The Triple Shot Box (Goodey's Last Stand, Not Sleeping Just Dead & Fighting Back): Three Gritty Crime Novels

by Charles Alverson

  Hoerner spotted him the moment Harry walked into Finlay’s and stood blinking with stranger’s eyes. The detective let him get seated in the appointed booth but not settled before he moved in. “Mr. Caster,” he said, “your brother said I’d find you here. I’m Alec Hoerner. Let’s order drinks before we start to talk.”

  The glow of satisfaction lent by a very expensive dinner had already begun to melt away while Harry was driving to the West Side. Now it was almost entirely gone. Neither man spoke while they waited for the drinks. Each was studying the other.

  “I’m a private detective, Mr. Caster,” Hoerner began when the sore-footed waitress had departed. “Your brother says you’ve got a problem, and I’m here to see if we can help you.” The “we” was deliberate. Hoerner had found that it made clients feel more confident if they thought he had an organization behind him. “It will help if you give me all the information you have. Why don’t you start at the beginning and take it step by step to this moment?”

  Once again, Harry went over the account, which had begun to sound like fiction, even to him. It was hard to believe that it had all started only the night before. The moment that Rizzo had first spoken to him seemed a long time ago. “…and so,” he concluded, “Mickey said someone would meet me here just after nine o’clock this evening.”

  Alec Hoerner sipped his drink and studied the man in front of him. He wondered if Caster had any idea what he was getting into. He doubted it. “Why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself and your family, Mr. Caster? Just anything that comes to mind. It might be useful.”

  With the unself-consciousness of a man with great problems, Harry began to speak of Hildy and the girls. Unknowingly, he revealed more of his true feelings and worries to Hoerner than he’d confided to anyone for years. Despite his hard appearance, Hoerner turned out to be an easy man to talk to. It wasn’t only the professional manner; Hoerner seemed to be really listening.

  When Harry stopped talking and took a quick, embarrassed sip from his glass, Hoerner made no comment. He had a delicate situation here and he knew it. Hoerner wanted the Caster job—needed it if he was going to keep going, much less get into the big time—but Harry Caster had to know what he was getting into. Hoerner thought he could take Rizzo, but there was a good chance that things could turn nasty, and he wanted that clear up front.

  At last he spoke. “How much do you know about Carlo Rizzo?”

  “Not very much, except that he’s some kind of crook.”

  “And does he frighten you?”

  “You’re damned right he frightens me,” Harry said with a nervous laugh. “Wouldn’t he scare you?”

  Hoerner ignored the question. “Mr. Caster, let me put you exactly in the picture about Rizzo,” he said. “Aside from the suddenness and intensity of your brush with Rizzo, he may not seem much different from a lot of other people in your town. But he thinks a lot different. He’s spent twenty years in an organization with no more respect for your life, your family and your business than you have for an ant you step on in the street.

  “You saw how he reacted to your first resistance, as mild as it was. He had your car destroyed. Just like that. No warning, no preliminaries, no second chance. If he hadn’t needed you for his scheme, you might have been in the car when it was blown. It would have been nothing to Rizzo.”

  Hoerner paused, but then went on when Harry said nothing. “This doesn’t mean that Rizzo is inhuman. He’s not. He loves his wife and kids just as much as you love your family. But this means nothing when it comes to dealing with you. You’re not family. You don’t count unless he can use you. You’re one of them—the big outside world that exists only to be exploited by the Carlo Rizzos.

  “As long as Rizzo thinks you’re likely to go along, he won’t harm you or your family. But once he gets the idea that you’re going to seriously resist him, there’s nothing he wouldn’t do to convince you that it would be better to go along. He’s in a lot of trouble now with his bosses, but Rizzo’s not alone. He’s still got a few friends willing to give him a hand.”

  “You make it all sound marvelous,” said Harry sourly. “I may as well slit my throat right now and save Rizzo the trouble. Did Mickey hire you to come here tonight and scare me to death? He should have saved his money.”

  “Your brother hasn’t hired me to do anything,” Hoerner said seriously. “It’s up to you whether you want to hire me. I don’t care either way. But I’m not going to kid you that if you do hire me it will be easy. It won’t be. If you decide to fight Rizzo, my organization will back you all the way. But I warn you that once we start, we’re going to have to be faster and harder and meaner than Rizzo to beat him. We’ll be playing by Rizzo’s rules, not yours. There’s going to be no stopping until we win. And we do mean to win.”

  “But what will you do?”

  “I can’t tell you that. If you decide to retain my organization, you’ll have to put yourself in our hands completely. We’ll tell you what to do, and you’ll do it. You will have no choice. And it won’t be cheap. Our basic fee is a thousand dollars: half when you retain us, and half when the job is done.” Hoerner didn’t tell Harry that this was only a fraction of the sum Mickey had mentioned earlier.

  “That’s a lot of money,” Harry said.

  “Yes, and it could buy you something you don’t want.” Hoerner leaned back and took a drink from his glass.

  Inwardly, Hoerner smiled sardonically at his own speech. He was deadly serious, but Hoerner had no more “organization” than Harry Caster did. Money could buy technical assistance and manpower, but for the most part Hoerner relied on Hoerner. He was deadly confident that he could take Rizzo. And he was willing to take big risks to satisfy Mickey Caster. There was more than one Mr. Blavatsky looking narrowly at Hoerner’s growing debts.

  In Harry’s mind, a whirl of possibilities and considerations was battling for his attention. He’d come to the city seeking help, but he’d found even more complications.

  Hoerner looked at that round, harmless, baffled face and took pity. “Don’t give me an answer now,” he said. “Go home and take some time to think it over. It’s not an easy decision.” Hoerner knew he wasn’t taking any chances by giving Caster a little bit of line to run with. He didn’t want to press too hard and scare him into surrendering to Rizzo. He wrote a telephone number on a blank card. “If you’ve made up your mind or want to reach me for any reason, call this number. Call any time, but don’t give this number to anyone else, and don’t write it down with my name.”

  Harry put the card carefully into his wallet.

  6

  When he’d said a worried goodbye to Hoerner and left the bar, Harry was surprised to find that it was past eleven o’clock. Checking his car out of a parking lot, he began driving north toward the Hudson Expressway. But as he neared the 125th Street on-ramp, he thought that he’d better call Hildy and let her know he was coming. He should have called before.

  “Hello?” said Hildy’s unsleepy voice, and Harry knew that she’d been watching television. It was a safe guess.

  “Hildy,” he said, “it’s me.”

  “Who’s me? Your voice sounds vaguely like somebody we used to have around here, but he left ever so long ago. No telling when he’ll be back.”

  “Very funny,” said Harry. “How’s everything?”

  “How is it ever? Utterly fantastic. And the boy business mogul, Mickey? I expect he’s still prospering in his crooked little way.”

  “He’s richer than ever,” said Harry. “As much as I disapprove, I forced myself to eat the food at the Four Seasons.”

  “How come you never take me to the Four Seasons, or even to the Three Seasons?”

  “You wouldn’t like it,” Harry said. “The food is great, the service is superb, and they sneer at you if you don’t eat things like snails and caviar.”

  “Let them sneer,” she said. “Me they sneer at in the Burgerama on Hudson Boulevard.” Her tone of voice changed. “Harry, somethi
ng strange happened today.”

  “Not Clark Gable again.”

  “No, seriously. It was a man I don’t know. He said his name was Rice. Charles Rice. And he did act peculiar. You know him, don’t you?”

  “Slightly. What did he want?” Harry asked carefully.

  “I really don’t know. He said he’d just dropped by to see you about something concerned with the bar. But even after I told him you were gone for the day, he kept hanging around. I finally had to offer him some coffee. What’s he have to do with the Lamplighter?”

  “Nothing much. He’s been around offering me some kind of a business deal. But I don’t think I’m interested. What did this Rice have to say?”

  “Oh, things like what a shame it was that your car accidentally burned up this morning. And what a nice house we have. I should have offered to sell him the place. He made a really big deal over the baby and Lizzie’s picture. Wanted to know how old they were, all about them. Fairly gave me the creeps, I can tell you. He was nice enough in an oily way, I guess, but even I don’t like our kids as much as he claimed to.”

  “Anything else?” Harry asked.

  “No. I finally got rid of him by starting the vacuum cleaner. But as he left, he said to give you his best and that he’d be getting in touch very soon. Who is this charming person, anyway?”

  “Just a local guy,” Harry said. “He’s some sort of a businessman. Don’t bother yourself about him.” He paused. “Hildy, go to bed. I’ve got a few more things to do, and I might be home very late.”

  “All right,” Hildy said, “but I want you to tell me just one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If you’re not coming back, I want fair warning so that I can rent your room. I’ll put up a little sign in the front window: ‘Lonely grass widow seeks young, handsome boarder. Good eats.’”

  “Just hold off on the sign for a couple of hours,” Harry said. “I won’t be home that late. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “If you’re lucky,” said Hildy. “Good night, sweetheart.” She put down the telephone and walked back to the television set.

  Harry fished Hoerner’s card from his wallet. A sleepy girl’s voice answered the telephone. “Oh-two-oh-four.”

  “I’d like to speak to Alec Hoerner, please.”

  “At this hour?” the girl said. “It’s nearly midnight, you know.”

  “I know,” said Harry, “but I still have to speak to him. Is he there, please? He gave me this number.”

  “No, he’s not actually here. But hold on and I’ll try to reach him.” The girl put the telephone on hold and dialed another number. She listened to the harsh rasp of a busy signal. From experience, she knew what this meant: Alec Hoerner had taken the receiver off its cradle for the night. She pursed her thin lips with disapproval. “I’m sorry, but I’m unable to reach Mr. Hoerner at this time,” she told Harry. “Could you call back in the morning?”

  “No, I really couldn’t. It’s very important that I reach him tonight. I know it sounds corny, but it could be a matter of life and death. Can you try again?”

  “I could,” said the girl, “but I’m afraid it wouldn’t do any good. This is only his answering service.” Her voice became confidential. “You see, he’s taken the phone off the hook at his apartment. I can’t reach him at all.”

  “Well, where does he live, then?”

  “Oh, I couldn’t tell you that. I couldn’t. It’s the first rule: never give out a client’s address. Mrs. Meltzer would murder me.”

  “Mrs. Meltzer?”

  “The boss. The manager,” the girl said. “The last time a girl gave out anybody’s address, it was to his ex-wife’s lawyer, and Mrs. M nearly had a coronary. She practically turned blue. Oh, I couldn’t risk it even if I am quitting next week to get married.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “What?”

  “About getting married,” Harry said. “That’s very nice.”

  “Oh, thanks. I won’t be sorry to leave here, I can tell you. Working from eleven at night until eight in the morning is no joke.”

  “Yeah, I can imagine,” said Harry as sincerely as he could. “But listen, Miss, I don’t sound like anybody’s lawyer, do I?”

  “Well, no,” she admitted reluctantly, “but…”

  “Look,” Harry insisted, “less than an hour ago I was sitting in a bar with Mr. Hoerner. He’s working for me. I’m his client. And he gave me this number and said to get in touch if anything came up and I needed him. Well, something has come up, and I’ve got to get in touch with him right now.”

  “It can’t wait until morning?”

  “No, it really can’t. I told you it was a very serious matter. And it is.”

  “You say you saw Mr. Hoerner tonight?”

  “Sure. He’s a tall guy, sort of thin but strong-looking with a narrow face and strange, greenish eyes.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” she said. “I’ve only talked to him on the phone, but he sounds a bit weird to me. You wouldn’t believe some of the messages he gets. I could tell you…”

  “I’ll bet,” said Harry, “but really, I’ve got to get in touch with Mr. Hoerner right now. Can’t you just give me his address? Your boss won’t know, and next week you’ll be gone anyway.”

  “Well, all right,” said the girl, “but I hope you’re telling me the truth.”

  “I am,” said Harry. “I am.”

  She gave Harry an address in the West Forties, and Harry thanked her profusely.

  “Oh, sure,” said the girl, swallowing a yawn. “G’bye, now.” She disconnected the telephone and picked up a thick historical novel.

  Before she’d finished a page, Harry was back in his car and retracing his path toward midtown Manhattan. The 500 block of West 45th Street was a bleak, forgotten line of large warehouses and dirty brownstone tenements untouched by the force-fed glitter of Broadway to the immediate east. Cutting in behind a late-model Buick in the final stages of disintegration, Harry carefully locked the car and climbed a tenement stoop squeezed between squat warehouses. Inside, the narrow stairway was littered with a week’s refuse, and a man, ragged with age and hard use, lay sleeping on the first landing, knees and forehead pressed against an apartment door.

  On the third floor, Harry stopped in front of a thin door with the tin letter G hanging by a nail from its peeling, green surface. One of those fish-eye peepholes was placed slightly off center about chest high in the door. Harry stood for a moment shifting his weight and then raised his right arm as if it didn’t belong to him. He laid his knuckles on the green door gently in a light knock. There was no answer. He rapped again, a bit harder, and the door resounded hollowly.

  After a long pause, a girl’s voice, thin and peevish, answered: “Who is it? What do you want?”

  Harry cleared his throat and said, “Is Mr. Hoerner there? This is Harry Caster. I’m sorry to come so late, but—”

  The girl giggled. “He’s not here. Go away.”

  Harry didn’t know what to do or say.

  “You still there?”

  “Yes,” said Harry. “Mr. Hoerner—”

  “Go away. There’s no—”

  The girl’s voice was cut off sharply, and Alec Hoerner, wide awake, said, “The door’s open, Mr. Caster. Come in.”

  Harry turned the knob and pushed into the darkened room. He felt a light cord brush his face.

  “Turn on the light,” said Hoerner’s voice from a black corner. With a jerk of the cord, a naked bulb overhead threw the small room into cruel illumination. Single-windowed and wallpapered, the room was nearly filled with a gigantic bed in which lay Alec Hoerner and a very young blonde girl. The air in the room was warm and stale, and the girl lay on her back covered only to the top of her prominent hip bones by a sheet which looked to be satin or silk. Her full, elongated breasts hung over discernible ribs. Unblinking eyes in a sharp face never left Harry’s face.

  “Hello, Mr. Caster,” said Hoerner.
“I’m surprised to see you so soon.” He lay back propped up against two black-covered pillows.

  “I tried to call,” Harry said, seeing at the same time the telephone receiver off its hook on a small linoleum-covered table. “I had to reach you. Rizzo—”

  Hoerner stopped him with an upheld palm. “Maureen, honey,” he said, “why don’t you take a little walk? I’ve got to take care of a little business.”

  “Hoerner,” she protested, “you said all night. You promised!”

  “Move.” Hoerner cocked a leg and pushed the naked girl out of the bed into a passive heap on the floor. For a moment she lay there with sprawling dignity, looking not at Hoerner but at Harry’s confused face. Then, as if she were alone, the girl got to her feet, walked to the door and opened it.

  “What about your clothes?” asked Hoerner.

  The girl closed the door behind her without a word.

  “One of the neighbors,” Hoerner said. “We’re mostly swinging singles in this building. And very friendly.”

  Harry didn’t say anything. The contrast between the Hoerner he’d met just a few hours ago and this one he saw in bed before him was confusing. His eyes, not knowing where to look, darted about the small room, taking in the shapeless furniture, the rutted linoleum on the floor, and came to rest on a large clear-plastic clothes bag on the wall across from the bed. In the bag was apparently Hoerner’s entire wardrobe, as if it weren’t really in this down-at-the-heels room. At one end hung an Army officer’s dress uniform, complete with medals and ribbons.