Джеймс Кейн - The Moth

Mulligan started for him, but I caught his arm. A drawstring was tightening around my belly, but I knew nothing could be done about it today, and the better I acted now, when the tote was made later, the better it would be for me. We stood there, and he threw more stones, and screamed and cussed and raved, and then when some kids gathered around, he went away.

It was a long twenty-four hours, a longer forty-eight, and a still longer seventy-two, but there was nothing I could do, so I did it. I shifted between the refinery, the Jergins Trust Building, and the apartment. Each night I’d stay in Beverly, and put on a black tie, and take her some place in the Strip. Because getting indicted for murder would be bad, and being claimed by some bum as a pal and college chum, that would be still worse. I meant, if I could possibly stack it up that way, that she’d never know anything about it. I drank champagne and called for more, but not enough more to get oiled and talk. Just enough more to have nothing on my mind at all, except what a swell party and what a swell girl. Everything swell, except by belly, which was getting slightly shriveled.

The third day, at the Jergins Trust Building, Lida came back around eleven and said there was a police officer out there that wanted to see me. I had her send him in. He was a young guy, and I saw him take a flash at my old football pictures, that Hannah had blown up and framed and hung there. He said nothing about them, though, but sat down and got out a blue paper. “Mr. Dillon, you got somebody here, working for you, by the name of Dixon?”

“No. Why?”

“You ever use that name? Yourself?”

“State your business.”

I made it quiet, courteous, and cold. He looked at me some seconds, which is something all cops make a specialty of doing, and I dialed a call. It was to Rohrer, and I told him to stand by for something important later, that under no circumstances should he leave. As he never did leave, except when quitting time came, he was all crossed up, but that didn’t bother me, and I hung up. I had given an order and somebody had taken it, that was the main thing, and Mr. Cop had to wait, and speak when I was ready to be spoken to. It wasn’t much, but it was something. “... I’m serving a warrant, Mr. Dillon. For the arrest of a party known as Jack Dixon. However, as our information is that he’s a pretty big shot in the Seven-Star organization, and in fact is believed to be the general manager of it, it looks like he might be you. It’s up to you whether you accept service or not, though I may as well tell you I have the power to take you in custody on this warrant, whatever you do about it.”

“Well... could I read it?”

“If you would, that might help.”

It was on complaint of the Las Vegas, Nevada, police, which meant that Hosey had spilled what he knew and some telegraphing had been going on. Beyond “suspected of felony” it told me nothing, but reading it gave me time to think. I knew dogging it with this guy wouldn’t do. His job was to bring me in, and if I got tough and he rode over me, I had lost the advantage I’d had, from the football pictures, and maybe his wanting to be friendly without my knowing it. And yet the last thing I should do was get myself booked, because that made it a public record, and led straight to the newspapers, Beverly, and her. I said: “Well — I guess I know about this. A bum showed up, called me by this name, and promoted a few bucks off me. Then he said we were buddies, and when I didn’t ask him in, he got sore and went off, calling me names and throwing rocks at me... Well, you’ve got nothing to do with that. I always say, if a guy says he’s the victim of a mistake, O.K., but he should do what he can to straighten things out. I’m not accepting service of this warrant in any way, shape, or form. I don’t know what the Las Vegas police want with me, I’ve never been to Las Vegas, and can’t imagine why they’ve filed this complaint. But, just in a friendly way, why don’t I go back with you, talk with whoever is in charge, and see if we can’t straighten it out?”

“I would suggest that.”

“Wait till I make a call.”

I dialed the refinery again, got Mulligan on the line, and told him to hop in a cab and get over to the police station, as the bum was making trouble. Getting Mulligan in it wasn’t from some angles the best judgment in the world, because my best play would be to go down there alone, with no lawyers, watchmen, or anybody else to help me. But Mulligan had been a cop and spoke their language, he thought Hosey was a phony, and he worked for me.

At the police station, which is in the city hall, we went in a room back of the main desk, and Mulligan was there ahead of us, sitting with Chief Lucas, that I’d met at the fire, a clerk, a heavy-set man in a blue suit, that looked like a detective, and a man in a blue blouse, that looked like a turnkey. Mulligan was roaring, pretty sore, and kept it up after I was brought in. There were two or three office chairs with hard seats, though Mulligan, the Chief, and the man in the blue suit were sitting on soft ones, upholstered in leather. I didn’t sit down until the Chief motioned me to. Then I took a hard chair. I took care not to be sore, indignant, or funny. I was just a guy the cops wanted to talk to, and that took it pretty serious. The cop who brought me explained that I hadn’t accepted service on the warrant, but had come on a voluntary basis, to give any help that I could. That seemed O.K. with the Chief, because he spoke to me then, by name. “You understand, though, Mr. Dillon, that if any evidence comes to light of a criminal kind, we may still have to put you under arrest while the Las Vegas police start extradition proceedings to send you back to Nevada?”

“Back there? I haven’t left there yet.”

That got a laugh, but I played it straight and said: “Where this goddam fool got the idea I’m named Dixon or have been to Nevada I don’t know, but wherever it is I’ll face it, and I’ve got no fear how it’ll come out. I never robbed any banks that I know of, but if I did walk in my sleep and they can prove it on me — then O.K.”

That seemed all right, so far, though cops are a twenty-minute lot, and you can’t always tell how you’re doing with them. However, he nodded, and said: “I think the simplest way would be to get this guy in and let him chirp.”

“What’s your name?”

“Hosey Brown.”

“Where you from?”

“Chillicothe, Ohio.”

“What you do?”

“Structural iron.”

“When you work last?”

“That was in Spokane, sir. In Spokane, Washington, before the depression hit. I haven’t been able to get work since. I applied, but couldn’t hit no jobs.”

“You done time?”

“... I don’t just recollect.”

“What you mean, you don’t just recollect?”

“Chief, I was in an accident when I was twenty-two years old. I got hit when a I-beam fell on me. I don’t know what I done for two years after that, or where I was.”

“You don’t remember Lewisburg?”

“No, sir, not good.”

“But a little bit?”

“I hear tell of it, yes.”

“You know this man here.”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Who is he?”

“His name is Jack Dixon.”

“Where was this you knew him?”

“I met him first just outside of Chattanooga. Him and me, we got a fellow up that was fixing to die, name of Buck Mitchell. Then him and me and Buck, we traveled together for must of been nigh on to a year maybe, maybe two years. We was buddies, and we went all over the South and Southwest together.”

“You pull any jobs? You and him?”

“Him and Buck, not me.”

“What was you doing while they was pulling jobs?”