Хал Эллсон - Masters of Noir - Volume 3

Then there was just the hum of the radio and the silence at his back. Where was it, one of the banks? No, blowing vaults was a worn-out racket. A payroll at one of the mills or at the automobile assembling plant? Wrong time of week. Besides, that stuff went from the banks by armored cars in daytime.

At the other end of the narrow slot where he was trapped there was a desk, a big steel filing cabinet, and a rack with four sawed-off shotguns. The shells were in a drawer in the bottom of the rack. In another steel cabinet that he could almost reach with his right hand were five pistols and enough ammunition to last a year.

The whole works was as useless now as the radio.

Car 54 asked Shannon for an ambulance at the cloverleaf on State 219. “Two dead, two injured. Didn’t catch up with the dk soon enough.”

“What’s dk?” Judith Barrows asked quickly.

“Drunk.” Crestone’s head was aching. “Car 54 will be back here in about an hour. He’ll come in to write a report.” That was not so, but Crestone wanted to judge her reaction to the time. He leaned toward the radio and twisted his neck to look at her. The one-hour statement had not bothered her.

When he straightened up, he ducked quickly. She laughed. When he raised his head again the gun banged against it. He rolled his head, grinding curses under his breath.

Car 751 came in. Sam Kurowski said, “Any traffic? We’ve been out of the car a few minutes.”

“Where are they?” the woman asked.

Crestone pressed the mike switch.

“10–20, 751?”

“Alley between Franklin and Madison on Tenth Avenue.”

When the transmitting light was off she said, “Code 6 them to the corner — the southeast corner — of River and Pitt.”

Code 6 was boy trouble, kids yelling, throwing rocks — any of a hundred things. They could spot a cruiser a mile away. When Kurowski and Corky Gunselman got way out north on River and Pitt and found nothing, they would think nothing of it. Crestone followed the woman’s orders.

Car 752 came alive. Dewey Purcell said, “Going east on Washington at Sixth Street after dk . Give me a 10–28 on K6532.”

That does it, Crestone thought. Purcell was hell on drunken drivers. He and Old McGlone would be coming in with a prisoner in about five minutes.

“Give him the registration he asked for, Crestone.”

He pulled the vehicle registration book to him. K6532, 1953 Cadillac cpe., maroon, J. J. Britton, 60 Parkway. Jimmy Britton, the Hill itself. Damnation! You didn’t dump guys like him in the tank overnight; but he took hope from knowing that Purcell was in 752 tonight.

“Give him the 10–28, Buster.”

“When they stop. Old McGlone can hardly write, let alone in a car doing eighty after a stinking dk.”

Purcell called again from Washington and Trinity. “We got him.” A woman’s shrill voice came from the background before the car mike was closed. Crestone gave Purcell the registration information.

Crestone stared at the radio. Jimmy Britton would be drunk, affable, mildly surprised at being picked up. Among other things, when he fumbled out his driver’s license, he would show his honorary membership in the Midway Police Department. Old McGlone would say, “Ah now, Dewey, let’s take the lad home, shall we? No harm’s been done, has it?”

But Purcell was tough and he did not give a damn for the social register and he hated drunken drivers. Crestone had been the same way too, and now he was working for a year as a dispatcher.

It was Old McGlone who spoke the next time. “We’ll be going up the hill now to 60 Parkway.”

No lucky breaks tonight, Crestone thought. Tomorrow he would think of a dozen things he could have done, and every man out there in the cars would do the same. That was tomorrow. The gun was behind him now. She could reach him when he swung, and she could not miss if she shot.

There was a drawer in the desk full of stories of tough private-eyes who took bushels of guns away from dames clad in almost nothing, and then slapped them all over the joint or made love to them. Joe Crestone sighed. His head was aching brutally. He did not feel like taking any guns away from any dames.

Car 750 came back into service. Moore and Windoff had drunk their coffee. Then 752 went out of service temporarily at the Sunset Drive Inn. Crestone knew how Purcell was feeling now, the to-hell-with-it attitude. Old McGlone would be telling him, “There’s some things, Dewey boy, that you’ve got to learn about being a cop.” Old McGlone knew them all.

Car 751 signalled arrival at River and Pitt. A few minutes later Kurowski said, “10–98.” Assignment completed. There was no use to elaborate on nothing.

Judith Barrows said, “Send 751 to the Silver Moon on Oldtown Pike to look for a ‘49 green Ford sedan with front-end damage.”

Crestone obeyed. He studied the map. She wanted 751 north and east all the time. Then where in the southern or southeastern part of Midway was any heavy money? There was a brawl at the Riverview country club tonight, maybe a few thousand loose in pockets and a handful of jewelry, but—

The phone at Crestone’s elbow and the extension on the desk near the big filing cabinet spilled sound all over the room.

“Don’t touch it until I say so!” the woman said.

She went around the counter and backed into the chair at the other desk. She crossed her legs and steadied the .38 on her knee. She raised the phone and nodded.

“Police station, radio dispatcher,” Crestone said.

“Ten cents, please,” the operator said.

Crestone heard the pay phone clear. A man asked, “You got a report on State 312?”

“Just a minute.” Crestone had never heard of 312.

“Just tell him it’s all clear, Buster.” Judith Barrows was holding the mouthpiece against her thigh.

“All clear.” Crestone held on to hear a jukebox, the clatter of a cafe — anything to help position the call. The man hung up. A booth, Crestone thought. He put his phone down, staring at the woman’s legs. They were beautiful. He did not give a damn. She got up carefully, standing for a moment in a hip-out-of-joint posture. A model, he thought. It was in her walk too when she went around the counter again.

So they knew this end of it was set now. Where was the other end? Somewhere in the southern part of the district covered in normal patrol by Car 751. Anybody could read the red outlines on the map. It struck him then: the Wampum Club. Big business, cold and sure, with a fine patina of politeness, free drinks, free buffet and other incidentals for the regular suckers. The green-and-crackly on the line at Sonny Belmont’s Wampum Club. Let the cops take Jimmy Britton home and tuck him in, but Belmont never took his check, drunk or otherwise.

The job would take at least four fast, tough men. Making Sonny’s boys hold still for a deal like that was not for amateurs. There was a lot of dough around the Wampum; the income tax lads had been wondering how much for a long time.

So I think I’ve got it doped, and what good does it do? Belmont could stand the jolt. Why should men like Corky Gunselman and Sam Kurowski risk catching lead to protect money in a joint like the Wampum?

That was not the answer and Crestone knew it.

He looked at the last two stolen cars on the list. A ‘52 blue Mercury and a ‘53 green Hornet. That Hudson would go like hell and the Mercury was not so slow either. Both cars stolen around midnight in Bristol. He wondered which one was outside right now. He could be way off, but he had to figure he was right.

Since the Hornet and the Merc were already aired as hot, they would probably be used only to make the run to another car stashed close. East was the natural route. Old State 7 was narrow and twisting, but the farmers who used it would all be sleeping now. Say a half hour to reach the web of highways around Steel City, and then road blocks would be no more than something to annoy whiz kids on their way home with the old man’s crate. She had asked about State 7.