Ed McBain - Ax

Ah, land of glamour and mystery, citadel of culture.

Danny told the judge he had met the fellow in a bar and had only accompanied him to his…

Sure, sure, the judge said.

…house there in the Santa Monica Mountains because the man wanted to…

Sure, sure, the judge said.

…pick up some money so they could continue their evening of fun and revelry, drinking and talking shop and…

Sure, sure.

…laughing it up in good old LA.

A minimum of five and a maximum of ten, the judge said.

What? Danny said.

Next case, the judge said.

It wasn’t too bad. Danny lost his cold in stir, and also his accompanying low fever. He learned in stir that a stool pigeon is called “a snitch,” a piece of juvenile terminology which convinced him more than ever that the code against informing began somewhere in the lower grades of school. He also derived from prison the single “reference” that would be invaluable in his later working days. He could in the future, when talking to or listening to an assorted number of thieves, announce in all honesty that he had served a rap for burglary in a West Coast pen. Who then could possibly imagine that Danny Gimp was an informer, a stoolie, a rat, a tattletale, or even, God forbid, a snitch?

Steve Carella could.

He found Danny in the third booth on the right-hand side of the bar called Andy’s Pub. Danny was not an alcoholic, nor did he even drink to excess. He simply used the bar as a sort of office. It was cheaper than paying rent downtown, and it had the added attraction of a phone booth which he used regularly. The bar, too, was a good place to listen—and listening was one-half of Danny’s business.

Carella scanned the joint as he walked in, spotted Danny immediately in his customary booth, but also saw two known hoods sitting at the bar. He walked past Danny without so much as glancing at him, took a stool at the bar, and asked for a beer. Since cops emit a smell that can be detected by certain individuals, usually lawbreakers, the way certain sounds can be detected only by dogs, the bartender gave Carella his beer and then asked, “Anything wrong, Officer?”

“Just felt like having a beer,” Carella said.

The bartender smiled sweetly and said, “Then I take it this is an off-duty visit.”

“Mm-huh, that’s right,” Carella said.

“Not that we have anything to hide here,” the bartender said, still smiling.

Carella didn’t bother answering him. He finished his beer and was reaching into his pocket for his wallet when the bartender said, “It’s on the house, Officer.”

“I’d rather pay for it, thanks,” Carella said.

The bartender didn’t argue. He simply figured Carella was a cop who took bigger bribes. Carella paid for the beer, walked out of the bar without looking at Danny, pulled up his coat collar as he reached the street, walked two blocks downtown heading into a biting, bitter wind, then turned and began walking uptown again on the opposite side of the street, with the wind at his back. He ducked into a doorway across the street from the bar and waited for Danny Gimp to come out. Danny, who was playing this a little too goddamn cool for a January day with a twentymile-an-hour wind blowing, did not come out of the bar until some ten minutes later. By that time Carella’s toes and nose were freezing. He slapped his gloved hands together, pulled his collar up once more, and began following Danny. He did not overtake him until the two had walked almost seven blocks, one behind the other. Falling into step beside Danny, he said, “What the hell took you so long?”

“Hey, hi,” Danny said. “You must be froze, huh?”

“This isn’t exactly Miami Beach,” Carella said.

“Worse luck, huh?” Danny said. “Did you happen to glom the pair at the bar?”

“Yeah.”

“You make them?”

“Sure. Augie Andrucci and Pinky Deane.”

“Hey, that’s right,” Danny said. “Well, they made you, too. They spotted you for a bull right off, and they gave the bartender the eye to find out what you were doing there, and they didn’t buy none of that off-duty crap for a minute. So I figured it was better I stick around a little while instead of rushing right out here, you dig? Because, in my line, you got to be a little careful, you dig?”

“I dig,” Carella said.

“How come you didn’t call?”

“I thought I’d take a chance.”

“I prefer that you call,” Danny said, seemingly offended. “You know that.”

“Well, the truth of the matter is that I like hanging around on street corners when it’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey,” Carella said. “That’s why I stopped by and then went right outside to wait for you.”

“Oh, I see,” Danny said.

“Yeah.”

“Look, I’m sorry. I got to protect myself.”

“Next time I’ll call,” Carella said.

“I’d appreciate it.”

They walked in silence for several blocks.

“What’s on your mind?” Danny asked at last.

“A crap game,” Carella answered.

“Where?”

“At 4111 South 5th. In the basement.”

“Regular or one-shot?”

“Regular.”

“Floating or stationary?”

“Stationary.”

“The same place each time?”

“Right.”

“Which is the basement of 4111 South 5th, correct?”

“Correct,” Carella said.

“Which also happens to be where somebody got his head busted Friday, also correct?”

“Also correct,” Carella said.

“So what do you want to know?”

“Everything about it.”

“Like?”

“Who played and when? Who won and who lost?”

“What’s the dead man’s connection with the game?” Danny asked.

“He ran it.”

“What was his cut? Usual house cut?”

“I don’t know. Find out for me.”

“You said this was a permanent game, huh? And the same place each time?”

“That’s right.”

“You talked to your sergeant on the beat yet?”

“No.”

“You’d better.”

“Why?”

“Chances are he knew about it. He was probably cutting the pot along with Lasser.”

“Maybe. I’ll get to him on Monday.”

“I’ve got to tell you…” Danny started.

“Yeah?”

“I haven’t heard a word about this, not a peep. It’s your notion somebody in the game chopped him down, is that it?”

“I don’t have any notions yet, Danny. I’m fishing.”

“Yeah, but why fish around a crap game? Dice players don’t usually go chopping a man down with an ax.”

“Where else do I fish?”

Danny shrugged. “From what I read in the newspaper, Steve, it sounds like a nut.” He shrugged again. “You got a nut? Go fishing around him.”

“I’ve got one. I’ve also got her son, who draws pictures and never leaves the house. And I’ve got three old cockuhs who survived the Spanish-American War and who are sitting around waiting to drop dead themselves any minute now. I’ve also got an underpaid Negro who knows how to use an ax, but I don’t think he used it on our man.”

“And you’ve got a crap game.”

“Right. So where do I fish?”

“The crap game.”

“Sure,” Carella said. “A crap game makes sense to me.”

“Don’t lean too heavy,” Danny said. “This might be a game full of guys from the building—they come down once, twice a week, just to pass the time.”

“Could be, sure.”

“Or what it could be,” Danny said, “is some nice respectable businessmen from downtown. This is their one night a week to howl. They come shoot craps in a slum basement instead of drinking or chasing after dames.”

“Sure, that, too,” Carella said. “Or it could be a bunch of hoods who’ve got no place else to play and who give George Lasser a cut for letting them use his basement.”