by Jerry eBooks
“Not well at all. I wanted to talk to you about it, Barny.” She glanced at him. “Does Mark Brewster have anything against you?”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s hardly a member of the Neelan Marching and Chowder Club,” she said. “That was the only reason he came to see me, I discovered. To talk about you. It wasn’t very flattering.”
“He talked about me, eh?” Neelan said, his voice soft. “Yes, he did. Does he have any grudge against you?”
HE seemed to be smiling. Linda glanced at him again and saw his lips were drawn back from his teeth. “You might say that, Linda,” he said. “I want you to tell me what he said. Everything, understand?”
“Well, he seems very curious about you.”
“You made that clear by now,” he said. “Let’s have the details.”
“I’m not sure I can remember everything,” she said; suddenly she was sorry she’d brought up the subject.
Neelan pulled off the drive into a shallow clearing; and there he cut the motor and turned to her with a twist of his big shoulders.
“Now Linda,” he said, speaking very slowly and carefully, “I want you to understand that this is important. You’re right; Brewster don’t like me. And he’d like to get something on me. That’s why it’s important you tell me everything he said.”
She had never felt him so close to her before, and the sensation wasn’t pleasant. He was staring at her intently, and she could see the tiny purplish veins in his eyes, and his big square teeth glinting in the dashboard light. She felt that he was closing in on her, smothering her with his power and strength; and suddenly she was afraid. “Go on, kid.”
“He said—he said you weren’t anyone for a girl like me to be seeing,” she said. She didn’t know why she was lying; nor why her heart was beating so rapidly.
“What else?”
It wasn’t easy with his eyes on hers, hard and suspicious.
“He said you were—were just a cop, and that you drank too much and chased a lot of cheap women.”
Neelan leaned back and rubbed his jaw. He was silent a moment, studying her delicate profile. “And then he tried to date you up, I suppose?” he said.
“Yes, that’s right. It’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”
She glanced at him and saw that he was grinning. He pushed his hat back, and she noticed the shining band of perspiration across his forehead.
“I told you he was a bum, kid,” he said. “So what did you tell him? Did you give him the brush?”
“Yes.”
Nolan slapped the rim of the steering wheel with a big hand, and laughed out loud; and then he patted her shoulder.
“Forget about it, kid. I’ll take care of him. I got something else to talk to you about. I want you to do me a favor.” He was serious again, watching her closely. “You’ll do me a favor, won’t you, kid?”
“Yes, if I can, Barny.”
“Good girl.” He opened the glove compartment and removed a thick, newspaper-wrapped bundle that was tied tightly with thin cord. “I want you to hang onto this for a few weeks, kid. It’s evidence I’ll need in a case in a little while, and I want to make sure that no one else gets hold of it. Do you understand?”
She was certain her voice would give her away; but to her amazement, it was quite steady as she asked casually, “What kind of evidence, Barny? Or wouldn’t I understand?”
He grinned. “You wouldn’t understand, kid. And you wouldn’t be interested, anyway. How about it? Will you stick it away in your apartment for a few weeks.”
He dropped the bundle in her lap, and her hands took hold of it unconsciously. She said nothing for a moment, but she knew that he was watching her closely.
“Yes, I’ll keep it for you, Barny,” she said, and again her voice was miraculously steady.
“Fine.” He laughed and snapped on the ignition. “We’d better head back, I guess. I’m on duty, you know.”
“Yes, I guess we’d better.”
Suddenly he said: “You like me, don’t you, Linda?”
“Please, Barny—”
“You like me, I know you do,” he said, stubbornly.
“Yes—I like you, Barny. We’re good friends.”
“I’m crazy about you,” he said, and there was an undercurrent of need in his voice. “Remember that, will you?”
He laughed again, strongly and cheerfully, and stepped on the starter. The motor turned over and he swung the car about to join the traffic going back to town.
Linda sat beside him, her hands tensely holding the bundle in her lap: and oddly, all she made herself think about was Mark Brewster.
“One thing,” Neelan said, casually, as they neared the Simba. “Don’t tell anybody about that evidence I gave you. It’s too complicated to explain, but it’ll be better if you keep it quiet.”
“Of course,” Linda said, and her voice was still steady.
Chapter Nine
NEELAN DROPPED HER AT THE SIMBA AND watched her hurry across the sidewalk holding his bundle of money in both hands. He grinned to himself and drove back to the Sixty-fifth feeling that a load had been lifted from his shoulders.
The idea of giving the money to Linda had occurred to him after he’d called Espizito; and he knew it had been an inspiration. Espizito would never tumble to that pitch. He’d be watching banks, and safety lockers, and Neelan himself; and a lot of good it would do him!
At the Sixty-fifth the time dragged. At twelve o’clock he muttered good night to Sergeant Odell and went downstairs to his car.
He drove south toward Espizito’s club, passing the shuttered-up shops and markets that by day transformed the section into a rich noisy bedlam. This was an area Neelan knew well. He had fought with street gangs in these alleys, had stolen food and clothing from bearded tradesmen, and during his days with Petey Felickson had prowled the neighborhood watching for the rival candidate’s canvassers.
That was when he’d met Espizito. Mike Espizito was an anomaly of that pinched and bitter time. A son of wealthy parents, a University graduate, where he’d made his mark as the campus bookmaker, Mike had taken over a small section of South Philadelphia when he left school, and had serviced it with care and affection. He was known as a mild amiable person as long as things were going his way. His only neurosis was a drastic aversion to bad news. He couldn’t tolerate failures or losses . . .
Neelan parked his car and walked up to the big double doors of Mike’s club, a flamboyant joint that featured name bands and the best of food and drink, and catered to the upper-crust of the city’s shadier elements. Tourists dropped in occasionally, and at Mike’s standing order were treated like celebrities. He liked to give simple people a run for their money.
Neelan went in, nodded to a captain of waiters, and walked up a winding stairway to the second floor, where there was a circular bar and a large dining-room. He sat down and ordered a bottle of beer and a shot of rye.
Two of Espizito’s men, Hymie Solstein and Laddy O’Neill, joined him in a few minutes. They were both big men, sharply dressed, and they greeted Neelan with a casual confidence that he found irritating.
Hymie was short but weighed nearly three hundred pounds, and his round blunt features had been scrambled in every conceivable fashion. His nose had been broken and re-broken, and his babyishly rounded forehead was studded with a collection of ridges, lumps, and contusions. He had dark thinning hair and the smile of an evil-minded angel.
Laddy O’Neill was taller than Neelan, with huge rangy shoulders, and arms as long as a professional basketball player’s. He had been a wrestler for years, and was known to be a bad man with a gun, knife, ice pick, or anything else that came to hand.
They sat down on either side of him, and Hymie thumped his back while Laddy shook his hand.
“The boss is waiting,” Hymie said. “Let’s go.”
“I got a drink to finish.”
“You know how he is about being kept waiting.”
Neelan
looked directly into Hymie’s battered face. He didn’t like him or his outsized shadow, Laddy O’Neill. They were punks with tough-guy mannerisms picked up from the movies. “I know all about how he is about waiting,” he said. “But I still got a drink to finish.”
He tossed off the shot and drank the beer slowly, deliberately. The bartender brushed away his attempt to pay, so he climbed off the stool and followed Laddy’s wide shoulders through the dining-room and down a short corridor that ended against a heavy reinforced door.
Laddy knocked, and the door swung inward. A thin, sallow-cheeked man in a dinner jacket glanced at them, and then stepped aside and said: “Come in, boys. Hello, Barny.”
The man in the dinner jacket was Slicker Robinson, one of Mike’s top men. Barny nodded to him, and saw that Espizito was at his desk talking on the phone. Mike smiled a greeting at him. “Won’t be a second,” he said, cupping a hand over the receiver. “Sit down and have a drink.”
Neelan sat down in a deep leather chair before Espizito’s desk, and glanced around, noting the rich green drapes, the custom furniture, and the single door that led to the complete apartment Mike used when he stayed in town overnight. Neelan had been here before, but years ago; and at that time Mike hadn’t achieved quite so luxurious a frame for himself.
Slicker Robinson went to the bar, held up a bottle of bourbon and raised his eyes questioningly at Neelan, who nodded. Slicker poured a drink and brought it over to him.
Espizito wasn’t doing much talking. There was a contented expression on his face, and occasionally he murmured something into the phone in an amused voice, and smiled good-naturedly. He was a short man, neatly built, with pudgy hands and glossy black hair. There was nothing of the racketeer in his appearance; he looked like a slightly overdressed bank teller.
Finally he said good-by and put down the phone. He smiled at Neelan. “Possibly you know why I asked you to stop by, Barny,” he said.
THIS was it, Neelan knew; this was his last chance to square things with Espizito. But he didn’t hesitate. He said: “No, Mike, I don’t.”
“I see.” Espizito pursed his lips thoughtfully. He glanced over Neelan’s head, and said: “Boys, step outside for a few minutes, please.”
Neelan heard the door slam as Hymie and Laddy left. Slicker Robinson walked over behind Mike’s desk and leaned against the wall with his arms folded.
“Barny, you shot Dave Fiest,” Espizito said, “and I thought maybe you found some money on him and were waiting to find out who it belonged to . . . Well, it belonged to me, Neelan. And I’d like to have it, please.”
Neelan met Espizito’s eyes evenly. “You kind of thought wrong, Mike. I’m not holding anything of Dave Fiest’s for you.”
Slicker Robinson ran his tongue over his lips, and Espizito looked pained. He stared petulantly at Neelan.
“Let’s go over the facts,” Espizito said at last. His cheeks were faintly flushed, and Neelan knew he was angry. “Dave Fiest took a bet of mine last week, five thousand on Blue Angel at Sportsman’s Park. Blue Angel won, and paid four to one, which meant that Dave owed me twenty thousand, plus my five. That made twenty-five thousand dollars. He was going to bring that money over here last night. He left a taproom at Broad and Crab Streets at one-thirty, and before he did, he showed two friends of mine the bank-roll. Outside, he met you and got pinched. You walked over to Crab Street and Ellen’s Lane, where you were forced to shoot him when he made a bold dash for freedom.”
Slicker Robinson smiled as if Mike had said something funny. Espizito went on quietly: “Now, what happened to the money, Neelan?”
“How should I know?”
“You know, all right,” Espizito said in the same calm voice. “Now, Barny, I don’t care about Fiest getting killed, understand. I don’t care about any other money he was carrying on him at the time. All I’m concerned about is the twenty-five thousand dollars that belonged to me. I want it, Barny.”
BOTH men were silent, watching each other steadily. Then Espizito rose abruptly and began pacing the floor. He lit a cigarette and drew on it with short nervous puffs.
“I want that cash, you hear?” he said, his voice strong and harsh. “I’m not in business to make punks like you rich.”
“Watch your language,” Neelan said. He slammed his open hand down on Espizito’s desk, and the noise was like a pistol shot. “No thieving spic calls me a punk, by God.”
“Shut up, Neelan,” Slicker Robinson said, and put a hand into his coat pocket.
Neelan came to his feet fast, jerking the .38 from the holster at his shoulder. “Get your hand out of your pocket,” he snapped at Robinson.
Robinson obeyed slowly.
Neelan knew he was behaving recklessly; but he didn’t care. He was mad enough to do anything.
“You yapped off quite a bit,” he said to Espizito. “Now do some listening.” He talked carefully, slowly, trying to calm himself down. He didn’t want to shoot, even though he was ready to. “A dozen things might have happened to that money before I arrested Fiest. Think about that for a while. And one more thing: If I see any of your punks too close to me after night, I’ll take ’em off your payroll for good.”
Espizito stood perfectly straight and still. “All right, Barny,” he said.
“That’s fine,” Barny said, and put his gun away. “Now you got anything else on your mind?”
“Nothing at all, Barny,” Espizito said.
“Good.” Neelan turned on his heel and strode across the office. He jerked open the door and went out without looking back. Laddy and Hymie were standing in the corridor. They grinned at him.
“Everything copasetic?” Hymie said.
Neelan went past them and down the stairs without answering. Laddy and Hymie sauntered back into the office. They glanced from him to Slicker, who was staring worriedly at the floor.
“Hey, what’s up?” Hymie said.
Robinson shook his head in a warning gesture.
Espizito remained standing for a few seconds, and then sat down slowly and ran a plump hand through his hair. He was breathing slowly, and there were spots of pink in his cheeks.
Finally he said, in a puzzled voice: “He’s going to try to get away with it, all right. I can’t quite believe it.”
“Don’t worry, Mike, we’ll get it back,” Slicker Robinson said gently, watching him with a concerned expression.
“Oh, yes, we’ll get it back,” Espizito said. “It’s just that the whole thing is puzzling.”
“Me and Hymie will go get it right now, boss,” Laddy said.
“You and Hymie keep away from him,” Espizito said. “You don’t know Barny Neelan. Right now he’s a dangerous man.”
Laddy smiled and stretched his long powerful arms. “He don’t look no different from lots of guys I seen lying on the floor.”
Espizito glanced at him sharply. “I’m not submitting proposals for your consideration. I’m telling you to keep away from Barny Neelan. Is that clear?”
“Well, sure,” Laddy said uncomfortably.
Espizito leaned back in his chair and put his fingertips together. “Most people don’t know what makes a man dangerous,” he said reflectively. “I do, however. A dangerous man is one who will do anything to get what he wants. Lots of men will go pretty far, but at a certain point they stop. Somewhere in their character are brakes which prevent them from going all the way. Neelan has no brakes. He’s going downhill at full speed, and he couldn’t stop himself if he wanted to. We’re not going to get in his way.”
“We just sit tight?” Slicker Robinson said.
“Well, not entirely. I’ve already sent Dippy out to his room to look around; and his car was checked while he was up here. But we won’t find my money that easily.” He glanced at Laddy and Hymie. “Here’s something you might look into. Find out if he’s spending any extra money, and on whom. I heard somewhere he’s chasing some girl at the Simba. A singer, I believe. Look into that angle.” He smiled and shook his hea
d. “I don’t want him buying mink with my money.”
“Okay,” Hymie said.
“And keep out of his way. You’ll regret it like hell if you tangle with him. And so will I, which is more to the point.”
“Okay,” Laddy said, with a deep sigh. “But I think you’re overrating him.”
Chapter Ten
MARK BREWSTER CALLED THE DESK THE NEXT afternoon at four-thirty. He had spent the day trying to work on his book, and trying to keep his mind off Neelan and the girl Linda Wade. Neither attempt had been very successful. He knew that she would probably tell Neelan about their conversation; and he didn’t like to think of what that might mean . . . The desk had nothing for him but a message to call Linda Wade, and her phone number.
“When did that come in?” he said.
“It must have been early this morning. Thompson took it, and he starts at three.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Mark dialed the number, and she answered promptly.
“Hello, this is Mark Brewster,” he said. “I just got your message.”
“It’s good of you to call,” she said rather hesitantly. “I asked the man at the paper for your home telephone, but he told me that was against some regulation or other.”
“Yes, they don’t want Hollywood producers luring us away from the newspaper business,” Mark said. He was trying to be casual, because her voice was tight and strained. “What’s up?”
“I’d like to talk to you this afternoon, if I may. I believe it’s important.”
“Certainly. I’ll come right over.”
“Please hurry, Mark.”
She met him at the door of her apartment fifteen minutes later. As they sat down, he saw she seemed nervous.
“Well?” he said.
She met his eyes for a moment, then glanced at the floor. “After the way I acted yesterday, this isn’t too easy for me,” she said.
“Let’s don’t worry about that,” he said. “Obviously something’s happened to change your mind—but what?”
“Last night Barny gave me a package to keep for him. He said it was evidence in one of his cases.”