Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  “Oh? What was in it?” Mark said, with only a trace of excitement in his voice.

  “I haven’t looked yet. I—I wanted to believe he was lolling me the truth, Mark.”

  “Well, supposing you get the package, and we’ll see if he’s telling the truth or not.”

  SHE hesitated. “It doesn’t seem fair, somehow.” Mark leaned back in the chair, and lit a cigarette. “What was the idea of calling me? If you’re loyal to him, I’m not the one to talk to.”

  “I do feel loyal to him, but that isn’t it, Mark. I don’t want to be involved in this at all. He may be everything you say he is, but he’s treated me decently, and I don’t want to be the one to sell him out. Can’t you understand that?”

  “Frankly, no. You can’t remain loyal to him unless you’ve got a rather undiscriminating set of loyalties.”

  “That’s not fair,” she said, and her eyes met his angrily. “I’m scared, and I’m mixed-up, and everything doesn’t fall into neat black-and-white patterns the way it seems to for you.”

  “That’s an interesting comment on your personality type, but pretty irrelevant,” Mark said dryly. “Neelan is a murderer, and that’s a fact you can’t change by talking about black-and-white patterns.”

  “You don’t have the slightest sympathy for him, do you?”

  “I’m afraid not, Linda.”

  “You’re lucky to be so sure of yourself,” she said. She seemed very vulnerable then, and he felt a tiny annoying pang of jealousy for Neelan. “This thing might not be totally his fault,” she said. “He hasn’t had the sort of background that develops very strong moral values.” Mark held up a hand. “Please spare me the sad songs about environmental molding. The society we live in holds people responsible for what they do, whether they come from South Philadelphia, or the Main Line. That may or may not be a just and equitable setup, but it’s the one we have to work with. So let’s leave determinism to the professors, shall we?”

  “You don’t know him at all.”

  “Well, I don’t know him as well as you, obviously. I haven’t had your opportunity or, should I say, endowments?”

  “That’s a sophomoric comment,” she said angrily. Mark sighed. “I suggest we stop quibbling about it. Supposing you get the package. That will settle it pretty much one way or the other.”

  She left the room and returned a few moments later with the newspaper-wrapped bundle. Mark took it front her and held it in his hands. Then he untied the knots at one end of the package and turned back the paper carefully. He could see the ends of a sheaf of banknotes.

  “That’s the money, isn’t it?” Linda said in a low voice; and the words seemed loud in the stillness.

  “I imagine so.” Mark pulled one bill out far enough to see its denomination. Then he nodded. “Yes, this looks like the twenty-five thousand dollars that belongs to Mike Espizito. It’s the money Dave Fiest was carrying when Neelan shot him.”

  “What are you going to do now?” Linda said, turning away from him and sitting on the sofa. Her face was white, and he saw a tiny pulse beating in her throat. Oddly moved, he sat beside her and took one of her hands, but she pulled it away quickly.

  “I don’t want to be comforted,” she said, half-angrily. “Okay, okay,” he said. He rewrapped the bundle of money, tied it securely and dropped it into her lap. “You’d better put it away,” he said.

  “Aren’t you going to take it to the police?”

  “I don’t know what to do,” he admitted. “This money is conclusive evidence as far as I’m concerned, but it wouldn’t be enough for a murder indictment. You see, Neelan could deny having given you the money, for one thing. Secondly, even if we could establish his possession of the money, that wouldn’t establish the fact of murder. He could conceivably wriggle out of it by saying he had taken the money but hadn’t had a chance to report it. That would smell to high heaven, and the Civil Service Commission would grab him, but it still wouldn’t prove he murdered Dave Fiest.”

  Linda lit a cigarette with trembling fingers. “I can’t see him again, Mark.”

  “You’ll have to, I’m afraid. You can’t let him suspect that anything has happened to change your relationship.”

  “I wish you’d stop implying that we’ve been sharing a love nest,” she said irritably.

  “Anyway you want it,” he said, and shrugged.

  They were silent a moment; then she smiled faintly at him and shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Forget it,” he said, but wished she’d stop jolting him off-balance with her reactions. “What did you tell Neelan about my visit here?”

  “I lied to him about it, Mark. Something about him frightened me last night. I started to tell him the truth, and then, almost without realizing it, I told him that you had run him down and then asked me for a date.” She colored slightly. “That was all I could think of.”

  “Well, that will probably satisfy him,” Mark said. He glanced at his watch and got to his feet. “I really don’t know what to do next. Just sit tight, I guess.”

  She came with him to the door. “Won’t I be able to see you again?” she said. “I suspect you think I’ve acted like a fool. But I’ll need someone to talk to, Mark.”

  “That wouldn’t be smart,” he said, and perversely, found himself enjoying her disappointment. “Okay, I’ll call you tonight, here, after your last show. We’ll have to be careful about how we get together.”

  “Thanks, Mark.”

  He patted her shoulder and left.

  THE district was quiet, Mark learned at the Sixty-fifth. He checked through the accident reports and chatted with Sergeant Brennan awhile before going upstairs to the Detectives’ Division.

  “Hi, ya, Scoop!” Smitty called to him as he walked around the counter. Sergeant Odell nodded at him over his paper. Lindfors and Gianfaldo were arguing about the details of a shooting that had occurred seven years ago, and Neelan was standing at the window staring down into the street.

  Mark sat on the edge of an empty desk. “Everything quiet?” he asked Odell.

  “Yeah, nothing much doing,” Odell said, and went on with his careful, lip-moving perusal of the paper.

  The room was hot and smelled of stale cigarette smoke, and the unshaded overhead lights revealed the cracks in the green shades, the scratches on the furniture, and the shine on Gianfaldo’s blue suit.

  Neelan turned from the window and walked over to him.

  “I want to talk to you,” he said.

  “Sure,” Mark said. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. “What’s up?” He knew what was coming.

  Neelan stared at him, his eyes shining and cold. “What the hell is your interest in me?” he said. “Yesterday you were out at the Forty-first checking behind me, and last night you were with—” He paused, and made an angry gesture with his hand. “You were up to the same thing with another party. What’s it all about, snoop?”

  Silence had settled over the room. Odell was looking at them over his paper, his mouth open slightly, and an expression of blank amazement on his face. Smitty and Lindfors and Gianfaldo were studiously gazing in other direction!.

  “I’m not sure I get you,” Mark said easily. “I was out in Germantown yesterday, all right—”

  “Yeah, I know damn well you were. And talking about me and Dave Fiest, weren’t you?”

  “So were half the people in the city. It was a Page One story,” Mark said.

  “You and Spiegel had some ideas about the shooting, I hear,” Neelan said. “Why don’t you come to me with ’em, snoop?”

  “Who’d you get this information from?” Mark said. “I’ll ask the questions. What is it you want to find out, snoop?”

  Mark saw that Neelan was setting himself to swing. He had worked himself to a point that demanded physical release; and Mark shifted slightly to get himself into position to roll with the blow.

  “Hey, how about both of you guys relaxing?” Sergeant Odell said.

  Neelan
turned on him angrily. “How about you keeping your big trap shut?”

  SERGEANT ODELL’S beef-red face went a shade darker as he hoisted himself from his chair and strode around in front of his desk. He pointed a finger the size of a banana at Neelan and roared: “You keep your mind on who you’re talking to, Neelan!”

  Lieutenant Ramussen came out of his office and took in the scene with his cold bright eyes. “What’s all the noise about?” he asked.

  Odell walked back and sat down heavily at his desk. “Nothing much, Lieutenant.” He hesitated a moment, then said: “Mark seems to be bothering Neelan somehow, and Neelan was just straightening him out.”

  Ramussen glanced at Mark with a puzzled expression. “We don’t want to be bothered by reporters, Mark,” he said. “You boys are welcome here, and you get good cooperation on the news, I believe. Isn’t that right?”

  “Sure,” Mark said. He met Odell’s eyes, and the Sergeant reddened slightly and looked away. Mark didn’t lame him for putting him in the doghouse. Every man in the room would stick for Neelan, regardless of the circumstances, or their personal feelings. That was an ingrained part of their thinking. Mark surmised that most of them knew by now that Dave Fiest had been carrying twenty-five thousand dollars when he was shot; and that the money had disappeared. But blinded by professional loyalty, they’d look the other way unless forced to do something about it.

  “Let’s not have any more of this sort of thing,” Ramussen said to Mark. “Understand?”

  Mark glanced at Neelan, who was again standing at the window; and then he nodded to Ramussen. “Sure thing, Lieutenant,” he said, and walked out of the room.

  Downstairs, the hearings were just starting, and the roll-call room was crowded with defendants, complainants, people in all sorts of trouble, and witnesses, lawyers, bondsmen and cops. Mark walked behind the bench and nodded to the Magistrate. He glanced down the complaint sheets but saw nothing that looked like a story. There were a few family rows, and a non-support case, an accident, and one assault and battery by milk bottle, in addition to the vags and drunks.

  Richardson Cabot came in the front door of the station, his cigarette holder cocked at a jaunty angle. Every inch the gentleman of the Fourth Estate, Mark thought. “How’re things, Mark?” he said. “All quiet?”

  “Looks that way. There’s nothing at the hearings.”

  “Fine. Let’s go upstairs and see what the brains have cooking.”

  “You go ahead, Cabot. I’m persona non grata at the moment. I had a little row with Neelan.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” Cabot said. He flipped ashes on the floor and scowled. “You know what we used to do in the old days when one of those jug-heads got down on a reporter?”

  “No,” Mark said. “What did you used to do?”

  “Why we’d boycott the Division, every one of us,” Cabot said. “They’d come around after a while begging us to put their two-bit stories in the papers.”

  Mark felt sorry for Cabot, re-living this manufactured past.

  “You’d better go on up there and cover for both of us,” he said.

  “To hell with ’em!” Cabot said stoutly. “If they don’t want you around, I’ll stay down here.”

  “No, you go on up there,” Mark said.

  Cabot looked longingly at the stairs leading to the Division. He wanted with all his soul to be there with the phones, the radio, and detectives who could keep him informed. Mark knew that, so he patted him on the arm and said: “You can cover for both of us, Rich. Go on.”

  “Well, all right then,” Cabot said. He looked up the stairs, and straightened his hat with a defiant gesture. “I won’t stay up there, though, damn it.”

  Lieutenant Ramussen came down the stairs as Cabot was going up. He nodded to Mark. “I’d like to talk to you. Got a few minutes?”

  “Sure.”

  RAMUSSEN looked into the street sergeant’s office, saw that it was empty. “Let’s step in here—okay?”

  Mark went in, and the Lieutenant closed the door. They both lit cigarettes, and Ramussen put his foot on a chair and glanced at Mark with his strange pale eyes. “Now’, if it’s not something personal, I’d like to know about the trouble between you and Neelan. I didn’t ask you upstairs, Mark, because, as you’ll understand, I had to assume that Neelan was in the right. But I’d like to have your version of the story.”

  Mark wondered how much he could tell the Lieutenant; and decided, not very much. “Neelan’s quick-tempered, and I seem to rub him the wrong way. That seems to be it.”

  “I see.” Ramussen drew on his cigarette for a few seconds, his expression thoughtful. Then he said: “You and I have been friends for quite some time, Mark. Why aren’t you leveling with me now?”

  “You wouldn’t like it if I did, Lieutenant.”

  “Supposing you let me decide that.”

  Mark hesitated a moment; and then, with the feeling that he was making a mistake, said: “Okay, I’ll tell you the truth: I think Neelan’s a murderer. I think he murdered Dave Fiest. Neelan’s guessed that, I believe.”

  Ramussen looked at Mark, and his eyes were cold and angry. “Has it occurred to you it’s none of your business?” he said.

  “Unfortunately, I don’t see it that way.”

  “Since you’re taking over our work, Mark, suppose you tell me why you think Neelan’s a murderer?”

  “He didn’t need to shoot Dave Fiest.”

  “That’s the Department’s decision,” Ramussen said, and now there was no mistaking the anger in his eyes. “Every time a cop uses his gun, there’s a certain element that yells for his scalp and calls him a bloodthirsty fascist. If that group had their way, the police would have to catch criminals with a butterfly net.”

  “You know that isn’t my attitude.”

  “I’ll be damned if I know what your attitude is.”

  Mark shrugged. “I said you weren’t going to like this. I’m going ahead at your insistence, remember: There’s talk about money, Lieutenant. Twenty-five thousand dollars’ worth of it, that was on Dave Fiest when he got shot.”

  “That’s just talk, so far. Have you seen the money?”

  Mark had known from the start that he’d be on his own, attempting to prove anything against Neelan. The police would act on evidence, all right, concrete evidence, without a loophole in it, but because they were drilled to work as a unit and think of themselves as a tight-knit pack against the world, they weren’t likely to dig up the evidence against one of their own men. That was the flaw in most cops’ minds; and that was what protected a bad cop.

  And so he stared at Ramussen and said. “No, I haven’t seen any money, Lieutenant.”

  Ramussen put a hand on his shoulder and shook him gently. “We shouldn’t be yapping at each other, Mark. We’ve been together too long for that. But I’ve got to say this much more: Leave the police work to us. Neelan won’t get away with anything because he’s a cop. But neither is he, or any other man of mine, going to be crucified because he is a cop. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Fine. So lay off him, understand? Let him go his own way, and you go yours. Do you want me to have a talk with him, and tell him the same thing? I’ll do that if you like.”

  “No. I think it would be better to let it ride.”

  “All right.” Ramussen smiled at him and opened the door and went back upstairs.

  Chapter Eleven

  NEELAN LEFT THE DISTRICT AFTER A SEEMINGLY interminable night. He had only two jobs, both larcenies in South Philly; but despite the inaction and the flare-up with the reporter and Odell, he was in a pretty fair mood. Outside on the sidewalk he met Danny Shuster, a bondsman who also peddled jewelry around the districts.

  “You’re the guy I want to see,” he said. “You got a good lady’s watch, something a little extra?”

  “Sure, sure,” Danny said. “Come on over to my car.” They walked down the block to Shuster’s car and climbed into th
e rear seat. Danny picked up a leather briefcase and unzipped it. He lifted out a suede watch-case and glanced at Neelan.

  “How much do you want to spend?”

  “That don’t matter too much.”

  Danny looked pleased. “Okay then, my friend, I’m going to show you a bargain you won’t ever see again. It retails for four bills, not a penny less. But you look at it before I tell you what I’ve got to let it go for.”

  Neelan opened the case and examined the watch. Tint stones gleamed about the face. He thought of watching Linda put it on, imagined her smile of excitement. “How much?” he said.

  “Two hundred and thirty-five bucks,” Danny said, watching Neelan’s face carefully. “Honest to God, it’s practically larceny for you to take it at the price.”

  “Okay, okay,” Neelan said. He had three hundred dollars of Dave Fiest’s money with him, so he paid off Danny and put the sixty-five dollars change back in his pocket.

  “Maybe you’ll be needing a ring one of these days,” Danny said, smiling at him cheerfully.

  “Hell, I’m not looking for trouble,” Neelan said, but the idea made him expansive. “When I do, I’ll check with you.”

  “Okay, kid.”

  Neelan walked two blocks to a drugstore and called Linda.

  “How about a little celebration tonight?” he said. He was remembering their drive the night before, and how right everything had seemed.

  “Barny, I’ve got a terrific headache. I’m going right home after the next show.” She spoke quickly—almost, he thought, as if she were reading the words from a script.

  His good humor faded. “Well, that’s too bad. How about a drive? That might help your headache.”

  “No, I’m just not up to it, Barny.” Again the words tumbled out in an automatic manner.

  He got a little angry. “Well, how about letting me drive you home,” he said. “I won’t make the headache worse, I guess.”

  She paused for a moment, then said more cheerfully:

  I hat’s nice of you, Barny. I’ll meet you after the next show. All right?”