Strip For Violence

by Ed Lacy

  He led me to the kitchen where he was boiling hot dogs, had a bottle of beer working. “Emma is staying at her brother's. Upset, of course, and then today this robbery.... Eat supper with me.”

  I speared a frank, wrapped a slice of bread around it, poured myself some beer, asked about the robbery. The old man had taken the day off, to be around Mrs. Rogers, and shortly after eleven in the morning he'd heard a noise at the rear porch door, saw two men trying to jimmy the door. He couldn't describe them except that they looked “rough.” He'd taken down a shotgun from the wall, slipped in a shell... they took off when he fired. He showed me where most of the porch door was ripped away. “Aimed high. I know, at fifteen feet I could have splattered them with a shotgun, but... after what happened to Anita, I didn't want to hurt nobody. Too much hurting and killing in this world.”

  We finished the franks and a few more bottles of beer as I asked about Anita's boyfriends... could be I was going off half-cocked about the importance of the sliver of rock in all this. Rogers said, “Hal, Emma and I made a mistake, although I suppose it wasn't our fault—we had Anita late in life. As a result, when she grew up we were both too old to give her much companionship, and maybe she wasn't too happy at home, that's why her drive to... Well, now that she's gone I feel like my own life is done, empty.”

  “One thing you can be sure of—I'll get her killer or killers if I don't do another thing in life.”

  He gave me a tight smile. “Revenge—what does it mean? Won't bring our Anita back. Hal, you asked about boys.... Well, it was hard for Emma and me to understand Anita, we weren't one generation apart, we were several. She was a little wild, excitement seemed to be in her blood like a drug. She was too eager, intense, to have any boyfriends, or any friends, her own age. Guess she sort of frightened them off. I don't mean she was a wanton but... you spent eight hours a day with her, know what I mean.”

  “Let's say now and then she was silly.”

  He nodded his head slowly, kept nodding for a few seconds. “Hal, I want to ask you something, frankly and honestly. Seem like an odd question for a father to be asking... but... she was mad about you and knowing how impulsive she was, did you... two... ever... sleep together?”

  His eyes were hard on me and I wondered where that shotgun was at the moment. “No, sir, Mr. Rogers, we never did. Frankly, I was afraid of Anita. That's the truth.”

  He sighed. “That's too bad.”

  “Too bad?”

  “Hal, when a loved one dies you sit back and take stock of her life. Anita never had much and I hoped she had at least known and enjoyed the thing she wanted most—love.”

  The old man amazed me, but I knew I was talking to a hell of an honest man, even if he thought sex was “love.”

  He said, “That must sound like an awful thing for a father to say.”

  “I understand what you mean. Anita would have made any man a fine wife.”

  He stared at the kitchen linoleum, his head nodding again, and began to quietly weep. It gives me the creeps to see a human cry. I stood up. “Mind if I look around her room?”

  He pointed to a door on the other side of the kitchen.

  Poor Anita—instead of pictures of movie stars, school pennants on the wall, she had reward circulars taken from the office. There was also a proudly framed diploma from a correspondence course the kid had taken in “detection.”

  I nosed around: there wasn't much, piles of old detective magazines, newspaper clippings about various stick-ups, swindles... a closet with a few worn dresses, shoes and stuff.

  Mr. Rogers came in, said, “We live in a crazy age: your child dies and all you have left are your memories, a few snapshots, dresses... and pictures of criminals.”

  “Anita come home yesterday afternoon?”

  “Yes, while we were both working she came home, changed her dress.”

  “Where's the dress she changed from?” He took it out of the closet. “The police were here this morning, went over the room.”

  I said I knew... and didn't say they wouldn't be looking for the same thing I was. The dress had one pocket— it was empty. I went through her dressing-table, poked my finger in the powder-box. She had a pile of cheap costume jewelry in her drawer, some hairpins... and then I saw it! Either carelessly or wisely, Anita had tossed the sliver among the hairpins. Palming it, I slipped it into my pocket. It was almost a letdown finding it... knocked my ideas about “Cat” Franklin into a cocked hat—which I could pull over my head and call it curls.

  I went through the motions of looking through the rest of her stuff, said, “Nothing here. I'll be getting on...”

  Stay for a while. It's lonely here. Come on, we'll look at TV.”

  We went to the living-room and he dialed in some corny dance act, opened more beer. The TV made me sleepy... I'd only had a few hours of shut-eye in the last twenty-four hours. I dozed off.

  I slept hard and when I opened my eyes again, I had trouble getting the old man into focus. I yawned, said, “Sorry I dropped off. What time is it?”

  “After ten. You.... What's the matter?”

  I was staring at the TV screen. It was Margrita's show and she was clowning with a guest—Will Johnson looking fat and sloppy in his mailman's uniform! Margrita had on a pair of shorts that showed off her fine legs and a sort of halter that didn't hide much of the rest of her. The scene was a beach and she had Will down in the sand, was trying to kiss him. I guess it was funny—the studio audience sounded hysterical. Willie was merely acting himself—the embarrassed oaf—and she finally got his shoulders on the sand and a cop suddenly ran into the scene, made like he was a wrestling referee and slapped Margrita on the shoulders—as though she'd won the bout.

  When Willie sat up, she planted a big kiss on his fat lips that made the characters in the audience give out with corny whistles... and there was a lipstick smear on Will's dazed face, and the audience howled. That kiss didn't look like any stage peck to me, looked like Margrita really went for the big jerk! And I was downright envious!

  “You like her? Has a nice voice but all this leg stuff...”

  I glanced at my watch. It was ten-twelve. “When does this show go off?”

  “Half past ten. I think....”

  “Got to run, Mr. Rogers. Have a... business appointment at ten-thirty,” I said, getting my hat.

  10

  I drove as fast as I could, but it was after eleven when I pulled up in front of the former movie house that was now a TV studio. The usual autograph hounds were hanging around the entrance, and as I parked my car, they set up a howl. Margrita—in a flowery red dress—and Will were pushing through the crowd toward a sleek, chauffeured car. This was strictly a Cadillac-rich job; it had a lot of shiny gadgets on it and two big silver aerials that stood up like outriggers on a fishing boat. I tried to fight my way through the crowd but couldn't buck the women and kids tightly clutching their stupid autograph books. I ran back and got into my struggle-buggy.

  It was easy to follow them, and I kept wondering what she saw in a slob like Will. They got out in front of one of these swank residential hotels on Park Avenue and Will's puss had the goofy how-did-this-happen-to-me? look of a guy who knows he's going to bed with a dream gal.

  Parking on a side street, I decided to wait till he came out, nail him for the truth about the rock. I stared up at the building, wondering which one of the lighted apartments was hers. The doorman was a guy I felt sorry for; dressed like a rear admiral in a technicolor musical. I said, “Wasn't that Margrita I saw come in a few minutes ago?”

  “Yes, sir. Sure is pretty.”

  “Quite a car she has, too.”

  He leaned over, whispered, “Rented job. Part of her publicity.”

  “You don't say.” I pointed to a couple of windows over the entrance. “Guess you see plenty, with her living right up there?”

  “No, she lives in the penthouse, around there,” he said, pointing to the side street. He looked down at me with an amused glance. “One o
f her fans, junior?”

  “Any chance of getting her autograph?” I asked, giving him a goof-grin.

  “Always bothered with you pests. Have to wait all night to catch her now. She told her chauffeur she was in for the night.”

  I went back to the side street, looked up at the top of the hotel like a hick. I could see the lighted windows of what I thought was the penthouse, and while I was straining my neck, the lights went out. I walked back to the corner and waited—but no Willie. It dawned on my thick head that the lucky slob was spending the night with Margrita— and that sure wasn't any TV, prize! It may have been jealousy on my part, but Will didn't look like what a big-time show girl wanted—but he was up there!

  I went back to the side street, threw my head back and stared up at the dark terrace and windows. Vaguely I heard steps behind me and then the whole damn hotel fell on me.

  11

  When I came to, I was sitting on the sidewalk, everything spinning like mad. The old merry-go-round was getting up speed. I shut my eyes and waited, opened them again and everything had stopped. A few curious people were staring down at me, a young cop was kneeling at my side. The back of my head felt like it was trying to take off. The cop asked, “Suffer from fits?”

  Like a dope I touched the back of my head, had to fight off screaming with the pain.

  “Quite an egg you got there—must have hit your noggin when you fell. Just take it easy, got an ambulance coming and...”

  Holding his hand I stood up. The street did tricks for a moment, then settled down. But when I bent over to pick up my hat I nearly blacked out again. This cop liked to talk, went into a lecture about people suffering from fits shouldn't be out alone, all that.... I felt for my wallet. It wasn't there. The cop grinned. “Lose something?” He held up the wallet. “Found it near the curb, must have dropped out as you hit. See you're a private...”

  I tried to be casual as I opened the wallet. Everything was there—except the stone. I started for the car. The cop said, “Hey, the ambulance is coming.”

  I couldn't tell him I'd been sapped, I grunted, “Forget it, always go to my own doc when I get these... attacks.”

  He walked me to the car. “You in condition to drive?”

  “Only get these attacks once every ten years,” I said, driving away. I headed for the yacht basin but as I crossed Broadway, saw one of these big advertising clocks, I headed downtown. I was to be at the office at midnight to give the patrol boys their cards. My head was only faintly buzzing. One thing was for sure—the rock was the key to the works, and some man-to-man talk with Will would straighten out many things.

  It was ten minutes before midnight when I unlocked the office door, reached for the light switch... and the business end of a gun cut into my back as an even harder voice said, “Keep your meathooks up—high!”

  I was frisked in the darkness, then the lights went on. Two burly goons were staring at me, one with a Luger in his hand. The office was a mess—again. I said, “You went through this act once. What's the pitch?”

  The joker behind the gun asked, “Tiny, where's the bundle?”

  “The what?” He was close enough to try brushing the gun aside, but the other punk worried me.

  “Give me no questions,” the gunman said, slapping me across the face with his free hand. My nose began to bleed and my head started buzzing with static again. The other clown picked me up like I was a puppet, said, “Tie him up and get to work.”

  I was furious—my feet dangling in the air, his stinking breath covering my face. But I had to stall for time. “If you tell me what this is all about, I might...”

  The gunman slapped me again and I swung like a punching bag. My head hurt and blood gushed down my chin, over my shirt and good tie. “Open the safe, bud, and you won't get hurt.”

  The other giant let go and I got to my feet, opened the safe. It was five to midnight. There wasn't much in the safe, papers, petty cash, and two guns. The guy with the gun took off his coat, said in a bored voice, “Guess we got to work you over, shorty, after all. Where's the dough?”

  As he reached over to smack me, I kicked him on the knee-cap with my metal-toe shoe and he screamed. I turned to sidestep the other mug's rush, but didn't quite make it. He threw himself on me and we both went down. He had at least a hundred pounds on me and I could hardly move. When I tried to get a finger under his ear, he brought his elbow down into my guts and I had to fight hard to keep from passing out. I managed to grab his left thumb, started working that back, trying to break it, as he roared with pain and began clubbing me with his right fist.

  His buddy managed to crawl over and swung at me with a sap. Although I blocked this with my shoulder, the blackjack felt like a crowbar. They both were swinging at me when the door opened. Curly Cox and Dan Rosen were so surprised they hesitated a second before swinging into action. Rosen had only been a run-of-the-mill middleweight—ring rules hampered his style—but in a street brawl he was strictly champion stuff. He landed on the gunman with his hands and feet working, while Curly hit the joker who was pounding my guts with a solid right that made him forget me.

  I took time out to get my breath, then chopped at Curly's guy, hitting him on the temple with the edge of my right hand—and that was that. Rosen was enjoying himself with the other goon and as Curly grabbed the guy's arms, Danny smashed a right and left to his face, added a terrible right to the belly as a finisher.

  We got to our feet and it took me a long minute to straighten out. Curly asked, “Boss, what's all this?”

  “I don't know, exactly,” I said, taking the gunman's Luger and sap. The other sport had a knife and a .22 strapped to his ankle. They were careful, no identification on them, not even clothing labels. All they had between them was about a hundred bucks and a set of car keys... and the sliver of rock!

  This threw me entirely off base, if they had the rock, what else did they want? What money...? The phone rang. Thelma Johnson sounded hysterical as she asked, “Mr. Darling, have you seen Will?”

  “Yeah—on TV.”

  “Oh the way she was kissing him! Where is he now? I'm worried sick, have a feeling he's with that woman and...”

  The numbness was leaving my shoulder and head, and I had to spit out a mouthful of blood before I could shout, “I'm as anxious to find Will as you are. And if...”

  “You must find him! If he's with that... that... slut, I'll... I don't know what I'll do! I'm about crazy now and... and...” She began to weep over the phone.

  “I have some business to take care of, but I'll come up to see you soon—and your Will. I want to...”

  “Please come up at once. I'll go nuts if I don't talk to somebody and...”

  “Hold your water, I'll be up as soon as I can.” I hung up.

  Rosen said. “Boy, you're a mess. Hal, shall I call the cops?”

  “No.” I dug through a couple of overturned drawers till I found an extra sport shirt I kept around the office. It wasn't too clean but a big improvement over the bloody one I was wearing. I tossed one of the guns to Curly, told him, “Keep an eye on our guests,” and went to the washroom. When I washed the blood from my face, it didn't look too bad. I stuffed my nose with toilet paper to stop the bleeding, changed shirts.

  When I returned to the office, Dave Moore, my other patrolman, was there. The two hoods were sitting up, looking ugly. I got out the patrol cards, took the gun from Curly and told them, “I can handle this from here—get going.”

  “But, Hal...?” Curly began.

  “Look, far as you're concerned, this is a simple case of robbery. Forget it.” I handed him the hundred dollars I'd taken from the thugs' pockets. “Split this between you— for your trouble.”

  Dave, who talked with a rasping voice because of his flat nose, looked at Curly splitting the dough with Rosen, asked, “Hey, what's the deal here?”

  I pointed to my wrist watch, which by some miracle was still working. “It's twenty after twelve. If you'd come on time you might
have found out. Curly, give Dave a ten spot... and all of you get out of here.”

  They didn't want to go but I finally convinced them it was okay. When they left, I locked the door, put the .22 and the knife in the safe. I sat on the table, the Luger in my hand, the leather sap beside me. I said, “You've had your fun, chums, now start talking!”

  12

  They glared at me with silent suspicion.

  “Maybe you jerks don't realize the spot you're in,” I pointed around the office. “I can knock you both off and it would be a clear case of self-defense, caught in the act of robbing my office. The police would pin a medal on...”

  The character whose thumb I'd tried to break mumbled through puffed lips, “You ain't calling no cops.”

  “Maybe. Why did you punks sap me outside the hotel? Who you working for?”

  “Just a job to us,” the gunman said, “we was hired. Come from Philly. Don't know a thing.”

  “What's this money you were asking about?”

  “You asking us?” he said, working his bloody mouth into a sneer.

  “Sit on the floor, with your backs to me. Come on, move!” I cracked the gunman on the side of the head with the sap—but not hard enough to kayo him. He went down. I had the Luger in my left hand, covering the other monkey. He scrambled down on the floor beside his pal.

  “Now reach forward and grab your toes—stay like that.”

  They grunted and finally made their toes. Standing far enough behind them so they couldn't spin around and try anything, I swung the sap back and forth through the air. In the quiet of the office it made a faint swish sound.

  “Look, fellows, I'm pooped, in no mood to futz around. You've jumped me twice, kicked the slop out of me, if you don't talk I'm going to beat your heads to a pulp.”

  They didn't make a sound.

  I said, “Know how your noggin is constructed? Your brain is a very delicate mass, suspended inside your skull. Know what causes a kayo? The sock on your jaw rattles the bone against your skull and that jars the brain against the bone structure, makes you black out If it gets rattled too hard, if the brain is bruised, you get a concussion. A bruise on the brain matter leaves a scar, if that's reopened by another blow, you either die, go blind, or end up paralyzed for life. That's why they don't let a pug with a concussion fight again. Or if he does, well—you know the ring deaths in recent years. Now a sap does lots more damage than a punch, sometimes it splinters the skull, a hunk of bone sticks in your brain.”