Микки Спиллейн - The Last Cop Out

“Uh-huh.”

“You going to lean on him?”

“Nope. I just want to know why he changed his story. Maybe somebody else leaned on him.”

“He may not have a good memory.”

“Not for me,” Gill said. “For you it might be better.”

“I’d hate to see his tail caught in a sling.”

“So would I. It hurts.”

You can take it. He’s got the odds going against him already.”

“There are ways and ways of sweetening things up, Junior. He does me a favor and I guarantee him a big one back. What do you say?”

The big man sat there smoking a minute, then nodded. “Everybody needs help sooner or later. Let me see what I can do. How soon do you need it?”

“Yesterday.”

“Settle for tomorrow?”

“Any choice?”

“None at all.” Junior grinned, his teeth flashing in the light. When Gill got up he said, “You want an escort back to your end of town?”

“Don’t be silly,” Gill smiled back. “It’s still happy time outside.”

“Only for us cats,” Junior told him. “We’re still nature lovers.”

Gill laughed at him and nodded toward the window. “Sure you are. Who waters your flower box, buddy?”

“Cammie does. She’s the farmer ’round heah. I water hers.”

“You’re a nature lover all right, Junior.”

The pudgy old lady who ran the rooming house on the West Side wouldn’t go inside because she was too comfortable in her canvas chair with the sun warming her and made Gill talk to her on the platform of the sandstone stoop. A bunch of kids made a racket in the street and a pair of winos were sharing a bottle on the curb just a little bit away.

She remembered Ted Proctor, all right, mainly because he was killed the day before his room rent was due and she never did collect it. The few items he left behind she tossed on the garbage can and were picked up before the sanitation men ever arrived. She sold his suitcase for a dollar to a whore who was leaving and his broken watch she had kept for herself and still hadn’t gotten repaired.

“He have any friends around here?”

“Maybe if he had some money, he’d have a friend,” she told him. “You know how these stew bums are.”

“Any visitors?”

She made a face through the folds of fat. “Sometimes Andy from next door if he thought Proctor had a bottle on him.”

“Andy still around?”

“That idiot fell asleep in his doorway last January and died of pneumonia.”

“How often you go into Proctor’s room when he was here?”

She looked at him, her eyes a little wise. He held out the five dollar bill and watched it disappear into her dress pocket. “I changed the sheets and pillowcases every week.”

“What did he keep in his closet?”

“A lot of dirty clothes is all. He didn’t... say, you don’t think I go nosing through a tenant’s things, do you? You’d better know...”

“Just tell me, will you. I already paid.”

Her fat shoulders hunched in a shrug. “Nothing, that’s what he had. At least nothing that counted. A couple of old letters and cards, them stubs from a paycheck... he worked, you know.”

“Part time.”

“Still paid the rent on time.”

“You know what the police found in his room.”

“They didn’t show me nothing. I only read about it in the papers.”

“Ever pull his bottom drawer out all the way? Those wallets were lying there on the catch board.”

“I didn’t even know there was one.”

“A couple of boxes in his closet had some other items besides.”

“They only had dirty clothes when I looked. I told the cops the same thing.”

“How long before he was killed did you look?”

She thought a moment, then: “He died the day before rent day and that’s when I changed the linen. It had to be a week before.”

“He have a gun?”

“Where would he get a gun?”

“I didn’t ask that.”

“He didn’t have nothing I didn’t know about and he didn’t have any gun.”

“Proctor had one when he held up that pawn shop. A brand new gun that sells for a hundred and ten bucks if you buy it legally and maybe twenty hot, but no less. It was a gun stolen from a sporting goods shop and would go for twenty any place on the street.”

“Mister,” the woman said, “if Proctor had twenty bucks in his hand, you could bet your sweet ass he wouldn’t buy any gun with it. He’d be right down the corner slopping up booze in Barney’s joint until he was too drunk to walk, then would come crawling back here to sleep it off. He was scared of his own shadow and if he even found a gun someplace he’d try to sell it before he’d use it.”

“If a guy needed a drink he’d go pretty damn far to get one.”

“Sell the gun, yes. Use it, no,” she insisted. “He was nothing but a bum.” She looked up at him again. “You want more talk and it’ll cost more.”

Gill shook his head. “Nope. You did pretty good. Thanks.”

“The pleasure’s all mine she told him,” patting her pocket.

“Sure I remember. He came in here barreled to his ears waving that gun around and telling me to put my money on the counter. That’s what scared the hell out of me. I see these guys all the time and when they get like that you don’t know what the hell they’re going to do. Mister, I was scared. You know how many times I been held up? Fourteen times and the last one was only two weeks ago.”

“You ought to be broke by now,” Gill said.

“Look, I let them hit the register themselves. I only keep a certain amount in there anyway and they take it and run. It isn’t like I was sitting on a bundle.”

“Where do you keep the rest?”

“In a tight little box welded to the steel floor joists with a time lock on it and a bank deposit three times a week.”

“You said you never saw this Ted Proctor before.”

“Just that once when he tried to hold me up. If it wasn’t for that beat cop seeing it happen that damn drunk could’ve killed me. Look, what the hell you cops going back two years for? Only last month...”

Gill shook his head at the pawnbroker, trying to keep the dislike out of his eyes. “I do what they tell me to, friend.”

“They ought to get more beat cops up here.”

“I’ll tell the commissioner.”

“Sure. What else do you want to know?”

“Nothing.” Gill snapped his pad shut and stuck it in his pocket. “Thanks,” he said and went outside. On the sidewalk he paused and stared up the street. Something was bothering him and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Nothing big, just some detail he’d lost somewhere. Well, it would come back to him. It always did when he let it ferment long enough. He looked at his watch. It was almost one o’clock.

Mrs. Cynthia Berkowitz was still wearing her widowhood like a cape of royalty. Her indignation, anger and frustrations had been salved with grief, self-pity and the solicitations of neighbors who had borne the same burden and were only too happy to reminisce about the late Mr. Berkowitz who had been such a dear man, good provider and never ate anything except kosher nor missed attendance at the local synagogue no matter the weather or condition of his health. Not at all like Mr. Manute whom she classified as practically an infidel who had led her dear departed husband into photographic activities he actually knew nothing about, telling him they were processing art films when actually what they were working on was showing in the neighborhood theaters this very day. Had he known, he certainly would never have had anything to do with it at all.

Gill Burke drank his tea and agreed with her. “What happened to the business. Mrs. Berkowitz?”

“Sold. We got practically nothing. If it wasn’t for the insurance...”