Shakedown for Murder

by Ed Lacy

  I thanked her again and at the door I asked, “Do you think Jane Endin would have harmed Doctor Barnes?”

  The pale lips formed a tight slit after she said, “Get out!” The words came with bullet force.

  It was raining again and I sat in the car, slowly cleaned out my pipe and lit it. Mrs. Jenks came running out of the house, a shawl half over her big head. When she saw me, she opened the car door, pushed in. “Drive me to the drugstore! I could break your neck, upsetting Priscilla like that!”

  I wanted to remark that I hadn't the slightest doubt but that those arms could break my neck. I drove off without saying a word, then I asked, “Where is the drugstore?”

  “Straight ahead on Main Street. Where did you think it would be? You made her sick.”

  “Sorry. But I have to ask certain questions and....”

  “Why?” she shouted. “Why do you have to ask any questions? This isn't your town!”

  “Unfortunately murder isn't the property of any one town. Do you want to see Jerry sent to jail?”

  “If he killed Ed Barnes he ought to be hung!”

  “The 'if' is why I must ask questions. Like, where were you that night, Mrs. Jenks?”

  “Me?” It was a mild explosion.

  “Like I said, I have to ask certain questions.”

  With a movement amazingly fast for a woman her size, she suddenly put an immense sandaled foot on top of mine, banging it down on the brake, causing the car to screech to a stop. “You dirty old skunk, stop this car this second!”

  She opened the door and jumped out. I wiggled my toes. She shook a fat fist at me. “If I tell my son what you just said—I hate to think what he'd do to you! And for your information, I was home all night after I left Priscilla's. Why I even sat up until three in the morning, watching out the window to see if Edward came home. Then my younger boy, Mike, got up and made me go to bed. There, you dirty-minded ferret!”

  I watched her walk away in the rain, the jelly-flesh on her wide backside shaking. I drove to Hampton, letting the talk with Mrs. Barnes cook in my mind. The “evidence” against Jerry was getting downright silly, and there were at least five leads that made a damn sight more sense than Jerry's alleged motive. Nelson, whoever he was, could be the 'old goat.' Mrs. Barnes had reason enough to kill her husband, so had Jane Endin—if what Jerry said was true.

  Nor could I even rule out burly Mrs. Jenks—she might have wanted her son to practice in the Harbor awfully bad.

  Any lawyer could prove Mrs. Barnes was far from positive the doc didn't make two calls that night. Why, I could take the stand and disprove Roberts' “evidence” on the basis of my conversation with Mrs. Barnes. I considered Roberts a hot lead, too. As the guy in Riverside said, not much in the way of a salary or pension for a small-town cop. Not impossible Artie decided to get something going for himself, and Priscilla must certainly be the Harbor's richest widow right now. That fitted, he needed other reasons beside hushing up a town scandal for making such a sloppy case. But—it takes a certain kind of sharpie to make a realistic job of playing an older woman, and Roberts was all lardhead. Of course, you can never tell about motives—he could be framing Jerry merely to spite me. That was fantastic, but then what was my motive for being an eager-beaver in my old age?

  However, I felt quite pleased with myself. Detective work was only using horse sense—shame I hadn't been more ambitious when I first got on the force. This job was far from over, though. Tracking down Nelson would be hard, I didn't even know his first name. Probably mean a lot of digging into Doc's past—I had the hunch they'd known each other years ago—and that would require spade work. The thing to do was take a crack at what I had on hand—Jane Endin.

  You'd never guess Hampton was only seventeen miles from End Harbor, everything about the town cried money: solid, father-to-son folding dough. The large houses and great estates looking like something you see in the movies, the swank shops—branches of famous Fifth Avenue stores —the expensive cars, even teenagers zipping around in foreign jobs. I had to ask a couple times before I found the watch factory—a new brick building covered with vines and flowers, the windows large and clean, bright neon lights inside. I would have taken it for a small ritzy school.

  People rarely question a police badge, the gal at the reception desk didn't when I flashed my tin and said, “Peace Officer. I'd like Miss Endin's home address.”

  “This is something, the police phoned yesterday and this morning asking for her. She lives in End Harbor.”

  “I know that, but she hasn't been home,” I said, thinking I was wrong not to have tried her house instead of taking the boy-cop's word for it. “Did she have any address here in Hampton? You know, some place to call in an emergency?”

  “No sir, we only have the Harbor address for her.”

  “I see. Can I speak to whoever worked next to her, any close pal she has among the girls here?”

  “I suppose it's about that murder in the Harbor. Gee whiz, we never have nothing here but hot-rod jerks wrecking themselves.” She phoned in to somebody, then told me, “Girl be out in a second. This Jane in trouble?”

  “No.”

  A young girl in a tight red turtleneck sweater, and tighter jeans showing off her round basketball rear, walked up to me. When she walked the basketball was far from still. “You the detective? See, I work next to Jane. Is she in a jam? When I saw her this morning she didn't act like....”

  “Where did you see her?”

  “On the Dunes Road. I can't, sleep much when it's muggy and my old man is too cheap to get air conditioning, so I was up early this morning. I drove around and she passed in her old struggle-buggy. She didn't stop, just waved at me. Jane looked bad, like she'd been up all night.” The girl had a jerky way of talking—and thinking, for she reached up to brush her close-cut dark hair with her fingertips... and to make sure I saw her tiny pointed breasts.

  “Did Miss Endin ever mention any friends in Hampton? Say, some place where she might go on her lunch hour, or after work?”

  “Naw. She didn't talk much. Even though I've worked beside her for over a year now, Jane ain't the buddy-buddy type. You see, she's old, and an Indian. Last....”

  “Old?”

  “For crying out tears, I bet she's thirty if she's a day. Last summer I suggested we might take in the pow-wow at the reservation. I figured her being Indian and all. Man, she near flipped, told me off. You can't figure a woman like—”

  “What reservation?”

  She brushed her hair again, with both hands this time, to give me the full view. It wasn't much of a view. “Mister, you don't know a little about this end of the Island. Guess you must be a big-time dick brought in special for the murder. I know that's what it's about.” She gave me a cute wink.

  “Where is the reservation?”

  “Outside Qotaque there's this Indian reservation. Every summer all the Indians living in Brooklyn and the other cities, they're supposed to return and hold dances, and all this old square stuff. I went once. It was from hunger, strictly tourist bait jive.” She glanced at the wall clock. “You know I'm losing time, this is a piece-work deal. Anything else?”

  “That's all. Thank you.”

  “What they want Jane for, witness against this old Greek?”

  “No, I'm merely checking.”

  She winked again. “You wouldn't tell me anyway. Yon know, you ain't what I pictured a dick looking like.”

  “Sorry, I left my muscles home,” I said, heading for the door.

  The rain was coming down harder and my back started to ache. Twenty minutes later I was in Qotaque, which was even smaller than the Harbor. A stiff wind was driving the rain and it was almost dark enough to be night. I stopped for coffee and a hamburger, got directions on finding the reservation. I followed the directions and when I reached the Shinnecock Canal I knew I'd passed the turn-off.

  I drove back slowly, the windshield wiper fighting a losing battle, and found it—not a road but a country lane
with a faded wooden sign. The rain had made the dirt road into a mud rut. I inched along, not seeing any houses.

  If I'd been going faster I might have made it: the car slid into a hole, or some damn thing, and stuck. My right rear wheel raced like a runaway prop, sending up a shower of mud. The car skidded a few inches from side to side, sank back into the hole. I tried backing out; it was a waste of time.

  I sloshed over to the bushes on the side of the “road” to pull out a handful of branches; nothing gave except my skin. I took out my penknife and hacked away like a cub scout. By the time I was thoroughly soaked, the rain chilling the remains of yesterday's sunburn, I had an armful of small branches. I packed these in front of the rear wheels and the car went a big fat two feet, then slid back into the mud. Locking the ignition, I started walking in the rain, cursing myself for not having the sense to stay in my comfortable New York flat.

  After I walked a few hundred yards there was a turn in the mud and I came upon a couple of shacks and a store. I felt as if I'd stumbled on some forgotten Tobacco Road. There was a light in the store. I tracked in mud. The guy behind the counter looked more like a Negro than an Indian, although he had long white brushed hair reaching his shoulders. He was wearing a worn beaded vest over a faded shrimp-colored sport shirt. He was short and wide.

  “Come for souvenirs? Fall in the mud, mister?” His voice was a rough croak and his wide mouth toothless.

  “My car is stuck. Can you...?”

  “Ah, you need gas. I have a pump behind the store.”

  “I'm stuck in the mud. Can you help me?” The light was one small bulb and the few cans and boxes on the shadowy shelves seemed terribly stale-looking. In a separate showcase he had some dusty toy tom-toms, beaded belts and feathered hats, left over from the last tourist invasion.

  “Ah, the mud. Washington still robs the Indian, for years we have asked for a paved road. I'm Chief Tom. I have a truck if you want a tow. Ten bucks.”

  “Ten bucks! That mud ambush out there your work?”

  “You want tow or not?” There was an evil gleam in his bloodshot eyes. “You're blocking the road so I'll have to tow your car out of the way. Still cost you ten bucks.” He pulled back his vest with a proud movement to show me a large, highly polished gold badge. “I'm a deputy, in charge of traffic here.”

  “Thanks for going through the motions of asking if I wanted a tow.” I felt tired, no longer the super-detective. I dried my face with my handkerchief, pulled out my pipe. It was wet. “This the reservation?”

  He nodded. “Indians dumb. Government give them land and a house here for free, but the young bucks, they leave. Maybe go into army, never come back here. Live in lousy tenements in Brooklyn.”

  “Sure, they're crazy to leave this paradise. You know a Miss Jane Endin?”

  His eyes became cagey. “I know her. That's what I mean. She has house and land in End Harbor, but if she was smart she would sell it and come live here for nothing. She's not smart.”

  “I know, she isn't a customer of yours. Where can I find her?”

  “What you want to see her for?”

  I flashed my buzzer but he grabbed my hand and pulled back his vest—held my badge against his. He gave me a grin full of purple gums; his badge was bigger. “What she done?”

  I jerked my hand away, put my badge in my pocket. “Nothing. I want to ask about a friend of hers.”

  Chief Tom gave me a wise look. “You're a Federal man. Income tax trouble?”

  “No. When did you see Miss Endin last?”

  “Let me see... five, six years ago. Ain't she in the Harbor no more?”

  I suppose I should have asked more questions, visited the other shacks. But my back was aching, I had a chill, and was so damn tired all I could think of was soaking in a hot tub—if I could find one. I was too weary to even haggle with him about the price. I said, “Get your truck.”

  He pulled a fancy white trenchcoat from under the counter that made him look ridiculous, carefully brushed his long hair before putting on a battered fishing cap. Locking the door, he told me to wait. A moment later he came roaring around in an old six-wheeled army truck so high I had to pull myself up to the running board.

  Reaching my car, Tom said he would push me out. I asked if there was any way he could circle around, come up behind the car and pull me out. He told me there was another road but it meant driving miles out of the way, and he pushed cars out after every rain. I got behind the wheel and he inched the big truck forward. His bumper seemed to be on my headlights. When I shouted it was all wrong he yelled back, “Just keep her in neutral and don't worry. I push you to the main road.”

  I told him to be careful. He had the truck in low and I kept the door open, leaning out to see where I was backing. My car moved backwards as if it was a toy, the glare of his lights in my eyes. When the main road was in sight I signaled he could stop pushing me. At that second I went into another dam hole and his bumper came down on my lights with a sickening crash of metal.

  We both jumped out. Tom croaked, “What's the matter with you, you crazy!” and examined his bumper—which a tank couldn't have dented. Both my headlights were smashed, the fenders dented, and my bumper was hanging.

  He said, “What did you put her in gear for?”

  “Who put her in gear? Didn't you see me waving for you to stop?”

  “I thought you were waving me on. I said I'd push you out to the road.”

  “You dumb bastard!” I kicked the bumper. It fell off and I picked it up, tried to shake off the mud, then put it in the back of the car.

  Tom put his hand under my fenders. “They're not touching the tires, you can drive.” He held out his hand. “Ten bucks.”

  “I ought to sue you for....”

  “Mister, ten bucks. That's the rate.”

  “I'll give you the back of my hand ten times! I'll....”

  He suddenly grabbed my windbreaker and before I knew what the devil was happening, he actually picked me up and threw me into the mud. “Don't get yourself hurt, mister. You don't know how to drive, ain't money out of my pocket. Ten bucks, please.” He glanced down at his trenchcoat—it wasn't even muddy.

  I sat up in the mud. I had to tangle with a muscle man, and the long haired son-of-a-bitch probably was older than me, too! My behind was soaking wet. I stood up, wanted to slug him but decided he'd flatten me. Without a word I gave him two five-dollar bills, got in the car and backed out. I headed for End Harbor, expecting to b» collared any second for driving without lights.

  I'd never been this angry before in my life. The great Sherlock Lund—a mass of mud! One thing, I couldn't have Bessie and Andy see me like this.

  I cooled off as I drove, paying full attention to the rainy road. I could see fairly well, there were enough cars going the other way to light up the road. I didn't stop at Hampton but pulled into a garage on the outskirts of End Harbor. A young fellow eating his supper in the office came out wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “What happened to you? New car, too.”

  “I ran into Sitting Bull. Tell me how bad it is. Got a test room?”

  He nodded toward a small white door. Inside I washed most of the mud off, using a lot of paper towels. I looked pretty good, considering the damn oversize windbreaker, but I was still wet all over. When I came out the mechanic was back in the office, finishing his supper. I went in, tried drying out my pipe bowl with matches as he said, “Nothing wrong with your lights, just need new glass and bulbs. Where you heading for?”

  “I'm staying in the Harbor.”

  He finished his container of coffee, said, “Brooklyn license plates. Well, I know the summer has really started with you....”

  “Aw, cut it off. Can you fix the lights now? I want to get back to my cottage.”

  “Can't put the glass in, but I can give you bulbs,. Look, suppose you bring the car around in the morning and leave it. I'll straighten out the fenders, paint 'em, take care of the lights and the bumper. Do it in a day if
I at busy. Cost you thirty-five dollars.”

  “Okay.”

  He went out to the car and put in bulbs, carried the bumper back into the shop. The lights weren't much good, but at least I wouldn't get a ticket. As I lit my pipe and started the car, he said, “That's seventy-five cents for the bulbs. Deductible from the thirty-five dollars but payable now.”

  “It's touching to see your faith in your fellow men,” I said, giving him three quarters.

  He smiled. “I'm a union man—E. Pluribus Unum. See you in the morning, mac.”

  He was so pleased with his corny wisecrack I didn't say a word, puffed harder on the pipe. I still had to kill time until Andy went to bed. There was one thing I'd overlooked—the scene of the crime. Not that I expected to find anything there now. I should have gone there yesterday. As a detective I was a good cell block attendant. I rolled down the window, asked, “Know where the killing of the doctor happened?”