by Ed Lacy
“Will we have time?”
“If we're lucky. The kids are waiting for dark, too.”
“Should I go down and call in for help?”
Doc looked at me like I was an idiot.
At ten to six, burly left the house across the street with some little fat guy. Doc said, “We've got time. Let's give the kids a half-hour.”
“But the goons might give us the slip. Hell with the kids.”
“What slip? We know where they're going. Know what they're doing now? Stealing a car.”
Some minutes later Doc asked what time I had on my watch. I held out my wrist and he said, “That's a kid's timepiece. Why are you wearing it?”
“It's a watch I won in my first amateur fight,” I lied. “I like to—”
Doc touched my arm for silence. Two big teen-agers opened the door, stepped out on the roof. They got their stuff from the tar paper—were probably going to sell it for two bucks, if they got that much. When we moved out from behind a chimney, they dropped the junk. One kid froze; the other took off. I chased him over a couple of roofs before flattening him with a judo chop on the back of his skinny neck. I dragged him back to where Doc was holding his gun on the other punk. Doc told me to go down and phone the local precinct for a radio car.
Twenty minutes later we had deposited the kids and their junk in a station house, were on our way uptown. We cruised by the house, a boarded-up whitestone that even sported a small lawn and a fence. There were a dozen cars parked on the street. Doc told me to drive slowly, and when we passed an old car with the hood loose, he said, “That's their getaway car. They had to jack open the hood to jump the ignition. Find us a place to park.”
I started to pull in next to a hydrant and Doc cursed, said, “We might as well pin our potsies to the windshield!”
I finally found a parking space around the corner. We walked back and took a plant in the doorway of a closed laundry store. It was cold and we had to wait over an hour before burly and his buddy crossed the street, each carrying an expensive suitcase. We jumped them. Burly didn't drop his bag fast enough so I dropped him with a right to the jaw. Doc blew his police whistle until the post cop came running. On the way to the station house we stopped at the flea-bag, picked up Willie without any trouble.
I was home by midnight, a little dizzy. In one day we had made five arrests and pocketed fifty bucks each.
Of course, we didn't do that every day, but we made plenty of arrests. Doc had a whole string of stoolies and often we were at the scene of a crime before it took place. Nor did we make extra money every day, but we did okay. Once we got a tip on a floating crap game, pocketed three hundred of the nine hundred dollars on the hotel rug. I thought it was risky but Doc said, “Stop slobbering. Sure, the desk lieutenant knows we held out some money—so does downtown—but they'd be surprised if we hadn't. It's expected. If you don't take what you can, it makes a lot of people uneasy. Just be careful you don't horn in on the big graft that goes up to the top, right to City Hall. This stuff is peanuts to them. They go for the organized shake, the big money that comes in as regularly as payday.”
Sometimes I thought Doc was being damn petty. Like once Doc spotted a parolee he remembered, coming out of a bar at night. He frisked the joker, took twenty dollars from his wallet, then let him go with a kick in the rear. I took my ten but Doc could tell I didn't like it. He told me, “Bucky, look at it this way: We're doing the guy a favor. And also doing our job. Don't forget, the biggest part of police work is preventing crime. Now, this fellow would have to finish three more years if we had turned him in.”
“Turned him in for what—taking a drink?”
“He was violating his parole by taking a shot at that hour of the night, not to mention the bar is a hangout for punks. But you're not following me, Bucky. The important thing is we reminded him to go straight. All parolees are tempted, so we merely acted as a brake on him. Isn't avoiding three years in the pen worth a couple of ten-dollar bills? We did him a favor.”
“As the saying goes, with pals like us he'll never need an enemy.”
Doc laughed and slapped me on the shoulder. “Don't worry, kid, he expected it. Why do you think he was only carrying twenty dollars? That was shake money, just for cops.”
As I said, in many ways Doc reminded me of Nate. Doc was lonely, which I suppose was one reason why he put in such long hours on the job. I didn't mind; police work wasn't work to me. But many a night after we finished he would ask me to have supper with him at some odd restaurant, listen to him philosophize and run his mouth. Sometimes we'd even take in a movie together. I took a small room in Doc's hotel. I was seeing less and less of Elma, but I was giving her thirty-five a week, plus rent, and she didn't seem to care that I was so busy.
And some nights Doc didn't want me around, would go to his room early and spend the night reading.
If I never quite understood Doc, I knew he liked me. Once I had a fever and chills during the night. I was shaking like a cement mixer. Elma had an HIP doc in the first thing in the morning and he said I had malaria, told her to give me quinine. Doc phoned at eight thirty to ask where I was. When Elma told him about the attack, he shouted over the phone, “Have you given him any quinine yet?”
“No. I'm getting dressed to go out now.”
“I'm coming right up. Don't do a thing.”
With me still flashing hot and cold, Doc got me dressed, drove me to a V.A. hospital. I'd had sand-fly fever a couple of times in Korea, and when I was released from the hospital three days later, I was set for a small pension, less than twenty dollars a month, for the rest of my life. See, that's what I mean by Doc being smart—if I had taken the quinine first the blood test at the hospital would have showed negative and I never would have got the pension. True, it wasn't much, but it took care of my taxes. In fact, I spent my first check buying Doc a fancy lighter.
One night as Doc and I were having supper in a French restaurant, we started talking about marriage. Doc told me he had once been married for a few years, a long time ago. For some reason I was surprised; I could never picture him as a homebody. “She was a good woman, Bucky—beautiful, talented, intelligent. She was an artist. I nearly had a breakdown when her heart gave out. She was only twenty-eight. I was fortunate in having those few years of happiness. It's very difficult, under modem tensions, for two people to live together smoothly.”
Doc stared at me as he sipped his coffee, asked, “It's none of my business, but how did you ever get hooked by Elma?”
“She lived next door when I was a kid. Might say it was one of these quickie war marriages.”
“Are you happy with her?”
“Happy? If I had the money, I'd get a divorce.”
“No, it's cheaper and better to stay married—if you can stand it. Insurance against getting hooked again. But a strong stud like you should have something better in bed. What time is it?”
“Almost eight.” Along with his always asking for “fire” for his cigarettes, Doc never looked at his own watch.
“Pay the check while I make a call. I'll fix you up with a real woman.” Doc stood up.
“Nobody has to fix me up. I can get my own women.”
“I might even fix you up with a real watch, too.”
“Doc, mind your own damn business!”
He smiled down at me. “This one is a trifle slimmer than your Elma.”
“I told you, you don't...”
Walking away from the table, he called out softly, “At least see the merchandise.”
A half-hour later we were in the lobby of a ritzy apartment house off the Avenue. This not only had a doorman, but even elevator operators. Her name was Judy Low, and she was the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. Fairly tall; a strong, lean body; a cute face with hot, heavy lips and bright eyes; and certainly the smoothest blond hair in all the world reaching her shoulders. There was something about her that got me—perhaps the wanton look on her face. Okay, that may sound corny, but there was
something about her that shouted she was made for bed.
The apartment was lush, too; two neat, large rooms with modern furniture in a blaze of colors, lots of books, and a hi-fi that played odd but soothing music. Doc gave her a familiar squeeze as he said, “Judy, this is my partner and friend, Bucky Penn.”
She said in a silky voice she was glad to see me and did we want a drink? Judy was wearing a heavy robe with Arab writing, or something, woven into it. When she walked across the room it was simply amazing. No big hip-sway or anything cheap—this was a very expensive watch movement.
We had a few drinks, and the liquor was the best, too; and then, like a hammy actor, Doc said he had to be leaving. Two minutes later Judy was on my lap.
I began dropping in to see Judy three or four times a week. Doc wisecracked how we were made for each other: Punch and Judy. Like I said, I was never the lover-boy type, but Judy drove me nuts—for a time. Perhaps it was her slim, hard body, after the years of Elma's sogginess. Or it could have been that just as I was now having my clothes made by Doc's tailor, having a high-priced call girl was a new kind of living for me. It got so I couldn't wait until I saw her early in the evening.
Judy had a peculiar clientele. She was busy between three and seven in the late afternoons with top executives who stopped to see her before they commuted to their suburban homes. Doc said she got a hundred or more a trick and limited her business to about fifteen steady customers. Doc claimed that even with her pay-off, she was making twenty grand a year. When I asked him if the brass wouldn't be sore about us horning in on the graft, he said, “You're not horning in, merely on her free list. And they won't kick about that. Taking prostitution money would make any politician a dead duck—if it became known. Enjoy yourself and don't worry. She likes you.”
I figured she went for me because I was young while most of her customers were old clowns. I got along fine with Judy. She was a shrewd babe and smart; had once worked as a physical therapist, or something like that, in a hospital. She never went in for dirty talk, only drank now and then and could handle her liquor. She had books on physical culture, and actually worked out three times a week with a light bar bell. Sometimes we went night-clubbing, and that cost me a bundle. I'm not much of a dancer, but Judy loved it. What she enjoyed most of all was when we went to some hotel pool for a swim. She also liked to have me strike a pose, like a strong man, and she would talk about my “muscular definition.”
There was another reason she went for me. She didn't have a pimp and had a deathly fear of strange men. There's a type of jerk, probably a queer of sorts, usually in his twenties, who, if he happens to find a girl selling it, thinks that makes her open season. They like to slap the girl around, don't hesitate to maim 'em.
Once she phoned me at the squad room that a guy was calling from downstairs, making a pest of himself. Being Judy's customers were a select group, she rarely had that sort of trouble, but this joker claimed he was a friend of one of her regulars. I told her to phone the guy at once and check; I didn't want to get into a jam by beating up some society slob. She phoned me back that the guy indignantly denied he had ever given her name out.
I knew the doorman had to be on her pay-off list, so I parked outside and told him to give me the nod if the character returned. About an hour later a big guy, looking like a college football guard, walked in and the doorman gave me the sign. I waited until he came out again, started walking toward the park. I didn't want to make a fuss in the lobby. I caught up with the guy; he was really a big kid of about nineteen or twenty, with wide shoulders, chain-store clothes, and sort of a freshly scrubbed face. Flashing my badge, I told him, “You've been making a pest of yourself back at that apartment house.”
I flashed my tin fast, so maybe he thought it was a gag, or I was some kind of private operator. Or he might have been going for rough. “I don't know what you're talking about,” he said, walking away.
He had a lot of inches and at least twenty pounds on me. I grabbed his shoulder, spun him around. “Stop annoying the lady, punk.”
“What lady?” He lingered on the word “lady.”
“Buster, you want me to run you in?”
“What's this, the police protecting a call girl?”
“I don't know anything about any call girl. And neither do you. A big mouth like yours can wind up on the wrong end of a libel suit. What's your name?”
“Are you arresting me?”
“I'm a police officer asking you to identify yourself.”
He hesitated. The courts of our city have ruled a person doesn't have to give identification unless caught in a suspicious act. But few people know that. He finally took out his wallet. I took down his name and address—relieved it was an average address. I told him, “If I get another complaint, I'll come and get you. Now get the hell out of here.”
The thing was, I had an itch to tangle with him. I don't know why. Maybe I thought it would impress Judy, maybe I didn't like his being bigger and better built than me. Most of these big muscle boys are clumsy with their hands. His face didn't have a mark, so I was fairly certain he wasn't a pug.
He put his wallet back, started to move away. That would have been the end of it, but he had to turn and sneer, “She got a police pimp?”
I stepped in, fooling with my hands, kicked him on the shin as he threw a wild right. That swinging like a gate was the tip-off. I moved in and to my right, smacked him on the eye, cutting the skin under it. He stood still for a second, fear coming across his face, and I set myself, belted him hard as I could in the belly. He sat down fast staring up at me stupidly, some blood on his baby-skin face.
A couple people stopped to look. A beat cop came on the run, an old cop. I showed him my badge, said, “This dummy thinks the police are pimps.”
The cop rapped him across the back of his shoulders with his night stick as he asked me, “Shall I run him in? Or you want to take him in the park for some exercise?”
I glanced at the people watching us. So did the cop. I told him, “He's not worth working up a sweat. Merely a would-be tough punk.” I put my foot to the jerk's rear. “Get on your feet and scram.”
He stood up, his face full of panic, his bloody eye already puffing. As he walked away the cop gave him a hell of a whack across his can with his club, and the guy ran into the street, hailed a cab. The hackie didn't want to carry him, but I came up, showed my badge, said, “It's all right. He's had a little accident. This is a bad neighborhood for him.”
After telling the cop it wasn't worth making a report on, I circled the block and phoned Judy. She wasn't busy, so I went up, gave her the jerk's name. Several days later she told me he was the brother of some big shot's secretary. Judy bawled out the executive for running his mouth, and he promptly fired the secretary, gave Judy a diamond pin.
The odd thing was, after a few weeks I knew Judy wasn't really passionate. I had a creepy feeling she didn't really go for me. Nothing happened or was said; I simply had this hunch. For a time I tried staying away, but I couldn't stand it. I decided I had to get her something—a mink. You didn't make a dent in a girl like Judy with candy or flowers. It couldn't be a hot coat either, had to come from one of the best shops. Of course I didn't have anything like that kind of money—then—so I kept urging Doc to get us more palm money, but something big. I wouldn't tell him why I needed the money, and not only didn't we know where there was any big money to be had, but Doc warned me that sort of talk and thinking would get us bagged.
I kept figuring how I could get up a few grand, worrying about Judy. Sometimes I thought I was all wet. I knew Judy wasn't stepping out with anybody but me. She seemed happy when we went dancing, or swimming, or to the fights. And at other times I couldn't escape the feeling she was bored with me. I was acting so confused Doc kidded me about being lovesick. With all his smartness he could be a bag of corn, too.
Around February Judy flew down to Miami for two weeks. It was both a vacation and business trip, since several of her bes
t customers were in Florida getting the sun.
The first week she was gone I was jittery. We were working out of a precinct squad, for a few weeks, and I was still on this mink kick. The cushion was nothing, or small time. I didn't like the squad and I missed Judy. When Doc asked what was eating me, and I told him, he said, “We'll be off this squad and on special assignment in a few weeks. As for Judy, why don't you fly down to see her on your off days?”
“That's an idea,” I said, wondering why I'd never thought of going to Miami. “I'll phone her first.”
“Just go down. She'll be glad to see you.”
We had a change of tours coming up, and a fifty-six-hour swing, so I long-distanced her the next day, told her how nuts I was, and she said to fly down for the night.
It was great. The plane was first-class and Judy was living in a lush couple of rooms that seemed a movie set. I gave her a fifty-dollar bottle of perfume and she was happy to see me. Judy looked terrific, nicely tanned except in a few places—all very sexy. We had a good afternoon on the beach and I felt like a wheel. But I got too much sun and was unable to go out that night. We had supper in her rooms, then I sent down for a bottle and we started to tie one on.