Modern Masters of Noir

by Ed Gorman (ed)

  The black cop said something and then Johnny’s arms were jerked around behind his back and cuffed there. Johnny wanted to tell them that he hadn’t been doing anything wrong, that he’d only wanted to get the money for Mac. But the words wouldn’t come. The cops took him out through the front, past the other tenants from upstairs, and past Giancarlo, who pointed a finger, like a parent scolding a small child. “Thief, thief,” he said.

  Johnny was pushed into the backseat of the radio car. He huddled against the door, staring at the mesh screen that separated him from the cops in front. A taste of hot bile rose in his throat, but he swallowed the bitter fluid back down, afraid of what might happen if he threw up all over the police car.

  Mac is going to be so mad, he thought dimly. Oh God, where was Mac? Even if he was going to be mad and yell, Johnny wanted him there. “Mac?” His lips formed the word, but no sound came out. Mac, please, I need you.

  They took him to the precinct house four blocks away, turning him over to a heavyset man in a rumpled brown suit. The man shoved a paper into the typewriter. “Name?” he snapped around an unlit cigar.

  Johnny’s hands, freed from the cuffs, were clasped together in his lap. Someone, he thought, was talking to him, but the words were muffled and he had to strain to understand them.

  “What’s your name, pal?”

  A familiar face, the black cop who’d busted him, appeared briefly, a papercup of coffee in one hand. “He told us it was Griffith. John Paul. Then he just clammed up. Acts like he’s stoned.”

  The detective typed the name. “Address?”

  The room was filled with a strange empty darkness, but the void didn’t scare him. It was safe where he was. He slid down in the seat, smiling a little.

  “Hey, Griffith, where do you live?”

  With Mac, he thought, but he didn’t tell them that. He just kept smiling and waiting for Mac to show up and take care of this.

  They gave up finally, and took him away for booking, prints, and pictures. When all that was done, Johnny was taken to a holding cell. He curled up on the cot there, watching and waiting.

  Chapter 11

  Driven almost equally by weariness and the need for company, Mac finally went home. It was almost noon by the time he got back to the empty room. He sat down on his bed, a little bewildered. The pizzeria didn’t open until two, and Johnny rarely went anywhere else alone. Except to the movies. Then he remembered that there was a spaghetti western playing down the street. Johnny loved the noisy shoot ‘em ups. Mac was a little disgruntled, wishing Johnny were there. They needed to talk.

  The soft tapping at the door startled him.

  He got up to answer it; the old woman from across the hall was there, looking even more fluttery than usual. Mac knew her only slightly. Johnny would sometimes help her carry groceries or something. “Yes?” he said, trying to sound polite.

  “I thought you ought to know,” she stage-whispered.

  “Know what?”

  “They took him away.”

  Mac’s eyes felt gritty after his long night, and he shook his head a little, hoping to clear away the fog in his brain. “Excuse me, Mrs. Jakubjansky, but what are you talking about?”

  She sighed, as if impatient with his stupidity. “The police took him away. In the handcuffs. They said he stole money from Mr. Giancarlo.” She shook her head sorrowfully. “John is a good boy. I don’t think he would take money.”

  Mac managed to thank the woman and get rid of her, although he felt like someone had just delivered a quick punch to his mid-section. When she was gone, he rested his forehead against the door and closed his eyes. Johnny? Busted? Hauled off in cuffs?

  He felt sick, like he might throw up. Oh goddamn, he thought, the kid did it for me, because I need money. That idiot. That goddamned stupid fucking idiot.

  Christ, he must be scared to death.

  Mac left the room, clattering noisily down the stairs, and running all the way to the police station. By the time he reached the front desk, he was gasping hoarsely for air. The desk sergeant looked up without much interest. “Yeah?”

  He stood still for a moment, trying to catch his breath. “Uh, Griffith,” he finally managed to say. “You have John Griffith here?”

  The sergeant started pawing through some papers. “Griffith?”

  Another cop looked up from his magazine. “That’s the flake up on three,” he said helpfully.

  “Oh, yeah, right. Go to the third floor and ask for Lieutenant Mazzeretti.”

  When he asked, Mac was directed to a small office at one end of the squadroom. Mazzeretti, a dark-skinned, slender man in a grey sharkskin suit, frowned at the rumpled, unshaven figure before him. “Alex McCarthy? What’s your interest in Griffith? You’re not a lawyer? Or a relative?”

  Mac shook his head. “No, I’m just a friend. He doesn’t have a family or anything. Can I see John?”

  Mazzeretti was toying with a gold ballpoint pen. “He’s in the holding cell around the corner, but I don’t know about seeing him.” He clicked the pen open, studied the point for a moment, then clicked it closed again. “I have a transfer order pending.”

  “Transfer to where?”

  “Bellevue.”

  Mac kept his face poker blank, although an icy hand seemed to be squeezing at his gut. “No, don’t do that.” The cop seemed startled by his tone and Mac forced himself to speak more quietly. “I mean, he’s okay. He doesn’t need Bellevue. Just let me talk to him for a minute.”

  Mazzeretti frowned. “That’s the problem, man. He won’t talk. Hasn’t said word one since they brought him in.”

  The icy hand gripped more tightly. “He’ll talk to me,” Mac mumbled, hoping to hell it was the truth.

  After a moment, Mazzeretti shrugged and stood. “Come on.”

  They left the office and walked around to the holding cell. Johnny was curled on the cot, staring blankly at the activity swirling around him. Mac stopped, gripping the bars with both hands, wanting to rip them aside and get Johnny out of this cage. “Hey, John,” he said quietly.

  Mazzeretti was standing next to him. “See what I mean? Nothing.”

  “Can I go in?”

  The dapper cop hesitated. “He might be dangerous.”

  Mac gave him a look. “Him?”

  The lieutenant had the grace to look fleetingly sheepish, then he unlocked the door. He closed it behind Mac, but didn’t secure the lock.

  Mac crouched on the floor next to the cot. “Johnny?” he whispered. “Listen up, kid. It’s me, Johnny.”

  Slowly the foggy eyes cleared; the lips lifted in a tentative smile.

  Casting a triumphant look toward Mazzeretti, Mac spoke again, more softly so only Johnny could hear. “What the hell are you doing?” he asked fiercely. “You stupid dumb jackass.”

  The hesitant smile faded and Johnny squeezed back against the wall.

  “See?” Mazzeretti said. “That’s why the order for Bellevue. The guy obviously has problems.”

  Mac ignored him, reaching out to take one of Johnny’s hands between both of his. “Johnny?” he said, softening his tone. “Please. Don’t do this. They’re gonna take you away and lock you up in a padded cell someplace. Is that what you want?” His hold tightened helplessly. “Please, kid, snap out of it.”

  The inert hand moved a little and the smile slowly returned. “Hi, Mac,” Johnny said. “I was waiting for you. I knew you’d come.”

  “Well, of course I came,” Mac said, relief making his voice hoarse. “So you just knock off this zombie stuff, willya?” He squeezed the hand once more, then released it.

  Johnny bit his lower lip. “What are they gonna do to me?”

  “Nothing, kid, I promise. Everything is going to be okay. You just cooperate with them and I’ll take care of it.”

  Johnny’s face was anxious, and his eyes stared into Mac’s. “Are you mad at me? I’m really sorry, Mac. I didn’t mean to get into trouble.”

  “Shh, it’s okay, never
mind that.” He was quiet for a moment. “No, I’m not mad. I know why you did it. Shit, Johnny,” he said, “nobody ever cared enough before to . . . well, never mind. But thanks.” He got up from his position by the bed. “Can I talk to you?” he asked Mazzeretti.

  The lieutenant nodded and Mac started out. Johnny’s hand around his wrist stopped him. “Mac?”

  “I gotta go now, kid. But I’ll be back in a little while. You just take it easy, okay?”

  Johnny nodded, letting his fingers slip slowly from their grip.

  Mac followed Mazzeretti back to his office, where the lieutenant paused long enough to light a thin black cigar with a gold lighter that matched the pen. “Griffith is a head case,” he said succinctly.

  Mac drew a level breath. “The guy has some problems,” he admitted. “He was in Nam.”

  Mazzeretti nodded. “Doesn’t surprise me much.”

  “But he doesn’t need to be locked up. The help he needs, he’s already getting.” Was it really a lie? Mac didn’t think so. Johnny needed help, yeah, needed to be. . . taken care of. But not by a bunch of shrinks. He helped Johnny just by being his friend, and when everybody else left them alone, it was just fine.

  “He’s never been busted before.” It wasn’t a question; apparently they’d checked.

  “No, John is a good kid.”

  Mazzeretti raised his brows. “Kid? How old is he anyway?”

  Mac had to stop and think. “Twenty-nine,” he said after a moment. The figure surprised him a little; somehow, he always thought of Johnny as being so much younger.

  “Hardly a kid,” Mazzeretti murmured almost to himself.

  “He wouldn’t hurt anybody, Lieutenant, really. What happened last night was a . . . a mistake. He honestly thought he was doing the right thing.” Like a child, Mac thought. Yeah, he was only trying to help. To help me.

  Mazzeretti watched the lengthening ash on the tip of his cigar. “Well, McCarthy, I sympathize, but as long as Mr. Giancarlo insists on pressing charges, there’s absolutely nothing I can do.”

  Mac nodded. Maybe there was nothing the cop could do, but he had no intention of letting them haul Johnny off to some nuthouse. “Thank you,” he said, getting to his feet. Perhaps Mazzeretti knew that he intended to go see Giancarlo, but neither man said anything about it as Mac left.

  He skirted the area of the holding cell, not wanting Johnny to see him again right then. Outside, the day had turned grey and overcast, and the gloom fit his mood perfectly.

  Was Johnny crazy?

  Mac had wondered about that before, of course. Ever since their first meeting amid the horror of Tan Pret, the issue of Johnny’s sanity had plagued Mac. He seemed to be the only one with any doubts on the matter. Everybody else was so damned sure that they knew better than he about Griffith.

  Well, Johnny was different, that much was true enough. He had a lot of weird habits. Like clamming up whenever things got tough. That wasn’t normal, for sure. And his hang-ups about sex. And his dependency on Mac. He was just like a kid sometimes, no matter how old he really was in years.

  So? They were friends, and shouldn’t friends depend on each other? Hell, he depended on Johnny, too.

  Yeah, I do.

  What would happen to Johnny if they sent him away? Mac remembered the hospital where his mother had died. He could still smell the gagging odor of disinfectant that mingled with rather than hid the other smells of the place. He could still hear the screams, the animal cries, the low anguished moans that echoed in the hallways. Most of all, though, he remembered the people themselves, like his mother, with their various madnesses written on their faces. Bony hands reached out toward him as he walked past, swaggering a little so the nun wouldn’t know how scared he was. Even now the horror of it all filled him whenever he thought about it.

  Johnny, quiet, sweet-natured, childlike Johnny, wouldn’t last ten minutes in a place like that.

  Another question came to Mac. What’ll happen to me if they send him away? He stopped abruptly on the sidewalk. A fat man dressed in filthy work clothes bumped into him and snarled an obscenity, but Mac ignored him. He stared into the window of a dress shop, seeing only his face reflected among the swirl of colors there. His own eyes stared back at him as if they were seeing a stranger.

  Does it make a fucking bit of difference to me if Johnny is as crazy as everybody else says he is?

  The answer came back in almost the same moment.

  No.

  Giancarlo was behind the counter of the restaurant, scribbling figures into a worn black ledger, and he looked up sullenly as Mac entered. “You come to make trouble,” he said, “I gonna call the cops again.”

  “No trouble,” Mac replied quickly. “I just want to talk.”

  “About John?”

  “About John, yes.”

  “I got nothing to say. He’s a thief.”

  Mac hadn’t seen old lady Jakubjansky come in just behind him, but she spoke up now. “Antonio, you old fool, John is a good boy.”

  “He was trying to rob from my store. A crook, that’s what he is.”

  Mac leaned across the counter and Giancarlo scooted back a little. “I think we all know that John has problems,” Mac said softly, feeling a twinge of disloyalty, but dismissing it impatiently.

  Giancarlo tapped his forehead. “Yeah, I always know he is a little funny in the head, but I never think he also be a thief.”

  “He’s not, not really.”

  “We caught him right here.”

  Mac picked up a paper napkin and twisted it in his fingers. “John was doing that for me. I told him I needed money and he . . . he just didn’t think. He was only trying to do what he thought was right.”

  “Why should he take my money? He belongs in jail.”

  Mac glanced around at Mrs. Jakubjansky and she seemed to see the despair he was feeling reflected in his face. She came closer to the counter. “Antonio, you always been a big talker about how wonderful is this country. Well, John was a soldier fighting for you. Is it his fault the war made him a little sick in the head? He’s a good boy now, but if they put him in jail with all the killers and crooks, who knows what will happen to him? Mr. McCarthy takes good care of John, better than a jail.”

  Giancarlo seemed to waver just a little. “But he was stealing . . .”

  Mac crumpled the napkin and tossed it onto the counter. “Look, if you’ll drop the charges, they’ll let him go. We’ll leave; I’ll take him away right now, today, and we’ll never bother you again. I swear to God, all we want to do is get away from here.”

  It took about ten more minutes for the two of them to convince Giancarlo, but he finally put up his hands and surrendered. As the disgruntled man went off to the precinct house, Mac ran upstairs to pack. He also shaved and changed, before piling their meager belongings just inside the door for easy pick-up. As he was finishing, old lady Jakubjansky appeared at the door again, a foil-wrapped package in one hand. “My sugar cookies,” she said. “John likes them.”

  Mac took the package. “Thank you,” he said awkwardly.

  “He is like a little boy sometimes.”

  “Yeah.”

  Her face grew stern and she pointed a skinny finger at him. “He is your responsibility. Take better care for him.”

  Mac nodded and she left. He stared at the package of cookies for a moment, then set it on top of the luggage and left.

  By the time he got to the station, Johnny was already out of the holding cell, sitting in the squad room, drinking a Coke and listening to Mazzeretti. Johnny didn’t seem to be saying much, but he nodded occasionally in response to something the cop was saying. As Mac got closer, Johnny looked up and saw him coming across the room. His face broke into a broad grin. Mac grinned in response and walked a little faster. He felt good now, and ignored Mazzeretti’s troubled dark gaze that rested on them as he and Johnny greeted each other. “How you doing, kid?” he asked, giving Johnny a light punch on the arm.

  “I’m okay
, Mac,” he replied softly.

  Mazzeretti stepped forward. “McCarthy, I want to talk to you.”

  “What about?” Mac asked, only wanting to take Johnny and go.”

  “In my office.”

  Mac glanced at Johnny, who was watching the conversation.

  “John can wait here,” Mazzeretti said.

  Giving the suddenly frightened blue eyes a quick A-OK sign, Mac followed the detective. They sat facing one another across the desk. Mazzeretti lit another cigar, and Mac took out a cigarette.

  “Tell me about John.”

  Mac shifted in the seat. “I thought you said he could go, if the charges were dropped.”

  “He can go. As soon as we’ve talked.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say.” Mac took a deep drag on his cigarette.

  “I want to know what his problems are.”

  “I already told you; he was in Nam.”

  “So were a lot of people.”

  The small office was quiet for several moments. Mac finally sighed. “Some people can hack war,” he said. “Some can’t. Johnny didn’t belong there.” He looked at the cop. “But that was all a long time ago. Johnny’s okay now.”

  “Except when he gets scared, like tonight, right?”

  “He’s okay,” Mac repeated stubbornly.

  “You said he’s getting help?”

  “Sure,” Mac lied.

  “What’s his doctor’s name?”

  He frowned, glancing out to the other room. “He goes to the VA hospital,” he improvised. “Look, can we go now?”

  After a moment, Mazzeretti nodded. “All right,” he said. “But I suggest you keep an eye on him. Next time he might get into more serious trouble.”

  Mac was already at the door. “Sure,” he said quickly. “I’ll take care of him.”

  Johnny looked up from his intent contemplation of the floor and smiled as Mac approached. “Can we go now?” he asked softly.

  “Sure, kid, come on.” He took Johnny by one arm and guided him through the squadroom, feeling Mazzeretti’s eyes on them all the while.