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

by Charles Alverson

  Mrs. Carradino hauled her attention back to Harry. “This is my daughter Sandra,” she said. “Sandra, this is Mr. Caster, Marco’s employer. It was he who found Marco and called the ambulance after”—Mrs. Carradino paused deliberately—“what happened.”

  “Hello,” said Sandra. She didn’t have to raise her eyes to look into his, and Harry saw in her face curiosity mixed with youthful disinterest. To him, her look said: “You exist because of your connection with my brother, but other than that you’re a zero.”

  “Hello,” answered Harry blankly. Despite his concern for Marco, Harry couldn’t say that he cared very much for his family.

  The three of them stood in a little triangle saying nothing but held together by unanswered questions. Harry was about to break away and return to his side of the room when the door opened and an elderly nurse with a tiptoe walk came in.

  “Mrs. Carradino,” she said. Marco’s mother answered with an eager look. “Dr. Burns says you may see your son for a few minutes. If you’ll just come with me.”

  Marco’s sister would have followed, but the old nurse stopped her. “I’m sorry, but Dr. Burns thinks it best that only your mother sees the patient at this time. He’s very weak, and we don’t want to tire him further.”

  Sandra opened her mouth to protest but glanced sideways at her mother and shut it again. “All right,” she said. “I’ll wait here for you, Mother.”

  Mrs. Carradino obediently followed the nurse. Sandra threw herself into the nearest chair and snatched up a fashion magazine. She tossed it back on the table with a snort of impatience.

  Harry began to return to his couch, but her voice stopped him: “Do you really think a jealous husband did this to Marco?”

  He turned and faced the girl, who was looking at him with bored curiosity. “I don’t know,” Harry said. He remained standing with most of his weight on his pivot foot.

  “Don’t stand there in the middle of the room,” Sandra ordered. “Sit over here. I hate hospitals. All these white uniforms and hushed voices give me the creeps. They’re inhuman. Don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know,” Harry repeated, sitting down a chair away from Sandra and not really listening.

  “Maybe not,” she said, looking directly into his face, “but I think you do know more than you’re saying.” Harry was certain that the fear he felt showed plainly on his face. “Don’t worry,” Sandra said. “You won’t be giving away any secrets. I know what a lover boy Marco is. Everybody knows, except Mother, and she won’t let herself know anything ‘distasteful.’ Almost every time I’ve called Marco’s cottage, a different woman’s voice has answered: drowsy, slutty voices fresh from the hot little bed of Marco Carradino.”

  Harry didn’t answer, didn’t say anything. He just looked at the girl’s scornful face and felt his fear being replaced by relief and mild curiosity about this family of Marco’s. His relations with Marco had been confined to the tight little precincts of the Lamplighter. “Look, miss,” Harry said with force, “don’t think—”

  “Don’t call me miss. My name’s Sandra. It’s a crappy name, but it’s all mine. And yours is Harry. I know that from Marco. He thinks you’re a good old boy even if you do bug him too much about wasting his life. I know—”

  What she knew was interrupted by Mrs. Carradino’s return to the waiting room. “I’ve seen Marco,” she said, “and he looks awful. But the doctor says he’s getting stronger.”

  “May I see him?” Sandra asked.

  “Not tonight, dear,” her mother said. “Dr. Burns says you may visit tomorrow if he continues to make progress. And, dear, the doctor says that he can find a bed here for me tonight if I want to stay. I’d like to in case Marco needs me. Would you mind going home alone?”

  Harry considered offering the girl a ride but decided against it. Before the girl had a chance to answer, he cut in: “In that case, Mrs. Carradino, I’ll be going. I’ll call in tomorrow to check on Marco. It was nice meeting you,” he finished lamely, and looked at Sandra as if to include her, too.

  “Yes, of course,” Mrs. Carradino said absently. “Thank you very much for coming.” She extended her ringless hand, and Harry clasped it gingerly and let go. As he walked away, Harry heard Sandra asking if her mother would need anything from home for her night’s stay in the hospital.

  As he drove slowly along the hospital’s tunnel-like exit road, he noticed a figure standing under a bright street light at the end of the drive.

  It was Sandra Carradino.

  Harry reluctantly pulled up beside her and rolled down his window.

  “Can you give me a ride?” Sandra asked. “The goddamned taxi office said it would be at least forty-five minutes before he could get a cab here.”

  “Okay,” Harry said, “get in.” He reached over and cracked the other door open for her.

  Sandra slid into the front seat, settling not very close to Harry, yet not hugging the door.

  “Which way?” Harry asked.

  “Just go up Cutler Boulevard, left on Schumann and I’ll tell you from there,” she directed. “This isn’t too much trouble for you, is it? I don’t want to make you late for anything.”

  “You won’t,” Harry said, and he pulled the car out into the deserted street in front of the hospital.

  Harry drove in silence, determined not to make polite conversation with this girl. But in truth it was no inconvenience. He’d never felt so lonely in his life as in these last few days. He was glad of any company, even this cool, almost hostile girl.

  Sandra broke the silence. “Do you know what I think? I think Marco wasn’t beaten up by a jealous husband at all.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Harry lied, keeping his eyes on the gently sloping dark street.

  “But don’t you have any idea at all?” she asked. “I mean, you see Marco a lot more than we do. You must have some idea what he’s been doing. Who he hangs around with. There are some pretty shady characters who hang around bars. It could be some of them.”

  If you only knew, little sister, Harry thought. We’ve got shady characters, all right. I’ll introduce you to a few sometime. “What do you mean by shady characters?” he asked, to avoid telling any more lies.

  “You know,” Sandra insisted, “crooks, gangsters, that sort of person.”

  “Oh,” said Harry in a nasty voice, “you mean like me?”

  To Harry’s surprise, Sandra didn’t react defensively. Instead, she was silent for a moment and then said thoughtfully: “No, not like you. I don’t think you’re a crook or a gangster, Mr. Caster.”

  Harry didn’t know what to say.

  “But,” Sandra continued, “neither can I really believe that Marco was beaten so viciously by some jealous husband or boyfriend. Marco’s a big boy. He’s not as bright as I wish he were, but he can take care of himself. This is something else, and I’m going to go to the police tomorrow and ask some questions.”

  “You’re going to see Chief Beddell?”

  “Yes. Or whoever is handling the case. That’s what the police call it, isn’t it—a case?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “Have they asked you any questions yet about how you came to find Marco this evening?” she asked.

  “Some,” said Harry. “I was at the police station talking with Beddell just before I came to the hospital. He asked me what I knew, and I told him.”

  “And what was that?” Sandra persisted.

  “Very little,” Harry said, annoyed to be questioned and even more to have to lie again. “I told him about Marco’s telephone call to the bar early this evening and that I went to the cottage and found him there. That’s all.”

  “But—”

  “This is Schumann Boulevard,” Harry said. “Now what?”

  “Take the second left after this signal. Then left, right at the third block, and our house is the one with the big lantern out front.”

  “Okay,” Harry said, pretending to concentrate on his driving, but he couldn’
t shake the girl off.

  “But,” she continued, “if the Chief of Police is so interested, doesn’t that mean there must be something important? He doesn’t get involved every time some bartender gets beaten up, does he?”

  “I haven’t any idea,” Harry said. “I stay away from the police. I’ve only talked with Beddell twice in my life.” The second Harry said that he knew it was a mistake.

  “What was the other time?”

  Harry was saved for the moment by the fact that they were approaching the Carradino’s house. “Is this it?” Harry asked, pulling to the curb in front of a large house with a lighted lantern out front. He didn’t turn off the ignition.

  But before Sandra could either say something else or get out of the car, the door on her side was snatched open and a long-haired blond youth in a sheepskin jacket was leaning into the car.

  16

  “Where the fuck have you been?” the youth shouted into Sandra’s face. Harry recognized the rotten fumes of half-digested alcohol. He’d spent half his life across the bar from that stink.

  “Lenny,” Sandra started to say, but the boy grabbed her by the arm and pulled her so violently out of the car that she left a wooden-soled clog behind. Once he’d gotten the girl out of the automobile, Lenny found her too hard to manage and dropped Sandra heavily onto the grass strip between the curb and the sidewalk.

  “Come on, bitch,” he said, beginning to pull the struggling girl across the grass.

  “Stop it, Lenny,” Sandra said, fighting to get free. “Listen to me, stop it!”

  But Lenny continued to pull at her arm and shoulder, too drunk to move her effectively but strong enough so that she couldn’t break loose and regain her feet. In the struggle, her denim shirt rode halfway up her naked back.

  Christ, thought Harry, what’s this? But at the same time he switched off the ignition and slid out of his door of the car. Harry reached behind the car seat and came up with a lug wrench. Nearly twenty years of handling drunks had taught him that you couldn’t do it barehanded.

  Moving quickly around the back of the car, Harry found that the youth had succeeded in dragging Sandra to the sidewalk and was laboriously tugging her along on her knees.

  “C’mon, you fucking bitch,” he muttered. “I want to talk to you.” Despite the cool night, the boy was sweating heavily, and a thin white shirt was plastered to his slim body.

  Without saying a word, Harry reached out and gave the boy a firm crack on the left forearm with the lug wrench. It was very painful, but not hard enough to break the bone.

  “Ow!” Lenny cried, letting go of Sandra’s wrist and falling back onto the sidewalk in front of her. “My arm. You broke it, you bastard. My fucking arm is broken!” Clasping the injured arm to his chest, the boy began to rock and croon in pain and outrage, not trying to get up from the sidewalk. Nearly at his feet, Sandra still knelt soundlessly with her hands over her face. Harry saw tears dripping from the heels of her hands onto her shirt.

  “Come on,” Harry said softly, pulling Sandra up by her shoulders. She was light for a tall girl, and under her hands her arms and shoulders felt fragile, almost brittle. Under the strong lamplight, Harry could see that the right knee of her jeans was ripped open and the knee had been scraped raw. He began to lead her toward the white-latticed front of her house.

  “My purse,” Sandra said, “it’s in the car…my keys.”

  “I’ll get it,” Harry said, continuing to shepherd her toward a long porch and finally depositing her on an old-fashioned porch swing.

  “He’s really a very nice boy,” Sandra said, trying to wipe the tears from her face with the sleeve of her shirt.

  “I’m sure he is,” said Harry. He gave Sandra his handkerchief. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  When Harry got back to the sidewalk, Lenny had gotten to his feet and was rhythmically kicking the rear fender of Harry’s rented car with a sneaker-shod foot. He still clutched his wounded arm at the elbow, but it didn’t seem to impair his kicking skill. The hollow booms rolled out like slow drumbeats.

  “All right,” said Harry, touching the boy’s right shoulder.

  Then Harry’s world turned black, shot with purple and yellow sparks. With the pure science of drunkenness, Lenny had whirled and caught him across the bridge of the nose with a perfect, if unintentional, karate chop. A wave of intense pain hit Harry between the eyes, and his hands went instinctively to his face. He felt his dinner coming up and amidst waves of dizziness fought to keep it in his stomach.

  Lenny stood watching Harry struggle with pain and nausea. Then the boy made a murky connection between some action of his and Harry’s current state, and his young face parted in a boozy smile of self-congratulation.

  “That will teach you,” he told the back of Harry’s hands, “to go around hitting innocent people with steel bars. How do you like it?”

  Harry heard this as if from a long distance through a faulty connection. Then he heard, a little bit clearer: “You’re getting blood all over yourself.”

  The cloud that had been hanging around Harry’s head cleared enough for him to see that Lenny was right. The front of his suit coat and shirt were polka-dotted with wet, shiny blood, and he had its unmistakable taste in his mouth. Harry reached for his handkerchief but couldn’t find it.

  “Here,” said Lenny, and Harry felt a crumpled handkerchief shoved into his hand. But Harry, even at that moment wondering how clean it was, didn’t know quite what to do with it. He didn’t want to put it to his face, and it wasn’t much good to brush at the blood on his clothes. He compromised by trying to get some of the blood off his hands.

  The pain had largely gone now except for a deep throb at the front of his brain, and Harry stood wondering what to do with Lenny.

  “Is that a wash-and-wear suit?” Lenny asked.

  “No,” Harry said, standing bent forward to avoid dripping any more blood on himself, “it’s not.” Reluctantly, he tried to stop some of the blood with the handkerchief and felt it quickly becoming saturated.

  “It’s probably going to stain, then,” said Lenny with serious concern. “Unless you soak it pretty soon in cold water. That’s what my mother says.”

  “Lenny,” Harry said, bored, tired and impatient, “thanks very much, but why don’t you go home? It’s getting late.” It was hardly ten o’clock, but to Harry it felt very, very late.

  Lenny then remembered what he was doing there. A mean, petulant look came on his face. “I want to see Sandra,” he said sullenly.

  “No,” Harry said, stepping in his way.

  “I’ve got a right,” insisted Lenny. “Sandra’s my girl. I want to see her.” His face turned soft as if he were going to cry.

  Harry felt so weary that he didn’t want to waste a single word on this drunken boy. “Lenny,” he said with as much menace as he could summon, “if you don’t go home, I’m going to get that lug wrench and I’m going to bend it over your head.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would.”

  “Sandra wants to see me,” Lenny said, changing the subject.

  “No, she doesn’t,” Harry said, feeling like the oldest sixteen-year-old boy in the world. He tried to take the boy’s arm to lead him to his car, a much-dented Mercedes painted a silvery gray. But Lenny shook off Harry’s hand and once more gripped his injured arm.

  “My arm still hurts,” he said as he walked to the car.

  “I’m sorry.” Harry shadowed the boy until he half-fell behind the steering wheel.

  “You should be.” Lenny fumbled in his pockets. “I’ve lost my keys,” he said, trying to climb back out of the low sports car.

  “They’re in the ignition.” Harry pushed him back into the bucket seat.

  Lenny batted the rabbit’s foot dangling from the keys and looked up sincerely at Harry. “Will you take a message to Sandra?”

  “Sure.”

  “Tell her she’s a lousy lay,” Lenny said, switching the Mercedes to a loud
roar. Blinking his eyes to get them to focus, he said, “I’m not going home.”

  Then he popped the clutch, floored the gas pedal and peeled away from the curb, narrowly missing Harry’s car. Halfway down the block, the car backfired thunderously, and at the corner, Lenny, still running dark, took the turn on two wheels and was gone.

  17

  Harry threw the lug wrench into the back of the car, picked up Sandra’s purse with his two least-bloody fingers and walked slowly up the walk to the house. His nose had stopped bleeding.

  Sandra met him at the foot of the steps.

  “He’ll kill himself.”

  “Good,” said Harry, stepping out of the dark shadow of a squat oak that dominated the front yard.

  “My God,” said Sandra, “blood everywhere.” She stepped toward him. She’d felt indifferent, even hostile, toward this man since she’d met him at the hospital. But now, despite his ludicrous appearance, Sandra felt herself drawn to him. Maybe it was because he looked ridiculous and yet somehow wasn’t ridiculous at all, just human. She reached out a hand to touch his arm. “Are you all right?”

  “I think so,” Harry said, feeling as if bleeding were in bad taste.

  “You ought to put your clothes in to soak,” Sandra said, “or the blood will stain them.”

  “That’s what Lenny said. If you two ever get back together, you’d make a fortune in the dry-cleaning business.”

  “Come inside,” Sandra said, taking a key from her purse and leading Harry up to the big front door and into an impressive foyer. The house had been built in the mid-twenties when Wall Street money was hitting New York suburbs in great waves. When it receded it left a number of similar monuments to easy money and hard reality.

  “Wow!” Harry said, staring up at the acres of rich woodwork. A delicately carved staircase began directly across the foyer and spiraled gently into the upper reaches of the house.

  “Yes,” Sandra said, “the glory that was Rome. I’ll tell you all about it, but now you better do something about getting that blood off you. I haven’t a delicate stomach, but you look like an atrocity victim. The bathroom is the third door on the right at the top of the stairs. Put everything especially bloody into the bathtub to soak, and I’ll get you a robe to wear. In the meantime. I’ll make some coffee. Or would you prefer a drink?”