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

by Charles Alverson

  His voice trailed off into the side yard of the cottage. This left Harry out front not knowing what to do next. He supposed he ought to see Marco off to the hospital.

  But then a big four-door Dodge with an outsized aerial like a deep-sea fishing rod pulled up at the curb and Chief Beddell got out. He leaned against his car, looking at Harry Caster.

  Before Harry could speak, the two ambulance men came back through the gate with Marco strapped to their stretcher. The older man was now the motivating force with the stretcher poles slotted into hands like piston guides and his head down. The driver, who floated easily at the head of the stretcher, was still talking; “…picks up this bar stool and flings it through a winder. Well, naturally….”

  Beddell stopped them with a gesture. He looked down at Marco’s ruined face with seeming indifference. “How is he?”

  “Hurtin’, man, hurtin’,” said the driver. “Somebody tried to grind his head off. But my man here gave him a jolt of sodium pentothal, and he’s feeling no pain.”

  Marco was no longer writhing and gasping, but lay death-still with only a slight raggedness of breath.

  Beddell turned his eyes to the other attendant. There was an almost audible click as he put this new fact and face in his memory. “That right?”

  “Yes.” The attendant still looked down at his hands.

  “All right,” said Beddell, “get him out of here.”

  Harry and the Chief of Police watched silently as they shoved the stretcher bearing Marco into the ambulance, and the older man slowly got in with him. The ambulance rolled off down the street with siren moaning.

  The few neighbors who had come out to watch receded, leaving Harry and Beddell alone on the sidewalk. “Let’s take a drive,” the Chief said, motioning to his car. He saw Harry look over at his own car and added: “I’ll see that you get back.”

  They rode silently for a while, and Harry realized that Beddell wasn’t heading for the police station. He didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. Finally Beddell spoke.

  “That was a nasty thing that happened to young Carradino. His mother’s going to take it hard.”

  “Yes, Marco’s a good kid.”

  “We don’t get many crimes of violence in Parker’s Landing. You got any idea who might have done it?”

  Harry had no stomach for further fencing, so he answered: “You know I do. It had to be Rizzo or some of his hoods. Rizzo thinks that by beating Marco up he can scare me into going along with him.”

  “Is he right?”

  “No. He’s not right. He’s not right at all. I…”

  “Go on,” prompted Beddell. “You were saying?”

  “Nothing,” Harry said. “Just that I’m not going to turn half of my business over to Carlo Rizzo.” Harry knew now that Beddell knew he was telling the truth. “You tell me something, Chief. You know that Rizzo really is trying to cut himself in on my bar, don’t you?” Harry felt very bold.

  “Mr. Caster,” Beddell began slowly, “there are some very plausible elements to your story. My sergeant tells me that your car was set on fire with a homemade phosphorus grenade. That makes it arson, and I’m drawing up a report of the incident. But that doesn’t mean that Charlie Rice had anything to do with it. Rice was at home at the time—with guests. That’s a pretty good alibi, and it could be tough to prove that he hired somebody else to torch your car.”

  “And I suppose he’ll have an alibi for tonight, too?” Harry asked.

  “He probably will, but you can be sure that we’ll check it out.”

  “I’m sure you will,” said Harry, emboldened, “but how is that going to help Marco? And how is it going to help me when Rizzo decides it’s time to get really rough?” Harry felt his gorge rise as an image of Marco’s face flashed into his mind.

  The Chief of Police aimlessly but carefully threaded the darkened minor streets like an airline pilot in a holding pattern.

  “Your family, Mr. Caster,” he said, ignoring Harry’s questions, “where are they right now?”

  “Somewhere safe,” Harry said, surprising himself.

  “Safe from Rizzo?” Beddell asked, dropping the name Rice for the first time.

  “Yes,” said Harry, “and from anybody else if Rizzo’s too busy establishing an alibi to do the job himself.” He suddenly became aware of the revolver in his coat pocket, and for the first time he felt comforted by its presence. He knew Beddell would have him if he knew about it. But he didn’t. And he didn’t know Harry Caster quite as well as he thought he did.

  Beddell knew that in his timid, chickenshit way Harry Caster was challenging him. But he didn’t feel angry; he only felt tired and longed for retirement and a pension as, after a hard day, he longed for his soft bed.

  The policeman also knew that he could jerk this little Jew down to the station and in a very short time have the whole story out of him: where his family was, what the hell he was up to. It would all come out. Beddell knew that Caster was up to something. He was still scared, but there was a hardening core beneath his soft exterior. Something was propping Caster up or he wouldn’t be talking as he was tonight. He’d be running.

  But Beddell didn’t want to—couldn’t afford to—know what Harry was doing. In twenty-nine years on the police force, he’d been a man who had built up a complicated web of ties and interdependencies. Debts and credits. A favor done; a benefit received. The complexity of Beddell’s particular situation didn’t allow him to interfere actively in the affairs of the Speranza family. And he’d never had reason to.

  He didn’t like the situation, but he’d grown to accept it. Beddell honored the restrictions as much out of a sense of obligation as out of fear. He made good his debts. So Beddell ignored Harry’s comment and sealed his mind to the more unpleasant possibilities of the situation.

  “Well, Mr. Caster,” he said with conscious finality, “you know what you’re doing. I think we’d better go to the station and get a statement from you about Marco Carradino. It won’t take long, and I’ll have a squad car take you back to your automobile.”

  Now Beddell was driving differently. No longer aimless, his style was direct, crisp and economic. In a short time the car was in his parking bay at the police station. Harry followed Beddell into the depths of the station to make a statement, true as far as it went but false at the same time. Harry knew the Chief wouldn’t ask him whom he suspected. And if he did, Harry would lie. The lie was as necessary as the truth seemed to be a couple of days ago. Harry knew his part and he would play it.

  14

  “I know, Mama, I know,” Rizzo said into the telephone. His sallow face was pale. “I said I’ll be there, and I will. But I’ve got some things to do here first. Mama, don’t cry. I told you—I’ll be there in just a little while. I won’t be long. But let me talk to Papa now, please. Yes, please go get him. That’s right. I’ll see you soon, Mama.”

  Rizzo sat under the pale yellow light of a standing lamp in his living room waiting for his father to come on the line. A gentle knock sounded on the hall door.

  “Yeah?” Rizzo said.

  Angela Rizzo pushed open the door uncertainly. “Carlo,” she said, “Gino Speranza is here to see you. He’s got two men with him. Gino said you called him.”

  “Yes,” said Rizzo, holding his hand over the speaker of the telephone, “tell them to wait, Angie. I’ll be right with them.”

  Angela pulled the door shut, and Rizzo spoke again into the telephone. “Papa? Yes. Look, Mama is going crazy. You’ve got to calm her down. Where the hell are Sylvia and Carmela? Well, if they’re there, what are they doing—feeding their fat faces? You tell them if they don’t take care of Mama, they’ll be sorry. All right then. I’ll see you in maybe an hour. What? You tell that goddamned priest he can just wait. Okay? Okay. Goodbye, Papa.”

  When Rizzo went into the kitchen, Gino Speranza and two young guys were sitting at the table drinking coffee. Neither of Gino’s men could have been much over twenty-one years old. One
was darker than Gino with a big, high-bridged nose and shiny black hair combed straight back from a bulging forehead. The other was big, blond and soft-looking, with southern handsomeness. His head was large for even his big body, and his hair bulged out under a narrow-brimmed black hat like curly straw.

  “Come on in,” Rizzo said to Gino and turned and walked back into the living room. Gino and his men gulped their coffee and followed, chewing the last of the raisin cake. When they were all in the living room and the door was closed, Rizzo turned on Gino. “It took you long enough to get here.”

  “Easy, Charlie, easy,” Gino said calmly. “I know you’re upset about your kid brother getting cut down like that, and I’m sorry. But don’t take it out on us. We’re on your side.”

  “Are you?” asked Rizzo sharply. He glanced at the other two men. “Yeah,” Gino said. “This is Injun”—he indicated the dark one— “and Ruby.” The big man raised a pale hand, but Rizzo ignored him.

  “They look like kids to me,” he said.

  “Maybe,” said Gino, “but they do the job. Okay, we’re here. What’s on your mind?”

  “You know damned well what’s on my mind. You and your red-hot pistoleros got my kid brother nearly killed tonight.” Gino said nothing. His refusal to deny the accusation made Rizzo even more angry. “Your guys were supposed to rough Carradino up,” he said, “not tear his head off.”

  “He got difficult,” said Ruby.

  “Shut up,” ordered Gino without anger. “Look, Charlie, this just won’t wash. You told me to give Caster something serious to think about, put a shot near enough to scare him. And you agreed that Carradino was right for the situation. So we did the job. It was heavy, I admit, but my boys are young and eager. They want to make good, and maybe they lack a little finesse. But are you claiming that because Carradino got hurt bad, the muscle behind Caster hit your kid brother on the street in Manhattan on the same night? Within two hours?”

  “Who else?” Rizzo asked. “Who else do you think would have run my brother down like a dog?”

  “Abe?”

  “No, I don’t believe it. Abe’s mad at me, sure, but to hit my brother like this, right out of nowhere—he wouldn’t do it.”

  “Maybe he heard you were over to see my old man this morning,” Gino said. “And he didn’t like it. Have you asked him?”

  “I don’t have to.” But Rizzo didn’t tell him that he’d tried to call Montara as soon as he’d heard about Steve. Montara had refused to take the call, just as he’d refused to talk to Rizzo since the trouble had begun last spring. “There’s no point. It’s got to be those guys who jumped me last night.” Unthinking, Rizzo put his hand to his bandaged jaw. “It can’t be anybody else.”

  “If you’re right,” said Gino, “we’re up against some very tough boys. You sure you want to go on with this thing, Charlie?” Gino didn’t think there was much chance of Rizzo quitting, but he wanted a definite commitment for the whole ride.

  “Go on? Of course I’m going on. Do you think I’m going to fold up now with my brother in the hospital and maybe could die? I’m going to make those bastards regret they ever threw in against me.”

  “The way these guys are working,” Gino said, “we’d better get cracking. The next hit could be right at your family here. These guys mean business.”

  “So do I,” said Rizzo. “Now listen. I’m going into the city to get my folks straightened around. I’ll be back very late tonight. After I leave here, this house is buttoned up tight. Nobody gets in or out. My boys will see to that. Your job is to stay with Caster. Where he goes, you go. But don’t touch him. Not yet. Even if he runs for it, stay with him. He could lead us to his wife and kids. Check in with me here early tomorrow. And no more screw-ups, okay?”

  “Sure,” said Gino, getting up. “You’re the boss.” He started for the door with Ruby and Injun following him. He paused at the door. “Only one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You go ahead and square things with your people in the city, but when you get back, I say we’d better get into some action. Doing nothing could be dangerous.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll get action. I just hope you can handle it.”

  “We can handle it,” said Gino, and he and the others left.

  Rizzo went into the kitchen where Angie was ironing clothes. “Angie,” he said.

  Angie looked up from her work with the frowning expression she always wore when she was worried. Rizzo crossed the linoleum floor and put his hands on her shoulders at the base of her neck.

  “Angie,” he said again, “stop it. Just stop worrying. There’s no need. Just do as I said earlier, and everything will be all right. All we’ve got to do is sit tight for a few days, stay close to home. Is that so hard? Just keep Bobby and Maria home from school starting tomorrow. A few days off won’t hurt them. I’ve got to go see Mama and Papa now, but I won’t be long. We’ll all be here tomorrow and—I’ll tell you what, we’ll send over to Guichi’s for a big pizza for lunch. The kids will like that. It’s going to be like a picnic.”

  “All right,” said Angie, trying to stop frowning. “Only, Carlo—”

  “What is it?”

  Angie hesitated.

  “What is it?” His voice was a bit more edgy.

  “Bobby’s football game. It’s tomorrow night, and it’s the big game against Grosmont Tech. Will he be able to play?”

  Rizzo had completely forgotten the football game despite his efforts to keep up on the kids’ activities. He was proud that Bobby was doing so well as an athlete. This wasn’t going to win him any points with Bobby.

  “No,” he said very definitely. “I’m sorry. It’s just not possible.” Rizzo was stuck. He couldn’t emphasize the danger to their son in going out to the game without frightening her even more. He tried to put all of the words he couldn’t say into his refusal. “Tell him I’m sorry, but he’ll have to miss this one. He’s not the whole team.”

  “Can Bobby talk to you about it?” Angela asked, biting her lower lip. “I told him I’d ask you.”

  Rizzo felt himself being driven into yet another corner. “Oh, shit—I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “It won’t do any good. We’ll just both lose our tempers. I have to go right now. Mama is climbing the walls. Do as I say. Be a good girl.” He pulled his wife to him and kissed her forehead. “I’ll be home as soon as I can. I’ll make it up to Bobby, you’ll see.”

  Angela Rizzo sighed, returned her husband’s kiss and then walked with him to the door. As he drove away, she let the curtain fall and then went upstairs to console her waiting son with the feeble prospect of pizza for lunch tomorrow.

  15

  After an egg-shaped, silent policeman dropped him at his car in front of Marco’s cottage, Harry decided to go by Parker Hospital on the way back to the bar.

  Harry hated being a patient in a hospital, but he found entering the brightly lit, timeless atmosphere of these corridors very exciting. In his fantasies, he imagined Harry Caster, M.D., stalking the waxed floors, stethoscope dangling carelessly, short, a bit pudgy perhaps, but all the same poised to use his steel nerves and sure hands to save lives.

  But now, Harry entered Parker Hospital with a feeling of dread and fear that they’d tell him that Marco was dead, that his defiance of Rizzo had cost an innocent life. At the reception desk, a nurse who looked no older than Lizzie told him that nobody could see Marco until preliminary examinations and tests were finished. She couldn’t think of any reason why Harry couldn’t wait a while.

  The waiting room was empty except for a gaunt, gray-haired woman of about fifty who sat leafing through a women’s magazine without seeing the pages. After a glance at her, Harry sat down across the room on a cold, red plastic couch to wait.

  Then it hit him. The woman’s face. It was Marco’s face, finer, more strained and infinitely more marked by time, but the same handsome-beautiful face. Harry was reminded again of the responsibility for Marco’s being beaten and for her
presence in this plastic-and-chromium-steel room. He considered avoiding her, burying himself in a magazine, but he couldn’t.

  Harry walked carefully over to where the woman sat and stood silently waiting for her to notice him. After half a minute or so, the woman raised her eyes to his face hopefully, somberly, in confusion. Her eyes were a soft, mixed color like violet-speckled china. They showed no sign of redness or crying.

  Prompted by her questioning look, Harry said, “You’re Mrs. Carradino—Marco’s mother?”

  “Yes,” she said, and she stood up. She kept rising until Harry’s eyes were level with her nose.

  “I’m Harry Caster,” he said. “Marco worked”—he couldn’t help the past tense sneaking out—“for me at my bar, the Lamplighter.”

  “I know,” she said. Her voice was neither cold nor warm. It fell in a nether region of non-commitment.

  “I’m very sorry,” Harry began.

  “Thank you,” said Mrs. Carradino, cutting Harry off with those two unforgiving words and dismissing him to the world of those who are sorry but no more than that.

  Harry felt like going away, but didn’t know how. He couldn’t even figure out how to get back to the neutrality of the cold red couch.

  “Has there been any word?” he asked, breaking off the silence that was building up.

  Before she could answer, Harry heard clicking footsteps behind him and saw Mrs. Carradino’s eyes come nearly alive with recognition. He shifted his weight to look toward the door of the waiting room.

  It was a girl. Twenty-two or twenty-three, with long, slightly wavy black hair falling over her shoulders. She wore faded jeans and a thin, blue work-shirt but still managed to look womanly and somehow properly dressed for a hospital. Wooden-soled sandals were making the clicking noise.

  The girl’s eyes slid over Harry without pausing and met Mrs. Carradino’s. Then she was standing at his side, her thin shoulder reaching exactly to his.

  “Is there any word?” Mrs. Carradino asked.

  “Not yet, but the ward nurse says the doctor should be able to tell us something any time now. She thinks he’ll be out soon.”