Race with Death

by Gilbert, Morris

  Sunny said at once, “All this is privileged information, Addie. I’ve promised you that. We need to know the truth. If you’ll help us, we’ll leave your name out of it.”

  Finally Addie agreed. “It’s a cheap story,” she said tersely. “The governor’s always been a skirt-chaser. He saw this girl, Cory, in a bar. I think she was ostensibly a waitress of some kind, but she did more than that! Anyway, Russell went bananas over her. But she was smarter than most of the chippies he bundles with,” she admitted. “She held him off—which was the way to get him. She kept him dangling until he got her this job. . . .”

  Finally, after the woman had run down, Sunny said, “We’ll keep this under wraps—your part of it, Addie. Can you give us some names? People who can give us more on this?”

  “It wouldn’t do any good to give you names of people in the department,” Addie frowned. “They won’t talk. But you can get an earful from one man who’s no longer with DEQ. His name is Baxter Rogers.” She wrote a number down on a pad, tore it off, and handed it to Sunny. “He’ll tell you what I’ve said is true. And he’d be happy if you put the truth about this injustice on page one!”

  “Thanks, Addie,” Sunny smiled. She got to her feet, saying, “I’ll look forward to the day when I come into an office that says Department Chairman on it—and find you inside.”

  “Well, I want to do my duty,” Addie said primly. “Just don’t let my name come into it.”

  When they left the office, Ben asked, “What’s all that about, Sunny? She hates the governor—and I guess it’s true about his messing around with the Louvier girl, but what good is it?”

  “Not much,” Sunny admitted. “Not in a courtroom, anyway. But you’ve been a policeman, Ben. You know how it is when you don’t have much; you just keep on digging. Maybe this man Rogers will have something.”

  “That’s the way it works, all right. What now?”

  “I’ve got a contact in accounting. He knows something, but like Addie says, it could cost his job if he speaks up.”

  “Might not be too good to approach him on the job,” Savage observed.

  “He’s got a private office. Nobody will see us. And this place is so busy nobody seems to notice much what’s going on in the next office.”

  “I’ll bet they do,” Savage countered. “This kind of place is like a school of sharks. They look for blood, then go for it.”

  But Sunny insisted, so they spent the next hour moving around the building. She talked to several people, but it all seemed like wasted effort to Savage. Finally, she said, “Let’s go uptown, Ben. There’s a reporter there who might have something for us.”

  “Okay.”

  They were in the middle of the hall, and started down toward the elevator. When they were fifteen feet away, the door opened and two men got off. At once Savage reached out and seized Sunny’s arm.

  “What—!” she protested, but then she saw the men and her face grew pale.

  One of the men was huge, about six feet four and weighing at least 230 pounds. He had the look of a power lifter, with a thick neck and arms that stretched the seams of his brown suit. “Come along, you two,” he said. He reached out to take Sunny’s arm, and Ben at once shoved the beefy hand aside. “Back off,” he said, not taking his eyes off the two.

  The big man blinked, a little shocked that anyone would challenge him. He had thinning blonde hair and small eyes, set a little too close together. His eyelids pulled down, and he cursed Ben, then put his hand out again.

  This time Ben pulled the Colt from the holster so quickly that neither man could move and slashed it down on the huge forearm.

  “What—!”

  “Just hold it right there, friend!” The big man’s companion had let his hand dip inside his coat reaching for a gun. He was much smaller, looking almost frail beside the other’s bulk, and his gray eyes went blank as he stared into the muzzle of the revolver that Savage put on him.

  “You’re making a mistake,” the smaller man said evenly. He was not afraid of the gun in Savage’s hand, but he carefully lowered the hand that had been inside his coat.

  “You’ve already made yours,” Savage remarked. “Who are you?”

  “Police officers,” the gray-eyed man said softly. “Baton Rouge Police Department. Now, let’s have the gun.”

  Savage stared at the hand the smaller man held out, but said, “Let’s have some ID.”

  “Sure.” The smaller man reached carefully into his pocket, pulled out a leather covered badge and held it up for Ben’s inspection. “I’m Detective Catlow and this is Detective Oakie. Show him your buzzer, Lou.”

  Oakie, his eyes burning, slowly pulled out his ID, held it up, and said, “All right, let’s have the gun.”

  Savage reversed the weapon, put his gaze on Oakie, then handed the Colt to Catlow. “Next time,” he said, “show some procedure. You ought to know better than to approach a man without—”

  He heard Sunny cry wildly, “Look out, Ben—!”

  He knew that Oakie was making a move, but it was too late, for something struck him on the head, sending a million lights flashing before his eyes. He never knew when he hit the floor.

  “A real tough guy!” Oakie said, looking down at the motionless form of Savage, and stroking the leather covered sap in his big hand.

  “He wasn’t doing a thing!” Sunny cried angrily. “I’ll report you to the chief.”

  Oakie put the sap away, then turned his smallish eyes on her. “Report what, Sunny? That he was resisting arrest?” He looked at his partner, saying, “We had to take him, didn’t we, Lieutenant Catlow? He had a gun in his hand, and we had to use force.”

  Catlow looked down at the Colt he’d taken from Savage, then lifted his eyes. He stared at Oakie and nodded. “Yes, we had to do it.”

  “Come on, I’ll drag him to the car,” Oakie said. “You bring the woman.” He pushed the elevator button, and when the door opened, he said, “Everybody out!” Three startled women scrambled out of the elevator, their eyes wide. Oakie reached down and gripped Ben’s wrists in one huge hand and dragged him inside.

  “Let’s go, Miss Sloan,” Catlow said quietly. Sunny obeyed, her mind reeling with shock. She looked down at the lolling head of Savage, and saw the thin line of scarlet that ran from the cut in his scalp, then she stared into the eyes of Detective Lou Oakie.

  Oakie said gently, “I’m being easy on him, Sunny. Ordinarily, I’d drag a tough hombre like this down the steps by his ankles.” He grinned at her, and when the elevator stopped, he said, “Everybody out.” A small, prim-looking man in an expensive-looking suit stared at Oakie, dragging the limp body of Savage as if he were a bag of leaves. Oakie smiled at the small man, saying cheerfully, “Have a good day, you hear?”

  8

  Under Lock and Key

  * * *

  The cell had no toilet or running water and contained only an iron bench bolted to one wall. The bars of the door had been painted white, but were peeling now, except where they were gummed up with thick, dried gobs of hardened, yellow pigment.

  Savage sat down carefully on the bench, trying not to move his head too suddenly. The guard, an older man with bushy white hair and ebony skin, shook his head. “They give you anything for that in the infirmary?”

  “Couple of Tylenol.”

  “Well, they didn’t take no stitches. But you got a pretty bad lump there.” He studied Savage with eyes that had seen just about everything and asked curiously, “You really throw down on Oakie and Catlow?”

  Savage nodded—and was immediately sorry. The simple act sent a white hot ice pick through his head, and he closed his eyes quickly. “Could I have a drink of water?”

  “Sure.” The guard moved away, his leather soles scuffing on the concrete floor. Savage sat very still on the side of the bunk, allowing the pain to recede. When it was mostly gone, he looked down at his shirt, studying the dried blood that had changed from scarlet to a cruddy shade of brown. He’d come out of it
in the police car, and had said nothing through all the process that followed. He’d been fingerprinted, photographed, then taken to the infirmary where a young intern had washed the cut on his head, saying, “No need for stitches. You’ll be all right when the swelling goes down.”

  “Here you go—”

  Savage lifted his eyes to see the guard holding out a large, green plastic glass through the bars. He stood up, keeping his head carefully balanced, and stepped over to take the glass. It was tepid, but he drank it thirstily. He handed the glass back, saying, “Thanks. That was good.”

  The guard took the glass and paused outside the cell. “Wasn’t too smart, pulling a gun on two detectives. They’ll nail you with resisting arrest.”

  Savage sat down carefully. He knew it would do no good to explain, so he made no effort. “How long will I be in this holding cell?”

  “Not too long. Soon as the papers come, I’ll move you down the hall. You can lie down there. You want another drink, just call me.”

  “Sure—and thanks.”

  The cell was quiet, and Savage was glad it wasn’t packed with the usual group of drunks. All he needed was to be jostled around! He leaned back against the concrete wall, put his head back, and thought about what had happened. He was aware that it could have been worse. Oakie could have put a bullet in him—probably would have if Sunny hadn’t been there. He tried to think of some other good aspect of the mess, but failed.

  The concrete was rough and scraped his head, so he sat up and peered around the room. He’d seen double for a short time after he came out of unconsciousness, but he was relieved to see that his perspective was all right.

  Looking around, he noted that the walls were grimy and filled with graffiti of the coarsest sort. He’d read once that someone had removed a wall from one of the toilets in a bus station rest room and had entered it in a contest for modern art.

  “This one would probably win first prize,” Savage muttered, scanning the “art” that ranged from the obscene to the obscene.

  The heat was off, and there was a clammy coldness in the cell. The air was filled with the odors that were part of every jail he’d ever been in—sweat, urine, disinfectant, old food—and fear. The fear, he knew, could not be tested in a laboratory, but it was always there. When a man is locked up, he’s going to be afraid. All except those who’ve been locked up so long or so often that being a prisoner has become the norm. Despite himself, Savage felt tendrils of fear crawl along his nerves.

  He stood up, clasping the damp bars and staring down the hall. He could see a table at the end of it, and the guard that had given him the water was seated, reading a paper. He was still thirsty, but decided not to ask for another glass of water. He was good at waiting, but only in certain circumstances. On a stakeout, he could sit in a car outside a building for long hours—but that was different. He could always quit and walk away from the job. Maybe that was it, why fear kept creeping up when you were blocked off from all that you loved in the world by a steel door and people who would shoot you if you tried to walk.

  The time crept by, broken by the sounds of slamming steel doors and the faint sound of a radio playing country music somewhere in the bowels of the jail. He had no watch, and this made it worse. Probably better not to have one, he thought. I’d be looking at it every two minutes.

  Finally, he heard the guard scuffing down the hall and looked up. “Time to go,” the guard stated.

  “Go where?”

  “A regular cell. Got cots in it. You can lay down.”

  Savage followed the guard to the steel door, stepped through it, and the two of them moved along a wide hall. They had to pass through another steel door that was activated by a very fat guard who resented their intrusion on his cultural life. He was studying a dog-eared copy of Penthouse as the two came to stand before his desk.

  “Hate to interrupt, Simms,” the black guard grinned. “But when you get through with your lechery, would you mind opening the door?”

  Simms glared at him, cursed, then stared at Savage. “This the big bad cop-hater?”

  “Just open the door, Simms.”

  But it was the corridor of power for the fat guard. He had small eyes the color of walnuts that gleamed beneath his low brow. “I’d like to have you in the interrogating room for about five minutes,” he whispered. The thought pleased him and his pouting mouth drew into a smirk. “Yeah, I think I could make a believer out of you—”

  “Come on, Simms! Open the door!”

  Simms reluctantly threw a switch and the lock clicked loudly. Savage’s guard pushed it open, and the two walked through. “Guy has to hassle every prisoner comes through,” he grumbled.

  “Some are like that.” Savage smiled as the guard paused in front of a large cell. “You’re not, though. Thanks for everything.”

  The black man smiled. “You just put your trust in Jesus, brother. If it wasn’t for him, I’d be just like Simms.” He shut the door and glanced at the sleeping man on one of the two bunks. “When you go to interrogation, don’t stir up Oakie. He’s got a mean streak.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  “Yeah, well, I hope it works out for you.”

  As the guard left, Savage turned to survey the room. It was about twenty feet square and the walls were lined with bunks covered with gray blankets. In the center was a wooden table surrounded by three chairs. A toilet was stationed in one corner, flanked by a sink. The smell of bodies and the toilet dominated the room, and as Savage walked toward an empty bunk, one of the prisoners spoke to him. “Hey, dude, what’s happening?”

  Savage sat down on the bunk and looked up at the speaker. He was one of five men, and was by far the largest. Wearing only a pair of jockey shorts, he had a neck like a linebacker and shoulders so wide they looked almost grotesque. “Not much,” Savage murmured.

  “What you busted for?” the big man demanded. He was very pale, his body the shade of milk. But muscles ridged his stomach, and with every move there was a rippling of smooth flesh.

  “Resisting arrest—and assaulting a police officer.”

  As Savage had known it would, this statement created intense interest in the big man and in the rest of the prisoners.

  “Hey, that straight?” A smile creased the brutal lips of the big man, and he said, “I hope you cooled him, man!”

  “No, I got cooled.” Savage touched the lump on his head and summoned a grin. “All I found out was that the sap he carried was harder than my head.”

  “Who was it?” A skinny young man, no more than eighteen asked.

  “Names were Oakie and Catlow.”

  A mutter went up from the group, and the big man cursed with delight, saying, “I wish you’d offed that big gorilla, Oakie!” He added, “I’m Al Rankin—that’s Jimmy, Dutch, Franco, and Peaches.”

  Savage murmured, “Glad to meet you gentlemen.” He blinked at the pain that had returned and said, “Guess I’ll try to lie down and wear out this headache.”

  Jimmy, the skinny young man, said, “Sure. I got some aspirin.” He went to his bunk, rummaged through a bag, and came up with a bottle. He stopped at the sink long enough to get a cup and fill it with tap water.

  Savage took the tablets, downing them in one gulp. “Thanks. That’ll help.” He lay down carefully, and when the hulking Rankin said, “I wanna hear about what happened with you and Oakie—” all Ben could do was mutter a faint agreement.

  Savage slept many hours despite the sounds around him. The noise level in any jail is loud and ceaseless, and this jail was like any other. Doors clanged, shoes thudded on stairs, cleaning crews scraped buckets across the cement floors, showers hissed and spattered from somewhere, radios tuned to a dozen different stations issued their cacophony, and inmates shouted to other inmates in adjoining cells.

  All of this flowed over Savage, but he awakened only once, long enough to eat. He was not hungry, but Jimmy urged him until he struggled up to eat some of the pork chops, greens, and cornbread. H
e drank the iced tea thirstily, and then sat on his bunk for a time. Rankin was gone, and Jimmy said, “Be careful about Al. He’s hot-tempered.”

  “Don’t think I’m able to give him a problem.”

  “Yeah, he beat a guy pretty bad day before yesterday.”

  Something in the young man’s voice caught Savage’s attention. “He hassling you, Jimmy?”

  “Well—” A shamed light came into the blue eyes of the youthful prisoner. “I guess he is, a little. Always making jokes about how I look.”

  There was more to it than that, Savage understood, and he said, “Maybe you could get them to change you to another cell.”

  Anger flashed in the boy’s eyes. “They think it’s funny!”

  Savage knew then how it was, but was powerless to do anything. “Tough,” he murmured. “But things pass. Hang in there, Jimmy.”

  His words seemed to encourage Jimmy, and he smiled shyly.

  “What are you in for?” Savage asked curiously.

  “DWI—third offense.”

  That meant, Savage knew, that Jimmy would be doing a little time. “Won’t be more than three or four months,” he said. “You can handle it.”

  “I guess so. But I’ll tell you one thing,” Jimmy said vehemently. “I like to drink—but it ain’t worth this!”He waved his hand around with his jaw set tight. “When I get out, I’m off the booze, Ben. It just ain’t worth it!”

  “I think you’re right, Jimmy. Stay away from it.”

  The two talked quietly, and then the other men came back from the exercise room. Rankin came over and put his hand on Jimmy’s neck, “Hey, Savage, you messin’ around with my buddy?”

  Jimmy’s face turned scarlet, and he tried to pull away, but the massive hand held him fast. “Aw, don’t be bashful, kid! I’m your friend.”

  Savage said mildly, “Let him go, Rankin.”