“The barrel that walks like a man,” he said. “That guy.”
Steve said, “He wanted to know what time you checked in nights.”
“Thanks, kid.” Johnny took some money out of his pocket; bills folded and clipped with a gold thing in the shape of a dollar sign. “No,” he said. “No tip tonight, kid. Some things you can’t pay for.”
“I’ll tell you if he comes around again.”
“Do that.” Dianco put his money away. He made a fist and hit Steve lightly in the belly. “Take care of me, kid, and I’ll take care of you. They don’t come too big for Johnny Dianco.”
“Fat,” Steve said. “But not too big.”
“Like a barrel, kid, but not too big.” Johnny Dianco grinned. “That car of yours, kid? How’s the car comin’?”
“All finished. Ready to roll.”
“I’ll be around for that ride,” Johnny said.
Steve Lacy lay in the dark, remembering. The alarm clock whirred on the bedside table; an electric job with a motor gone haywire. Ella murmured and turned.
“Steve,” she said. “What’s the matter? Why can’t you sleep?”
“Nothing’s the matter,” he said. “Not a thing.”
“You should be asleep. Count sheep, Steve. Maybe that’ll help.”
“I’ll count,” he replied. “You go back to sleep, Ella.”
“You didn’t kiss me when you came to bed.”
“A face like a busted plate,” he said. “If I kiss you I’ll give you nightmares, honey.”
“Steve,” she said. “Steve. You’re the one I married, remember? I love that face just the way it is. If I have nightmares it’ll be because you didn’t kiss me, Steve.”
“A beat-up nose and a tin ear.”
“And a smile that’s really swell.”
Her finger tips found his chin, his cheek. “Strong,” she said. “And kind—that’s my Steve.” He turned his head and kissed her. “Good night,” she said, and curled against his side.
She slept again, and he lay there remembering. He could not stop remembering. Johnny Dianco, the pretty man, walked through his thoughts. Johnny, the racket boy, with his pockets full of money and his big, white smile. Johnny with his little gun tucked inside his waistband. Steve thought of the car he’d built long, long ago, and heard Johnny Dianco say, “That ride, kid. I come around to get my ride.”
Johnny was gone now. They’d cut him down when he’d tried to run; with a chopper they’d cut him down. But his voice was in Steve Lacy’s head. “A little ride, kid. I’m going to collect some dough. They know my car, see? That red boiler of mine, they know it well.” Johnny’s voice was tight and raw and his eyes had a funny look. “You stay at the curb and I’ll go in. A short thing, kid. A quick in and out.”
“Count sheep,” Steve Lacy told himself.
But the thought he’d had that day came back to him. “How come he’s got a gun if it’s just a collection stop? How come he’s so wound up?” And all of it was happening again. The car was rolling through the streets while Johnny talked. “I’ll surprise the hell out of them. And they’ll give; they’ll really shower down. A quick thing, kid. And nobody hurt.” The car was easing to a halt, the motor running. “Don’t shut her off, kid. I won’t be gone a minute.” Johnny Dianco was on his way toward the big glass door. And then all of it went wrong again. Steve heard the guns. He heard the guns and saw Johnny try to run.
Johnny Dianco, the pretty man, was dead and gone. “Nobody hurt,” he’d said. “A quick thing,” Johnny’d said. For him it had been quick. But not for Steve Lacy, the kid who drove the car. He’d switched the motor off and sat there, stiff and scared until a white-faced cop came up on the driver’s side and slugged him with the barrel of his gun.
Later, Simms had come to stand outside his cell. “I told you, kid,” he’d said. “Stick to motors, that’s what I told you. But you had to cover. You had to get in trouble, kid. They’re goin’ to throw the bench at you.”
“Count sheep,” Steve Lacy told himself.
He counted the years instead. Ten years, even after they subtracted the good-behavior time. He counted the trips he’d made to the Woodlawn Building to stand with his hat in his sweating hands while O’Keefe hauled on the string. “This girl—this Miss Peterson you want to marry? Does she know your history, Lacy?” All the bars weren’t down there at the pen. They built bars around you on the outside too. They had walkers on the outside too. Two sets of walkers—guys like Doc; guys like Simms—tramping up behind you, tramping up out of your past and up your back. A man never got away.
That Simms. He’d come trudging out of the dark between the bus stop and the house, a week ago. Shiny eyes in a fat face smudged with beard. A toothpick in the corner of his mouth. “I been around before,” he’d said. “Check calls. I didn’t need you then; I had other wires. But things happen, Lacy. Things change. It’s different now. Tonight we’re goin’ to talk.”
“Let me alone,” Steve’d said. “That’s all—just get off my back.”
“I said we’re going to talk,” Simms’d said. “We’re going to talk.”
“My wife——”
“Tell her I’m a friend. Tell her we got business. Private business.”
Ella was asleep, tired after eight hours on her feet in a store downtown. Brown hair on the pillow and a smiling mouth. She was smiling in her sleep. Dreaming, maybe, of how it’d be when they could buy the service station and be together all day long. Steve Lacy closed the door and went back to talk to the fat man who sat in the chair by the radio.
“You’re my pigeon,” Simms said. “You’re goin’ to do what I say.”
Steve said, “I’m clean. That’s all I want to be.”
“You’re an ex-con. You’re a wire—my wire. The other boys come around to see you when they hit town. They put the bite on you for a little change, or they want this, or they want that. This is my business, Lacy; I know how it works.”
“How about the cops? If this isn’t a bite, you tell me what it is.”
“Three years I let you alone,” Simms said. “What do you want? Christmas every day? I let you alone because I didn’t need you. Now I do.”
“Plenty of times you come nosing around. That’s letting me alone.”
“You’re on the outside, aren’t you? You’re walking around.”
“With you on my back,” Steve said.
“Lacy, look.” Simms pointed the toothpick at Steve. “You do what I say, or you go back. With your face and your record, there are ways and ways. Plenty of guys go back.” He rubbed his hand over his wire beard. “People come to you. Cons goin’ through town. You hear things. You’re one of the boys. From now on, Lacy, I hear what you hear.”
“No!” Lacy said.
“You want to leave your wife?” Simms asked. “You want to go back?”
“I want to be let alone. That’s all—just let me alone.”
Simms said, “Later, Lacy. Right now I need a wire.”
He had gone away. Simms had set up his squeeze and gone away. Then nothing for a week—not a word, not a whisper. Until tonight. Steve had left the bus stop and started home and he’d heard the walker, a different walker, coming along behind. Doc Pennypacker in his thirty-dollar shoes, coming along behind. Staying just out of sight, stopping when Steve stopped, walking up out of the past, walking up Steve’s back, catching Steve just as he unlocked the door.
“Stevie,” he’d said. “A nice little place you got here—but lonely. No street lights. No neighbors.” And then he’d smiled. “You’re going to ask me in, Stevie. I’m sure you’re going to ask me in.”
“Doc,” Steve had said, “go the hell away. Go away.”
He said it again now in the dark, with Ella warm at his side. He could hear Doc bubbling out there on the davenport. “Go away.” He said it silent
ly, like a prayer. And then he saw Doc Pennypacker standing at the head of an endless file of men. Behind Doc, there was Devers. Behind Devers, there was Benny Hastle—Benny, the big, good-looking guy who was really dirt. He turned his back on them, running in his mind, and ran right into Simms, the hog of a man with a toothpick in the corner of his mouth.
* * *
—
Ella was gone when he awoke. She’d left a note on her pillow. “Darling: I didn’t want to waken you or your friend. I’ll eat downtown.” And there was a smudge of lipstick on the paper in the shape of her mouth, in the shape of a kiss. After two years of being married, they still did things like that.
Outside, the sun was shining. The clock on the bedside table said it was almost eleven—and Doc was still in the house. Steve took a shower and shaved, not thinking, not even trying to think. He put the coffee on and then went into the living room.
“Doc,” he said.
Doc Pennypacker started up. He seemed to jump without moving—the jump was all inside the man, under his skin. Then he yawned and threw the blankets back.
“I don’t know how it is with you,” he said. “But me, Stevie, I wake up thinking I’m back in the pen. For just a minute, I think I’m back up there.”
“Coffee’s about ready, Doc. How do you like your eggs?”
“Raw. In a glass of milk. Nice of you to ask.”
“Doc,” Steve said, “in an hour I’ve got to go to work.”
Doc Pennypacker looked at his watch. “At noon you go to work, at midnight you come home. Even horses don’t work that long.”
“I work overtime. I get paid for it.”
“But not enough,” Doc said. “They don’t print it fast enough to pay for that kind of hours.” He rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “I’ll catch a wash. I’ll borrow your razor and shave and be right with you.”
Steve went back into the kitchen and closed the door. He had to close the door so Doc couldn’t see his face.
He had finished packing his lunch when Doc Pennypacker joined him, fully dressed and freshly shaved. His beautiful shirt was faintly soiled. That was Doc—faintly soiled. Two eggs in a glass of milk—that was Doc too. After all those years in the pen his stomach didn’t like solid food.
“Stevie,” Doc said, “you got a garage out there.”
“Yeah,” Steve said.
“I suppose you got a car—a mechanic like you?”
“A heap,” Steve said. “It isn’t much.”
“I’ll bet it runs good.” Doc sipped his milk. “A nice little place, a car, a garden. Out in the country. No neighbors close. A fine setup, Stevie.”
“It’s what I want,” Steve said.
He took his breakfast dishes to the sink; washed and rinsed them and left them to dry. He got his jacket from a hook in the hall. He put his lunch bucket and his jacket under his arm.
“I usually take the bus,” he said. “But I can drive you in.”
“Impatient,” Doc said. “Like I told Devers, Stevie’s an impatient guy. A friend all day long, but impatient.”
Steve put his lunch bucket back on the drainboard. He turned his back on Doc, his hands busy with the jacket, his fists hidden by it. “How much?” he said. “How much do you want to get the hell away and let me alone?”
“I asked for a bed and a meal or two.”
“Eight hundred,” Steve said. “That’s what we’ve got in the bank. We’ve both worked, both saved, so we could make a down payment on a service station. The eight hundred’s all we’ve got.”
“Eleven hundred and thirty-five,” Doc said. “I looked around after you went to bed. Your bank book’s in the desk.” He peered into his glass, smiling. “I don’t want your money. Just a bed and a meal and a quiet place to rest. You’re in a rush because you have to go to work. You run along, Steve. I found my way out here. I can find my way back.”
“I can drive you down.”
“Don’t push,” Doc said. “I’ve got time to waste. Better here than on a street corner. You go to work and I’ll take care of me.” He smiled again. “I haven’t had my coffee yet.”
“It’s not me that’s pushing,” Steve said. “I did what you asked. I even offered you money. But you won’t budge. You’re trying to scare me with Devers. Don’t count too much on that. If I have to, I can handle Devers.”
“Say you do,” Doc said. “It’s still a beef. It’s still trouble and you know what happens to an ex-con that gets in trouble. Bingo—no parole. Next thing you’re getting measured for that burlap coat again.” His smile was wide. “You’re taking this too big, Stevie. It’s just a friendly visit. For a day or two.”
“You had a meal and a bed. It’s time you left.”
“But not so early,” Doc said. “Later, after you’ve gone to work.”
“Is that a promise?” Steve asked.
“Stevie,” Doc said, “would I lie to you?”
“Did you ever do anything else?” Steve said.
* * *
—
The shop floor was crowded. Great Western Trucking—Pacific Terminal. A dozen of the big rigs were in for service, for pump checks, for tuning. Steve drew an old tractor. “A complete overhaul,” the foreman said. “More overtime for Lacy.” Steve rolled his wheeled tool chest up alongside the fender and went to work. His hands knew their job. His hands did the work, and he had time to think.
He’d punched a hole in Doc’s squeeze. Devers was tough—sure. But that part hadn’t scared Steve much. It was what would come afterward. A pair of ex-cons going for each other—one with a knife. Parole-board trouble. But not for just one; and Steve had finally realized that. If Lacy went back, Devers would go back too. So Doc’s threat was so much wind, and Doc must have known that all along. He’d probably stopped in just for kicks, just for the pleasure of playing cat-and-mouse. He’d get tired of sitting out there alone. He’d put on his hat and go away.
“Lacy,” a voice said. “Come here a minute.”
Pat Simms was standing beside the front wheel of the tractor, his hat on the back of his head, his thumbs hooked in the pockets of his vest. Panic leaped inside Steve; a socket wrench got away from his hand to clatter on the floor. Simms, then Doc, now Simms again. Steve climbed down. He wiped his tools and put them on the swinging shelf of his toolbox.
“Quite a gadget,” Simms said. “Like the shelf a dentist uses.”
“I made it,” Steve said. “It works fine.”
He couldn’t read Simms’s face. The fat man’s thoughts were hidden behind his shiny eyes. Simms thumbed a toothpick from the pocket of his vest.
“I been waiting for you to call,” he said. “After that talk of ours, I figured you’d check in by phone.”
Steve said, “I’m not going to work for you. I told you that.”
“It’s not what a man wants, Lacy. It’s what he has to do.” Simms pointed the toothpick at Steve. “Take me. I love cigars, but I can’t have ’em. I got to do something, so I chew toothpicks, by the ton. It’s not what I want; it’s what I got to do. I’ve got ulcers, so I have to do what the doctors say. You’re on parole; you’ve got to do what I say. A man on parole’s in no position to be tough, Lacy.”
“Look,” Steve said. “All I’m asking is stay off my back.”
“Just call and tell me what you hear. What’s hard about that?”
“It’s rotten,” Steve said. “It’s dirty rotten work.” He scrubbed his hands with a rag. “I made a mistake—sure. I was a dumb kid. I’m still dumb. I thought a guy was God, the wrong guy. I thought a wrong guy was God and it cost me ten years.”
“Because a girl was shot,” Simms said. “That’s why.”
“I didn’t run,” Steve said. “I didn’t try to duck. I turned the motor off and sat right there till I got slugged. One mistake and I got the works. Now I want to be let
alone. Mister, that’s all I want. Just get off my back.”
Simms took the shredded toothpick from between his lips. “You’ll call me,” he said. “If you’re smart, you’ll call me at headquarters and tell me what you hear.”
He walked away—a fat man whose feet made little sound on the concrete floor. Work for him and you were really in the grease. One call and you’d be his pet rat for the rest of your life, walking the gutter, listening to the whispers, reporting everything you heard. And for what? Would he go to bat for you? Would he lift a hand to help if you got jammed up? Like hell he would. You were a stool pigeon if you worked for him, lower than dirt. Those toothpicks he threw away meant more to him than any ex-con who ever breathed.
Steve climbed back on the fender of the tractor and went to work again. The things that happened to a man. Simms, then Doc, then Simms again. But Doc would be gone by now. Steve put his weight on the handle of a wrench; the socket slipped and he tore the skin of his knuckles. He sat there looking at the blood on the back of his hand, a new thought cold in his mind. Doc Pennypacker had turned his back on money. Doc, who couldn’t have so much he wouldn’t reach for more, hadn’t grabbed for the money. His squeeze had come unstuck—sure. But it wasn’t like Doc to let the money get away.
He chased that around and around in his head. Doc was an angle boy, shifty as smoke. A knuckle-buster couldn’t outthink a guy like Doc. Kick one squeeze apart and he’d come up with another, twice as nasty. If it was important to him, he could. Steve sucked the bruised flesh of his knuckles, that much clear in his mind. If Doc had dropped in for kicks—for the fun of playing cat-and-mouse—then he’d be on his way by now. But if it was bigger, if he had something special planned, he’d be there, smiling at his shoes, when Steve got home. He’d have something brand-new ready and waiting.
He was there. He was playing gin rummy with Ella. The two of them were in the living room, at a card table Ella had set up in front of Steve’s chair. Pennypacker was in Steve’s chair. He wore a clean shirt and a different suit. A loud shirt and a suit with shoulders. Where had he gotten those? He leaned back in the chair—a sharp-faced man with a big nose and a thin mouth. He gave Steve a hello smile.
The Big Book of Reel Murders Page 130