Room To Swing

by Ed Lacy

  “Now, Kay, honey,” Barbara said, “hadn't you better check with B.H. first? Call him and—”

  “No, no,” I cut in. “No phoning anybody. If McDonald is warned I'm sunk.”

  Barbara said, “You don't think we'd—”

  “Look, for all I know B.H. can be the killer, or in on it with McDonald.”

  Kay said, “Stop all the talk. I'm not calling B.H. I'm doing this solely on my responsibility. It'll amount to more if I pull it off.”

  “Sure, it will amount to my life—if anybody is interested in that besides me,” I said.

  “Oh stop the self-pity,” Kay told me. “Now what is it you want me to do—in detail?”

  Ted said, “First off, can you hire my agency? Officially. I want to be in on this.”

  “Damn it,” I said, boiling over, “give her the pitch some other time. Now listen, here's the deal.” I told her about the bug and the recorder and getting Steve up to her place. When I finished Kay didn't hesitate a second to say, “Fine. I'll phone Steve right now.”

  But Bobby got to the phone first. “Kay, why can't I be the one? He knows I'm familiar with all the details of the publicity project, so it would be logical for me to suspect him.”

  “That's terribly sweet and brave of you, Bobby-boy, but you see it has to be me because I'm representing Central in all this mess. I'll phone him now, hint something has come up concerning the studio—that should bring him on the run. How soon should I tell him to come?”

  “Right away,” I said. “There's one more piece of business before we start. I've socked a cop. Now, if we pin anything on Steve, I want you three to stick with me all the time I'm with the cops, even at the precinct house. I'm not going for any beating.”

  “Don't worry,” Ted told me blandly, “we give them the real killer and they'll be happy.”

  “Maybe, but I want you around for insurance.”

  “Touie is right. We all know why the cops may want to beat him up, and I have a better idea,” Kay said, knocking the ashes out of her jeweled pipe. “Let me phone a reporter friend, have him stand by. If we get anything on Steve, we'll phone the reporter before calling the police. Publicity-wise it will be fine, because this fellow works for one of the big wire services. Okay, Touie?”

  I nodded and she dialed some guy and, after the small talk and assuring him this wasn't merely another news plant or publicity release, he agreed to wait for her call. We were wasting time and I had her call Steve, the tenseness inside me coiling tighter with each turn of her phone dial. After a moment Kay hung up, said there wasn't any answer. The letdown must have shown on my face; she said, “He's probably out for supper, Touie. It isn't seven yet. I suggest we finish eating. Hungry, Mr. Bailey?”

  Matter of fact, I was starving, and damn if we all didn't have supper as though we were waiting to go on a party instead of hooking a killer. Kay kept trying Steve's number every fifteen minutes, and in the meantime we had to watch TV. Kay wanted to “catch” certain shows and commercials. Ted phoned his wife to tell her he was working, and then he sat and stared at Bobby and Kay, his eyes bewildered. I had the same feeling I had in Bingston hanging around the Davis house: I began to wonder if all this was real or a nightmare.

  Ted went down to check his car, kept worrying somebody would steal the equipment. Bobby had a kettle boiling in the fireplace and served hot rums. By ten I was a jumpy wreck, certain Steve had flown the coop. Kay was sipping too many rums and I snapped, “Don't get crocked.”

  “I'm too excited for that. But I do need a few belts from the bottle of courage, as the non-A.A. people romantically call it. Rum doesn't relax, Bobby. Butch, you look tired, why don't you take a sleep pill?”

  At five to eleven she finally got Steve, and I almost melted away with relief. Kay asked, “Steve, can you come up to my place at once? What? Don't be an ass, this is strictly business. I've found out something at the office that will make you drool. Oh, don't hand me any creative-mood junk. You can write later: this is important. No, no, I can't discuss it on the phone. Okay, stay with your typewriter, Hemingway.” She winked at us over the receiver. “But I have the inside dope on a new show—biggest thing in your career—a full net series, twice a week. Oh, I'm not kidding. You'll have to get on your horse and bring in a sample outline by tomorrow afternoon. Bighearted? Listen, I want a straight twenty per cent cut if you land the scripting.... I don't see why you can't come over. What? I'm offering you a big deal on a silver platter and you're playing coy....”

  I tapped her shoulder, said in pantomime, “Tell him you'll go to his place.”

  She nodded. “Steve, this is really big; suppose I come up to see you. You're damn right I'm money-hungry... when it's upper-bracket money. I'll be over within the hour. I have to dress and— All right, all right, cut the sex talk. I'm serious. I'll be up as soon as I can.”

  As she hung up, Bobby cried, “Kay, don't, don't!”

  “Oh, Bobby, relax. Take your pill and go to sleep.”

  “No! I won't let you go alone!”

  I said, “You can't go with Kay—louse up everything.”

  “I insist. I won't let Kay face that creature alone!”

  Ted said, “Since we'll have to do the tape in the car, let her stay downstairs with me. Another witness won't hurt.” He pulled the matchbox transmitter from his pocket, showed it to Kay. “This is important, so listen. You carry this in your bag, and make sure it don't get stuck to the bag. You have to play this smart and careful; if he sees it we're sunk. When you sit down, pin this under a chair, or on the back of a couch—anyplace where it isn't covered up and can't be seen. And you got to do it soon as you get inside his apartment.”

  Kay poked a finger at the box. “This tiny gadget really broadcasts?”

  “Yeah, I'll set it as soon as you're ready. And be careful with it. It costs like crazy, too.”

  Kay pinched the Chinese robe, said almost to herself, “I ought to get into a bitchy dress—something real seductive.”

  “Kay!” Bobby said.

  “My God, the very last thing I want is Steve McDonald. I'll be a moment.” She went into the bedroom.

  I called after her, “What sort of house does he live in?”

  “One of these remodeled deals, but larger than this house.”

  “Sport a doorman?”

  “No, I don't think so.”

  “Does he live in the front or back?”

  “I don't remember. He has one large room and kitchenette. Fantastically decorated.”

  “Is it on a fire escape?”

  “Really. How would I know?”

  Ted and I got our coats while Bobby slipped into a tailored cloth coat and bebop cap, which didn't look at all mannish on her. Kay walked in wearing spike heels and a light silver strapless gown. Her face wasn't made-up, the copper-colored hair carefully—but casually—brushed around her head. The gown and hair set off her thin shoulders and all of it added up to sex. Tossing a mink cape on her shoulders she said, “Now I'm prepared. I always said I'd wear this mink till the day I died.”

  “Kay, please!” Bobby whined.

  Ted held up his thick hands. “Let's get things straight. I'll let you women out on the corner, in case this McDonald is the suspicious type and looking out his window. When we find a parking space, Bobby here will walk down to the car. Kay, you wait in front of McDonald's house for Toussaint, who will go up and get on the fire escape, be set before you enter the apartment. That may not be easy.” He glanced at me and we were both thinking the same thing: a Negro seen on the roof or fire escape in a white neighborhood would bring a dozen frantic calls to the police. “If a fire escape is out, I think Toussaint should plant himself outside McDonald's door, batter it down when the time comes.”

  “How can I hear through a door?” I asked. Loitering in a hallway would be dangerous as the devil—for me.

  “Planned that,” Ted grunted. “It's late and quiet out. Soon as Kay plants the bug, I'll give three short blasts of the car hor
n—meaning the bug is sending okay. If it ain't working, if you don't hear the horn within five minutes after you set the bug, get the bug back and leave. You tell him, Kay, you have a headache or—”

  “It has to be tonight,” I cut in.

  “The main thing it has to be done right,” Ted went on. “You don't hear the horn—here, better yet. If I'm not receiving, Bobby will phone; that will give Kay an excuse to leave. Now, if things go okay, I'm hearing everything, I'll give another three blasts of the horn if Kay seems in danger. Toussaint can then come through the door and window, and I'll be on my way up.”

  “That sounds good,” Kay said.

  “If Touie can't be outside a window, we can't go through with it,” Bobby said. “It'd only take Steve a second to do... something.”

  Ted shook his big head. “Don't worry, ma'am. Once he hears somebody at the door, he'll only be doing one thing —trying to get out of there. And Toussaint will be armed.”

  “I can handle Steve. I've kicked a few men in the right place before,” Kay said. “Let's go.”

  Bobby and Ted went down first while Kay and I waited for the elevator. “Are you nervous, Touie?” she asked calmly.

  “Wish I knew more about the location of his apartment in the building.”

  “It's a walk-up and he's on the third floor, but that's all I remember. I'm really sorry I got you into this mess.”

  I shrugged. “Risks of the job, I guess.”

  Steve lived in the Sixties, east of Madison Avenue. Ted gave Kay the transmitter, making sure it was working, and she slipped it into her bag as she and Bobby got off at the corner. Ted said, “Now watch yourself, don't leave your bag when you take off your cape.”

  We turned into Sixty-fifth Street, which was empty of people but full of cars. There was only one open space, in front of a large apartment house, with no parking lettered across the curb. I told Ted to park there and he said the doorman would raise hell. I told him to park.

  This old man dressed like a foreign general came rushing out and before he could say a word I shook his hand, said, “It's important we park here for about a half hour.”

  “You can't—” He saw the ten bucks I'd palmed in his hand, added, “Raise the hood of your car, like you're broken down. Only a half hour. What's this all about?”

  “Divorce raid. Not in your house.” We were in a good spot, on the same side of the street and less than a hundred feet from Steve's place.

  I raised the hood as Ted fooled with the tape recorder. Then I stepped into the shadow of the nearest building. Bobby came down the block first, got into the car, while the old doorman stood in the doorway of the building, watched us with suspicious eyes. As Kay walked toward the house, I walked up the street, stepped into the small lobby of Steve's house right behind her. I said, “No fire escape on the front. Ring the bell and walk up. Wait at least ten minutes before you put the question to him, but hook up the bug soon as you can. Understand?”

  She nodded and rang his bell, apartment 3D. When he buzzed the door open we both stepped inside and she walked up. I stood in the hallway, wondering what I'd do if anybody came in, asked what I was doing there, or gave me one of those looks, which would be the same as a question. There was more than an even chance the moment they reached a phone they'd call the police: “There's a burly Negro in the lobby of...”

  I heard Steve open the door, say something impatiently, then the silence of the house again as he closed the door. I waited a second, then went up the stairs, moving softly, almost walking in slow motion. Passing the second floor I saw the “D” apartments were in the rear, on the left side. The halls were fireproof ed, with a window at the rear of the hall—-must be a fire escape there. When I reached the roof, sweating heavily, I lit a match. The door looked okay, no Holmes alarm. I unlocked it and stepped out into the cool air, my darkness swallowed in the black of night.

  I shut my eyes, then opened them slowly, looked around at the cemetery of TV aerials like weird crosses. It was simple. An iron ladder went down the back of the roof to the fire escape. There was a small rear yard and then the back of other houses, lights showing in many rooms. There was only one fire escape. They must have smeared an inspector to get away with it. Taking off my shoes and tying them around my neck, I started down the ladder. Passing the top hall window I was silhouetted like a target. Target... I'd forgotten something... Ted's gun.

  9

  I NEVER had much use for pistols; the war had taught me to love a carbine. Still I felt kind of naked without Ted's pistol right now, and if I couldn't get the window open a hunk of lead could. So shame on me for being stupid and it was too late to worry about it.

  In its tenement days there must have been two railroad flats to each floor, with front and rear entrances. These had been broken up into four large one-room apartments, and the two in the rear had wide windows on either side of the fire escape. The light was on in one of the top-floor apartments and I saw a man sprawled on a couch, reading a paper, as I went down the roof ladder to the fire escape. That didn't worry me: unless a person was looking directly out at the fire escape, and that meant looking through the window at an angle, I was safe. What made me nervous was passing the lighted hall window on each floor—anybody glancing out of a window across the back yard would have to see me.

  On the fourth floor a dog barked as I went down the iron steps, which felt like ice through my woolen socks. Happily the mutt let it go at one bark and on the third floor I got another break: Steve's light was on, of course, but the apartment on the other side of the fire escape was dark, the window opened slightly for air. Steve had an air-conditioning unit sticking out of the bottom half of his window. Leaving my shoes on the steps I got up on the railing, hoped the air-conditioning box would hold me as I faced the building and tried to get a grip on the rough brick with my big fingers. I put one foot out on the air-conditioning box. It seemed pretty firm. With the other foot on the fire-escape railing I was okay—if I hadn't been seen from across the back yard—lost in the shadows outside the hall window. I had a fair view of his room and the window wasn't locked. I could open the window and step right into the room.

  The room was something out of the 1890s. The wallpaper was a mess of big roses and little cupids dancing around, the chandelier was a clumsy affair of cut glass, the furniture was all stuffed plush and leather chairs, with a narrow four-poster bed in one corner. Even the pictures had old heavy gold frames and on the tables and bookcases I saw old bric-a-brac vases and china. I don't know, it was so obviously affected it stank.

  Steve was wearing a red satin smoking jacket, a cigarette dangling from his thin lips. Kay was sitting in what seemed like half a chaise longue, lying back on it, her feet on the floor. The chaise was made of a horrible cream yellow and damn if the transmitter wasn't hanging from the bottom of it, under the slight curve her backside made. Her skirt neatly hid it from Steve. She seemed completely at ease. I had to admire her for being real cool when it counted.

  With different furniture it would have been a nice apartment; the room was large, and through two open doors I saw the John and a small kitchenette. There seemed to be a window in the kitchen, probably opened on an air shaft. By stretching my neck I could see an old-fashioned roll-top desk, opened, a typewriter and stacks of manuscript. Next to the desk stood a small marble top table with gold legs, holding up a couple of bottles and an ice bucket, and a huge milk-glass lamp. I could hear them talking and they were both calm. Steve asked if she wanted a drink and Kay said no. Then he asked if it was true about some dame who was said to be living with one of Central's vice-presidents and Kay said that was old hat.

  The bottom of my feet were numb with cold, my hands ached from holding on to the brick wall—and I suddenly felt blue, real lousy blue. The whole deal seemed ridiculous —what would a nut like Steve have to do with a murder? Why should these two white people help me? Here I was, standing spread-eagled, expecting a slug in the back any minute, a killing fall under me. I had this
terrible feeling I was wasting time, that it was all helpless, I was doomed.

  The three horn blasts from the street made me snap out of it. The bug was sending okay. Steve held his ears. “That goddamn joker I Every morning around eight some jerk honks his horn, too lazy to get out and ring a bell. Wonder a cop doesn't give him a ticket. By God, if I had a front apartment, I'd toss a bottle down on him. Grates my nerves.” He shook himself to show how it all grated. “Well, darling, what's the big deal you're in an uproar about?”

  “My, my, aren't we impatient now,” she said coyly. “When I phoned you acted as if you couldn't care less.”

  “That wasn't it. I'm finishing the tenth script for You— Detective! and once the juices start flowing I dislike being disturbed. What's the big flash?”