Уильям Макгиверн - Rogue Cop

Fanzo sat down slowly, his eyes dilating as he stared at the cold blue barrel of the revolver. Suddenly he felt cold and weak, as if he had just discovered that this grip on life was tentative and slippery. “No, I won’t come after you, keed,” he said, and wet his dry lips.

“That’s very smart,” Carmody said.

He left the room and went quickly down the stairs. A dozen heads turned as he stopped at the door of the smoky bar, a dozen pairs of eyes watched him alertly but cautiously. Everyone knew what had happened; the word had already come downstairs. A crooked cop had gone haywire and slugged Fanzo. But no one moved. The bartender discovered a spot on the bar that needed wiping, and someone whistled aimlessly into the silence. They all knew the legend of this particular cop and none of them was eager to add to its luster. For a moment Carmody let his cold eyes touch every face in the room, and then he walked through the bar and out to the sidewalk.

When the door swung shut a heavily built young man looked anxiously up toward Fanzo’s apartment. “We should have stopped him,” he said. “Fanzo won’t like it that we just let him walk out.”

The man beside him grinned. “Why didn’t you stop him, boy? You lived a pretty full life, I guess.”

Ackerman replaced the phone, checked his watch, and then walked slowly down the sunlit length of Beaumonte’s living room. There was an angry glint in his glassy black eyes, but his hard tanned face was expressionless. He glanced at a man who stood at the windows, and said, “Hymie, leave us alone for a few minutes. Go wash your hands or something.”

“Sure, boss,” Hymie Schmidt said. He was a slender, neatly dressed man with a pale narrow face and thinning brown hair. There was a nervous, charged quality about him, although his body was poised and deliberate in all its movements. The tension was in his dark eyes, which flicked nervously and restlessly from side to side as if constantly on the alert for trouble. “I’ll go wash my hands,” he said.

“And don’t call me boss,” Ackerman said shortly. “I’m Mr. Ackerman. Remember that.”

“Sure, Mr. Ackerman,” Hymie said. His dark eyes flicked angrily from side to side, but avoided Ackerman’s. He didn’t like this, but he kept his mouth shut. There was no percentage in being mad at Bill Ackerman.

“Come back if you hear the doorbell ring,” Ackerman said.

“Right, Mr. Ackerman.”

When he had gone Ackerman’s mouth tightened slowly into a flat ugly line. He looked down at Beaumonte, who was slumped on the sofa in a blue silk dressing gown, and said very quietly, “That was Fanzo on the wire. Carmody just left after slapping him around like a two-bit punk. He’s looking for Nancy.”

Beaumonte rubbed a hand wearily over his forehead. The lack of sleep showed in his face; his eyes were bloodshot and tired, and his flabby cheeks and jowls needed the attentions of his barber and masseur. “I’m sorry,” he said heavily. “I’m sorry, Bill.”

“That doesn’t do one damn bit of good,” Ackerman said coldly. “I thought you had more brains than to spout off to a dame. Can’t you impress them any other way?”

“I don’t ever remember telling her,” Beaumonte said, still rubbing his face wearily. “I must have been drunk.”

Ackerman swore in disgust. “We’ve got enough trouble in town without worrying about where she is and who she’s talking to,” he said.

“We’ll find her,” Beaumonte said. “We got a dozen guys on her trail.”

“And how about Carmody? Anybody watching him?”

Beaumonte nodded. “Sammy Ingersoll. But he hasn’t got on him yet. Right now he’s downstairs in the lobby. There’s a chance Mike will turn up here.”

“She’s our number one job,” Ackerman said. “I know she’s been to Carmody’s hotel. A cleaning woman remembered her. But the elevator men played dumb. Carmody’s trained them not to talk about his business. It’s an example you could damn well follow.”

A touch of color appeared in Beaumonte’s cheeks. He looked at Ackerman and said, “Let’s don’t get so mad that we forget business. You think Carmody believed you? About his brother, I mean.”

“I don’t know,” Ackerman said slowly. “He’s hard and he’s smart. I’ll never underestimate him again. That’s why I told him to look for Nancy. I figured he’d reason it this way: if Ackerman wants me to find her, he isn’t worried about her. So to hell with it.” Ackerman shrugged. “I thought he’d think it was just another job and ignore it. But he didn’t. He put aside looking for his brother’s killer to look for Nancy.”

“We’ll find her first,” Beaumonte said.

“We’d better. Remember that, Dan, we’d better.”

Beaumonte got slowly to his feet and smoothed the wrinkled front of his dressing gown. “Just one thing I want clear,” he said, meeting Ackerman’s eyes directly. “She’s not going to be hurt.”

Ackerman grinned contemptuously at him. “You threw her out, remember,” he said. “You gave her to Fanzo.”

“All right, I did it,” Beaumonte said, in a thick angry voice. “But I’m getting her back, understand? And in one piece.”

“All right,” Ackerman said easily. “That’s the last thing in the world I want to do, as a matter of fact; you and I are friends, Dan. When we find her I’ll send her on a vacation to Paris or Rio or Miami. Anywhere, as long as it is far away and she keeps her mouth shut.”

“We understand each other then,” Beaumonte said. “She’ll be sensible, I’ll guarantee that.”

Five minutes later the doorbell rang. Beaumonte started to answer it but Ackerman stopped him with a gesture. “Hold it,” he said quietly.

Hymie Schmidt appeared from the study, one hand in the pocket of his coat, his dark excited eyes switching from one side of the room to the other. Ackerman nodded toward the front door and Hymie moved to a position where he could cover anyone who entered. “All right now,” Ackerman said to Beaumonte. “Go ahead.”

Beaumonte walked across the room and opened the door. Mike Carmody stood in the corridor, his big hands at his sides, a faint cold smile twisting his lips.

“Hello, Dan,” he said gently.

Beaumonte took an involuntary step backward. “We were hoping you’d show up,” he said, breathing heavily.

“Sure,” Carmody said. He walked into the room, and nodded to Ackerman and Hymie Schmidt, whom he knew to be fast and dangerous with a gun.

“You can relax, Hymie,” he said, and smiled unpleasantly at him. “We’re all friends here.”

“I never relax,” Hymie said, returning his smile. “The doc says it’s bad for my nerves.”

Beaumonte moved to Carmody’s side, keeping carefully out of the line between the detective and Hymie Schmidt. “I’m sorry as hell about your brother, Mike,” he said. “Ackerman told you that it wasn’t our job, I know. But I want you to know I’m sorry.”

“Sure,” Carmody said, nodding. Nothing showed in his face. He had come here because it was essential to convince them that he was back on the team. Only by re-establishing that relationship could he set himself free to rip them apart from the inside. But it would take a hard, careful control to play this out, he realized. More than he had maybe. A dozen hours ago he had stood here fighting for Eddie’s life. He had sworn that his brother wouldn’t die and Eddie was now laid out in some undertaker’s back room. But nothing else had changed; Beaumonte and Ackerman were still healthy and alive, making plans to perpetuate and enjoy their power and rackets. Only the poor grown-up choirboy was gone from the scene.

This went through Carmody’s mind as he stared into Beaumonte’s anxious eyes. “Well, it’s all over,” he said. “Talking won’t bring the kid back.”