off.
There were no lampposts and no lit windows along the narrow street. The only glow was the light from the headlights of the car, which came slowly toward Corey as he walked near the curb. His back was to the car. It’s like a shell-game, he thought. You pick up the wrong shell, you’re done. And the odds are always two-to-one against you. At least two-to-one, that is. In this case it’s more like fifty-to-one. But that’s the gamble you gotta take. There just ain’t no other way to play this deal.
He kept walking along, near the curb. He heard the engine of the car coming closer. The glare of the headlights splashed onto him but he still kept his back to the car. Then the car moved up alongside Corey and came to a stop. A voice said, “Hello, Corey.”
He turned and looked. There were two men in the car. He recognized them, members of Grogan’s outfit. Earlier tonight they’d been in the poker game in the backroom of the Hangout.
“Hello,” he said, and started to walk on.
“Wait, Corey. We wanna talk to you.”
He stopped. They got out of the car and came toward him. One of them was medium-sized and long-jawed, an ex-con in his middle thirties named Macy. The other was tall and close to fifty, also an ex-con and a former minor league ball player who still kept himself in shape. His name was Lattimore. They were both specialists in strong-arm and liquidation and they took their occupation very seriously. These ain’t the ordinary hoodlums, Corey thought. These are the experts.
They were standing very close to him. Lattimore said, “We seen you gettin’ out of a taxi. Where were you comin’ from?”
“City hall.”
Macy leaned in toward him. “How come city hall? What were you doing in city hall?”
“They took me in for questioning.”
“About what?”
“Them hoods,” Corey said. “The ones we handled tonight at the Hangout.”
Macy turned to Lattimore. “Whaddya say?”
“I’m satisfied,” Lattimore said.
“Same here,” Macy muttered. He smiled at Corey, a tinge of apology in his tone as he said, “You understand, don’t you? It’s part of the business. We gotta check all the moves.”
“I understand.”
“Good boy,” Macy said, and went on smiling at him and patted him on the shoulder. Then Macy turned away.
“See you later, Corey,” Lattimore said.
“Later,” Corey said. And just when he wasn’t expecting the move, it came. It had all of Lattimore’s talent and experience behind it, the timing perfect, the gauging accurate, and no wasted motion. Lattimore’s hands held Corey’s wrists, Corey’s right arm pulled up high, bent behind his back, his left arm stretched out to the side.
Lattimore forced him to his knees as Macy pivoted with the move and came in fast for the frisking. Corey told himself to accept it, there was nothing to do but accept it. He felt Macy’s hand going under his shirt, saw Macy’s hand coming out with the police pistol. Macy looked at the police pistol, then looked at Corey and smiled. The smile widened as Macy’s other hand hit Corey’s trousers pocket and then went in and came out with the badge and the card. Macy’s smile was very wide as he looked at the card. He held it up for Lattimore to see. The parked car’s glowing headlights seemed to spotlight the card, to focus directly on the words stamped slantwise: “Night Squad.”
“Let him up,” Macy said.
Lattimore released Corey’s wrists. Corey, his knees on the pavement, now lifted himself slowly, grimacing slightly as he rubbed his right arm. He wondered if some of the ligaments were torn. From his shoulder to his elbow it felt as though white-hot wires were twisted and knotted along the inside of his arm.
Macy continued to smile at him. The three of them stood there for a long moment, Lattimore behind Corey. Then Macy said to Lattimore, “Put a rod on him. Let him feel it.”
Corey sighed, looking down at the pavement and shaking his head slowly. He felt the muzzle of the gun pressing against his back, a little to the side of his spine. “Let’s move it,” Lattimore said, and they walked toward the car.
In the car, Macy took the wheel, Corey and Lattimore sat in the back. Lattimore was sitting sideways, displaying the gun and holding it aimed at Corey’s chest. They sat at opposite sides of the seat, and Corey was slumped forward with his hands loose in his lap. The car moved slowly along the narrow street.
Nothing you can do, Corey told himself. You had a chance to do something and you let it slide past. I mean you coulda got rid of the badge and the card and the police pistol before you climbed outta the taxi. But you didn’t figure on a frisk, and it’s a cinch you didn’t figure it was Grogan’s people. Grogan said the deal was just him and yourself and the way he said it you were sure he meant it. And the weird thing is, you still believe that he meant it. Or maybe that’s just confusion in your head. Maybe if you’d straighten out your thinking you could add this up and see it for what it is.
The car made a left hand turn. Corey looked up and he frowned slightly. He knew it ought to be a right-hand turn if they were going to Grogan’s. Some moments later the car made another turn and he told himself it didn’t look as though they were going to Grogan’s.
He said, “Where you takin’ me?”
They didn’t reply.
“At least you can tell me.” He put a whine into his voice.
“Tell him,” Macy said, and looked over his shoulder at Lattimore. “Go on, tell him.”
Lattimore spoke softly to Corey. “It’s the windup.”
“What?”
“You’re done,” Lattimore said. “We seen that badge and we seen that card and the card reads Night Squad. That’s all we hadda see.”
“But it ain’t like you think,” Corey said. “If you’ll take me to Grogan—”
“We can’t do that,” Lattimore cut in. “Not on this particular deal. On this particular deal we ain’t workin’ for Grogan.”
Corey waited a long moment. And then, very quietly, “You’re with the other outfit?”
“That’s right.”
“Then take me to the boss man.”
“That wouldn’t help you none,” Lattimore said. “And besides, he’s got a nasty disposition. Likes to hear screams. At least from us you’ll get it fast.”
The car was moving slowly, going down the bump
y slope. The slope gave way to a vacant lot. On one side there was a warehouse with most of its windows broken. It looked out of business. On the other side a concrete pier had most of its concrete chipped away, the pier office just about ready to fall apart. The vacant lot was littered with rubbish and there were some deep, muddy crevices near the edge of the river. The car crossed the crevices and came to a stop just a few feet away from the edge of the river.
Macy shut the engine and climbed out. Lattimore said to Corey, “All right, move.”
“Jesus Christ,” Corey said, giving Lattimore a pleading look.
“Go on, move,” Lattimore said, pointing the gun at Corey’s throat.
Corey sat there and intensified the pleading look. “Gimme a break. Cantcha gimme a break?”
“No,” Lattimore said.
Corey shut his eyes tightly, as though trying to keep from weeping. “I can’t go through with it—”
“You’ll go through with it,” Lattimore said.
Corey kept his eyes shut and let out a groan.
“Get outta the car,” Lattimore said.
Corey groaned again and remained sitting there. Then he lowered his head and covered his eyes with his hands.
Macy was standing near the front fender and he called to Lattimore, “What’s all the delay?”
“He’s cracking up.”
“Get him outta there,” Macy said.
Lattimore leaned close to Corey and put the muzzle of the gun against his neck. His other hand clenched and sent in a kidney punch. Corey grunted, gasped and groaned again.
“Open the door and get out,” Lattimore said. “I’m not gonna tell you again.”
Corey sat there. He let out a sob. Lattimore moved close, punching him again in the kidney, then shifting the gun so that he held it by the barrel. Lattimore raised the gun and aimed the butt at the side of Corey’s head. Bent very low, Corey had his eyes halfway open. Looking to the side and seeing the gun’s butt raised and coming down, he rolled sideways, going inside the arc of the clubbing weapon, his elbow bashing Lattimore in the testicles. Lattimore let out a scream but didn’t let go of the gun. He tried to shift it in his hand to get his finger on the trigger. Corey used the elbow again, driving it into the same place, and then with both hands took the gun away from Lattimore. At that moment Macy was at the car window and aimed a gun at Corey’s head. Both guns went off at the same instant. Macy stood outside the car window with a red-black cavity gushing bright red where his left eye had been. As he stood there he died, and then on rigid legs he went sliding down sideways, out of sight under the car window.