Lead With Your Left

by Ed Lacy

  “Please, give me a chance. I swear I'll never—”

  “Bullslop. A chance to do what, bust into another car, give me more work making the rounds of the hock shops looking for a damn stolen jacket? Keep your trap shut and don't move.” The busybody was back at the window, her face eager.

  A car passed us, then another I saw a cab coming. I called, “Taxi,” and when it stopped I flashed my badge, told him, “I'm a police officer taking a suspect to—”

  A radio car turned into the street—fast. The old gal hadn't wasted a second. I told the cabby to drive on and he went, looking relieved. When the radio car stopped both cops came out on the run. They were a couple of middle-aged guys I knew—only by sight. The first one asked, “What's up, Junior?”

  “Caught this clown breaking into a car One of you stay here and see if you can locate the owner of this foreign heap. The other take us up to the station.”

  One of the cops gave me a mock slam-salute. “I'll stay. Some car, Al, you ride them up and don't be all afternoon coming back for me—hot in this sun.” He jabbed the punk in the ribs with his night stick. “You, get in the car and don't try nothing stupid.”

  I picked up the coat hanger.

  At the precinct house I took him right up to the squad room. Reed was there. I had the guy empty his pockets An old wallet with one buck in it said his name was Henry Moorepark, that he lived on East Fourth Street. He said he was a dye worker, unemployed since last February, gave me the name and address of the last concern he'd worked for. Besides the wallet he had a single key, a plastic case with his Social Security card on one side, a snap of a potty-looking babe on the other, two hock shop tickets dated five and eight days ago, and a busted cigar holder. He said he was unmarried, lived with his folks, had never served time. I had him roll up his shirt sleeves and pants legs—he wasn't a junkie. He said again, “Like I told you, I found this hanger and was trying to straighten it out against the car, figured I could take it home.”

  “What you doing this far uptown?” I asked.

  “Just walking around.”

  “And you found this hanger and were busy straightening it out, and busting the rubber on the car window, when I saw you. That your story?”

  “Yes.”

  “You expect me to buy that?” I said, putting force in my voice. “If I did you'd be the most surprised guy in this room. Come on, give me a straight story.”

  “I just found the... the hanger and was going to get... get it straightened so...” His narrow face seemed to grow longer and tighter, then it fell apart, went slack as he whispered, “I need money bad, I was trying to get the coat and whatever else there was in there.”

  I took him down to the desk and booked him, put him in a cell and phoned down to his precinct to check his address, notify his folks. Then I called BCI to find if there was a record on the guy and went back upstairs to the squad room. Reed asked, “Call downtown for a yellow sheet on this cheap slob?”

  I nodded. '“He was telling the truth, no record.”

  Reed shook his head. “Another miserable bastard gone wrong. These cheap cases get me angry, doing it for a few lousy bucks. Nice work, Wintino.”

  “A big deal, I bagged a hard-up jerk on his first two-bit job,” I said, thinking how we were all wasting time. Hell, I should be asking Wales about Sal Kahn.

  Reed said, “You prevented a crime, that's supposed to be half our job. And there's no such animal as a 'small' crime. Suppose this punk had a knife on him and panicked when the car owner found him, it could easily have been a murder.

  What I like is your working by reflex, instinctively. That's being a good cop. Have lunch yet?”

  “No, sir,” I lied: it never hurts to build things up a little. “Speaking of instinct, I feel I should talk to Wales about—”

  “Crab a sandwich, then finish the report on Owens and write up this case. Forget Wales. I called the brokerage office to check with him on that Dundus fellow. Wales hadn't shown up for work today. Must be off drowning his sorrows. Doesn't matter, I checked with the institution. Dundus died there. What's with this Henderson nut?”

  “She isn't a nut. She's a writer. She's being rough-shadowed and annoyed by phone calls to make her so jittery she won't be able to finish an article exposing some electrical companies hogging a new invention. I thought she was a crackpot till I talked to the janitor. Somebody has been trying to throw a scare into her.”

  “Has she any idea who's doing this?”

  “No, but she thinks the men who jostled her must be private clowns hired by the electrical concerns. I told her we'd have the post cop and the radio car keep an eye on her house for any suspicious characters. And she wants an escort when she goes out this afternoon.”

  Reed rubbed his big nose. “Escort? Hell, I got a busy house here.”

  “But you see she hasn't any set hours, goes to the library whenever she has to look up stuff. I figured if we tailed her once, we'd nail the jokers who've been roughing her up. She's waiting on a call from me as to what we plan to do.”

  Reed stared at his hand as if he expected to see part of his nose there. “All right, if she's a writer we don't want her knocking the department. Tell her about the beat man looking in. Find out what time she'll leave her flat in the morning, I'll be able to give her a man then. It's two-twenty now. Take off after you finish your paperwork. You'll have to take that car-punk to Night Court.”

  “My wife is going to love that,” I said, almost to myself. I'd forgotten about the damn Night Court.

  “Your wife isn't working for me. Cop's wife should expect him when she sees him,” Reed said as he went into his office.

  When I got Rose Henderson on the phone she blew up. “Tomorrow morning? I'm waiting now to go out shopping, not to mention some research I need.”

  “I'm sorry but we can't spare a man now. I told you that might happen. I checked with your super, I believe your story.”

  “That's nice of you. I Suppose I won't be killed going to the corner grocery. But I will see you tomorrow, about ten then?”

  “A detective will be there by ten. He'll call you first,” I said, wondering how the devil I was going to tell Mary I might not make her bridge game. I'd better call her uncle, that might cool her off.

  As I hung up I started to dial Mary, then changed my mind. I felt crummy. Why should I have to crawl before my wife, act like I was doing something wrong? Still I was spoiling her evening. But what did they expect me to do, close my eyes to a sad sack robbing a car? I laughed—to and at myself. Whenever I get sore I'm always blaming things on “they” or “them,” a kind of blanket name for everybody who's against me. And that was dumb too. Mary wasn't against me, she just didn't understand what being a cop's wife meant. Perhaps she was even right; because I liked the job didn't mean she had to.

  I went out for an ice cream cone and dialed Uncle Frank. It took time for the girl who answered to find him—he was always jumping around his joint, bossing everybody. Finally I heard him pant over the phone, “Dave?”

  “Yeah. How's things, Uncle Frank?”

  “Terrible, lad. Lousy truckman circles the block twice and can't find a parking place so he takes off like a scared rabbit. Two hundred and thirty-one pieces of express freight, dress goods, miss the afternoon train. They won't get to Miami in time for Saturday's business and there'll be a kickback in my face. You downtown, Davie my boy?”

  “No. Mary tells me you want to see me.”

  “Yes, yes. We have to have a talk. This place is getting too much for me. I'll be here till seven, maybe later. When will you be down?”

  “I have to go to Night Court. But I'm off tomorrow and Friday. I'll drop in to see you then. Okay?”

  “Fine. Always know where to find me. Tell Mary to drag you over for supper, Anna and the kids keep asking for you and... Hey you, go back and shut that goddamn door, we've lost enough items!... Sorry, Dave, shouting at one of the idiots here. I'll see you tomorrow. Good-by, got to rush.”


  I came back to the squad room and started typing my reports. Reed called out from his desk, “Wintino, you know you change tours?”

  “Yes, sir. I report on Saturday midnight.”

  Reed nodded. “Maybe we'll have a little peace and quiet around here for the next fifty-six hours. Finish that typing and go home and unwind.”

  I was done by three-thirty. As I was leaving Danny Hayes came into the locker room and said, “I think I'll sleep all day tomorrow. Remember that assault case, the two refugees? It comes up in court Monday. Never seen it to fail, every time we're on the midnight tour we have to be in court in the morning.”

  “We're just lucky,” I said, waving at him from the doorway.

  I reached the apartment before four-thirty and took a shower and changed my shirt. I turned on the TV and went from a shoot-'em-up cowboy movie to a con man selling window screens to some spy movie that must have been made in 1910 to a kid's program. I turned the set off for some jazz from the table radio. I had a glass of milk and read the sport pages, wondered what Jane Owens would say if she saw our place with the high rent and all the modern furniture. What did Owens have in mind saying he might get a California farm soon?

  I got out the phone book but Al Wales didn't have a phone I sat in a large straw and iron chair and thought of Rose Henderson curled up-in her red African camp chair. Mary was all set to buy a pigskin one but changed her mind for this basket job—she said everybody had African camp chairs Crazy thing, style—what diff did it make if everybody had them? Although I wouldn't buy a gray flannel suit for the same reason. Henderson-Hondura. Puerto Rican. That fine belly curve... interesting face. Chick like that living alone till some lucky clown stumbles over her. Handled that sloppy, maybe she wasn't alone. Might be an ex-husband around, although she didn't look over twenty-five or—six. I should have checked on her family. Spanish don't let their girls live alone. That could be the string to the case, a husband, or the family, trying to scare her to come back home.... Nuts, they'd hardly go to all that trouble and expense.

  Wonder if they'll let Moorepark off with a suspended sentence and will it do any good? I might get him a job at Uncle Frank's. Hell, I'm wearing a badge not a halo. Another cheap crook on his way. I sound like Reed, way he always says “cheap” as if it's a curse word. Seems to hate an amateur crook worse than a real thug. But then with a pro you know what you're up against, it's cut out for you. Petty thieves don't make sense. Lucky if he got a fin for that coat. Didn't look my size but I'd sure give twenty bucks for a secondhand jacket like that one.

  I ought to go over to Wales' rooming house but Mary would raise the roof if she didn't find me home. So I sit here stewing about what Mary will say like a kid who'd busted the cookie jar. Never even asked if I wanted to play cards, just made the date. Got that fast new Mexican featherweight on TV tonight too. Damn, I haven't worked out in weeks. Don't have time for anything lately.

  Goddamn Night Court, I'd like to play some bridge. Mary will blow her top, eat my—

  Mary opened the door, a couple of bags in her arms. She looked fine in a neat gray suit that was the right contrast for her bright blond hair.

  She blew a kiss at me as she said, “Hello, hon,” dropped the packages on the couch, then took off her coat and high heels, pushed the Chinese screen out of the way and started things cooking. “I've had a hard day. Did you get a chance to call Uncle Frank?”

  “Aha. Probably see him tomorrow.”

  “Swell.” She got another pot working, then sat down on the couch and began to undress. I liked to see her walk with-out high heels. “It's so sticky. I hope this isn't the start of a bad summer. All I could think about this afternoon was a shower. Are you starved? I want a quick shower first.”

  “I'm not starved but I want to eat soon.”

  “Don will probably have a lot of stuff to eat. He's always talking about picking up foreign snacks at Charles. I got chopped meat and peas for supper. How is Uncle Frank?” She stuck out one long leg, rolled off a stocking.

  “Bouncing as usual. Babes, I... I have to take a punk to Night Court for arraignment. With any luck I'll be at the bridge game by nine-thirty. I'll take a cab.” I waited for the explosion.

  Her voice wasn't quite shrill as she said, “Oh, damnit, Dave, I told you they were having exactly eight and now.”

  I went over and helped take off the other stocking. “Honey, I didn't plan it this way. One of those things.” I pulled her to her feet, kissed her. “Babes, you look like money from home in those panties and bra—really stacked.”

  “Am I?” She kissed me quickly. “Now Dave, supper is on and I'm hungry and sweaty and—”

  “I've been hungry for the last week,” I said, running my hands over her, hard.

  Mary suddenly giggled in my ear, nibbled at it. Then she started unbuttoning my shirt. “Be careful of the couch spread. I like it best when it's a surprise. Oh, Davie, I would have been terribly disappointed if you had let me take my shower first.”

  I undressed with the speed of a fireman. Surprise? I was as astonished as a guy suddenly finding he has it made.

  Wednesday Evening

  I got a break in Night Court. We were called early and since my boy had confessed, the arraignment went through fast. This Don Tills lived down in the Village in an old brownstone that had been made over into small apartments. It was still muggy and I got screwed up as always with the Village streets, and all the walking and rushing left me sweating a little.

  But I was there shortly after nine and Mary was pleased. The Tills had a couple of high-ceilinged rooms with furniture like ours, only more of it and probably more expensive. Mary was wrong about them having exactly eight people, they had nine—there was a guy with a big belly and a sort of tense face, including a thick black mustache, who was sleeping off a bottle on the couch. I never did get his name or what he was doing there and nobody paid him any mind, except to break into laughter when he'd mutter, “Who's on the gate?” every ten or fifteen minutes.

  They had two bridge tables set up, with chairs to match, and all the men looked about the same, between twenty-five and thirty, short haircuts, casual sport clothes, sharp alert faces, and all very sure of themselves. In fact they all sounded the same, like actors talking: good voices. The girls didn't look so much alike but they had the same intense faces and all dressed sharply. There was a portable bar and everybody had a glass and they were telling jokes when I came in— mostly some old dirty jokes with new names added. When I was introduced Mary said quickly, “I'm so glad your business appointment didn't keep you any later. We've been waiting for you before we started playing.”

  “What kind of a belt would you like, Dave, rye, scotch, gin, vodka, or tequila?” Don asked me.

  I was going to say I didn't drink but didn't want to sound like a square so I said, “Too warm for hard stuff. Got a beer handy?”

  Grace, Don's wife, who really filled her black and gold slacks, gave me a can of beer and a kind of bottomless cup that fitted over the top of the can. She said, “Now you won't need a glass.”

  I smiled. “I wouldn't have needed a glass anyway. Thank you.”

  “This way the flavor of the beer isn't lost by pouring it out of the can,” Don told me. Seemed like they'd given a lot of thought to something as simple as beer drinking. Then he told everybody, “Fellow I went to Yale with and who works for a Chicago agency, wrote me one of their clients is working on a paper beer container. Has some kind of keg lining to improve the flavor, I believe.”

  Everybody except me started talking about this: I was waiting to play bridge. Half the time I didn't even know what they were talking about. They had pet words they all liked to mouth: “the cost-level,” or something was “sales-wise,” or had a “built-in selling point.” Even Mary got into the act, saying, “There's something substantial about a can, gives you a feeling of getting your money's worth that a milk container, for example, doesn't have. Consumer-wise I think it would be a mistake to lose that.”


  Still they all looked like nice bright people and I sipped my beer, which only made me sweat more, and glanced at myself in a wall mirror to see if my shirt looked wilted, and listened. About a half-hour later they finally got the cards out but at nine-forty-five somebody insisted the TV be turned on to one of our programs. Most boorish bilge you ever heard. We wrote several very clever programs but the client, a real corn-ball, chose this tripe.

  The “program” was so short it wasn't worth all the talk—a one-minute commercial in which an uncomfortable-looking big league pitcher stumbled through a couple of lines about how he loved to use this brand of paint when he was puttering around his house. When it was over they shut off the set and everybody chattered away, arguing about the damn thing. I kept nursing my beer and keeping my trap shut.