Уильям Макгиверн - Rogue Cop

“That’s right, with the routine out of the way you can look around,” Myers said, nodding. He sauntered away, looking relieved.

Carmody worked listlessly, almost hoping for a flurry of something to take his mind off Eddie. Finally, he left his desk and walked across the street to the drug store. He had to call Beaumonte and tell him Eddie couldn’t keep the appointment with Ackerman. Putting it off any longer would only make matters worse.

Nancy Drake answered the phone and it took him a moment to get through her to Beaumonte. She was in a giggling, half-tight mood and insisted on telling him of some hilarious impropriety her dog had committed. Carmody listened impatiently, feeling the heat of the booth settling around him and aware that his temper was dangerously short.

“Great, hilarious,” he said. “Funniest thing I’ve heard in the last two minutes. Now put Beaumonte on.”

“We are in a most pleasant mood, I must say,” she said with drunken dignity. Then she let out a little scream and giggled again. “Dan just whacked me on the tail. Would you do that to a girl, Mike? Come on, tell me.”

Carmody swore softly and rubbed the back of his hand over his damp forehead. Then Beaumonte’s soft rich voice was in his ear. “Mike, she had six brandy punches before breakfast, if you can believe it.” He didn’t sound angry, just tolerantly amused. “When she pickles herself for good I think I’ll put her in a bottle over the mantel. Like a four-masted schooner, only she’s missing a couple of masts.”

Beaumonte had been drinking, too, Carmody guessed. “What’s the deal on Shortall’s resignation?”

“Where you phoning from?” Beaumonte said, after a short pause. “A drug store.”

“Oh. There’s nothing to worry about, Mike. Ackerman will put a man in tomorrow probably. Is everything set for tonight, by the way? With your brother, I mean?”

“That’s why I called,” Carmody said. “He can’t make it.”

Beaumonte paused, and Carmody heard his long intake of breath. “This isn’t good,” Beaumonte said quietly.

“The kid had a date and wouldn’t break it,” Carmody said. “Should I put a gun in his back and march him up to your place?”

“Maybe that wouldn’t have been a bad idea,” Beaumonte said. “When can he make it?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“Okay, I’ll tell Ackerman. But he don’t like being stood up.”

“Don’t worry, he’ll be there tomorrow.”

“I’m not worrying,” Beaumonte said. “That’s your job. Remember that, Mike.”

When Carmody returned to the City Hall he saw Degget, the little man who’d been mixed up in the Wagner Hotel homicide, standing at the house sergeant’s window, collecting his personal effects. Degget recognized him and smiled awkwardly. “Sarge, I know what you did for me,” he said. “They had me down as a murderer until you came in.”

“Well, it’s all over now,” Carmody said.

“No, it won’t ever be over for me,” Degget said, his small mouth twisting with embarrassment and pain. “You know how a small town is. They’ll hold this over me and my family till we’re in our graves. And I don’t even know if my family will want me around any more. It was in the papers, you see. I wired my wife but she hasn’t answered yet.”

“These things blow over,” Carmody said. He squeezed Degget’s thin shoulder with his hand. “It won’t last.” Why should I give a good damn, he thought, watching Degget’s worried hopeless eyes.

“Well, it’s my goose that got cooked,” Degget said. “And I asked for it.” Then he said quickly, “Look, I want to show my appreciation for what you’ve done.” He reached for his wallet but Carmody caught his arm. “Never mind,” he said. “I don’t want—” He paused, remembering Myers’ invalid wife and young daughters. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “If you want to buy someone a drink, buy one for Detective Myers. Leave something in an envelope with the house sergeant. He’ll see that he gets it. And Myers can use it.”

“I’ll do that, I sure will,” Degget said.

Carmody started for the stairs but stopped and looked back at Degget’s doleful little figure. He winked at him and said, “Cheer up. The boys at home will think you’re a hero.”

“Well, they’ll want all the details anyway,” Degget said, smiling sheepishly.

The afternoon and evening wore on slowly. It was one of those nights when the city seemed to be inhabited by saints. But the inactivity irritated him because it gave him too much time to think. When his shift was finally over he was in a touchy, explosive mood. At his hotel he called the Fanfair and asked for Karen.

When she answered he said, “This is Mike. Did you talk to Eddie?”

“Yes — he’s just gone.” Against the background noise of the bar her voice was high and light.

“What happened?”

“I couldn’t do it,” she said. “I couldn’t tell him I needed ten thousand dollars for an operation.”

Carmody stared at the phone in his hand, his face hardening into cold bitter lines. “This is pretty,” he said. “Did lying to him go against your principles?”

“No one has the right to put that kind of pressure on him. To force him to make that kind of decision.”

“You sweet little fake,” he said savagely. “You didn’t have the right, eh? Well, do you have the right to let him get killed?”

“I begged him to take care of himself,” she said, and he heard her voice break suddenly. “He said there was nothing to worry about. He said—”

“You missed your chance, baby.”

“Then don’t miss yours,” she cried at him.

“What do you mean? Listen—”

The phone clicked in his ear. Carmody stared at the receiver a moment, then slammed it down in the cradle. She was checking out. The act was over; Danny Nimo’s girl knew when it was time to switch roles. But with his anger there was a cynical respect for her; she was looking after Number One, and that was playing it smart.

Carmody crossed the room to the windows and stared out at the scene spreading below him; the river was shining palely and the high buildings loomed massively against the sky, their lighted windows forming irregular designs in the darkness. Eddie is my job, he thought, I was a fool to think anyone else cared a damn whether he lived or died.

Carmody slept uneasily that night and was up early in the morning. One thing had occurred to him by then: Why were Ackerman and Beaumonte worried about Delaney? This was something he should have checked immediately, and he realized that his emotional concern over Eddie was ruining his cop-wise judgment. What had Beaumonte said? That if Delaney talked it would cause trouble. But for whom? Ackerman or Beaumonte?

Carmody sat down at the phone, a cigarette between his lips, and began a cautious check on Delaney. He talked with two Magistrates, a Judge and half-a-dozen bookies, trying to learn something from casual gossip. The word was around, he soon realized; they knew Delaney was threatening to sing and that the big boys were worried. But no one cared to speculate on the nature of Delaney’s information. Carmody gave it up after a while, but he wasn’t discouraged. The clue might be in Delaney’s past; Delaney had been a muscle boy in the organization when Ackerman and Beaumonte were on-the-make hoodlums instead of semirespectable public figures. That would be the angle to check.

Delaney’s evidence must be something tangible and conclusive; otherwise, his threats to sing wouldn’t bother Beaumonte and Ackerman. The job was to find that evidence and destroy it; that would pull Delaney’s stinger, take the pressure off the big boys and leave Eddie in the clear. It wasn’t a simple job and it had to be done quickly, but Carmody wasn’t worried; he knew how to handle this kind of work. The city couldn’t keep any secrets from him; he had studied it too long for that. A map of the city blazed in his mind; he knew the look of a thousand intersections and could reel off the houses and shops on each corner as easily as he could the alphabet. He knew politicians from the Mayor down to precinct drifters, and he understood the intricate balancings and give-and-take of the city’s administration. The brothels and bars, the clubs and cliques, the little blondes and brunettes tucked away in handsome apartments in center-city, guys on the make, on the skids, on the way up — Carmody had them all indexed and cross-indexed in his formidable memory.