By Hook or By Crook

by Gorman, Ed

  “Putting the final nail in Sam McKeever’s coffin?” O’Farrell asked.

  Turico looked up from his desk and locked eyes with O’Farrell. They were both in their forties; had joined the police force at the same time. O’Farrell knew Turico resented him, not so much for leaving the force as for becoming so successful as a private ticket.

  “Your buddy McKeever supplied all the nails himself, O’Farrell.”

  “Is that a fact?” O’Farrell asked. “You mind if I take a look at the file then?”

  “Why? Is he askin’ for your help? That figures.”

  “What figures?”

  “That he’d go outside the force to get help — and from you.”

  “I guess if he thought he could get help from inside the force — like from his boss — he’d be here instead of me.”

  “So he did hire you?”

  “Let’s just say I’m here on my own,” O’Farrell said, “to satisfy my curiosity.”

  “You wonderin’ if your boy could be guilty?” Turico asked.

  “I’m wondering why, if he got caught with his hand in the till, you’re persecuting him for it. It’s not like he’s the only boy in blue on the take.” O’Farrell gave Turico a long, knowing look. “I know a few pads with your name on them, Mike.”

  Turico’s face clouded. He pointed his pen at O’Farrell, but the look on his face said he wished it was a gun.

  “That’s old news, O’Farrell,” he said. “The days of you and me linin’ our pockets is gone. I’m clean.”

  “If you’re clean, then you should be able to recognize it when you see it, Mike,” O’Farrell said. “Sam McKeever’s the straightest arrow we know.”

  “That’s what I thought, too,” Turico said. “Maybe that’s why he’s such a disappointment.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Here.” Turico opened his top drawer, pulled out a file and dropped it on his desk. “Take a look for yourself.”

  O’Farrell reached for the file, but Turico slapped a ham hand down on it.

  “You look at it right here,” he said. “It don’t leave this office.”

  “Fine by me, Mike.”

  • • •

  It didn’t take long for O’Farrell to read through the file and take some notes. He closed it and tossed it back on the captain’s desk. He hadn’t bothered to hear McKeever’s side of it because he knew the man was innocent. He wanted to see the evidence against him and it didn’t look so cut and dried to him.

  “This is bullshit.”

  “Which part?”

  “All of it,” O’Farrell said. “The money, the girl — ”

  “The dead girl, you mean.”

  O’Farrell sat forward.

  “You don’t mean to tell me he might be charged for that?”

  “Just because he’s a cop don’t mean he can’t be charged with murder.”

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “The hell I don’t,” Turico said. “I’m the one who took his gun and badge from him.”

  O’Farrell rubbed his jaw, thought a moment, then got it. “You don’t think he did it.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  O’Farrell tapped the file with his forefinger. “There’s no way you’d let me look at this file unless you wanted me to work on this,” O’Farrell said. “You hate my guts and you’d eat nails before you’d help me ... normally.”

  “That’s true enough.”

  “So then why did you let me look at it?”

  “You wanna help your buddy, O’Farrell?”

  “You know I do.”

  “Then why are you lookin’ a gift horse in the mouth?” Turico said. “Get out of here, Val.”

  O’Farrell stared at Turico and decided there was nothing worth arguing about. Turico obviously thought McKeever was innocent, but had to act on the evidence and suspend him. The Captain didn’t particularly like McKeever any more than he liked O’Farrell, but McKeever was the best detective he had. Every time McKeever closed a case, it made Turico look good. With McKeever off the job or in jail, who was going to take his place?

  “I’m going to clear Sam,” O’Farrell said. “You can count on it.”

  “Sure,” Turico said, “you clear your squeaky clean friend, Val, and I’ll give him his badge back.”

  O’Farrell stood up, headed for the door and said, “You better polish it up then.”

  THREE

  O’Farrell left the Police Headquarters building at 240 Centre Street, walked two blocks to Crosby Street and entered the speak he knew many off-duty cops frequented. He’d asked for McKeever’s partner before leaving and had been told the man, Ed Melky, was out.

  As he looked around the speak, he realized he didn’t know Ed Melky, didn’t even know what he looked like. He must have been a newly assigned partner to McKeever, who went through partners faster than some men went through women. He did, however, recognize several cops in the place which — like Muldoon’s — had not started to do a brisk business yet.

  He went to the bar, got a coffee, and walked over to a trio of cops who were drinking illegal hooch.

  “Hello, boys.”

  They looked up at him and while two of them looked away, the third man said, “Hey, Val. How’s it goin’?”

  “Pretty good for me, Dooley,” he said, “not so good for McKeever, I hear.”

  “Yeah,” Dooley said, “I heard about that.”

  Dooley was a detective O’Farrell had worked with a few times while he was still on the job. He knew the other men on sight, but not their names.

  “What do you know about it, Kevin?” O’Farrell asked.

  Kevin Dooley frowned, then stood up and said, “Over here, Val.”

  They walked away from the other two men and sat at a small table together. O’Farrell took off his fedora and set it on the table. The hat had cost more than the suit the police detective was wearing. He knew Dooley didn’t hold his success against him like a lot of cops did.

  “Why you interested, Val?”

  “I’m going to clear Sam.”

  “I don’t know how you’re gonna do that,” Dooley said. “The evidence is pretty damning.”

  “You know McKeever,” O’Farrell said. “You know he’s married and loves his wife, so he wouldn’t be messing with a two-bit whore, and you know he doesn’t take money. Never has, never will.”

  “I do know that,” Dooley said. “McKeever’s always been clean, but you know as well as I do it’s the clean ones who fall hard.”

  “Not Sam.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Val,” Dooley said. “I don’t know that much about it.”

  “Where’s his partner?” O’Farrell asked. “This fella, Ed Melky. Do you know him?”

  “I know Ed,” Dooley said, nodding. “He’s only been partnered with McKeever for about a month since he transferred from Brooklyn. Might be why he’s not catchin’ any fallout from this. He and McKeever really don’t know each other that well.”

  “I read the file, Kevin,” O’Farrell said. “It didn’t have the name of the detective assigned. Who’s working the case?”

  Dooley hesitated, then said, “Ed Melky.”

  “Sam’s own partner is making the case against him? Why would he do that?”

  “Maybe because he’s also the main witness.”

  “The file said some madam named Sadie fingered McKeever for killing one of her girls.”

  “Melky ain’t about to appear in the file as a witness.”

  “You know anything about this place where the girl was killed?”

  “It’s over on Varick Street,” Dooley said. “It’s a speak downstairs, a whorehouse upstairs. Owned by a guy named Jay Watson.”

  “And Watson pays off?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “So why was McKeever supposed to be there collecting?” O’Farrell asked. “He’s no bag man.”

  “Supposedly, he was just makin’ some extra dough,” Dooley s
aid. “And then he goes upstairs with one of the whores and kills her? This stinks.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  “Do you know anything else, Kevin?”

  “You saw the file, that means you know more than me,” Dooley said. He looked over at his buddies, who were eyeing him. “I gotta get back.”

  “Is anybody on McKeever’s side in this?” O’Farrell asked. “You are, Val,” the other man said. “You are.”

  FOUR

  O’Farrell drove to the Varick Street building, knocked on the door of the speak downstairs. A slot opened and two beady eyes regarded him.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m here to see Jay Watson.”

  “What’s your business?”

  “Police.”

  “You ain’t no cop.”

  “I used to be, but I’m here on police business anyway.”

  “You mean that cop who killed Lulu?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Val O’Farrell.”

  “I know you. Hold on.” The slot closed, a bolt was thrown and the door was opened. A small man appeared, kicking aside a stool he’d used in order to look out the slot. “I hearda you.”

  “What did you hear?” O’Farrell asked.

  “That yer all right. You was friends with Bat Masterson, right?”

  “That’s right.” Masterson had died at his typewriter recently, in his office at The Morning Telegraph. “Is Watson in?”

  “He is.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Canto.”

  “Take me to him, Canto.”

  “Okay. Follow me.”

  O’Farrell followed Canto across the floor, half a dozen sets of eyes following him. When they reached a door, Canto knocked. “Come in,” a voice called.

  Canto opened the door, said, “Somebody to see you, Jay.”

  “Who — ?”

  O’Farrell moved past Canto and into the room, then turned and told the little man, “Shut it.”

  Canto closed the door.

  Jay Watson stood up from a rickety-looking desk, an alarmed look on his heavily lined face. The deep lines made it hard to guess his age.

  “Who are you?” he demanded. “Whataya want?”

  “My name’s O’Farrell. I’m here because you claim Sam McKeever took a payoff from you and killed one of your girls.”

  “You a cop?”

  “Private,” O’Farrell said, “but I’m working this.”

  “I don’t hafta talk to you — ”

  “Yeah, you do, Jay,” O’Farrell said. “And so does Sadie. Get her down here.”

  “Sadie? She’s workin’ upstairs — ”

  “Send Canto to get her. I want to talk to both of you at the same time.”

  “Why should I do that?”

  O’Farrell opened his jacket to show the man the gun in his shoulder rig.

  “Canto!” Watson yelled.

  • • •

  Sadie was a worn out, faded forty, thinner than she used to be. O’Farrell could tell because she no longer filled out her dress. When she entered the room, she looked at Watson with frightened eyes — one of them still yellowish from a recent shiner.

  “Now I’m going to tell the two of you something,” he said. “Sam McKeever never took a payoff in his life and he wouldn’t mess with any whores — especially not the diseased lot you likely have upstairs.”

  “My girls are clean — ” Sadie started to object.

  “Shut up, sister,” O’Farrell said. “Who gave you that shiner? And don’t tell me it was McKeever.”

  Her hand instinctively went to her eye. “Um — ” she said.

  “I give it to her,” Watson said. “Gotta keep her in line. Also, she let one of my girls get killed.”

  “You?” O’Farrell said. “I don’t think you can hit that hard, Jay.”

  “I ... I had somebody do it.”

  “Who? Canto? Or maybe Ed Melky did it for you.”

  At the mention of Melky’s name, both of them stiffened. It was pretty clear to O’Farrell what had happened. It was Melky who was taking payoffs from Watson and using the girls upstairs. It had to be, for the simple reason that Sam McKeever was clean — cleaner than any cop O’Farrell ever knew, including himself. That was why nobody was on his side. By not taking payoffs, he made all the others look bad. O’Farrell didn’t even know why McKeever wanted to keep his badge.

  “Sit down, both of you,” O’Farrell said. “We’re going to go over this until I get the truth.”

  “But — ” Watson said.

  “Sit!”

  FIVE

  O’Farrell decided not to search the city for Ed Melky. Instead, he went back to headquarters because sooner or later the man would have to show up there.

  Melky didn’t have an office, just a desk opposite Sam McKeever’s. That meant O’Farrell was going to be able to brace him in front of his colleagues. He was sitting in McKeever’s chair when Melky finally appeared. In fact, he’d just hung up the phone on McKeever’s desk.

  O’Farrell could see why Jay Watson and Sadie were afraid of the man. He was a bull, well over six feet with bulging biceps, broad shoulders, and a thick waist. Even seasoned detectives moved out of his way as he crossed the floor to his desk.

  He stopped short when he saw O’Farrell. He had a jaw like granite, covered with stubble, and a fat cigar right in the middle of his mouth, which he removed.

  “I’m not a replacement, if that’s what you’re thinking,” O’Farrell said.

  “I know who you are, O’Farrell,” Melky said. “What are ya doin’ here? This place is for cops. You ain’t a cop no more.”

  “I’m here on behalf of Sam McKeever.”

  “Jesus,” Melky said, seating himself behind his desk, “he hired you to clear him? That’s rich.”

  “Well,” O’Farrell said, “he couldn’t count on his partner, could he?”

  “Hey,” Melky said, “I ain’t gotta back no murderer.” He pointed at O’Farrell with the soggy end of the cigar. “He shoulda thought of that before he beat that girl to death.”

  “He didn’t beat her to death, Melky,” O’Farrell said. “You did. And he wasn’t making Jay Watson pay extra money to stay open, you were. And he wasn’t beating up on Watson’s girls regularly, you were. And it all started happening just about last month, when you got here.”

  “That what he told you?”

  “I didn’t bother hearing what McKeever had to say, Melky,” O’Farrell said.

  “That how you run an investigation?”

  “It is when I know a man is innocent.”

  “Figures you’d try to clear your buddy by puttin’ the blame on me. What about the witness?”

  “The witness? Oh, you mean Sadie? You sure put a scare into her, blackening her eye right after you killed that girl, Lulu. I had a talk with Sadie. Jay Watson, too. They’re changing their stories. Sadie says you like to play rough with her girls and you finally killed one. I also spoke to a couple of other girls you brutalized. They couldn’t work for a while after you finished with them. I sort of assured them you wouldn’t be coming by anymore. And no more payoffs from Jay Watson. You’re through.”

  The other detectives in the room had stopped what they were doing by now and were watching and listening. Mike Turico had come out of his office to watch as well.

  “You’re a liar,” Melky said. “You got nothin’.”

  “I just got off the telephone with your old boss in Brooklyn,” O’Farrell said. “Great invention, the telephone. I was able to sit right here and listen to him complain about you. Seems you got in some trouble in Brooklyn, too, only they couldn’t prove anything. They shipped you here so you’d be somebody else’s problem. And once you got here, you couldn’t wait to start up again, so you found the house on Varick Street and started working it.”

  “McKeever killed that girl,” Melky said with a sneer. “And he was takin’ money.”

&
nbsp; “That’s where you made your mistake, Melky,” O’Farrell said. “I would have believed that of any other detective in this room.” He looked around. “No offense, boys.” Then back at Melky. “But not McKeever. See, you might as well have tried to frame a priest. Mike would cut his hands off before he’d take a payoff and he’d cut off his dick before he’d stick it in a whore.”

  O’Farrell stood up and Melky quickly got to his feet. He had a gun in a holster on his belt, but O’Farrell had removed his jacket and the cop could see the gun in the shoulder rig.

  “Want to shoot it out here, Melky?” O’Farrell asked. “This isn’t the Old West.”

  “Yer lyin’ about the washed-out bitch,” Melky said. “She’s too scared — ” He stopped short, but not short enough.

  “Too scared to finger you?” O’Farrell asked. “Too scared to testify against you? Not anymore. I guaranteed her safety, personally. Jay’s, too. You’re through.”

  Melky went for his gun. O’Farrell didn’t move, but suddenly the room was filled with the sound of hammers being cocked. More than half a dozen guns were trained on Ed Melky, including Mike Turico’s.

  “Take his gun, Owens,” Turico said to one of the other detectives. “You’re done, Melky. Going for your gun, you might as well have confessed.”

  “This is bullshit,” Melky said as detective Owens took his gun. “Them two would never testify against me! They’re too scared!”

  “You’re right,” O’Farrell said. “I lied.”

  He had, indeed. No matter how much he interrogated Jay Watson and Sadie, they were just too afraid of Ed Melky to say a word. The only way they’d say anything was if Melky was behind bars.

  “I made it all up, but now that you went ahead and fingered yourself, I think they’ll come forward and testify. You can’t hurt them anymore.”

  Turico approached Melky and said to Owens, “Take him downstairs and put him in a cell.”

  “I’ll, uh, need help,” Owens said.

  “Take as many men as you need.”

  Four detectives ended up escorting Ed Melky down to the cell block.

  Turico holstered his gun and looked at O’Farrell.

  “You’re pretty slick, bracing him here in front of all of us.”

  “By all accounts,” O’Farrell said, “he has a pretty bad temper. I figured he’d finger himself.”

  “So everything you said about Melky was true of him?”