by David Goodis
“It wasn’t your fault,” Heeley said.
“Now look, you shut the hell up,” McDermott told Heeley. “I’m saying it was my fault. It was my fault because I made a serious error in judgment. I put trust where it didn’t belong.”
Corey winced.
McDermott got up from the desk chair. His eyes were wet. He said to Corey, “That’s just about how it stacks. I trusted you and you did him in.”
Corey mumbled, “I did what?”
“You did him in,” McDermott said. Then something happened to his face, his mouth wide open, the corners stretched so that his teeth showed, his eyes glimmering, berserk. For an instant it seemed he would lunge at Corey. But then he turned away, leaning low over the desk with his hands gripping the edge of the desktop.
Corey looked at the five squadmen. They stood motionless, their faces expressionless.
McDermott leaned lower over the desk, then made a staggering move toward the desk chair. He sagged into the chair. He put his hands to his face, rubbed up and down, placed his hands on his chest and gazed up at the ceiling. He said, “All right, I’m ready now. I’m ready to hear it.”
“Hear what?” Corey asked.
The detective-sergeant gazed at the ceiling.
Corey said, “There ain’t nothing I can tell you. How can I tell you anything? I got no idea what this is all about.”
It was quiet for some moments. Then Donofrio moved away from the other squadmen, came close to Corey and said, “Tell him what he wants to hear.”
Corey remained quiet. Donofrio put his hand on the back of Corey’s neck and applied a slight pressure.
“Take your hand off me,” Corey said.
Donofrio increased the pressure. A current of pain caused Corey’s mouth to tighten. “Tell him,” Donofrio said. “You gonna tell him?”
There was more pressure, and considerably more pain. Donofrio’s thumb pressed hard at a vein and Corey let out a slight groan. Then he smiled lazily. He didn’t look at Donofrio. He brought up his elbow, it was a projectile coming up very fast and making contact with Donofrio’s jaw. Donofrio’s hand fell away from Corey’s neck. The tall sad-faced Italian took three backward steps going toward the desk, his knees starting to give way. He reached back and held onto the desk to keep himself from going to the floor. His eyes were closed and he was shaking his head to get rid of the fog. While that was happening, nobody moved. Nobody made a sound. Donofrio opened his eyes and looked at Corey.
“You better not,” Corey said softly through the lazy smile. Donofrio straightened to his full height of six feet one inch, mobilized all the power that amounted in weight to more than a hundred and ninety pounds, then walked toward Corey. “All right, then,” Corey said, and slipped away from a right hand aimed at his head. Donofrio moved in rhythm with Corey’s maneuver and was already hooking with the left as Corey started a counter to his head. Corey landed and Donofrio landed and they both fell back. Donofrio’s hook had connected with Corey’s side just under the ribs. Some blood came from Donofrio’s mouth where Corey’s right hand had loosened a few front teeth. Now Donofrio walked in again. Corey was bent over with his right hand pressed to his side and his left out, jabbing. Donofrio chopped at the left, bringing it down, then hammered his right hand to Corey’s head. Corey went to the floor.
Donofrio kicked Corey in the ribs, then aimed a kick at his head. Corey managed to roll away. Donofrio started another kick but McDermott got up from the desk and grabbed Donofrio who kept trying to kick at Corey’s head. Donofrio got away from the detective-sergeant and took hold of a chair, raising it high with the intention of cracking Corey’s skull. The other squadmen rushed in. Two of them hit Donofrio low, at the knees. The other two got him around the middle and at the shoulders. They were taking him to the floor, but he was maniacal at this moment and broke away from them. He still held the chair with one hand. Again he raised it as he ran for Corey, who was trying to get up from the floor. McDermott got between them, put a bear hug on the Italian and kept squeezing. Donofrio’s head went back, his mouth opened wide, his arms limp and his knees buckling. McDermott kept squeezing. Donofrio’s eyes rolled and he was losing consciousness. The detective-sergeant slackened his hold. Donofrio made a wheezing sound as he took in air. The chair was overturned on the floor and Donofrio gave it a sad look. Then McDermott let go of him and Donofrio collapsed on the floor beside the chair. He was semiconscious, making wheezing noises, resting on his side with his knees close to his middle. His hands were clutching his middle.
Corey stood near the window. He was rubbing the side of his head. Then he put his hand against his ribs where he’d been kicked. He grunted and leaned back against the windowsill. McDermott went back to the desk and sat down. Donofrio remained on the floor. The other squadmen were grouped around him, ready to stop him in case he got up and made another try for Corey.
McDermott looked at Corey and said, “You hurt?”
“Sure I’m hurt. He damn near busted my ribs.”
“Lemme get up,” Donofrio said.
The four squadmen stepped closer to Donofrio as he tried to lift himself from the floor. He made it to his knees and Heeley put a hand on his shoulder, holding him down.
“Please lemme get up,” Donofrio wheezed. “Lemme have him one more time. I’ll get it out of him.”
“No you won’t,” McDermott told the Italian. “You’re gonna let me handle this. You interfere again, I’ll take you apart. I mean that.”
Donofrio lowered his head. He shut his eyes tightly and let out another wheeze. Then he was quiet.
Corey said to McDermott, “What is all this? I don’t get none of this.”
“You want it explained?” McDermott said mildly.
“I wanna know where I’m at,” Corey said. “I’m beginning to think this is room number five in the Crazy House.”
“This is room 529 in City Hall,” McDermott said. “We got you here for interrogation.”
“Concerning what?”
“You don’t know? You really don’t know?”
“There’s nothing I can tell you, Sergeant. You’re gonna hafta tell me.
“All right,” McDermott said quietly. “What happened, we got a phone call. I’d say around eight-thirty. Or maybe closer to nine. I’m not sure. Anyway, it was nobody we knew. She wouldn’t give her name.”
“She?”
“Maybe a he-she, but I don’t think so. Anyway, that don’t matter. It’s only what she said that matters. She said she wanted Night Squad. I tell her to go ahead and she says there’s a member of the Night Squad getting shot at in the swamplands just off Sixth and Ingersoll. I tell her to go get her head examined and she says the squadman’s name is Corey Bradford and he’s outnumbered and if we don’t hurry he ain’t gonna come outta there alive.”
“That’s what she said?”
“That’s exactly what she said. Then she hung up. We jump into a car and make it to Sixth and Ingersoll and then we’re in the swamplands and we hear the shooting. We move in. We get in closer, we see them. But first they musta seen us, or heard us coming in. It’s five of them and they don’t wanna know from conversation. All they wanna do is get outta there. We gave them a warning shot and they kept moving. So then we really start shooting and they shoot back. We got two of them. They got Ferguson.”
Corey was looking at the wall behind the desk. He told himself to look directly at the detective-sergeant. He tried, but couldn’t do it.
He heard McDermott say, “Them others, they got away. The two that we bumped, one of them was still alive when we reached him. We put some questions to him and he wouldn’t open up. Not at first, anyway. So then I hadda lit cigarette and used two fingers to open up his eye and keep it open. I bring the cigarette close to his eye and then closer and a little closer and he says he’ll spill. I say to him, ‘Who were you going after?’ And he says, ‘Corey Bradford.’ Then I say to him, ‘How come?’ He says, ‘This Bradford, he’s been giving us grief. He’s been
finding out too much and we know it was him who knocked off Macy and Lattimore.’ I say, ‘You know that Bradford’s a policeman? You know he’s on the Night Squad?’ And the man says, ‘If he is, he’s on two payrolls.’ I say, ‘Whaddya mean, two payrolls?’ The man says, ‘From the City and from Grogan. This Bradford, he works for Walter Grogan.’ Then just as I start the next question, the man’s eyes bulge and he’s gone.”
Corey moved very slowly toward a chair and sat down and gazed at the floor.
“Well?” McDermott smiled dimly.
“Nothing,” Corey said. “All this tells me nothing.”
“You weren’t there tonight? You weren’t in them swamplands?”
“Of course not.”
“You don’t work for Grogan?”
“Of course not,” Corey said. He got up from the chair.
McDermott frowned down at the desk top. Then he looked at Corey and opened his mouth to say something. But Donofrio came up from the floor, pushing Heeley and the other squadmen from his path. On McDermott’s desk there was a pair of scissors and Donofrio grabbed it and held it with the blades closed. He’s gotta be kidding, Corey thought. But then Donofrio moved in.
“I’ll get it out of you,” Donofrio wheezed. “I’ll carve it out of you,” and the scissors came close, causing Corey’s arm to function mechanically while he sidestepped. The motion of his arm was just a blur and almost in that same split second he displayed the gun.
The gun meant nothing to Donofrio. He kept coming, and Corey thought, you’re just gonna hafta shoot him. There ain’t no other way to stop him. At that moment McDermott lunged at the tall Italian, and with his left hand he grabbed Donofrio’s wrist, stopping the forward thrust of the scissors. His other hand, clenched and functioning like a piston, banged Donofrio’s jaw. He hit Donofrio six times on the jaw, but Donofrio wouldn’t let go of the scissors. McDermott let out a despairing moan, set himself and hit Donofrio high on the jaw. The Italian went across the room and collided with the wall. Then he was facedown on the floor, unconscious.
Corey stood with the gun in his hand. He was thinking that he ought to put the gun back under his shirt, but he wasn’t sure about the other squadmen. Maybe one of them would snap as Donofrio had snapped. Or maybe all of them would snap. He told himself it was a matter of tactics, and he had to let them know he was ready to use the gun.
Then he saw that McDermott was looking intently at the gun.
“Gimme that,” McDermott said.
Which is just what you’re gonna hafta do, Corey told himself. You either hand it over or use it, and you know you don’t wanna use it.
He handed the gun to the detective-sergeant. The other squadmen moved in as McDermott examined the gun.
“This ain’t no police pistol,” McDermott said.
Corey didn’t say anything.
“Where’d you get this pistol?” McDermott asked.
“Someone gave it to me.”
“When?”
“A long time ago.”
“Like how many hours?”
“Whaddya mean, hours?”
“Twenty-four hours? Less than twenty-four hours?”
“Look, Sergeant, I said—”
“Hold it,” McDermott cut in softly. He smiled a trifle sheepishly. “I’m just guessing here.” And then, the smile fading, “Now let’s check to see if I’m guessing right.”
McDermott went to a filing cabinet and opened one of the drawers. He took out some papers, studied them, put them back in, took out more papers. It appeared he couldn’t find what he wanted. He pulled out another drawer and looked through the papers. Finally he had the paper he wanted. It was mimeographed. He studied something on the paper, then studied something on the gun. He put the paper back in the filing cabinet, closed the drawer and walked toward the prone form of Louis Donofrio. He gently patted Donofrio’s head. The Italian stirred, opened his eyes, started to get up, then sighed heavily and went back to sleep. McDermott stood looking down at him with fondness, something close to tenderness.
The four squadmen moved closer to Corey. Then McDermott came toward them, coming very slowly, looking at the gun in his hand and saying, “There’s a sales notation for this pistol. It was sold just a few months ago. It was sold to Walter Grogan.”
Corey heard a low-pitched growl. It came from one of the squadmen. He wasn’t sure which one.
McDermott said, “You’ve had this pistol less than twenty-four hours. Grogan gave it to you.”
“Now look, I can explain—”
“No you can’t. Not now you can’t. This pistol does all the explaining. And proves it, too. Proves you’re working for Grogan.”
“Sergeant, if you let me—”
“I’m gonna letcha listen. Just stand there and listen. Last night them two masked hoods, they woulda got Grogan if it wasn’t for you. That impresses Grogan. He puts you on his payroll. A few hours later you’re in this office and I proposition you to join the Squad. All right, you sign in. And you don’t say nothing about working for Grogan. That’s why Ferguson ain’t here now. That’s why Leonard Ward Ferguson was only forty-four when they put him in the box.”
There was another low-pitched growl. Corey glanced at the growler. It was Heeley. Now the same thing that had happened to Donofrio was happening to Heeley. Letting out another growl, Heeley started a move toward Corey. Moving faster, a squadman got behind Heeley and held him back.
McDermott said to Corey, “You better get outta here. The next one that flips, we may not be able to hold him.”
Corey started to turn away.
“Wait,” McDermott said. “Here’s your gun.” Going toward the door, Corey tucked the gun inside his shirt and put it under his belt. Then he opened the door and walked out.
Chapter 10
In the corridor, going toward the elevator, he felt a twinge very high on his thigh near his groin. As it hit him, the pain in his head went away. Then the twinge went away and the other pain came again, throbbing along the side of his head where Donofrio had clouted him, and also the searing pain in his ribs where Donofrio had kicked him. In the elevator he pushed the street-floor button. As the elevator went down he leaned back against the wall, shaking his head slowly. He had no specific thoughts, just a negative feeling, everything on the gloomy side.
The elevator came to a stop. Corey got out and walked slowly along the corridor. As he approached the doorway on the Banker Street side of city hall, he saw a framed poster on the wall. It showed a blue-uniformed policeman smiling cheerily and pointing to a large rubbish can. The caption read, “Let’s Keep This City Clean.” Underneath the caption there was a penciled comment consisting of two words.
On Banker Street, walking toward a taxi stand, Corey took out a handkerchief and wiped sweat from his face. It was cold sweat. He told himself he needed a drink. In the taxi he said, “Second and Addison.”
The driver said, “Right.” There was no further talk. Corey leaned back, then leaned sideways, to lessen the pain in his ribs. He touched the side of his head, felt the bump and wished the throbbing would go away. Suddenly he sat up straight, forgetting the black and blue of his ribs and his bruised head. He reached for the back pocket of his trousers, took out his wallet and opened it. He looked at the police identification card that read, “Night Squad.” Then he looked at the badge.
It’s one for the puzzle fans, he thought. You’ve been clobbered by the Squad, you were damn close to getting torn to pieces by the Squad, and yet according to what you see here, you’re still a member of the Squad.
But don’t try to account for it. Don’t try to account for anything that happens up there in Room 529. What happens in that room is something for the head doctors to figure out. And they couldn’t do it in three weeks or even three months. You can believe that.
But look now, just look at this here card and this here badge. Whaddya make of this? Sure, you can tell yourself that McDermott took it for granted you were booted off the Squad; and he just
forgot to mention it to make it official. You can say he just forgot to tell you to hand over the card and the badge. He was occupied with other matters, like dancing around with Donofrio. That would be a simple explanation. Except that ain’t the explanation at all. You know it ain’t.
You know there’s gotta be another explanation why you still got the card and badge. It’s out there in the fog somewhere, maybe a little too far out for this explorer. But Jesus Christ, what are you trying to explore? You think there’s any way to explore McDermott? To do that you gotta go all the way down to hell, because that’s where he lives. He lives there with Mrs. McDermott who won’t let him come near her. Not because she don’t care for him. It’s a cinch she cares for him plenty; you can bet she worships the ground he walks on. You can also bet that she don’t hardly know what year it is. Or let’s say it don’t matter to her what year it is, considering the fact that she went away from everything some thirty-three years ago on that night when they jumped her. Them nine. Them nine from the Third Street Dragons.
Does that tell you anything? Does that give you any hint at all or bring in any connection? The only connection is Walter Grogan who these days is a respected member of the Southeast Boat Club. Some thirty-three years ago this same Walter Grogan was a member of the Third Street Dragons. This Walter Grogan was the leader.
You know what that tells you? It tells you absolutely nothing. The fog just gets thicker, that’s all. And the fog-maker is Detective-Sergeant Henry McDermott, the man with the mild eyes and the soft voice. The man who I swear it’s like he’s with you right now and he’s forcing you to look at the badge.
Why? Why me? Of all people, why me?
And here’s another silly question. The gun. How come he pulled that ass-backwards caper and handed the gun back to you and letcha walk out with it? But wait now, that sorta ties in with the card and the badge. He letcha walk out with the card and the badge. But the gun, it ain’t no police pistol. It’s Grogan’s gun, or to be more accurate it’s the gun that Grogan gave you. So what it amounts to, you’re sitting here with the badge that says you’re a policeman, the card that says you’re attached to the Night Squad, and the .38 that says you’re working for Walter Grogan.