Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

“Where was that holdup?” Odell said, frowning at his hand.

  “Sixth and Edgeton,” Mark said. “It’s not ours.”

  “That’s in the Northeast,” Lindfors said. “There’s a bakery on that corner.”

  “Yeah, Peterson’s bakery,” a detective named Smith said. He was young, stockily built, with curly black hair and an aggressive, confident manner. “We used to go by there on the way home from school.”

  “Well, let’s play cards,” Odell said. “It’s up to you, Smitty. What’d you say?”

  Mark Brewster yawned again and walked into the middle room, where there were several desks, filing cabinets, a bulletin board with a number of flyers tacked onto it, and a small-scale map of the city. The floor was littered with cigarette stubs, and dusty. Green shades were pulled down over the two windows that faced the street. There were two detectives dozing in chairs, and another reporter sat at the Sergeant’s desk, glancing through a late paper. His name was Richardson Cabot, a man of about sixty, who dressed neatly and used a cigarette holder.

  “Everything seems pretty quiet,” Mark said.

  “Thank God,” Cabot said. “Let’s hope it stays this way. I remember, though, it was a night just like this when Slick Willie Sutton broke out of Holmesburg.”

  “How about coffee?” Mark said. He knew from Cabot’s tone that he was about to retell the story of Sutton’s break from start to finish, with considerable emphasis placed on the part one Richardson Cabot had played in reporting that news.

  “Oh, very well,” Cabot said with only a trace of disappointment in his voice. “I’d better check the morgue and a few districts first.”

  “Okay,” Mark said. He sat on the edge of a desk and lit another cigarette. He was thirty, with pale, narrow features, dark brown hair, and alert eyes. His air of casual good humor had made him dozens of friends through the Police Department, and he was regarded as an efficient and trustworthy reporter, one who would never betray confidential information, or jeopardize a case by breaking a story too soon.

  He walked back to the card game while Cabot was making his calls. Odell was raking in a mound of silver. “Get this,” he said to Mark. “I’ve got sixes showing, mind you, showing, and Lindy bets into me with only a queen.”

  “I didn’t see the sixes,” Lindfors said. “Let’s play cards.”

  Mark blew smoke at the ceiling.

  “Car 43 report . . . Car 197, meet complainant, Ridge and Somerset.” A fire-box came in with ten loud rings. Then the announcer: “Box 634, Allegheny and Broad. Car 22—Box 634. Car 610—assist officer . . . Car 611, report to Ellen’s Lane and Crab Street. Assist officer. Car 84—Men loitering at Bainbridge and Gray Streets.”

  Sergeant Odell held up his hand. “That ‘assist officer.’ It was ours, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s right,” Mark said. “610 is the wagon; 611 is the street sergeant.”

  “Probably a cop with a drunk he can’t handle,” Lindfors said.

  “They wouldn’t send the street sergeant on that,” Odell said. “Mark, call downstairs and see what it was, will you?”

  Mark walked into the next room and picked up the police phone on Odell’s desk. He asked the operator to connect with the house sergeant at Sixty-five.

  “This is Mark Brewster,” he said, when Sergeant Brennan answered. “Did you send out the call for 610 and 611?”

  “Right, Mark. Neelan’s got a dead one at Crab Street and Ellen’s Lane. Somebody he shot.”

  “Thanks.”

  Mark walked back to the card game and said: “Brennan says Neelan shot some fellow at Crab Street and Ellen’s Lane.”

  “Yeah?” Odell tossed his cards down. “A dead one?”

  Mark nodded, and Odell said: “Lindy, you and Smitty go over and see if Neelan needs any help.”

  “Look, don’t touch these cards,” Lindfors said, getting to his feet. “I just hooked the case ace.”

  Sergeant Odell laughed at his sulky expression.

  “You want to ride along?” Smitty said to Mark.

  “Sure.”

  “Okay, wait till I get my coat.”

  Mark sat down and lit another cigarette. He glanced at Odell. “What sort of fellow is Neelan?” he said casually.

  Odell’s face was impassive. “Why?” he said.

  “I don’t know him very well. He hasn’t been here long.”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Odell said. “Neelan’s okay, Mark. He’s been working out in Germantown for the last six years or so, and before that he was with Foot Traffic. He must damn near have his time in.” Odell glanced at the last man at the table, a dumpy, balding detective in his early sixties. “How about it, Joe? Hasn’t Neelan just about got his twenty years in?”

  “Now, lemme see,” Joe Gianfaldo said. He ran a hand over the rough skin of his forehead, and twisted his lips so that the two gold teeth in the front of his mouth gleamed in the overhead light. “No, I don’t think so,” he said. “He’s about four years short.” Gianfaldo had been a detective for twenty-eight years, and his one pride was a memory that was little short of miraculous. He knew every street in the city, and could name the stores or houses at most intersections, and he never forgot a name, a face or a date.

  “He was appointed in ’thirty-five,” Gianfaldo said, nodding. “That gives him sixteen years in the business. He’s a mean one.”

  “In what way?” Mark said.

  “He’s too quick to use his gun,” Gianfaldo said, turning to Mark. “He shot up two colored kids in Germantown a few years back, and then when he was in Foot Traffic, he killed a sixteen-year-old boy breaking into a market out near City Line.”

  Sergeant Odell leaned forward and put his big elbows on the table. “Joe, you’re getting all twisted up,” he said quietly. “You’re forgetting things in your old age.”

  Gianfaldo returned Odell’s gaze uncomfortably. “Well, I could be wrong, of course,” he said.

  Mark knew better than to ask any more questions. Odell was at the boiling point because Joe had talked as he had in front of Mark. That kind of talk was for cops and no one else. If Neelan were a bad cop, it was nobody’s business but the Police Department’s.

  THERE was a crowd at the intersection of Crab Street and Ellen’s Lane when they drew up in Smitty’s car. Lindfors and Smitty got out and went over to Neelan, who was talking with a street sergeant and two uniformed men from the Sixty-fifth.

  Lights were on in rooming-houses on both sides of the street, and people were peering out curiously.

  Mark walked down to the lane where Neelan was standing with Lindfors and Smitty beside a huddled body that lay face-down on the brick paving.

  “Who is it?” Smitty said to Neelan.

  “Who sent for you guys?” Neelan said, glancing from Smitty to Lindfors.

  “Odell told us to come over.”

  Neelan put a cigar in his mouth and took his time about lighting it. “It’s Dave Fiest,” he said, flipping the match toward the body in the lane. I was bringing him in, and he made a break. I let one go in the air, and then tried to bring him down. It was a little high, I suppose.”

  Smitty squatted beside Dave Fiest’s body. “What do you suppose he made a break for?”

  “How the hell would I know?” Neelan said.

  Lindfors said: “Where did you make the pinch?”

  “Over at Broad and Crab.”

  Smitty turned the body over and went through the pockets. He found several hundred-dollar bills, an empty wallet; a letter postmarked Miami from one Sol Ninski; a hotel key; a sterling silver combination cigarette case and lighter; the stub of a theater ticket, a palm full of change; a pair of toy dice; and a piece of paper torn from a restaurant menu with a phone number on it.

  Two men from the wagon came down the lane with a stretcher. Smitty put the collection of personal effects back in Dave Fiest’s pockets, then stood up and brushed the knees of his trousers. Mark saw him glance at Lindfors, and saw the faint smile on his lips.

&nb
sp; “Okay, you can have him,” Neelan said to the men from the wagon.

  Mark Brewster lit a cigarette as the body was carried out of the lane. He had known Dave Fiest casually, and had very little feeling one way or the other about his death. His murder, he amended mentally. For this was murder, he knew; official, cold-blooded murder. Manslaughter, if you gave Neelan every break. Smitty and Lindfors knew it too, he could tell.

  MARK took a few sheets of folded copy-paper from his pocket and walked over to Neelan. He nodded to him and said: “My name’s Brewster. I’m with the Call-Bulletin. Could you give me a line on what happened?”

  “You can see for yourself,” Neelan said.

  Mark forced himself to smile, at that. “I need a few details.”

  “Well, what do you want?”

  “The details,” Mark said quietly.

  The two men appraised each other in the filmy light from a street lamp. Neelan was a big man, inches taller than Mark, and weighing well over two hundred pounds. There was a bulge of fat about his waist, but he looked strong and powerful. His features were thick, coarse, and his complexion was ruddy with animal health. He was hardly handsome; yet there was something oddly compelling in his heavy jaw and hard sullen expression. His eyes were light blue, and as steady as glass.

  “I’m busy now, Brewster,” he said, turning away. “See me at the District.”

  “We’re on deadline now,” Mark said.

  Neelan wheeled back to him, his face and eyes angry. “What the hell do I care if you’re on deadline? I’m not working for the Call-Bulletin. You want to blow this into a big story, don’t you? Well, there’s nothing to it. A punk tried to make a break and got shot. That’s all.” Smitty and Lindfors came over, and Smitty slapped Neelan on the back. “Brewster’s all right, Barny. He’s been with us at Thirteen for years. He’s okay.”

  “Yeah, he’s all right,” Lindfors said. “The boss gives him everything.”

  “Well, what do you want?” Neelan said to Mark, making no attempt to conceal his anger. “Let’s get it over with.”

  Neelan’s hostility struck Mark as curious; but just as curious, he thought, was his own instinctive dislike of the detective. The hatred between them was as palpable as a stone wall.

  “How did you happen to arrest him?” he said.

  “He was taking a bet at Broad and Crab Streets, so I made the pinch. We were walking along, west on Crab, when he makes a break down the lane here. I yelled at him to stop, and fired a shot over his head. But he kept going. So I let one go at his legs. But the shot was a little high.”

  “What were you charging him with?”

  “Gambling, pool-selling, loitering.”

  “I see.” Mark made quick notes. Then he said. “Who was the character Fiest was taking a bet from? Anybody you knew?”

  “Never saw him before?”

  “Why didn’t you arrest him?”

  Neelan swore. “You trying to tell me how to do police work?”

  Smitty glanced at Mark with a puzzled expression. “We don’t pick up the suckers, Mark. You know that. Just the bookmaker.”

  “All right, what else?” Neelan said.

  “You just fired the two shots, one over his head, and one at his legs?”

  “Don’t you listen when somebody’s telling you something?” Neelan said.

  “I’m just making sure I have it straight,” Mark said. “Well, there’s no mystery about it. For God’s sake, see me at the District if you need any more.”

  “I think I’ve got enough,” Mark said. He hesitated deliberately, then said: “And thanks.”

  Neelan turned without answering and strode out to the sidewalk.

  SMITTY fell in step with Mark as he left the lane. “Want a ride back to the District?”

  “No, I’ll find a phone around here. But thanks.”

  “Look, don’t worry about Neelan. He’s all right. Kind of sullen, but okay.”

  “He’ll never creep into my heart, I’m afraid,” Mark said.

  “Well, don’t let it worry you,” Smitty said, and walked across the street to his car.

  Cabot had been hanging about in the background, and now he came over and said: “Did you get everything, Mark?”

  “I think so. Let’s find a drugstore. I’ll fill you in then,” he said, wishing that Cabot would do a little work himself on these touchy cases.

  “Fine,” Cabot said. “I was just going to talk to Neelan when you latched onto him.”

  Mark stood at the intersection, staring down the lane where Dave Fiest had died. The crowd was drifting off to their homes, or to taprooms. Everything seemed anti-climactic. Mark lit another cigarette, and listened without interest to the comments of the few men and women who lingered at the scene.

  “They blazed away at each other for a couple of minutes.”

  “Two of ’em got killed, I understand.”

  “Yeah, a cop was shot.

  “Naw, you got a bum steer. I got here right, after the shooting, and it urns just one cop, and he shot this guy for pulling a broad into the alley.”

  “Let’s go,” Cabot said, touching Mark’s arm.

  “Okay.”

  They walked two blocks to an all-night drugstore where Mark gave Cabot the story of the shooting. Then he went into a phone booth and called his paper.

  He talked to an editor on the city desk, told him briefly what he had, and then was switched to Paul Murchison, a rewrite man.

  “This is Brewster,” he said. “I’ve got a shooting.”

  “Ah, yes, the name is familiar,” Murchison said. “Now who are the persons of your tawdry drama?”

  “Dave Fiest is the victim. He was shot by a cop, Bernard Neelan, of the Thirteenth. Neelan. N as in nothing.”

  He heard the faint rattle of Murchison’s typewriter. Then Murchison said, “N as in no good, you mean. I knew that bum when I covered Germantown. What happened?”

  Mark give him the story, and Murchison whistled softly into the phone. “That’s rather raw, even for Neelan, who isn’t noted for his diplomacy. He’s got no reason to shoot a man picked up on a gambling charge.

  He could have sent out a call on the police radio, and they’d have picked Fiest up in an hour.”

  “Well, he shot him, and it didn’t seem to bother him.”

  “No, it wouldn’t. He’s a very bad guy, Mark. I think he’s killed five or six people since he’s been on the force.

  All line of duty, naturally. I remember one time he shot two colored kids in Germantown, killed both of them too, because they ran when he put a light on them.”

  “What else do you know about him?”

  “Well, he shot a drunk one night on Allegheny Avenue, near A Street. Claimed the guy attacked him.” Murchison laughed shortly. “The alleged attacker was all of five feet tall, and probably weighed a sturdy ninety-five pounds—in addition to having been pickled thoroughly in some variety of bonded Sterno. Then there was a sixteen-year-old boy. Neelan claimed the kid was trying to break into a food store. He went up before the Civil Service Commission on that one, but you know how it is. Who’s going to call him a liar? The witnesses are all dead.”

  “It’s a lousy shame,” Mark said, and was surprised at the heat in his voice.

  “You keep out of it, young man,” Murchison said. “Fake an elderly gentleman’s advice, and leave Barny Neelan alone.”

  “I won’t do anything about it, but it annoys me to see a character behaving like God Almighty because he’s got the legal right to use a gun.”

  “Forget it,” Murchison said. “A bad cop is a rarity despite what the stone-headed man-in-the-street thinks. But I think I’ll look up Neelan’s other cases in the library. Maybe the boss will go for a rundown on his homicidal propensities in the line of duty.”

  “That’s an idea,” Mark said. “Good luck.”

  He left the booth and sat at the drug counter to wait for Cabot. He ordered coffee and the waitress said: “You hear about the shooting down th
e block?”

  “Yes, I did,” Mark said. He glanced up, saw that she was a blonde, nearing forty, with streaked hair and a bitter mouth.

  “A cop shot a guy,” she said. “You can have cops.” Mark thought of Lindfors, and Smitty, and Sergeant Odell, and of course Lieutenant Ramussen. They were hard-working, decent men, not too bright about many things, but extremely bright about their business; and while they weren’t easy-going and tender-hearted, they weren’t mean for the sake of meanness, or cruel, or bitter, or without mercy.

  He said: “There are lots of good cops too.”

  “You can have ’em all,” the waitress said. “Lemme tell you something.”

  She told him a long story about a cop who had beaten up her father after shaking him down for fifty dollars. Her lather, it seemed, had had an interest in a truck that ran untaxed alcohol into the State during prohibition.

  CABOT joined him a little later and drank a cup of coffee gratefully. He was getting too old to cover a district, Mark realized, and felt somewhat guilty for his thoughts about him awhile back. And Cabot had a sick wife and a thirty-four-year-old son in a sanatorium.

  “I’ll check the beat when we get back,” Cabot said now’. “And thanks for the story, Mark. The office liked it pretty well.”

  “You’ve given me plenty,” Mark said, smiling at him. “Let’s go.”

  They walked the four blocks to the District. The rain was still falling gently, and the center of the city was dark and quiet. At the station Mark checked the house sergeant’s room to see if anything was going on, then went upstairs. Lindfors and Smitty were playing casino in the middle room, and Lieutenant Ramussen’s office was dark. Cabot sat down at Odell’s desk and began a patient check of the beat, calling all the districts, the morgue, Accident Investigation, and the Fire Board.

  Mark lit a cigarette and watched the casino game. He pushed his hat back on his head, and in the strong overhead light his face was pale and tired.

  “Neelan gone?” he said.

  Smitty nodded. “He put his report on the boss’ desk, and cleared out just a few minutes ago. Why? You need something?”

  “No, I had it all.” He drew on his cigarette, and said, “And that’s that.”