Lead With Your Left

by Ed Lacy

  There was another reason too. The old neighborhood gave me a funny feeling. Guys I'd been pals with since we were old enough to play hide and seek, guys who couldn't wait to slap me on the back when I won a fight, now treating me with that cold politeness most citizens reserve for cops. The cagey distrustful look, as if they expected me to belt them over the head with a night stick any minute. Still, I'd better go up and put away one of Mom's big Friday night meals before the summer heat hit us.

  We passed the Yankee Stadium and Austin talked baseball all the way back to the precinct. I didn't listen. I kept seeing Owens' place, old and falling apart. As I parked the car I stared at the station house for a moment, a short ugly building that must be a hundred years old. A firetrap that was like ice in the winter, full of mice and bugs. Everything about the job seemed old, stagnant, so—

  “Asleep at the wheel, wonder boy?”

  Austin was standing outside the car, smiling at me—if you can call a sneer a smile. I got out, followed him up the worn steps, nodded at the desk lieutenant, the sergeant at the switchboard listening to the calls from the post cops and the guys driving on radio motor patrol.

  A former cop was shot dead and everything went as usual in this old building.

  Austin went to the John and I went up to the detective room. A quiet joker named Larson was at the desk, doing some paper work. He was a giant, a real mister six by six, one of these strong silent guys who keep to themselves. He told me, “Dave, your wife called. Wants you to ring her at her office. Called about ten minutes ago.”

  I said thanks and dialed the agency. Mary said in the low voice you have to use in a crowded office, trying not to make it sound like a whisper, “Dave? Don Tills is having two tables of bridge tonight and he's asked us over. I told you about him, one of our top copywriters, the golden boy of the office. Be a great help to me if I get in with his crowd.”

  “I don't mind some bridge. That all you wanted to tell me?”

  “Yes and be sure to be home on time. They're counting on us to be there at nine sharp.”

  “You know I always come home when I'm done here.”

  “Just be 'done' by five so we can eat together like normal married people and get dressed and go out together, for a change.”

  “Okay, we'll be normal married people. See you for supper, Babes.”

  As I hung up I saw Larson grinning at me as he bent over his desk. I said, “Tough for a wife to take our hours. Your wife complain much?”

  “Sometimes. She's a nurse and her shifts are almost as bad as ours. But then when we do get some time together we enjoy it more.”

  “Anything new?”

  He shook his big head. “Quiet. The lieutenant is down in Captain Lampkin's office. Stolen auto reported over on the avenue. I just came back from a busted store window on Adams Street. That's about all. Get anything from Mrs. Owens?”

  “Nope.” It was seven after ten; Mom wouldn't be out shopping yet—not till the crappy soap operas she listened to every morning were over. I dialed her and we asked each other how we were and how was Pop and how was Mary? Could they come to our place this Sunday? Mom said after all Mary worked hard all week, no sense in her cooking for them. Could we come up this Friday? I said maybe but I was pretty busy. I'd check with Mary and call back. Mom said she would have fresh gefullte fish, chopped chicken liver, and her best lasagna. I told her she was making my mouth drool at the mention of her lasagna and gefullte fish but I'd have to see how I was fixed for time, check with Mary. Give Pop my love and I'll call Friday morning before ten.

  I hung up and Austin was standing at the table, the big grin on his big puss. He asked, “What's your name again?” “You got a hell of a memory for a detective. Get it straight for once. Dave Wintino.”

  “Thought I heard right, gefullte and lasagna! No wonder you're a jerk—a Jewboy and a Wop, what a—”

  Without getting up I turned on the chair and planted a left hook next to the middle button of his sharp suit. His grin became a frantic O as he gulped for air, clutched his gut and bent double, then sat down hard on the floor.

  I glanced at Larson who was still busy with his paper work, but from the way his big feet were set he was ready to jump up. I asked Austin, “Want to sample more of my mother's cooking?”

  His face was still screwed up with pain and he was fighting for air as he gasped, “You... little... bastard... Sunday-punched... me.”

  “Maybe I did, the way you caught me unawares with your crack about my folks.”

  “I'll have your badge for this!” he mumbled, sweat starting down his agonized face. '

  “Think you can get it? I got pull backing me too. Or maybe you mean... Look, lardass, you have a few inches in height on me and at least thirty pounds but I don't think you're big enough to take my badge. But let's step outside and try it. I'd like to spread your nose and—”

  Larson was at my side, a heavy strong arm lightly on my shoulder. He said softly, “Cut it, Dave. This is a police station, not a street corner or a gym.”

  He was in a middle spot, not knowing how much pull Austin might have down at Centre Street and if he took sides he could find himself pounding a country beat, a harness cop again.

  “I was merely showing this stuffed clown how strong my mother's lasagna made me and—”

  “Go over and sit at my desk, Dave,” Larson said. “Don't give me a hard time.”

  “But... sure, Larson.” I walked over and sat on the corner of his desk, ran my hand over my hair: it wasn't mussed. He helped Austin to his feet. He still couldn't stand straight, an unexpected belt in the gut is rugged. Austin said, “I'll beat the living slop out of—”

  “You two want to fight, go outside and on your own time. Sit down and relax.” Larson actually lifted Austin off the floor and carried him to the nearest chair. Then he came back to his desk, told me, “Get your can off my desk, Dave. You relax too.”

  I wasn't sore at Larson and anyway I'd have to be stupid-mad to ever tangle with him—if you didn't take him out with the first punch those arms could crush you like big snakes. As I stood up Lieutenant Reed came in, looked at Austin holding his middle, his face pale. Then he glared at me and asked, “What the hell's going on here?”

  I realized he was talking over me, to Larson. I said quickly, “I had to explain my name to Detective Austin, sort of straighten him out. He didn't like the way it sounded.”

  “Wintino, this isn't any goddamn boys club, this is an overworked office. But seems you don't have enough work, you have time to showboat.”

  “The Owens file is on my desk. Read through it, see if you can use your hands for something constructive, like giving me an intelligent summary of the reports, before you go out to lunch.”

  There wasn't any point in arguing with Reed. I said, “Yes, Lieutenant,” went into his office and took the file into a drab-looking room down the hall where we sometimes questioned suspects. I blew dust off the table and chair, sat down.

  At lunch I'd have to call Mary's uncle, have him get in touch with his big-shot politician friend, protect me in case there was a beef and Austin really had influence. If they ever stuck me back in uniform there'd be no living with Mary.

  I took off my coat and went to work on the file. Most of it was the reports of the various precinct men who'd worked on the case, all the people they'd interviewed, the few leads they'd run down—everything negative. There was a copy of Owens' arrest record, almost all of the collars made with Wales. They had been hard workers, over sixteen hundred cases. I went through the list fast, checking off those arrests where they'd used force, that would be the sort of stuff to make a joker want revenge. Like Austin must feel now.

  Back in '37 they had “subdued” a man named Dundus who was terrorizing a bar with a butcher knife. They must have worked the guy over good: Wales had received minor cuts and Owens had busted Dundus' nose with a sap. Dundus had been sent to Bellevue for observation and then to an institution. That was back in '37. He could have spen
t ten or fifteen years in a padded cell, then been released. I wondered where he was now.

  There was a detailed report on the arrest of Sal Kahn for the shooting of Boots Brenner. They had roped Sal into confessing, Owens posing as a “witness who positively identified” Sal as the man who had dumped Brenner's body in the lot. The lot was right next to an empty garage they were using for a still so I wondered why all the praise for Wales and Owens— they couldn't help but stumble on the still and the obvious solution.

  Sal must have been one of these cool cats. He never gave them the name of his partner, although through stoolies he was known to be working with somebody known by the snappy title of The Bird. There was over a grand in electrical equipment in the “shop” but Sal didn't know a thing about electricity. It was a damn good thing Kahn signed a confession. They never recovered the actual murder gun—Kahn claimed he had tossed it into a garbage can. Kahn died seventeen months later in the chair, still clam-mouthed. He had forty dollars and change on his person when arrested and not a penny was found in his room. He used a court-appointed lawyer claiming he was broke, although as Wales pointed out in one of his reports, “Kahn and his partner must have been selling a lot of alcohol to interest a gangster like Brenner. It must be assumed the missing partner fled with all the money made from the still.”

  I jotted down the address of the still, along with that of Kahn's sole relative, his mother, and the data on Dundus.

  The rest were all routine arrests: rape, assault, burglary, disorderly conduct, etc. For the few years Owens worked after Wales retired he must have had an inside job—he only had, three collars, including picking up some joker named Frederick X. Rowland III, for smoking in the subway.

  As I was finishing the summary, Danny Hayes came in puffing on a new cigarette. I asked, “The guy at the line-up our paperhanger?”

  “Nope. This one just blew into town yesterday. Hear you snapped your stack. When you going to grow up, Dave?”

  “The bastard called me a Jewboy and a Wop. Am I supposed to be grown up when I take that?”

  “I don't know. But sometimes people say things without meaning real harm. Just been raised ignorantly.” He scratched his brown nose. “Hell, I run into that all the time but you can't take on the world.”

  “Naw, Austin meant it the way he said it. And when I start taking crap you can pull a headstone over me.”

  “I don't make you all the time, Dave. Would you have slugged him if he had used the names and you didn't happen to be Italian and Jewish?”

  “Who knows? Look, I have enough trouble taking care of myself. When a guy low-rates me I try to slug him. All set for some Chinese chow?”

  “Reed wants you.”

  “Going to be a stink about my clipping Austin?”

  Hayes shrugged. “Didn't sound like it, but I don't really know. He's sending me out to look at a stolen car, and I think he wants you for another call.”

  I got the file together and the few notes I'd made, went through the squad room to Reed's office, told him, “There isn't much here, Lieutenant, and—”

  “Forget it, for now. Go over and see what this is all about.” He shoved a slip of paper across his desk that had an address and the name Rose Henderson scrawled on it. Reed always wrote as if his pen was a barbell. “She's called in twice about being followed, men pushing her around. Sounds like some old maid crackpot.”

  “I'll go right over. Lieutenant, in checking Owens' arrest record you'll notice that in 1937 he and Wales brought in a nut who was flashing a big knife in a bar. They sent him away, no trial. They must have worked the guy over, Owens busted his nose while taking the knife and Wales was cut up. Name is Dundus. If he's a psycho he could be our man, discounting the robbery angle, which I've never bought.”

  “This squad is off the Owens case.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Mainly because it's a dead end, we're just going around in circles, getting no place.”

  “Well, I'd still like to check, see if this guy is out of the hatch, and if so, where he is and—”

  Reed held up a large thin hand. “I'll have a check made. And forget about the Owens case and listen to me: Wintino, this is the third man you've belted in this station house. I calmed down this Homicide man, told him you were a hotheaded kid with—”

  “Instead of calming him down, Lieutenant, why didn't you tell him to watch his fat tongue?”

  “How do you know I didn't tell him that too? That's the trouble with you, Dave, at times you are a hot-headed kid. But I'm not running any free-for-all here. Start another fight and you'll be back in uniform. By God, if you had pounded a beat for a brace of years you'd know how to handle people.”

  “Lieutenant Reed, when a clown insults my family background, what am I supposed to do, make a complaint through channels?”

  “Technically, yes.” He leaned back in his chair, his long body looking cramped, his big nose like a dagger in his face. “You're a kid, Wintino, and a cocky one. But I like you because you never goof off. I'll admit you work hard and get results. I'm going to tell you this once and remember it because I don't go in for any fatherly advice crap. There's always somebody around you have to say sir to. I don't care how important or tough you are, be at least one man who's more important or tougher. Get used to the idea. Actually, Dave, you've been lucky, you're too small to be so hard.”

  I said slowly, “I understand what you mean but I'll never eat crow for any bigoted knucklehead who makes cracks about my race or religion. I don't think you'd want any man to take that—sir.”

  Reed brought his chair down hard, waved his long arms. “Another thing, you talk too damn much. Gowan, get going before this old maid calls up about a mouse getting into her.”

  I wasn't sure if Reed was smiling or not.

  Wednesday Afternoon

  It sure was getting muggy. I stopped for a soda and a hunk of pie, finished up with a couple of hamburgers. I was surprised I could eat I was so angry. I mean-this crap about closing the Owens case—that's what it amounted to—and having me off seeing this nutty old maid, Danny working on a stolen car. How important were they compared to that murder?

  The address Reed gave me was near the southern end of the precinct, one of these old sections where some of the houses had been remodeled, a mixture of high and low rents.

  As I walked down the block I passed this fancy Jaguar sedan. I don't especially care for foreign heaps but what attracted me was this real sharp sport jacket hanging from a side window. It was something: shaggy imported tweed with side pleats and patch pockets. It was a honey, strictly from a swank shop and made to order. I tried to see the label but couldn't make it. Anyway, I was spending too much on clothes as it was.

  The house I wanted was a former six-story tenement that had been made over into small apartments. The mailbox name-plate read HENDERSON-HONDURA. I rang the bell and when I got an answering buzz walked up to the third floor and rang 3C. There was one of those one-way peephole deals and I heard it opening on the other side and a woman's voice asked, “What do you want?”

  “Are you Miss Rose Henderson?”

  “Yes.”

  “You called the police a little while ago. I'm Detective Wintino,” I said, watching my face in the peephole and feeling like a sitting duck. My damn collar looked wilted already.

  There was a long moment of hesitation, then: “Please show me your credentials.” The voice was deep.

  I was off the Owens case for a loony like this! I took out my buzzer and nearly shoved it through the peep mirror. “That do it, lady? My name is Dave Wintino, Detective Third Grade, 201st Precinct. I'm assigned to your case. Now do you think you might open the door and let me get to work?”

  As I was putting my shield back in my wallet the door opened. I was off balance: this short girl standing there with very dark close-cut hair hugging a warm and pretty face. The lips were thick and red and she wore a loose plain blue smock showing off one of these built-up-from-the-ground solid f
igures, almost heavy legs. I must have been giving her bug eyes for she glanced down at herself, then asked, “What's wrong?”

  “Nothing. You're a surprise. Had you pegged for an old maid crackpot.”

  “My, the frank policeman. This must be a new technique. You're a bit of a shock yourself, more like a college magazine salesman. Let me see that badge again, if you don't mind.”

  “As you wish, citizen,” I said, flashing my tin. She grabbed my wrist and studied the badge for a moment, then said, “I'm sorry but I've been on the ragged edge these last few days. Please come in, Mr....?” She had a good grip.

  “Wintino, David Wintino, Miss Henderson,” I said, stepping by her. She was using a nice mild perfume. I thought our apartment was small but it was Madison Square Garden compared to this cell. There was just room for a narrow foam rubber couch against one wall, a desk with a typewriter between two small windows, one of those red canvas African camp chairs in front of an unpainted bookcase stuffed with books, a coffee table piled with magazines and old newspapers, a battered file cabinet, then the door to the John, a closet you'd have to enter sideways, and what had to be the world's smallest combination sink, stove and refrigerator. There was a small radio on a shelf, a framed diploma from Barnard and a couple of very bright paintings of tropical scenes on the walls, and some sort of weird mobile hanging from the tricky ceiling light.