He turned his head and let a smile flicker across his mouth. “Thinking, that’s all.”
“Big thoughts?”
“Not very.” He stared out through the windshield. “Someday I’m going to get away from all this mess.”
“When?” Helen asked softly.
“After it’s all over.”
“Will it ever be?”
“No. It will slow down, that’s all”
She rested her hand over his on the wheel. “That’s what my father used to say too.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“Why don’t they do it then?”
“Because cops are strange people, kid. Why the hell they get into that line of work I can’t figure, but they do. It’s something you know you’re going to do long before it happens. Some come in after high school, others spend a fortune on a college education and are happy to walk a beat. They were born cops and they die cops. It’s their life, I guess.”
“Yes, I know,” she told him.
“You don’t approve, do you?”
“Somebody has to do it.”
“That didn’t answer my question,” he said.
After a few moments passed by she nodded thoughtfully, feeling the words rise she knew had been buried too long. “Yes, I do approve, Gill. It was a life I hated because I lived through too many worried days and nights until the inevitable happened. When I think back, it was always me who complained, never my mother. She knew and approved all along. She ... she helped dad. She did every damn thing possible to make his life easier because she only had the fear to face, not the actual conflict or the pain or the physical experience of death.” Helen paused, let her fingers squeeze his hand again with a comforting gesture and said, “I approve of you no matter what they said you did.”
Something twisted at his stomach again and he stared hard through the windshield. The years of being a loner were screaming at him to stay silent, but there were years still to go and they wanted him to speak. He turned his head briefly for a quick look at her and that one, stolen glance was almost too much. He said, “If I had met you earlier things might have been a lot different.”
“It wouldn’t have changed things any,” she told him.
“Could anything change things?”
Her fingers squeezed again. “No,” she said simply. “I think we both know that.”
“I got a stupid feeling.”
“Like what?”
“Damn it,” Gill grated, “you know like what.”
“Would you believe I have that same stupid feeling?” Helen asked him.
He felt that twisting in his stomach again. “Love is supposed to be for kids.”
Her laugh was low and rich and she laid her head against his shoulder. He could smell the subtle fragrance of perfume and feel her body heat on his arm. “I guess we’re a couple of kids then. We sure picked a silly place to bring it out into the open.”
“I don’t know any better places.”
“You could have tried when we were sharing the same pillow.”
“Then it would have sounded phony.”
“Not coming from you,” she said.
Mark Shelby heard the phone ring, put down his drink and looked at the big clock on the wall. They were getting old in Chicago, he thought. It had taken them over two hours to. double-check the information he had relayed on, convene the board and come to a decision.
When he said hello, there was no exchange of names, but he recognized the voice on the other end of the line. Now that they knew the Frenchman was dead they’d remember he had always been the Primus Gladatori and they’d put the matter where it belonged.
“We just talked over the situation,” the voice said.
“Yes?” Mark’s voice was firm and dominant.
“How far along are you on the other matter?” It was a reference to the information fed the destroyed computer system.
“A few more days will do it.”
“Can you handle something else?”
“Naturally.” His voice was even more certain this time.
The one on the other end gave a satisfied grunt. “Okay, we’re giving it to you.”
“How much?”
“While Pop’s away, you’re in charge. You handle it good, okay?”
“My pleasure,” he said with a smile in his voice before he heard the connection break.
But there was no pleasure in his face at all. Shit, he thought, all they were laying on him was shit. He had the Frenchman’s job to do now while that fucking Papa was kicking around in his supposed hideout. Hell, he knew where he was in Florida. Maybe nobody else did, but he made a point of knowing these things because one day when he sprung the trap he didn’t want the jaws of it to close on empty air. The only trouble was the Big Board would lay on the assignment to mop up that stinking Herman Shanke in Miami and Papa would toss in the soldiers then take all the bows for slamming the opposition.
How the hell an unknown like Shanke could pull off a coup like he did was damn near unbelievable, but when you looked at it closely enough you could grasp the possibilities. He was unknown, killing didn’t bother him and the ambushes he set up weren’t really all that complicated. Some pretty stupid soldiers he knew had minds devious enough to work a setup like that ... but then they’d be stupid enough to brag about it to some bitch and be laid out an hour later.
He picked his drink up from the file he had retrieved from the Frenchman’s office before the cops got there, smeared the wet ring the glass had made onto the table top and flipped the folder open again. There was something there he had glanced over casually that bothered him and he shuffled the papers until he found what he wanted.
It was a report on the sale of bullets that matched a murder weapon to a guy with a fresh tattoo on his left forearm. A penciled note indicated Eddie Camp had been put on the job of tracing the inked art work.
Mark looked up Camp’s phone number, dialed it and got a sour-voiced woman who said Eddie was gone and not expected back at any certain time. He told her to have him call the minute he checked in and hung up.
There was something about that tattoo business he didn’t like at all. He couldn’t figure out why not.
Before he put the phone away he made three more calls to keep abreast of the situation. All he found out was that Miami was a sealed-off area with the boys closing in, the word being that any hits were to be quiet and unspectacular, a silent massacre with all the bodies removed and the evidence cleaned up so it looked like Herman the German and company had simply decided to ease themselves out and keep any public outcry down to a minimum. The Big Board and Papa Menes had hand-chosen the best soldiers available, all experienced professionals, and the job shouldn’t be too difficult.
Too bad, he thought again. The more trouble now, the better he could work the rest of his master plan. He came to a decision quickly. The money was there, he knew how the delivery could be made and he picked up the phone again with a self-satisfied smile.
An hour later a packet of money changed hands. Forty-five minutes after that the material was loaded and sent on its way. Herman the German was going to get his arsenal without Moe Piel’s help at all.
He finished his drink and was about to get ready to go to bed when the doorman downstairs buzzed his apartment and told him a Mr. Case was there. He told him to send him up, wondering what the hell Little Richard wanted at this time of night.
When he came in, Case didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “You know who bumped the Frenchman?”
“Suppose you tell me.”
“That fucking Shatzi, that’s who. The cops spotted him coming out of his apartment building but he got away before they could get to him.”
“Shatzi?”
“Yeah Frank’s own boy, that’s who. He missed carrying out the contract so Verdun lets out the word to have him picked up and Shatzi runs for it. All he thinks is Frank’s going to have him knocked off and that lunatic flips.”
“The
late news ...”
“Hell,” Case almost shouted, “nobody’s got the story. The cops are making the papers and the TV bunch keep quiet about it. He cut the Frenchman’s cock right off, scoops out his fucking belly button and slices his neck. The doorman identified him, the cop recognized him, now they got every bull in town looking for him.”
Shelby made two drinks and handed one to Case. “Like you said, he was Frank’s personal man. He can’t be tied in to us.”
“Look, Mark, nobody knows how much that loony could have picked up. We just better find him before the cops do, that’s all.”
“Frank’s orders are still in effect, aren’t they?”
“Damn right. I called in another dozen of our bunch to go at it too.” He paused, exasperated, “What the hell is going on any more? Here we’re all riding fat and easy and suddenly the fucking building is crashing down on our heads!”
“Relax, it’s happened before. We take care of these things.”
“We didn’t have any idiot navel nippers around before either.”
“Who told you about the Frenchman?”
“I was there when Lederer was blowing his top. I could hear him right across the hall. City Hall must have leaned on him because he’s gotten all leaves canceled, got the detectives working overtime and eating the ass out of Bill Long because Burke’s disappeared someplace and nobody can find him”
“Okay, finish your drink and go on home. Chicago dropped the whole thing in my lap until Papa comes back and I’ll take it from here. Tomorrow we’ll get some action.”
He locked the door behind Case and stood there a moment thinking of Gill Burke. He didn’t like for that bastard to be missing. He wanted him right where he could get to him.
Only Bill Long had gotten to Burke and told him about Shatzi.
Gill said, “You sure?”
“Positive make. Doorman and the cop. The medical examiner confirmed that Verdun died just minutes before the cop saw Shatzi run out of there.”
“So you got a break finally”
“No two ways about it. He mutilated the Frenchman like he did the others, only worse. Cut his damn pecker right off. He even left bloody prints in the elevator.”
“He was pretty damn dumb about it.”
“Hell,” Long said, “Verdun knew him, let him in and got it right out of left field. He never expected Shatzi would even try to take him.”
“One mistake is all it takes,” Gill said.
“And Lederer wants you back here. He wants to have a long talk about Verdun with Helen Scanlon and you’d better be ready with some fast answers or you are strictly up the creek. He’s beginning to think you’re tracking around dung on your shoes, old buddy. He’s even got a couple of his own men running a check on you.”
“Let him go screw himself.”
“You said that before.”
“Then what else is new?”
“When you coming back?”
“Monday morning. And in case you’re thinking of coming to get me, remember that this is New Jersey.”
“Come on, Gill, I didn’t tell him where you were.”
Burke laughed into the phone. “Keep up the good work. A guy needs a rest occasionally.”
“You’re not getting any damned rest,” Long told him as he hung up.
When Gill put the phone back, Helen was grinning at him.
“You’re not going to get any, either. Come back here, you big pig.”
Burke leaned back against the pillow, his arm around Helen’s warm shoulder. But something had happened to him and he wasn’t there with her at all. His mind was back in New York and suddenly little things began to come together, not swiftly, but swirling in like the first flakes of snow in a gusty wind, twisting and revolving while they looked for a place to settle. One would alight, stick a moment, then blow on into another place until it adhered, then waited for another to come and attach itself. It was forming now, and when the pieces stopped coming together everything would be covered and in place.
She knew he had left her and didn’t disturb his thoughts, content to be there while he tunneled into secret places after the hidden things only cops look for, wishing she could help, but knowing she couldn’t. The only thing she could be sure of was that tonight was all she had of him until it was over. She closed her eyes and tried to blanket herself with sleep.
On the top floor of the cheap hotel on Forty-ninth Street, sleep was something that couldn’t come to Shatzi Heinkle. He kept looking at the chunk of flesh in the pickle jar of rubbing alcohol that was beside him on the night table and felt a thrill of excitement unlike any he had ever experienced before.
Alive! He had done it to somebody who was alive!
He licked his lips and took another pull on the bottle of cheap whiskey he had picked up downstairs and grinned foolishly. Outside they’d be searching the city for him, but right now he couldn’t care less. The fleabag hotel was a safe place for him as long as Bert was at the desk, but tomorrow he’d move on to another safe place until he reached the clapboard shanty halfway across the United States where he was born and he could live there happy and peaceful all his life with his trophy in the bottle of alcohol and know that he finally got back at the world. Oh, he was too damn smart for them. Or too dumb for them, maybe. They never could think like he could and that’s why they never tagged him. And who would look in a place that didn’t even have a post office?
One by one, he went over the moves he would make and how he would make them, knowing his escape route was perfected. The only thing that bothered him was the bottle beside him and the wild excitement he felt. Hell, if just one of those things could make him feel so good, how would he feel if he had two or even three in the bottle? His mouth went dry from pleasure and he wet it down again with the whiskey.
Sure, there was that big wheel Shelby, the fat guy from downtown they called Little somebody. There was Remy who had told him to get lost once when he was waiting for Frank outside the office. Damn, but he could go back to that safe place with maybe two bottles full, knowing he left behind the story of what a really big man he was after all and that kind of food would sustain him forever.
He could always leave, but if he left now, he could never add to the bottle. And he was much too smart for them anyway.
Or dumb. Either way was just as good.
11
The years of professional whoredom had left Louise Belhander with a total callousness, an absolute lack of sensitivity and, until she saw the name Verdun again, an almost complete forgetfulness of her past. But that one word had brought it all back to her again, even the moments when she unconsciously went through the V listing in the phone book while she was making a call. Wherever she had been, she had never found the name, and now all she had was a terrible sense of stifled rage burning in her mind as she remembered nearly every detail of her sordid life that began that day in the barn.
Even if the old bastard and his friend had paid them well for their services, they were somebody who knew a man named Verdun and if it were the same Verdun she was going to see that they all paid even more.
When Artie Meeker drove them back to Miami she said she was going to stay at a friend’s house and stopped in Homestead to make a call. What she did was arrange to have a car ready for her use and when Artie dropped her off she got in the waiting sedan, followed him while he let out the other girl, then headed back to the Keys with him. Artie never realized he was being followed because Louise stayed well ahead of him, and on the Florida Keys, there is only one road. At a gas station along the way Artie stopped for a good ten minutes at an outdoor phone booth, then practically ran back to his car and drove like hell. When she saw the lights of his car slow down, then turn, she swung around, spotted the cottage, parked in a deserted driveway and ran back to Papa Menes’ cottage.
She squeezed into the clump of bushes outside the open window, oblivious of the insects that welcomed her, watching the small living room, listening to every word they sa
id, feeling the shock waves bounce through her brain at what Artie was telling Papa Menes.
Only once in his life had Papa ever felt a curdling in his stomach and felt the inside of his thighs quiver because he was afraid. Now he was feeling it again and he squeezed the arm of the chair so he could control himself and when the spasm passed he said, “Now, give me that shit once more.”
Artie Meeker stopped his pacing and swung around. “It was like I said, boss. Verdun’s dead. That Shatzi cut his button right outta his belly and even took it with him. Blam, just like that and the Frenchman’s outta it. The Big Board’s got Shelby handlin’ everything up there and they’re raising hell because nothing’s getting done down this way.”
“Shelby ain’t handling nothing,” Papa said nastily.
“I’m just telling you what they told me.”
More to himself than Meeker, Papa said, “The Board’s a pack of nitheads. If they think they can cancel me out with Shelby they’re crazy.”
“Boss ...”
“Shut up, Artie.” He stared at his hands, clenched them, then opened his fingers. “Those asses sent Verdun in themselves. They called him over my head without even asking me and now they’re screaming.”
“Boss ... you were the one who brought the Frenchman in the first time,” Artie reminded him.
“And once was enough. What else did they tell you?”
“Everybody on the cops in New York is looking for Shatzi. Our guys want him first and the lid’s ready to blow. That damned D.A.... Lederer ... is really laying on the heat. They want you to clean up here, then get back to the city.”
“Just like that.”
Meeker shrugged. “They said you got the soldiers down here, now use ’em. They want that Herman punk hit like right now.”
“Didn’t you tell them how I was playing it?”
“Sure, boss. Real cool, I said. No excitement. The Board said to screw the fancy stuff and get in there.”
“Fucking idiots,” Papa said.
“So what do you do, boss?”
The Last Cop Out Page 15