Dead Sure

by Herbert Brean

  “From where, for God’s sake! From wherever he is.”

  “That may be Chicago,” said Ryan, “but I doubt it.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “That’s one reason I want to frisk his joint.” He rose. It was almost two a.m. He was dead tired and the days were growing fewer.

  Ken Derby got up. “I’ll go with you.”

  “No, you won’t,” said Ryan. “This is police business.”

  Derby looked malevolent. “Yeah? Like hell it is. The police department isn’t doing anything for Harry. You’re swinging it, all alone. Like I said, maybe I can help and maybe I can’t. But he’s my brother. And you’re my friend.”

  Ryan was ashamed to find he wanted company. “Okay,” he said.

  The cab dropped them in front of a bar two blocks away from Mackie’s place. Derby suggested a quick drink but Ryan curtly told him no. They walked down the shadowy street to a point opposite the narrow, inconspicuous building that housed Mackie’s business and home. It was dark and so were the taller buildings on either side.

  “Funny,” said Derby. “He used to stay open all night.”

  “Subway rides used to cost a nickel,” said Ryan. “I thought you knew this place.”

  “I do. But Mackie or somebody was always here this time of night. Maybe the kid who helps him has been goofing off. Or the old man.”

  “Maybe.” Ryan strained his eyes across the dark street. “An old man?”

  “An old white-haired coot.” He sounded anxious. “The sign was always on nights!”

  Nuts with it. Either you hit or you quit.

  “You sure about that back door?”

  “Dead sure.”

  “Then stay here. I’ll call you.”

  Ryan walked boldly across the street. There was no one in sight, but he knew well that the chance of his being observed was not a small one. He got to the other sidewalk, found a space between the buildings, moved into it—and saw a light moving up behind him. He wheeled and crouched in the shadow. A white-marked police car rolled by. For the first time in his life he knew how it felt to be on the other side.

  The RMP car went on and Ryan looked around. Ken Derby was nowhere in sight. He had ducked fast and expertly. It must run in the family, Ryan thought contemptuously, then remembered Rosemary. That hadn’t been fair.

  He got around to the back, walking boldly in blackness. There was a cellar door, as Derby had said. He found the old-fashioned knob, then felt the key plate and keyhole. Above them he fingered the cold circle of a barrel lock. Ryan took out a thin-bladed Swiss knife that his father had carried and made sure the old bolt was not in place. Then he took some wrinkled wires from his wallet and worked on the barrel lock. The third wire made a click and the door knob twisted open. Wet, heavy air poured out, hot with steam.

  Ryan advanced into it, closed the door and listened. There was a hissing noise and a steady, rhythmic dripping. And the tropic, humid heat of the equator at noon, and the strong scent of liniment and cheap soap. After a few minutes of uncertain silence, he flashed his pencil light around. This was the boiler room; there was a furnace and a boiler with gauges. And this was breaking and entering in the night time, a felony for anyone. A disaster for a cop.

  He silently retraced his steps and when he found the sidewalk empty, he whistled softly. Derby ducked swiftly across the street and followed him to the back door.

  “We’re in. Maybe there’s no one here. Maybe not. I want the upper rooms where Mackie lives.”

  “I can find ’em.”

  Ryan closed the door silently. Steam and soap-scent warmly enveloped them.

  The second floor stank of stale liniment. Ryan’s small light showed boxing gloves, tied in pairs on nails along a wall, a sandbag and two punching bags, and an elevated ring with little stools below at one corner. Beyond were doors that would lead to sleeping and dressing rooms and showers.

  “How about the third floor?”

  “We go back to the stairs,” said Derby. “I never been up there.”

  “Lead the way.”

  They went up narrow stairs. There was a door at the top of a small landing. It had no barrel lock, and when Ryan used his knife blade for a minute along the frame, it opened. Once inside, he listened carefully, then felt for a light switch and flipped it. They saw a small, dark living room, heavily draped and massively furnished, and illuminated with big lamps whose shades dripped thick gold fringe. In corners large bronze statues gleamed; all portrayed naked athletes.

  “Aren’t you taking a chance with that light?”

  Ryan went to the room’s two windows, pulled down the shades and drew the drapes. “I’m taking a chance being here at all,” he said.

  “Yeah. What should I do?”

  “Stand by the door and listen in case someone starts poking around.”

  Ryan pushed his hat back on his head characteristically. There were two doors at the back. One led into a kitchen, the other into a bathroom. Where did the guy sleep? Then he saw another door.

  But he took the kitchen first. The cupboards, half empty, held only a few dishes and the usual staples. The refrigerator contained a half bottle of milk turned to moldy cheese, a can of tomato juice and some eggs. He looked over the stove, into its oven, and pulled it out from the wall.

  In the bathroom he examined the contents of the medicine chest and then flashed his light in the toilet tank box. He felt around the back and underneath surfaces of the washbowl and tub for anything stuck or hidden there.

  There was a scraping noise from the other room. Ryan froze. He waited to hear from Derby.

  He did not hear. He waited.

  He did not hear anything.

  He went to the door, flicked out the light so as not to be silhouetted, decided against drawing his gun, and peered into the living room. Derby stood still at the door, looking out into the hall.

  Was someone holding a gun on him?

  Ryan waited another moment. Then he whispered, “Derby!”

  Silence.

  Ryan took out his gun. He reminded himself that a gun was the worst thing he could use here. He walked into the living room.

  Derby wheeled nervously.

  Ryan said, “What was that?”

  “I thought I heard something.” Derby’s whisper was husky.

  “It came from out there?”

  “It came from somewhere!”

  Ryan went to the living-room door that was still open, and flashed his light out. There was nothing on the stairs.

  “Maybe the bedroom,” said Derby. Ryan looked around.

  “I heard something,” Derby insisted.

  Ryan had heard it too. He went, gingerly, silently, to the bedroom, gun ready, and switched on the light beside the door. It was a small, pale-blue room with a single bed. Ryan studied it, then searched it. There was a small desk slanted across one corner with a telephone and old magazines on it.

  That might be where he’d find what he needed. But first… Derby peered in.

  “Watch that door!”

  Derby straightened, said “Check,” and went back.

  Ryan felt behind the pictures on the walls. He got under the bed and explored its springs with his light. He looked at the hair brush and the other toilet articles on the bureau, and shook out the magazines on a small table. He up-ended a floor lamp, looked at its base, then critically examined its shade. Finally he lifted all the drawers out of the bureau carefully, and slowly and inspected their contents: several shirts and socks rolled into balls, a couple big sweaters, a sheaf of physical culture magazines, some blankets.

  And, with the blankets, a heavy woolen; black-and-white checked lumberjack shirt.

  The checks were not as big as those on Harry Derby’s jacket, as he well remembered. And it was a shirt, not a jacket. But witnesses in the excitem
ent of the moment could have made that mistake. Ryan fingered it unbelievingly.

  The telephone rang.

  Ryan looked to the desk. The phone rang again. He glanced out the door at Derby. Derby was watching him and looked scared. The phone rang again.

  Ryan went to the desk and picked it up. “Hello?” He held his voice low and indistinct.

  “St. Louis calling—one moment please.” Then, “Ready with New York, sir.”

  “Hello,” said Ryan.

  A man’s voice rasped in the receiver. “Damn it, Bobbie, how many times do I have to tell you how to answer the phone?”

  Ryan waited.

  “‘Mackie’s Baths!’” the voice quoted testily. “If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a million times how I want the phone answered.”

  Ryan took a chance. “Yes, sir.”

  “How’s business?”

  “Fine,” said Ryan.

  “That’s good. Bob?”

  “Yes?”

  “How’s everything?” The tone grew guarded.

  “Everything’s good,” said Ryan. He held the mouthpiece away from his face, so he could not be heard well. “Everything’s okey doke.” He took a chance. “You in St. Louis?”

  Derby watched wondering from the door.

  “Yeah. But I may fly into town tomorrow.”

  “Good.”

  “You sure you don’t hear anything?”

  “Everything’s quiet as all hell,” said Ryan. “Come on home.”

  “I got it all paid off but the one, and that’ll be arranged this week. But meanwhile I don’t want the big man on my neck.”

  “Come on home,” said Ryan tensely. “You’ll be okay. I heard today the big man ain’t—ain’t mad at nobody.” It was taking a chance.

  But the other end of the line chuckled with appreciation. “You’re a good kid, Bobby. But where were you earlier? There was no answer.”

  “I went out for a little while. I felt like a beer.”

  “A beer!” said the other incredulously. Ryan knew that had been a mistake.

  “When’ll you get in?” he asked quickly.

  “After dinner tomorrow night,” the other replied angrily. “See that you’re there! When did you start drinking beer?”

  He had to take the real chance. He had to know who he was talking to. “I was kidding, Mister Mackie,” he said. “I’ll be here.”

  The telephone chuckled more happily. “Don’t hand me any Mister business.”

  They rang off. Ryan turned from the phone. He could not believe it had happened. Derby was still watching from the door. “Huh?” he said.

  “God,” said Ryan.

  “Who was that?”

  “Mackie. He’s in St. Louis. But he’s flying in tomorrow. Or today. Or whatever the hell time it is.”

  Derby’s wide eyes fixed on Ryan. Then his face lighted up. “Jesus!” he yelled. “We got him!”

  “Shut up,” said Ryan. “That kid may be back any minute.”

  The bureau drawers were still on the floor. He began to lift them back into the bureau. Habit and training reminded him to run his hands around their bottoms and backs. That’s how he felt the little Scotch-taped protuberance on the back of one.

  He turned the drawer around. Then from its rear panel he yanked the small object taped to it.

  It was a cuff link. Ryan recognized its miniature scimitar pattern instantly. But he looked a long time at it. All he could think of was that this is what comes of living right.

  “Let’s go,” said Derby. “Want some help?”

  Ryan did not answer. He re-taped the link into place and restored the drawers after inspecting each one. There was nothing taped to the others.

  He went through the desk. It was full of letters tied in ribboned bundles, to Lester Mackie from his mother. And old receipted bills. And boxes of nails, and pins and loops of string. Mackie was a saver.

  Thank God for that, he thought, recalling the cuff link.

  They went down the narrow, liniment-smelling stairs in silence. As they groped through the boiler room, Derby said, “You think he’ll show up?”

  “He’s got to,” said Ryan. And the way things were going, it was true. Maybe things were going too good. Still, he was filled with the glow of imminent triumph.

  Ryan insisted on walking several blocks south and west before hailing a cab. He dropped Derby at his home, noticed it was almost three-thirty and realized he was famished. After all he’d been moving at high speed for almost twenty-four hours—and getting places! He was entitled to a sandwich and maybe a beer. But where could he go? Then he thought of Gee Gee’s party.

  It shocked him to realize how long she had been out of his mind, especially considering the circumstances in which he last saw her. He’d told her to get someone else for the party, and he had a pretty good idea who that would be. And this was the girl he had almost told about Derby! What might she have told Sandalwood?

  Well, why not go to the party, and find out? It would sure surprise her. Ryan grinned without humor.

  “I want to go to a joint between Fifth and Sixth,” he told the cab driver. “On Fifty-second.”

  “One of the strip joints?” said the driver. “We gotta hurry, Jack. It’s almost closing time.”

  CHAPTER 24

  The End of That

  Ryan was led to a tiny table while a raucous band crashed and tub-thumped its way to the end of a song. He was barely seated when an unseen voice told the customers, in sibilant confidence through a public address system, “And now, friends, the concluding number…the star of our show… Maxie’s Rendezvous is proud to present for your enjoyment…that titian-haired temptress of the dance…lovely Gee Gee Hawes!”

  She appeared from somewhere near the bandstand, looking tall in a gown of long white pleats that was like a negligee. Not only her hair but her eyelids sparkled with sequins and her lips were parted expectantly. She wasn’t the lissome, natural girl in the brown coat now, but self-consciously glittery and sure, enameled and eager. Ryan sipped beer as she undulated around the dance floor. He had not expected her to be so professional. She slipped unexpectedly out of part of her dress and her jeweled bra was small and revealing.

  A man at the next table said, “Jeez, Lili can take a night off any time she wants.” He saw Ryan looking at him. “Lili St. Cyr’s sick tonight,” he explained. “This dame’s a substitute. Not bad, huh?”

  “Not bad,” said Ryan.

  The music increased in volume and tempo, slowly. Gee Gee glided around the floor, gradually freeing or losing garments. The spotlight grew deeper blue, until it was hard to tell whether what was visible was cloth or shadow. Then men at the next table made comments. Ryan tried to disregard them.

  Finally, in a flare-up of music she disappeared near the bandstand, and there was a jet roar of applause. She reappeared briefly, the white dress held in front of her. She took several bows. Even the musicians grinned. The show was over.

  “Chef’s left, Mac,” the waiter said to Ryan. “No steak sandwich. I can get you a nice ham on rye.”

  “I’ll take it. And another Prior’s dark.”

  The orchestra played a final number, then went back stage. The lights went up. Ryan looked around. No Sandalwood. Was he back stage? The customers finished drinks and began leaving. The waiter brought the sandwich and Ryan munched hungrily. His eyes were on the door near the bandstand. Other girls came through it dressed for the street, but instead of leaving they sat down at tables. Finally Gee Gee appeared. She walked slowly, the new coat draped with affected casualness over her shoulders. Then she saw Ryan.

  “Neill!” She came over quickly, smiling. “You made it! I’m so glad.”

  Ryan grinned and he didn’t want to. But seeing her always made him feel like that. Besides—as his weary brain reminded him—he
had to find out what had happened. This wasn’t a pleasure trip. She should think it was, though, he told himself cynically. “Sit down and have a drink. You must feel like it after all—after your dance.”

  She looked at him. “You were here for the show?”

  “Your part of it. It was terrific.”

  “You’re sweet. But what did you really think?”

  “I said. Terrific.” He looked around. A few people had straggled in and were hailed by those at tables. No Sandalwood. Yet.

  Her cool, long-fingered hand closed over his knuckles. “Okay,” she said. “Neill, you’ve got to remember that in this business you don’t always do what you want. Maybe in any business.”

  A waiter came up and Gee Gee said she would take tomato juice. “I gained a pound and a half this week.”

  Ryan said his beer would do for a while, then brought up the subject on his mind. But a little regretfully. It would have been nice to just sit and talk. “I thought I’d run into Sandalwood. I figured he’d be the one you’d ask to the party.”

  “He was,” she said right back. She thought of what Sandalwood said about Derby’s sister. “He had to go up the river today. Tonight, I mean.”

  Ryan flinched. Up the river could mean many things. But to a policeman and to a police reporter it meant one thing. Up the Hudson River was Sing Sing.

  Gee Gee misunderstood his expression. “Oh, honey, why think of him? I don’t feel that way about him at all. And maybe there’s something I could get mad about too, if I wanted. But there’s something I really must tell you that Jack said.”

  “What?”

  The waiter came with the tomato juice. “Have a drink, Neill. You look like you need it. Bring a big Scotch, eh, Benny?”

  “Sure, Miss Hawes. You were terrific tonight, Miss Hawes. You killed ’em. You shoulda heard what they said onna way out.”

  “Thanks, Benny.”

  “I mean it. When Lili leaves. Max doesn’t give you the spot he’s crazy.”

  “Thanks. Benny. You’re sweet.” The waiter left. “See? I have a public.”

  “Everybody’s sweet tonight.”

  “Now, Neill, don’t be like that. I don’t want to quarrel with anyone. Not tonight. This is a big night. Do you know what happened? Lili St. Cyr is the headliner here now. So tonight her manager phoned in that she was sick and Max had to rebuild the show. And who did he put in the top spot?” She was radiant.