His toothy expression was not a smile.
“Anything else?” he gritted.
“Yes, sir. We’ll forget about the twenty grand. But I see you in a new light, Banjo. You must have hated Larry Lake. And boy, that makes you one thing in my book. A Grade A murder suspect.”
“Real cute, aren’t you? Well, here’s something for you, you smart bastard …”
His half-finished drink of scotch cooled off my face with a fast flourish of his hand. The ice stung my cheeks. He waded in right after it, his big shoulders pumping, his hamlike hands coming up.
I took the drink head-on and rode in close to the bar. His hard right hand blurred over my left shoulder, the bony joint of his elbow gouging me in passing.
My left hand sunk into his flat middle and burrowed a little. The air rushed out of him, fanning my face. I brought my right hand around in a sweeping hook and rammed it into his chin. That sent him the full distance back and laid him across a table that crashed to the floor with a bang.
I had forgotten about Leo the bartender. But he hadn’t forgotten about me. My arms were suddenly jerked behind me, pinned in a flash, and Leo’s voice was hoarse in my ear. Banjo Brice staggered erect.
“Got ’im, Banjo! Give the sucker what for!”
I squirmed but Leo had iron in his fingers. Banjo Brice took unsteady steps toward me, his spoiled mug as angry as a revolution. A tight smile pulled his lips back.
Leo and I waltzed around a little but I couldn’t shake him off. I was just another bottle of whisky in his very steady fingers.
Brice came up close and drew back a big fist. I rolled but Leo stayed with me. Now I knew where Leo had gotten his ugly scar. He was a born mixer.
The next thing I knew was five knuckles, all bunched together, making connection with my face. My ears hummed and something warm rushed around in my head, spilled out through my nose. I knew I couldn’t stand much more of that. So I did the next worst thing.
I blew my top and lashed out with my shoe—low. Banjo Brice’s close-up of a victorious leer turned into a sick portrait of pain and nausea. He fell back with a shriek of agony, grabbed his lower abdomen, and stayed that way, moaning.
Then I did something about Leo. I let my knees sag and the suddenness of the move put some of his weight further up my back. I heaved and twisted. One of his hand-holds broke and that was all I needed.
He cursed and came back at me, bringing an empty bottle for company. His expression was uglier than his scar. I scooped up a chair from a nearby table and sailed it at him. He skidded out of the way but I had enough time to run up to him, wrench the bottle out of his hand. His wrist gave under my fingers and spittle from his mouth flew at me. I was feeling pretty sore about a couple of things by this time, so I took it out on him. The punch I brought up from the floor deposited him into a chair out cold. The chair and Leo made a helluva racket going over.
Banjo Brice was coughing and groaning when I got back to him. His small eyes were fastened on me in pure hatred.
Somebody came into the bar with a newspaper folded under his arm. The plain-clothes man who had watched the whole thing from outside without cutting in.
“Okay, everybody. Knock it off! What’s going on here?”
I laughed. “Spoken like a true officer. Let me get my lumps, eh? I guess the Department is still sweating me down for Walsh.”
I didn’t know him but he knew me. His face got purple and he dug into his pocket. The newspaper fell to the floor.
“Hold out your hands, Noon. And keep your opinions to yourself!”
“What the hell for? You want to slip the bracelets on me? Well, I got news for you. I don’t believe in men wearing jewelry.”
That really did it. He cursed and whipped out his Police Special. I shook my head slowly and held out my hands. The cuffs came clanking out of his pocket with the other hand. The barrel of the gun in his fist trembled with his anger.
To make matters worse, Banjo Brice was shouting all kinds of accusations as he swayed over, still hanging on to his middle.
My mind was made up. Helluva lot of good I’d do myself cooling my heels down at Headquarters. I had too many things to do.
Some of them I did in a hurry.
I pulled Banjo Brice over, got him between me and the bore of the law, and let him go like a rock out of a sling.
Banjo was a big boy out of control. All two hundred pounds of him crashed into the plain-clothes man who did his manful best to get out of the way. Banjo flung his big paws out to steady himself and squalled in fright. The copper didn’t have a chance with Banjo crowding him. They took the floor together, a tangle of arms and legs, looking like a science-fiction writer’s idea of a Martian.
I hurdled them and got out of the bar in a hurry. I didn’t stop running until I got back to where the Buick was parked, and climbed in. I meshed some gears and shot away from the curb.
I hadn’t learned too much from Banjo Brice but I’d learned enough. Lake had had something on him. Something like a prison record. Banjo Brice had had a good reason to kill Lake. Twenty thousand dollars to the contrary.
The same thing went for someone else on the Raven team. There was more than just the dough involved. Lake had some rep for a murdered man.
A reason for killing Lake. And a bonus reason of twenty grand. Unless Lake wasn’t killed with the dough also in mind. Which meant it was still sitting where he had put it when he suited up for the ball game with the Giants. Wherever that might be.
I thought about it more than a little as I raced downtown to my office.
FIFTEEN
I went into Benny’s place after I parked the Buick. I was hungry for one thing. For another, Benny usually briefed me on things before I went upstairs. If anyone had been hanging around, Benny would know.
Benny’s soft drink emporium was my only other home besides the mouse auditorium. Benny and I were old friends. He was the fattest and most decent bartender of them all. We got along fine.
“Hi, Benny,” I called out to him, sliding onto one of his fancy stools on the window end of the bar. He came waddling over, wiping his hands on his apron. The absence of any customers had nothing to do with his pleasure. His fat face always had a smile for me.
“Ed,” he grunted. “Where you been? You in trouble again?”
I nodded, daubing at my slight case of nose bleed with a handkerchief. “Nothing I can’t handle. How about some coffee and a ham and cheese sandwich a la Benny’s?”
“Sure, Ed, sure. I was worryin’ about you.”
He disappeared into the rear of the place and I had a moment to think about Benny and our friendship. We had started off as business acquaintances with me slipping him a bill now and then because he kept an eye on my building while I was out nosing around. He’d helped me a lot in the past and I’d always responded with a fiver or so, but there had been a gradual change in our relationship. We had reached that point of life where I actually liked Benny and I knew he liked me. Maybe five years of living together on the same street does it. Maybe it doesn’t. Who knows? It’s a nutty world.
Benny came back with the vittles. I let him watch me as I dove in without preamble. When I’m working on a case, I smoke too many cigarettes and my diet goes all to hell.
“Anybody hanging around while I was gone?” I got it out between mouthfuls of cheese and ham.
“You hot, Ed? On the lam or something like that?”
“Something like that, Benny. The cops think I helped lower the boom on one of the club. How’s that for gossip?”
He shook his fat head.
“It figures. There was a stake-out on your place this afternoon. Came in here for a beer. Spotted him right off standin’ outside the building. S’ funny how all cops start to look alike to me.”
I sipped some coffee. “Is he still there?”
Benny’s wag was negative. “He got pulled off. Car drew up about an hour ago and he got in. When it pulled away, they didn’t leave no relief.”
<
br /> That made me grin. Monks had probably called off the dogs, but as soon as the party with Banjo Brice and the detective was gotten wind of, the stake-out man might come dashing back. You can’t tell though. The dick might look silly down at Headquarters and, not wanting to, never turn the report in. After all, I wasn’t a wanted man or anything like that.
Benny was surprised at my grin. “You okay, Ed?”
“Never better, Benny. Was there anything else you wanted to tell me?”
“Yeah. Why the hell don’t you go in the real estate business? You’d be a lot better off.”
I laughed, finishing off the rest of the sandwich. I laid a bill on the bar.
“Benny,” I said solemnly, “we have a beautiful friendship. Don’t spoil it by being a nagging wife.”
He grinned. “Want a drink?”
“Let’s rain-check it, Benny. I gotta get upstairs and answer my fan mail. Things are piling up.”
I walked out and across the street in the cool of the late afternoon. It had been a trying day and maybe my guard was down, but Benny’s words stayed with me. All the way up in the elevator, I thought about what he had said. Him and all the other people who had wanted me to get the hell out of the private eye racket while I still had all my teeth and arms and legs.
Sam Foley, Alma Wheeler, April Wexler, Mike Monks—all of them had wondered why a guy like me wanted to be what he was. A private detective.
I knew why. But I never could explain it. You get a feeling about things and then you get a license and a gun and then maybe you do something about all those things you feel. Maybe it’s the excitement, the being your own boss and sleeping and eating and loving whenever you want. It could be that, I don’t know. I never really did know. All I knew was that it made me happy. I guess that ought to be as good a reason as any.
But all those people who had wanted me to give it up, those people meant something to me. And their voices plagued me at times. This was one of those times. Benny had brought it all bouncing back with the crack about real estate.
I unlocked the office door, flicked on the overheads, and went around to my desk where I flopped into the worn swivel chair. I didn’t take my hat off. I just leaned back and let my thoughts buzz around loose.
Sometimes I hated it. Being a snooper. Taking money for messing in other people’s lives, straightening out their kinks for a fee. But it was a job and every job has a salary. Mine usually wasn’t much but I always seemed to get by. I reached into a desk drawer and dug out my bank book. I thumbed through it. For a savings account, I wasn’t exactly loaded. $225.50. Not much to show for five years.
Cases like this Arongio mess didn’t exactly help. You started off with fifty dollars clear and you’re doing fine and then—bingo. You’re running around town in cabs, ripping into the retainer, and what’s worse, you get involved yourself and then you can’t make any money at all. Well, I was going to do my damnedest to change that formula of failure.
Arongio’s twenty thousand dollars’ worth of lost dreams was floating around somewhere and I had bought myself into one quarter of it if I could find same. Five thousand clams were mine if I could figure out where a ball player named Lake had parked it. Somehow, I still felt that his murderer had never gotten to it.
I thought some more about Mr. Arongio and the Poe frame-up. Talk about new ways to swindle people. I’d heard the one about Edison’s last breath sealed in a bottle, and selling the Brooklyn Bridge, but Poe was really reaching way back. I had to hand it to Lake. For a guy from a small burg like Providence, he’d really worked it Big City style. And he’d done it the best possible way. He’d been sure of his man. Who else to bring a rare Poe diary to than an antique dealer who was a Poe fan from the word go? I guessed Mrs. Arongio had been a big help in that department. Well, Arongio had paid her back plenty. The going-over he had given her was a real lulu.
Of course, there was always the uncomfortable possibility that the diary was genuine. Wasn’t Arongio moving heaven and earth, not to mention furniture, to find it?
I burrowed into my half-empty pack and dug out a cigarette. I flung a glance at the office clock. It was going on six and I wasn’t getting anything done. I reached for the phone.
First, I called the newspaper office and got Jerry King’s home phone number. They gave it to me when I gave out with Jerry’s real name. Only his select friends knew that. Jerry was the smartest sports columnist in town.
He was in when I called. After we kicked some amenities around, I got down to business.
“This Polo Grounds thing must be keeping you busy. You could be a large help, Gerald …”
“Okay, Ed.” He laughed. “You want some information again as only a King can give it. Save your old line. Get out your little black book.”
“It’s been out. What about this Lake?”
“He was twenty-six, white, and unmarried. Batted .375 for Crotona in ’51, moved up to the Ravens in ’52. But he’d never have gone any higher. Lousy temperament. Nothing but complaints on him all the way down the line. Just a real bush-leaguer.”
“Batting averages I can get from the Little Red Book. Any off-the-field dope?”
He chuckled. “Why don’t you write my column? Who’s the detective, pal? Okay, I made my point. Lake was hated by every man on the Ravens. Women trouble, card trouble, money trouble. This kid was one bad actor. Any one of them would have driven a truck over him gladly. That help you?”
“You’re making it official, anyway. Did he have any prison record?”
“Hell, no. After high school he jumped into the Army for three years and then baseball. That’s all there is, there is no more.”
I bit my lip. You can squeeze that kind of information on one of those cards that come out of a weighing machine.
“Look, Jerry. Any personal stuff on this guy? You know what I mean. Did he prefer the rumba or the samba, salads or hamburgers—you know. What was with him?”
“Sometimes you scare me, Ed.” There was a pause. I got impatient. “The file I got on him lists one thing. You figure it out for yourself. Under Idiosyncrasies we have listed—and I quote—‘outstanding amateur magician. His sleight-of-hand is extraordinary.’ Unquote and how’s that?”
I snorted. “You giving me a rib?”
“I’m giving myself one. Spare ribs. You interrupted my supper, you bum. Honest, that’s exactly what I got here on the sheet.”
“Okay, Jerry. I believe you. Thanks for the five minutes.”
I hung up after promising to drop in on him at the office sometime … outstanding amateur magician. His sleight-of-hand is extraordinary …
Oh, lovely. I could just see him pulling rabbits out of hats in the clubhouse to amuse the team. Maybe cards out of sleeves. Or pigeons out of the bat rack. Nuts. Something struggled for life in my brain, but I was too hot and tired to assist in the birth.
Disgustedly, I took a file card out of my business file box. It was about time to enter the crazy Arongio caper for posterity. My posterity.
It took just a minute to work it out. In my own particular code. Cryptic yet clear as a bell to the only man it meant anything to. Me.
BIG ORANGE**** rolling around loose looking for a diary that got away
LAKE*** Nevermore ball player who does tricks with diary and 20,000 leaves of lettuce
DEAD GAME** the lettuce has to turn up before it yellows with age
I broke off because there was an interruption. Three hurried knocks on the office door. I spun around in the swivel and stared at the glass.
A small feminine silhouette was outlined in the wide frame. She was wearing a hat. Either that or she usually walked around with a feather sticking out of her head.
“Come on in,” I said. “Just turn the knob.”
The silhouette turned the knob and came in. It also turned out to be Mrs. Arongio. I had a little trouble identifying her because of the black net veil that fell over her face. But tufts of red hair gleamed at me from under the hat and the v
eil was a safe bet with her face looking like it was. Her figure was still the same though. Tiny, compact, and shapely, which is the way I liked small women to be.
I had no trouble identifying the thing in her hand. It was big, black, and ungainly in her small fingers. It was a gun of Civil War vintage, a regular frontier model. And she had the hammer cocked.
That made me nervous. I got to my feet and tried to be thinner.
“Now, look, lady,” I said. “Bottles are one thing. But those things are another. Don’t go off half-cocked.”
It was some joke under the circumstances. But she didn’t appreciate it. Under the net of the veil, something gleamed. A few of the teeth that weren’t missing.
“Are you alone?” she rasped.
“I was. And I wish I were. What do you want?”
I could see her eyes now as she moved in closer. They weren’t quite normal.
“You’re my last hope, Noon. I want you to take me to Carl. My husband.”
I shook my head. In my position, I shook my head.
“No dice, Mrs. A. You’d only shoot him up.”
Somebody else walked in behind her and closed the door. But it wasn’t help for me. It was reinforcements for her. He came around to her side and glowered at me.
He was as short as she was but if you measured her height that’s just about how wide he’d be.
“You’ll take us to him all right,” he grumbled. “Unless you wanta get shot up yourself.”
SIXTEEN
“Can I interest either of you in some real estate?” I said. I was just changing the subject.
The short, wide guy chuckled deep in his gut and locked the door behind him. I could see he didn’t feel about me the way Benny did.
Mrs. Arongio, the gun still shaking in her hand, came around to where the desk was between us.
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