Стюарт Стерлинг - Down Among the Dead Men

“What’s he look like?” Koski washed off the remains of the lather.

“A refugee from a Walt Disney, no kidding.”

“Pluto? Or Mickey?”

“That Reynard the Fox, in the one about—”

“Fox!” Koski dried his face, hurriedly. “Thin? Mustache? Thirty-five to forty?”

“I am glad nobody runs him in for cluttering up the hallowed precinct, if you are acquainted with him.”

Koski dived out the door, went down on the run.

Morrie Schlauff shambled along the wall by the door, trying to brace himself with futile pawings. He weaved unsteadily as Koski reached him.

“Shails... unner... name...” he muttered thickly. “Shails...” he swayed...

“Seldom have I met up with a handsomer snootful.” Mulcahey clumped to the foot of the stairs.

“Save it, Irish!” Koski put his arm around the investigator’s shoulders. “Say it again, Schlauff.”

“Shails... Breeco...” The man grimaced, struggled to balance himself, toppled against the wall. His hat slid askew over his eyes, fell to the floor. The hair on the left side of his crown was matted as if he had rubbed oil in it.

“Amby, Irish! Double quick!” Koski held Schlauff erect.

“Hurt he is? Me bawling him out for being stinko!”

“Skull fracture, for Pete’s sake! Snap into it!” The Harbor Squad man put his face close to Schlauff’s. “One more try. What name’d Ovett use?”

Schlauff’s eyes — rolled. His lower jaw went slack. He made a final tremendous effort, “...going... shink.” His lips worked convulsively... “shink... breeco...” His tongue lolled, his knees sagged. He was a limp weight in Koski’s arms when Mulcahey rushed back.

“Here in three minutes. Holy Mother! ’S he gone?”

“Just out. Might go. Might not. Pull his legs out straight. Have to hold him sitting up.”

“What was he mumbling in his beard?”

“Name of the ship our man got away on, Irish.”

“Got away!”

“Just went down harbor. Ten minutes ago. The Santa Pobrico. Of the Ovett Line. Sounded as if he was trying to say the Pobrico’s going to be sunk.” He scowled at the wound on Schlauff’s head. “I ought to be sore at the dumb cluck. He thought he’d put over a swiftie, collect himself an easy dollar. Walked into one hell of a beating. Had guts enough to make it over here, when he found out what he was up against.” The wail of a siren rose and fell. “I wish I knew just what the guy was trying to get to me. He couldn’t have had it far wrong. Or he wouldn’t have been taken, like that.”

O’Malley yelled from the detective office: “Hey, they got Joslin.”

Koski barked: “Who did?”

“One the Oak Street boys.” O’Malley hurried out. “He tails the Wyatt dame. To the Lighthouse, over by Fulton Market. An’ who does she have a rendezvous with but Hardrock Joslin! How you like!”

“I like it. Is Oak Street still there?”

“Standing by. Waiting for orders.”

“Tell him to keep standing. I’m on my way.”

The long, gray car rolled up.

“Sarge, you ride in the amby. Stick with Schlauff until I get a steno-guy over to the hospital. I want to know if he says anything more before he goes under. Don’t muff it, now.”

“If it comes my way, I will catch it.”

Koski let the interne take his burden, hopped in a squad car, was speeding across Battery Park before the ambulance door shut.

The light in the Lighthouse was bad. At the side of each table a small, round pool of yellow dripped from a miniature beacon onto the red-checked tablecloth. This electrical economy made it unnecessary for the proprietor to be too scrupulous about the spotlessness of the table linen; besides, the customers who came to the waterfront café considered its broiled butterfish and sautéed sole all that was required in the way of interior decoration.

In addition to this protective lack of illumination, the man at the corner table by the door marked WASHROOM sat so his face was in the deepest shadow. Also he managed to sit back against the wall so he was partially shielded by the girl opposite him; he was virtually invisible to anyone at the front of the café. Only when the fragrance of clam broth or french-fried squid, sweeping in from the kitchen behind him, gave notice of the curtained street-door’s opening, did he lean forward sufficiently to peer around this table companion.

“Hope I didn’t keep you waiting long, Tim.”

“Not very long, Ellen.”

“That delicatessen boy only delivered your message ten minutes ago.”

“I’d have come around to the studio only all day ‘ I have a little shadow that goes in and out with me ... ’ ” He passed her a nearly illegible menu. “Haven’t eaten, have you?”

“Haven’t felt like eating, Tim.”

“Better order, anyway. Look more natural.” An elderly waiter in a soiled dickey shambled up to their table. “No use letting it get you down.”

“How can I help it? With Merrill in trouble?”

“He’ll be out of trouble in a few hours.” Joslin crumbled a hard roll.

“He’s running away?”

“Done gawn already. The fried flounder isn’t so bad in here.”

She nodded to the waiter. “I’ll have that. Boiled potatoes.”

“Same here, Bill.”

Ellen reached across the table, put her hand on the organizer’s sleeve. “You don’t believe he did it, do you?”

“I don’t believe one way or the other.” Joslin buttered the crust. “Until I hear what he has to say.”

“Haven’t you heard from him?”

“How could I? I haven’t dared to go near my room.”

“You weren’t followed here?”

“Don’t think so. But maybe you were.” He moved slightly to observe a middle-aged man who had just come out of a phone booth near the cashier’s desk at the door and gone back to his table. Joslin pantomimed with his fork. “That’s one of those burrs sticking to us, now, I think.”

“Which one?”

“Middle-aged bird, second table from the door. He’s been taking great pains not to look our way.”

“I’m sorry. If I’ve put you in a corner, Tim.”

“Think nothing of it. There’s a way to make sure about him.” He stood up. “Watch this.” He ambled toward the door.

The middle-aged man took out his watch, muttered beneath his breath as if unaware of the lateness of the hour. He wiped his lips quickly, laid the napkin down, reached into his trousers pocket.

Joslin swerved, stepped to the cashier’s desk. “Pack of Luckies.” He slipped a coin on the glass without noticing the man at the second table. When the organizer turned to go back to his table, he turned the other way. He ripped open the corner of the pack, tapped out a cigarette, offered one to Ellen.

“Thank you, Tim.” She bent her head sideways to the match he held out. “He started to pay his check. But he’s changed his mind. He’s fished out some money. Going into the phone booth.”

“That’s one of them, all right.” He dug into the flounder. “I’ll cross him up, anyway. I know this restaurant. That’s why I asked you to come here. There’s a little bolt-hole I can use in an emergency.”

“But why were they watching me?”

“They expect him to get in touch with you. Let ’em expect. I won’t dodge any cops tomorrow. By that time his ship will be well out. Merrill told me on Sunday he was going right out again — probably on the Pobrico. But I couldn’t give him any advice, then. That was before I knew about... this other thing. I wouldn’t know what to say to him now, anyhow.” He crunched on the roll. “I couldn’t know how it feels to find another man... and your wife. Even if you don’t have any illusions about your wife...”