by Ed Lacy
“You in a jam?”
“I'm a postman.”
“Thousands of guys take exams to get in that kind of a jam.”
“Look, Franzinb, I.....”
“Ranzino, and call me Matt.”
“Matt, I been carrying mail for nearly twenty years, it's all I know. You never get rich and it's no job for a guy with ambition, but I like it. People on my route are my friends. Why, for Christmas they gave me.... Look, three days after I see Saxton and almost get told out of his office, I get a telegram from a Harry Loughlin who runs an outfit called America! America! I go down there and he tells me he knows I was a union delegate in '48, talked about the postmen going out on strike for more pay. He says that makes me a Red, he's going to report me to the loyalty board. I told him...”
“They can't do anything to you for being a union man.”
“Hell, they can't!” Joe said, his voice coming alive. “It's against the law for postal workers to strike—I was going to have everybody call in sick—-and anyway, in these hearings most times you don't even know what the charges are against you, even who informed. And this Loughlin outfit is powerful. I begged him to leave me alone, my wife has a bad heart and if I lose my job, what else can I do? Besides, what did I do wrong? Cost of living was going up, everybody else was getting a raise so why not the post...?”
“You fired?”
Joe shook his head. “No. But he has me over a barrel. I got to prove what a 150% American I am by buying some big books on American history. The set costs a grand and I shell out a hundred a month—almost half what I make, and with prices so high, taxes...”
“You're in a real swindle,” I said. A grand for a set of books—Harry was playing a big-time con game. “But it doesn't pay to give in to blackmail.”
“Better than losing my job. This Loughlin is a shrewd sharpie, a...”
“I know all about him. He'll bleed you to death, then toss you to the wolves.”
“I don't know which way to turn. Already hocked my car, my TV set. I can't even tell the wife, it would worry her sick.”
“Many other post office men in the same jam?” I asked, getting up.
“Who knows? Any civil service guy is a wide open sucker for this racket.” Joe stood up, rubbed his jaw. “You wounded in the hand?”
“No.”
“Feels like you had a silver plate in your fist. Look, Matt, I'm sorry I made a mistake about you, and try to keep Mady off the bottle.”
“I'm only rooming there—don't involve me in anything. I came down here for a rest.”
“Well, do what you can,” he said, hopefully.
I said I'd see him around and walked back to the cottage. The living-room light was on and Mady was sitting in the one big chair, looking at some snapshots of her husband, the thick outfit history book open on her lap. She had a fifth of rye on the table beside her, a glass, and a pitcher of water, and one look at her eyes and I knew she was loaded. It was expensive rye—bonded Canadian stuff. When she saw me she asked, “Want a shot, Matt? Where you get the eye?”
“Guy claims he socked me—by mistake. And I don't want a drink.”
“So you don't want a drink—more for me. Thought you weren't a cop... why you carrying a gun?”
My coat was open, the holster showing. “That's empty.”
“Then why do you wear it?”
“Keep myself warm.”
She shrugged. “You don't want a drink... good night, roomer.”
“Good night.” I started for my room and she called out, “Hey, Matt, you know—I like the solid way you walk.”
I kept walking. If that was an invitation to anything, I wasn't buying. I undressed, went to the bathroom to wash. Mady seemed to be dozing in her chair.
A cold towel helped the eye. It was turning purple but the towel reduced the swelling. It wasn't going to be too bad.
When I hit the bed I couldn't sleep, even though I was tired. For one thing I could see the light in the living room and that annoyed me. I thought about this poor slob Joe, never asking for much, and the rooking Harry was giving him. Harry would be all right if he didn't push all the time. He never left a single stone unturned—especially if there was a fast buck under the stone.
When I did fall into a light sleep I dreamed I was sitting in the Wilson kitchen again and there was a close-up of the maid yelling at me over and over, “They'll do nothing, not a mumbling thing— you'll see!” And I kept telling her not to shout and asking why nothing would be done and when I woke up I had a head-sweat. The house was quiet, but the light was still on in the living room.
I reached over and got my T-shirt, wiped my head dry, then lay there, wondering what the maid had meant. She must have known Saxton did the killings, maybe that's why she hesitated before phoning the cops. But that didn't make sense, she seemed angry at the killing, so why should she protect Saxton, if that's what she was doing?
I tried not to think of the colored maid or the killing or Saxton or Joe—tried to get some sleep. I got up and shut my door but I could still see the light outline the door through the cracks, and after awhile I put on my slippers, straightened my pajamas and went into the living room.
She was out cold and I was about to turn out the light, but then she'd wake up later and fall over something in the darkness and wake me anyway, so I put an arm around her shoulders, pulled her to her feet. She was a heavy kid.
Mady opened her eyes, blinked a few times, then slobbered, “Hello... big shoulders... big wonderful shoulders.”
“Go to bed.”
She tried to nod and put an arm around me and I walked her to her room without too much trouble, put her on the bed. I didn't undress her and if she had to go to the John, that was her business. I put her legs on the bed and she stared up at me with that serious-comic look drunks have and I laughed at her and she smiled and sat up, said, “Matt, you're so ugly you're handsome.”
I sat down on the bed, tried to push her back into the pillow as I said, “Why don't you go to sleep?” She felt nice to push.
“Sleep. Egg... eggnog.”
“What?”
“Listen,” she said, trying hard to collect her thoughts, her big lips struggling with the words. “Listen, I'm drunk.”
“You sure are.”
“Listen, please get me a glass of milk and three eggs. Three.” She held up three fingers, one at a time. “And sugar. Tomorrow, no hangover, see? My secret remedy.”
And I don't know what it was: either the warmth in her drunken voice did things to me; maybe I felt sorry for her; or maybe it was because this was the first time I was with a girl in a long long time—a girl I knew I couldn't have picked up the bugs from. When she tried to sit up again, her big eyes staring at me, I took her in my arms and we kissed awkwardly. I could sure feel those heavy lips working, taste the rye on her breath. She pulled away and I, couldn't tell if she had enjoyed the kiss, or even knew I'd kissed her. But those lips felt hot and wonderful and it was fine to hold a girl in my arms. She said, “I'm tired,” and fell back on the pillow.
“Still want that milk concoction?”
She nodded, her eyes shut.
I went into the kitchen, broke three eggs into a glass of milk, added a spoonful of sugar. It was a slimy mess.
I sat on her bed again, pulled her up—her eyes had a hard time making me out. “What's the matter?” she asked.
“Here's your milk—the secret weapon,” I said, holding her up with one arm behind her back, putting the glass of milk to her mouth with the other hand. She took a long gulp and began to cough and choke. I slapped her on the back and she neatly spit out a mouthful of the mess—all over me.
I jumped up, spilling the rest of the glass over myself. Mady fell back on the bed, looked away from me, embarrassed, mumbled she was very sorry... and passed out!
My pajamas were damp and cold, smelled like a dairy truck. I cursed her, almost yanking the switch off the wall as I snapped out the lights, and went to the bathroom.
I removed my pajama top, washed myself. As I dropped my wet pants, there was a gentle knock on the front door.
I stood there, waiting, not sure I'd heard right, and then the knock sounded again, louder.-1 walked through the dark living room and looked out the window.
Saxton was standing there. I was nude and thought the expression on his face would be worth the risk of a draft.
When he knocked again, I yanked the door open.
The moonlight hit me and I felt like a strip-tease artist facing the final spot. Saxton's thick mouth actually dropped open as he said, “What the devil...?” There wasn't any boom in his voice now.
The cool night air was chilling me, but I asked in a matter-of-fact voice, “What's on your mind, Willie?”
We stared at each other for a moment, his glance resting on my black eye, then he said softly, “You work too hard at your job, Ranzino. The case is solved, closed.”
“After a fashion.”
“What do you mean, after a fashion?”
“Exactly what you said, the case is over. I'm not working for you any longer. Any other questions, Willie Saxton, the third?”
“You're rather peppy tonight. Weren't like that yesterday, or this...”
“I delivered, you got what you paid for—a body. Now if you want me to do some more work on the case... I can think of a few angles that haven't been touched.”
He didn't say anything, merely stared at me, and I was getting cold. I said, “Good night, Willie,” and shut the door and he boomed, “You tell Madeline to call me in the morning!”
I stood behind the door, shivering a little and he knocked again, said, “Matt, open the door, want to talk to you.”
When I opened the door he said, “No hard feelings. You know, all's fair in love and war and gal-chasing.” He held out his hand.
I wasn't completely fooled, only I thought he was going to swing on me and I was watching his feet as I shook hands. My left was faster than his any time. I should have watched his shoulders—this strong ox suddenly yanked on my hand and I went sailing past him, off the steps, on my shoulders and face in the cold damp grass. It took me a moment to get my bearings and Saxton walked by, chuckling, said, “A little something to go with that eye.”
I'm a damn fool, I thought. Playing hero, lying out here like a fallen statue. Cold grass will fix me, but fast.
When my head stopped spinning, I dashed back into the house. I tried to wipe the green grass stain from my shoulders, and shoved a thermometer iii my chattering mouth as I put on long woolen underwear and climbed into bed, waiting for the cold to come. I didn't have any temperature, but I was too worried to be angry at Saxton. I was mad at myself for being a prize patsy, risking my health by sticking my fool nose in other people's business.
I turned off the table light and lay there, worried stiff and when I opened my eyes again it was daylight and 8 a.m.
WEDNESDAY
I dressed without washing and was on the bus to town in ten minutes flat. I was at the VA shortly after nine, waiting for Doc Kent. He asked, “What's the matter? That's a right colorful eye you're sporting.”
“Got into a fight yesterday—case of mistaken identity, on the other guy's part, but I got a pounding around the chest. And later in the night I was walking around the house in the nude and... eh... there was an open door and I was in a draft for quite a long time.” I realized how stupid it all sounded.
Kent looked at me as though I was making it all up. “Coughing?”
“No.”
He stuck a thermometer in my mouth, took my pulse. Then he read the thermometer, said, “Normal. So is your pulse. What was wrong?”
“Well, nothing was wrong, but, after all that I thought...?”
“Thought what? How do you feel?”
“Okay, I guess... But I...”
“Then what are you running to me for? Get this Ranzino, I know all about your case—interested me so I made a point of studying it. I'm here to help you, but don't make a pest of yourself. Remember, there's nothing wrong with you now—you've had TB. While this office is always open to you, there's no need of running here every time you take a fast breath or...”
“Okay, Doc, cut the lecture. Sorry I disturbed you.”
“It isn't a question of disturbing me. Frankly, you're as big and healthy as a horse. While I wouldn't advise you to go in for marathon running at the moment, or anything that places an abnormal strain on your body, there isn't a damn thing wrong with you. If you'll simply regain confidence in yourself, in your body and...”
“So long, Doc, you should use slides with your talks,” I said, walking out of his office. I cashed Saxton's check and the teller said, “See they solved the murder. Can't believe Mr. Wilson would do something like that, but got to hand it to the police—fast work!”
“They been great since Buck Rogers joined the force.”
“Who?”
“Hopalong Cassidy,” I said, counting the money on the way out. I felt better on the bus back to White Beach, felt I really must be getting healthy if I didn't show anything after last night. Of course I didn't pay any attention to the doc's pep line about me being well, normal, that was a standard pitch.
By half past ten I was back in my room, undressed, and in bed, resting as I read the morning papers. Wilson's suicide was all over the headlines but I only read the comics and the sports page. After a while I heard Mady get up, the flush of water in the bathroom, and then she was in the kitchen and in my doorway. She had a light red housecoat on and looked fresh for a babe who must be well hung over. There was a kind of Mona Lisa, cat-like expression on her face, the large mouth forming a real smile as she said, “Good morning, lazy. Where'd you get the papers?”
“I've been up and into town and back. Didn't you hear me?”
“I could sleep through an air raid, especially when I'm sleeping off a gutful.”
“What time did you wake up Sunday, morning or afternoon?”
She stared at me, her eyes suspicious. “Why?”
“Forget it, the detective in me slips out now—and then. Seen the papers?” I spread the front page out for her and she sat on the edge of the bed, read the headlines.
“Doesn't seem possible. Mr. Wilson was always so lively and gay—nothing phony about him. And here he murdered his wife and killed himself. I can't believe it.”
“Neither can I. Did Wilson and Saxton get along okay?”
“Far as I knew. Mr. Saxton always spoke highly of him and...”
“Mister Saxton?” I grinned and she threw the papers down, asked, “Why the cross-examination? I told the cops everything I...”
“You're right, no point in talking about a dead case. Skip it. You look very pretty.”
“Do I? Didn't I look pretty yesterday?”
“Not as pretty as you do now.”
She stared at me, an amused expression on her face, then she giggled like a kid. “Did I give you that shiner?”
“Nope.”
She stood up. “Tell you what I will give you, roomer, a whopping breakfast—on the house. A deal?”
“You've sold me.”
She went back to the kitchen and I put on the blue army robe I'd swiped from the hospital, the only thing about the hospital I'd liked. She had orange juice on the table, was whipping up some eggs. I sat down and she said, “You're lucky that I have eggs. Way prices are, nobody has to worry about dieting.”
She gave me some whole-wheat toast to butter and I went to work. She put the eggs in the frying pan, said, “We make a cozy little scene. By the way, I gather I was potted last night. How did I get to bed?”
“I walked you there.”
“That explains my dream—I dreamed you were making love to me.”
“Why don't you stop it?”
“Stop what?”
“Those double-meaning cracks, the sexy chatter. You don't have to prove anything to me I...”
“Who the hell's proving anything?” she asked, voice high with anger.
“You men and your lousy conceit! Let a man tell a girl she has a nice shape, that he dreamed he was laying her... he's supposed to be manly. But if a woman says that, she isn't being womanly, only a slut! That's bull—”
“And you don't have to prove how tough you are either,” I added.
She strode over to the table and I watched the graceful movements of her body under the robe as she walked. “Will you stop telling me I have to prove anything to you! And if I want to be tough—hard as any man—what about it?”