Ax

by Ed McBain

  They drove up the Strip past La Cienega and then the man turned his car up into the hills and they pulled up in front of a good-looking Spanish-type hacienda house, all stuccoed and tiled, and Danny and the man got out of the car and went up to the back door which the man opened. They didn’t put on any lights because the man didn’t want to wake his brother, he said, who was a manic-depressive and lived in the back room.

  The very polite Los Angeles police, all of whom had studied under Joe Friday, picked up Danny and his friend as they were leaving the house. Danny’s friend had not only taken several hundred dollars in cash from the bedroom of the house which (surprise!) was not his house at all, but he had also managed to pick up a diamond and ruby necklace which the police valued at $47,500.

  Ah, land of glamour and mystery, citadel of culture.

  Danny told the judge he had met the fellow in a bar and had only accompanied him to his…

  Sure, sure, the judge said.

  …house there in the Santa Monica Mountains because the man wanted to…

  Sure, sure, the judge said.

  …pick up some money so they could continue their evening of fun and revelry, drinking and talking shop and…

  Sure, sure.

  …laughing it up in good old LA.

  A minimum of five and a maximum of ten, the judge said.

  What? Danny said.

  Next case, the judge said.

  It wasn’t too bad. Danny lost his cold in stir, and also his accompanying low fever. He learned in stir that a stool pigeon is called “a snitch,” a piece of juvenile terminology which convinced him more than ever that the code against informing began somewhere in the lower grades of school. He also derived from prison the single “reference” that would be invaluable in his later working days. He could in the future, when talking to or listening to an assorted number of thieves, announce in all honesty that he had served a rap for burglary in a West Coast pen. Who then could possibly imagine that Danny Gimp was an informer, a stoolie, a rat, a tattletale, or even, God forbid, a snitch?

  Steve Carella could.

  He found Danny in the third booth on the right-hand side of the bar called Andy’s Pub. Danny was not an alcoholic, nor did he even drink to excess. He simply used the bar as a sort of office. It was cheaper than paying rent downtown, and it had the added attraction of a phone booth which he used regularly. The bar, too, was a good place to listen—and listening was one-half of Danny’s business.

  Carella scanned the joint as he walked in, spotted Danny immediately in his customary booth, but also saw two known hoods sitting at the bar. He walked past Danny without so much as glancing at him, took a stool at the bar, and asked for a beer. Since cops emit a smell that can be detected by certain individuals, usually lawbreakers, the way certain sounds can be detected only by dogs, the bartender gave Carella his beer and then asked, “Anything wrong, Officer?”

  “Just felt like having a beer,” Carella said.

  The bartender smiled sweetly and said, “Then I take it this is an off-duty visit.”

  “Mm-huh, that’s right,” Carella said.

  “Not that we have anything to hide here,” the bartender said, still smiling.

  Carella didn’t bother answering him. He finished his beer and was reaching into his pocket for his wallet when the bartender said, “It’s on the house, Officer.”

  “I’d rather pay for it, thanks,” Carella said.

  The bartender didn’t argue. He simply figured Carella was a cop who took bigger bribes. Carella paid for the beer, walked out of the bar without looking at Danny, pulled up his coat collar as he reached the street, walked two blocks downtown heading into a biting, bitter wind, then turned and began walking uptown again on the opposite side of the street, with the wind at his back. He ducked into a doorway across the street from the bar and waited for Danny Gimp to come out. Danny, who was playing this a little too goddamn cool for a January day with a twentymile-an-hour wind blowing, did not come out of the bar until some ten minutes later. By that time Carella’s toes and nose were freezing. He slapped his gloved hands together, pulled his collar up once more, and began following Danny. He did not overtake him until the two had walked almost seven blocks, one behind the other. Falling into step beside Danny, he said, “What the hell took you so long?”

  “Hey, hi,” Danny said. “You must be froze, huh?”

  “This isn’t exactly Miami Beach,” Carella said.

  “Worse luck, huh?” Danny said. “Did you happen to glom the pair at the bar?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You make them?”

  “Sure. Augie Andrucci and Pinky Deane.”

  “Hey, that’s right,” Danny said. “Well, they made you, too. They spotted you for a bull right off, and they gave the bartender the eye to find out what you were doing there, and they didn’t buy none of that off-duty crap for a minute. So I figured it was better I stick around a little while instead of rushing right out here, you dig? Because, in my line, you got to be a little careful, you dig?”

  “I dig,” Carella said.

  “How come you didn’t call?”

  “I thought I’d take a chance.”

  “I prefer that you call,” Danny said, seemingly offended. “You know that.”

  “Well, the truth of the matter is that I like hanging around on street corners when it’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey,” Carella said. “That’s why I stopped by and then went right outside to wait for you.”

  “Oh, I see,” Danny said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Look, I’m sorry. I got to protect myself.”

  “Next time I’ll call,” Carella said.

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  They walked in silence for several blocks.

  “What’s on your mind?” Danny asked at last.

  “A crap game,” Carella answered.

  “Where?”

  “At 4111 South 5th. In the basement.”

  “Regular or one-shot?”

  “Regular.”

  “Floating or stationary?”

  “Stationary.”

  “The same place each time?”

  “Right.”

  “Which is the basement of 4111 South 5th, correct?”

  “Correct,” Carella said.

  “Which also happens to be where somebody got his head busted Friday, also correct?”

  “Also correct,” Carella said.

  “So what do you want to know?”

  “Everything about it.”

  “Like?”

  “Who played and when? Who won and who lost?”

  “What’s the dead man’s connection with the game?” Danny asked.

  “He ran it.”

  “What was his cut? Usual house cut?”

  “I don’t know. Find out for me.”

  “You said this was a permanent game, huh? And the same place each time?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You talked to your sergeant on the beat yet?”

  “No.”

  “You’d better.”

  “Why?”

  “Chances are he knew about it. He was probably cutting the pot along with Lasser.”

  “Maybe. I’ll get to him on Monday.”

  “I’ve got to tell you…” Danny started.

  “Yeah?”

  “I haven’t heard a word about this, not a peep. It’s your notion somebody in the game chopped him down, is that it?”

  “I don’t have any notions yet, Danny. I’m fishing.”

  “Yeah, but why fish around a crap game? Dice players don’t usually go chopping a man down with an ax.”

  “Where else do I fish?”

  Danny shrugged. “From what I read in the newspaper, Steve, it sounds like a nut.” He shrugged again. “You got a nut? Go fishing around him.”

  “I’ve got one. I’ve also got her son, who draws pictures and never leaves the house. And I’ve got three old cockuhs who survived the Span
ish-American War and who are sitting around waiting to drop dead themselves any minute now. I’ve also got an underpaid Negro who knows how to use an ax, but I don’t think he used it on our man.”

  “And you’ve got a crap game.”

  “Right. So where do I fish?”

  “The crap game.”

  “Sure,” Carella said. “A crap game makes sense to me.”

  “Don’t lean too heavy,” Danny said. “This might be a game full of guys from the building—they come down once, twice a week, just to pass the time.”

  “Could be, sure.”

  “Or what it could be,” Danny said, “is some nice respectable businessmen from downtown. This is their one night a week to howl. They come shoot craps in a slum basement instead of drinking or chasing after dames.”

  “Sure, that, too,” Carella said. “Or it could be a bunch of hoods who’ve got no place else to play and who give George Lasser a cut for letting them use his basement.”

  “Mm, maybe,” Danny said.

  “In which case, an ax murder isn’t so very far out, is it?”

  “An ax murder is always very far out,” Danny said. “You know any pro who’ll use an ax? Impossible. You’re dealing with amateur night, Steve. That’s why I’m telling you not to lean so heavy on the crap game. I mean, even if the game was full of the worst hoods ever walked this city, who do you know’s gonna use an ax on a guy?”

  Carella looked suddenly troubled.

  “What’d I do?” Danny asked. “Screw it up for you?”

  “No, no. But I’ll tell you what I don’t like about this crap game, Danny. It’s against the law. That makes everybody in it a lawbreaker. And if they’ve all broken the law already…”

  “Aw, come on, Steve,” Danny said. “Gambling’s a misdemeanor.”

  “Even so.”

  “So a dice player’s gonna suddenly pick up an ax? And brain somebody with it? Aw, come on, Steve.”

  “You don’t buy it?” Carella asked.

  Danny was quiet for a long time. Then he shrugged and said, “Old Chinese saying: ‘Play with dice like play with blonde. Man never get out what he put in.’ “

  Carella smiled.

  “So who knows?” Danny continued. “Maybe there was a heavy loser in the game, and maybe he got himself an ax someplace…”

  “In the shed behind the building,” Carella said.

  “Sure, and he decided Lasser was the one to blame for his bad luck. Pow, goodbye janitor.” Danny shrugged again. “It could be. Guys go crazy over dice, the same like with a broad. But I don’t figure it for a pro. A pro puts a bullet in the old guy’s head, plain and simple. Or a shaft in his back. But an ax? I mean, Jesus, that’s pretty disgusting, ain’t it? An ax?”

  “Will you listen around?” Carella asked.

  “I’ll get back,” Danny said. He paused. “I’m short, you know.”

  “So am I,” Carella said.

  “Yeah, but I live dangerously.”

  “I had to put in a new muffler,” Carella said.

  “Huh?”

  “On one of the squad sedans.”

  “So? You had to pay for that?”

  “Petty Cash had to pay for that.”

  “Where does this ‘Petty Cash’ come from, anyway?” Danny asked. “Does the city honor your chits, or what?”

  “We push dope on the side,” Carella answered.

  “Listen, I’ll believe you,” Danny said.

  “When will you call me?”

  “As soon as I’ve got something. Listen, Steve, no kidding, I’m real short. I could use some…”

  “Danny, if you come up with something, I’ll come up with something. I’m not stalling you. The cupboard is bare right now.”

  “Boy oh boy,” Danny said. “Two bare cupboards in the middle of January. It’s enough to make you quit police work, ain’t it?” He grinned, glanced over his shoulder, shook hands with Carella briefly but firmly, and said, “I’ll give you a ring.”

  Carella watched as he limped away. Then he put his gloved hands in his pockets and began walking the fifteen blocks back to where he had parked his car.

  If you’re a cop, you know all about graft.

  You know that if somebody is “taking,” it is usually the senior man on the beat who later splits with the other men who share the beat on a rotating basis. You know this because you also know there is nothing that can screw things up like a plenitude of cops with outstretched hands. When too many hands are reaching, the sucker may suddenly decide that he is really being taken but good, and one fine day the desk sergeant will receive a call from someone who will say, simply, “I want to talk to a detective.”

  Sergeant Ralph Corey did not wish to talk to a detective.

  This was Monday morning, and he was about to begin five consecutive tours on the 8:00 A.M. to 4:00 P.M. shift, after which he would swing for fifty-six hours and then come back to work on Sunday at midnight to begin his next five hours on the graveyard shift, from midnight to 8:00 A.M. The shift after that would be from 4:00 P.M. to midnight, and then the rotation would come full circle and he would be back on the day shift for the next five tours.

  A police department is a small army. Even in a big army, you don’t mess around with the sergeant. Corey was not only a sergeant and the senior man on his beat; he also happened to be the senior sergeant of all twelve sergeants in the precinct, with the exception of Dave Murchison. Murchison didn’t count, though, since he handled the switchboard and the muster desk and never walked a beat.

  Sergeant Ralph Corey, then, was a VIP, a BMOC, a gonsuh mochuh, a wheel, and a guy around whom you watched your onions.

  There was only one trouble.

  Steve Carella outranked him.

  Steve Carella was, in this small army that was the police force, in this section of the army that was the 87th Precinct, a detective/2nd grade—which is higher than a sergeant. It is two steps higher than a sergeant. Even if Carella had liked Corey, he would have outranked him. Since he didn’t like him, he outranked him in spades. Corey looked like a big, red-faced stereotype of a mean, lousy cop; but in Corey’s case, the stereotype was true. He was a mean cop and a lousy cop, and the only reason he was a sergeant was that he’d shot an escaping bank robber purely by sheer dumb luck back in 1947. His gun had gone off accidentally as he’d pulled it out of his holster—that’s how lucky Corey had been— and the bullet had taken the running thief in the left leg. So Corey had received a commendation and a promotion to sergeant and had damn near made detective/3rd to boot, but hadn’t.

  Carella hadn’t liked him back in 1947, and he didn’t like him now, but he smiled as Corey entered the squadroom and then said, “Have a seat, Ralph. Cigarette?” and pushed his pack across the desk while Corey watched him and wondered what this big wop bastard wanted.

  Carella wasn’t about to tell him; not just yet he wasn’t. Carella wanted to know how come Corey hadn’t mentioned anything about a crap game on his beat, especially since a man had been killed on Friday, and since the game had allegedly been running in the dead man’s basement, under the dead man’s aegis, for quite some time before he became a dead man. If Corey didn’t know about the game, Carella wanted to know how come he didn’t know about it? And if he did know about it, Carella wanted to know why it hadn’t been mentioned? But in the meantime, he was willing to sit and smile at Corey and smoke a pleasant cigarette with the man, just the way the cops did it on television.

  “What’s up, Steve?” Corey asked.

  “Well, I wanted your help on something,” Carella said.

  Corey managed to suppress a sigh of relief and then smiled and took a deeper drag on his king-sized Chesterfield and said, “Happy to help in any way I can. What’s the problem?”

  “A friend of mine is a little short of cash,” Carella said.

  Corey, who had the cigarette in his mouth again and who was about to take another drag at it, stopped the action dead and quickly raised his eyes to meet Carella’s acr
oss the desk. Being a crooked cop himself, he recognized Carella’s gambit immediately. Carella’s “friend” who was a little short of cash was no one but Carella himself. And when a bull told you he was a little short of cash, he usually meant he wanted a cut of the pie or else he was going to start screaming to the captain about one violation or another.

  “How short is your friend?” Corey asked, which meant, How much do you want in order to forget this whole matter?

  “Very, very short,” Carella said gravely.

  This was worse than Corey had expected. Carella seemed to be indicating that he wanted a bigger bite than any detective should normally expect. Detectives had their own little operations going and, like any good army, the officers didn’t muscle in on the enlisted men’s territory, and vice versa.

  “Well, what did your friend have in mind?” Corey asked.

  “I’d help him myself,” Carella said, “but I’m not sure how.”

  “I don’t think I follow you,” Corey said, puzzled now.

  “You’re more in contact with things,” Carella said.

  “What kind of things?” Corey asked.

  “My friend craves action,” Carella said.

  “What do you mean?” Corey said, and then squinted. “Dames, you mean?”

  “No.”

  “I’m not with you, Steve.”

  Corey was not being deliberately obtuse. He was simply having difficulty in adjusting his frame of reference. He had come up to the squadroom expecting God knew what kind of bullshit from Carella and then had immediately realized that all Carella wanted was a percentage of the take. This hadn’t surprised him at all, even though the word around the precinct was that Carella was a square cop who didn’t take. Corey had met square cops who didn’t take before. But what it turned out to be, after you knew these square cops for a while, was just that they were very quiet about taking, that was all. So Corey figured Carella wanted a piece of the action, which was all right with him so long as he got off his back, and so long as the tariff wasn’t too steep. He’d begun to get nervous when Carella said he was very short of money, thinking this was going to be a real stickup. But then Carella seemed to switch in mid-stream and started talking about helping his friend himself, so that Corey figured maybe this really was a friend of Carella’s. Then Carella had told him his friend craved action, and Corey had immediately begun thinking again that Carella’s “friend” was really Carella, just as he’d thought all along. What Carella wanted, Corey figured, was for Corey to fix him up quietly with one of the hookers on the beat, easy enough. But no, Carella said it wasn’t dames.