Michael Collins - Act of Fear

‘The best defence is a good offence,’ I said.

She kissed me again. ‘Be careful.’

Her hair shone red in the soft light of the bedroom as she left. She was wearing a turtleneck black sheath tonight, and carrying the suede coat. I wished she did not have to go. I wished that I did not have to go. But she had to work and so did I.

It looked like Pappas was a hell of a lot more involved, and worried, than it had seemed. Andy had never had me worked over before. I must be getting awfully close to some sensitive toes. They figured to be Pappas’ toes, and yet I still did not like the setup. If Andy wanted me out of the way, he would be more direct, I was sure. And I trust in Gazzo’s judgment. Not all the way, I could not rule Pappas out of it all, but if Gazzo did not see Pappas or his boys as the killer of Tani Jones, he was probably right. So if Pappas was not the killer, he must be looking for the killer. Then why work me over? To get to Jo-Jo exclusive? Yes, that made sense — Pappas-sense. He wanted Jo-Jo all to himself. It had to be. And that meant Jo-Jo had real problems. If I was to do anything but run away from it I had to get moving.

I started by getting out of bed. I was sore everywhere. The tape on my ribs helped, but it was hard to breathe. It was harder to breathe through my broken nose. My clothes were gone. I began to swear at Marty, when I opened the closet and found a whole change of clothes. She must have called Joe. It was good to have friends. I dressed and then took my first look into the mirror.

The broken nose hardly showed, except for a thick piece of tape across the bridge. There was tape on my cheekbone, and on my jaw. I was bruised, cut, and swollen. My lips looked like a hamburger bun, my gums looked a little like the hamburger. But it was the eyes that were prettiest. They were both that sick shade of dark yellow-brown-black for over two inches all round. I looked awful.

Before I got out of there I looked out of each window to see if I had any shadows lurking. I saw none. I went down the stairs warily, and before I left the entrance I surveyed all the doorways I could see. The Saturday night crowds did not make it easy. An army could hide in the mob of beat kids, students, bagel babies, and drunks. I saw no suspicious characters. Just in case, I took a few fast twists down side streets and through alleys and back yards to see if I could flush anyone. I drew a blank. No one was following me. I straightened my course for Doyle Street.

My course was obvious — too damned obvious. I had to start around again. Whatever Jo-Jo was, he seemed to be a good rabbit. No one had found him yet; not even Pappas if Pappas was after him. One fact stood out like a bikini blonde at a Quaker meeting: Jo-Jo had not seen fit to tell his family where he was, or whoever was after Jo-Jo beside myself had a reason for not asking the family. I put my money on the former — Jo-Jo had not told his family, which gave me a lot to think about. Why had Jo-Jo not told his family? It was a new question. Maybe old Schmidt would have an answer. Or Pete. After Schmidt, Pete would be my next stop. After Pete I would finally have to start the long round of travel depots. I did not look forward to that.

The murder block of Doyle Street was on top of the river. It was dark and deserted even on a Saturday night early. The West Side Highway stood raised at the far end, with the shadows of piers beyond it, and then the river. The apartment house where Tani Jones had died stood like a giant among shabby pygmies on the north side of the street near the east corner. An alley ran beside it, as Gazzo had said. I entered the alley beside the new building and walked through to Water Street. Schmidt’s Garage was just down from the Water Street end of the alley, on the north side of the street. The alley where Stettin had been mugged was far down on the south side of Water Street near the river. I crossed Water Street and stood where I could see the alley beside the building, Schmidt’s Garage, and the far-off mouth of the alley where Stettin had been attacked.

I could see the rear entrance to the building where Tani Jones had died. It was in the alley with a light over it. There was a ramp down to the garage of the building. The building itself towered above all the buildings on Water Street. Most of its windows above the seventh or eight floor were visible from Schmidt’s Garage. It had no fire escape. There was little cover in the alley beside the building. I walked on down to Schmidt’s Garage.

The entrances to both alleys were in plain sight from in front of Schmidt’s Garage, but nothing more could be seen; nothing inside either alley. But someone driving up and down the street on a motorcycle could have seen almost anything in either alley. I did not search the alleys. The police would have combed them both, people walked through them all day, and cars and trucks used them by the dozen.

I looked around to be sure I was alone. Cars were parked on both sides of the street, bumper to bumper at this hour, except in front of the alleys and the two driveways of Schmidt’s Garage. They were even parked in front of the two loading docks of a warehouse next to Schmidt’s now that it was night. I looked at the garage and saw there was light inside the office as well as in the garage itself. At least Schmidt worked late and would have time to talk to me. It was a good omen.

Then I heard the bad omen. Silence.

A garage is not a quiet place. With light in both shop and office there should have been noise. There was no sound of any kind. I looked into the office. It was empty. There was an open ledger and a paper coffee cup. I went into the shop section.

I found Schmidt in the rear behind a stripped-down truck. They had worked him over good before he died. I did not think they had intended to kill him. He had just died on their hands. His white hair lay in a pool of blood that had poured from his nose and mouth. The blood was still wet. His bloody face was a mass of bruised wounds. It looked like at least one arm had been broken. I did not look for the rest of the details of what they had done to him, but a blow-torch burned on the workbench. There was a long steel rod in his right hand. It looked like he had fought back at some point. Some old man.

Fight had not helped. He was dead.

I went into the office and called Gazzo. I smoked while I waited. I had the feeling that eyes were watching me. That was probably only nerves, but the blood was still wet out there in the garage, so I was wary. A man came in to ask if I had a cigarette machine. I told him no, but I tried to keep him there. He had a girl out in a car and he left. I smoked and listened to every sound until the sirens growled into the street and I was surrounded by blue uniforms. Gazzo sat at Schmidt’s desk. I told him my story of this killing.

‘You better take a vacation,’ the captain said. ‘I can’t handle many more bodies.’

‘Bodies are your business,’ I said. ‘You live on dead bodies, Captain.’

I suppose I felt bad. And nervous. Schmidt had been a good, tough, honest man. None of it had helped him.

‘I don’t want the next to be yours,’ Gazzo said.

He had seen my face. I did not want the next to be me either.

‘You’re getting close,’ Gazzo said. ‘Schmidt is still warm. You’re maybe too close. You’ve maybe got someone worried. You want to tell me why?’

‘I don’t know why,’ I said. ‘I don’t know anything.’

‘Sure,’ Gazzo said. ‘Someone worked you over for fun.’

‘They think I know, Captain, but I don’t.’

He looked at me. ‘That’s bad.’

‘I know how bad it is,’ I said. And I did. It is bad enough to know something dangerous enough to be beaten for; it is much worse to not know what they think you know.