Michael Collins - Act of Fear

Gazzo was watching me. ‘The Olsen kid play the horses, Dan?’

I stood up, ‘Cars and motorcycles are his line. Maybe he is just on a trip.’

I didn’t believe that now, and neither did Gazzo.

‘Swede Olsen was just trying to insure his boy’s privacy,’ Gazzo said.

‘Maybe he just doesn’t want anyone talking to anyone about his family.’

‘That much I can believe,’ Gazzo said.

I left the captain putting out the call for Jo-Jo Olsen; all points, all cities. Gazzo looked weary behind his desk. His eyes were glazed, turned inwards, as if he was seeing all the nineteen-year-old boys he had had to pick up and lock up in his life. The captain was near retirement, I had heard him talk about it himself. Then he had looked at me and asked what the hell would he do if he retired?

Out in the street I headed for the subway. What I had heard from Gazzo was about as enlightening as everything else I had learned up until now. The more I thought about it, the less I could see Jo-Jo in the robbery or the killing. I did not think Gazzo could either. The police work on patterns, records, facts. Jo-Jo had no record, the pattern stank. In Chelsea every kid is born knowing better than to pull a job on his own block — and then point the finger at himself by running.

I thought about Swede Olsen again, but that didn’t play any better. If Swede had killed, he should have run, not Jo-Jo. No, neither of them should have run. The thief and killer had made it clean away; why run at all? Maybe it was Swede, and Jo-Jo was ashamed. Maybe that was the story. Jo-Jo faded to get away from a father who was a thief and killer. It was better than most of the explanations I had had so far. Which shows the quality of my explanations.

On the subway I decided to head for Schmidt’s Garage. It was about all I had not done that I could think of now. Not that I was looking for more to do. What I needed was a better theory. I needed a theory of any kind. Right then, let’s face it, I had no proof that Jo-Jo was in any kind of trouble, and I could not fit the trouble I had to Jo-Jo. It did not ring true. Jo-Jo did not sound like a burglar. Maybe there was another way to look at the events on Water and Doyle Streets? As a matter of fact there were a lot of other ways. There was much that I did not like.

I did not like the way Tani Jones had died. The theory of her murder, I mean. You would be surprised how few burglars panic and use guns. Even amateurs or junkies. Jo-Jo was an amateur, but he was not a junkie. At least, I had no word that he was on the fix. Also, assuming that the burglar had for some reason mugged Stettin, he did not sound like an amateur. The mugging had been expert. Of course, there was no real connection so far between the mugging and the robbery, except that they had happened at nearly the same time on adjoining blocks. Still, what I really did not like was the theory of a panicked burglar. Gazzo had made no mention of Tani Jones fighting back, of even having a weapon. About the only time a robbery victim is killed is when he tries to resist, fight.

Professional thieves carry guns, yes, although not as often as you might think. (Blackjacks and iron pipes are more in their line.) And they use them even less often. Felony murder is a hard charge. This burglar had made a perfect entrance and exit. Unseen all the way. Yet the theory was he had been surprised by a woman asleep in the bedroom and had shot. He should not have been surprised, and he should not have shot. Unless Tani had recognized him — and that was something else again.

By the time I climbed out into the ninety-degree cool of Sixth Avenue, I had switched to the other side. Burglars did panic. Junkies could be clever one minute, stupid the next. Accidents happened, and surprised men shot. Unconnected crimes happened within a few feet every day in New York. My brain was still making the circles when I reached Schmidt’s Garage.

Old Schmidt was under a car with his pale legs sticking out like those of a chicken. When he heard my errand he crawled out. He was a small, chunky man of about seventy. White-haired and with the ruddy round face of a cherub. There was grease on his face. It was a good face. He reminded me of a little German pastry cook I had known when I was a kid. The bakeries had gone out on strike. The little cook marched in the snow with all the others. He was an old man who should have been home with his pipe, his grandchildren, and his memories. But there was a principle at stake: his fellow men needed him, so he marched. When two company toughs knocked him down he got up and went back to the picket line without a word. Schmidt looked like that kind of man.

‘I am worried,’ the old man said. ‘Jo-Jo is good boy, work hard. He go and he don’t tell me? That is funny. I am worried.’

‘Kids get ideas. Maybe he just got tired.’

‘Not without he tell me, no. And the bike. There it wait.’

The old man pointed to a motorcycle in the corner of the garage. A motorcycle carefully covered by a heavy plastic cover. It shone through the plastic like a jewel. Jo-Jo took good care of his motorcycle.

‘I call by his old man,’ Schmidt said. ‘He say Jo-Jo take a trip. I should mind my sauerkraut. His kind I know, ja! I am worried.’

‘What do you know about Tani Jones or Patrolman Stettin?’

‘The woman who was killed and the policeman? I know what I read, hear. No more. You think Jo-Jo? Never! No!’

‘Did he have any trouble you know? Any new friends, maybe? Any girl trouble? A sudden need for money?’

‘No. Thursday he work here all day on the bike, Friday he don’t come to work. He don’t tell me. I don’t like that.’

‘What about a girl named Driscoll?’

‘Driscoll? So? She come here one, maybe two times. She want Jo-Jo. She talk to Petey and Jo-Jo. Jo-Jo go away. He don’t want her.’

‘Where do I find her?’

Schmidt started to shrug, and then held up a finger. ‘Wait, Ja! I think…’

He skipped away towards the office like a schoolboy. He was a peppery old man. He came back carrying a coloured brochure. I took the brochure. It was a travel piece about Italy. It had pictures of the red Ferrari racing cars.

‘She bring for Jo-Jo once,’ Schmidt said. He pointed to the line stamped on the back. ‘She work there.’

The address was: Trafalgar Travel Bureau, 52 West 46th Street.

‘Ja,’ Schmidt said. ‘She work there. You think…’

I never did learn what Schmidt was about to ask me. The telephone rang. He answered it. I saw the colour spread across his cherub face. When he put down the receiver he was red.

‘They beat Petey! Someone! In hospital by St Vincent’s!’

St Vincent’s was only a few blocks away.

I went out on the run.

They told me that Petey would probably live. They also said that he would even see again. He wasn’t blind, it only looked that way. His face wasn’t a face now; it was a bandage.

‘Both eyes slam shut,’ the doctor said. ‘Nose busted, cheekbone, too. I never saw more bruises, I tell you.’

There were tubes in Petey, and bottles hanging all over that white room. I saw the morphine Syrette on the side table beside the bed where Petey was half propped up because of the internal injuries. They had broken both arms. The splinted and bandaged arms stuck straight out in front of the boy who had only white cloth where his face had been. But the real damage was the shattered ribs and the internal injuries from the kicks.

‘A very complete job,’ the doctor said. ‘I had a case on the Bowery once, but this is more complete.’

The police were there, of course, since it was pretty clear that Petey had not fallen down some stairs. It was Lieutenant Marx who let me into the room. One old cop agreed with the doctor that it was a hell of a good beating, but the old cop did not think it was professional.