Ed Lacy - The Men From the Boys

“To be on the safe side, what's a fatal dose?”

“Marty, don't talk like that!”

“Hell, Sam, I got to know.”

“Well, never give more than two during a twelve-hour period. Maybe three if the party looks young, but not even one if the party is old and looks like his ticker is shot.”

“Would five or six taken at one time kill?”

“Marty, what are you saying? Suppose somebody overheard us! Any time you give a party five or six at one time, leave town fast.”

“All right, and thanks. Don't worry, Sam.”

I took the subway uptown and got myself in the rush hour, so I was all sweaty when I shoved my way out at Ninety-sixth Street. I took a three-buck room in a large hotel on One Hundredth Street, but not big enough to sport a house dick. I registered under my own name, said I came from Jersey City, paid in advance for two days.

It was a better room than any we had at the Grover. My stomach started rumbling and when that was over I sat on the bed and stared at the light brown walls—there's nothing as lonely as a hotel room. I wanted to see Flo. I went down to the lobby and tried looking her up in the phone book, but she might have married half a dozen times since I last saw her.

I walked along Broadway, considered going up to see Lilly and getting my dough, only what did I need dough for now? Still, I didn't like for people to put something over on me. The neighborhood had changed. When I worked out of the precinct on One Hundredth Street, it used to be all micks with a lot of Jews. Now it was full of spicks.

I was walking around like a damn tourist, so I took a cab down to the Fifty-second Street night club. It was near seven and a porter was sweeping up, taking the chairs off the tables. A roly-poly bartender was washing glasses, getting ready for the night. He looked at me nervously, asked, “What can I do for you?” He had a fat face and an even fatter mouth. When he talked, it looked like his head was coming off.

“I want the home address of Flo Harris,” I said, the proper growl in my voice.

“Flo? Flo who?”

“Come on, fatso, the 'Divine Flame,' one of your strippers.”

“She'll be here about ten and you can...”

“I want to see her now.”

“You a cop?” His voice was a bull whisper.

“What do I look like?”

“A cop.” He sighed. “If she's in a jam we'll cancel her act right...”

“She ain't in trouble. But I need to see her—now.”

“I'll see if I can locate her.”

He waddled from behind the bar over to a door and a second later some drip who looked like a younger Mr. King stuck his sharp puss out of the office and gave me the eye. When the barkeep returned a moment later he told me she was living in a Forty-sixth Street hotel and her name was Mrs. Flo York.

I told him, “All right. Don't phone her Fm coming, or I'll close you up.”

“You got us wrong—we always co-operate with the police. We have to. Care for a shot?”

“No. But I'll take a mint leaf.”

“A mint leaf?”

“Sure, my mother was frightened by a cow.”

He put a few leaves on a plate and I walked out chewing them.

The hotel was one of these ratty dumps you find in the Times Square area, worse than the Grover because it suffered more daily wear and tear. Flo was in 417. As I knocked on the door I wondered if I'd have to throw “Mr. York” out.

Flo looked great when she opened the door. She was wearing a light print dress that sort of showed off the curves without bragging about them. Her face was minus make-up and except for a few lines around her eyes, she hadn't aged. She said, “Marty!” Said it big and her teeth showed her real age.

“Hello, Flo. Can I come in?”

She stepped aside and it was a seedy room, the walls with old dirty rose wallpaper—bedbug traps—and space enough for a crummy metal bed, a small dresser covered with bottles and jars of cosmetics, one skinny chair, a metal bed table, and clothing piled atop her two suitcases in the corner.

Flo had on low-heeled shoes, the way I always liked her best, and her long black hair hung off the back of her head in a horse's tail. She waved a hand at the room. “Not much, hey, Marty?”

I smiled, took some underthings off the chair and sat down. I tossed the things on the bed. Flo always was sloppy. I had a feeling I was home.

She stared at me with hard, suspicious eyes, said sarcastically, “Make yourself comfortable!”

“I did. You haven't changed a bit, not even the acid in your voice.”

“What's on your mind, Marty?” She looked around for a cigarette. I dug in my pockets, didn't have a pack. She finally found some on the dresser, lit one as she held out the pack to me.

oI shook my head.

Flo blew a cloud of smoke in my face. “Used to be a chain smoker, Marty. What's the matter, believe this lung-cancer stuff?”

“Lost my taste. Who's afraid of lung cancer?” I said, laughing—my own little joke I was stuck with.

She puffed a few more times, waiting, then asked, “What do you want?”

“Not a thing. Merely dropped in to see you. Saw your picture in front of the club and got your address. Where did you get the York handle?”

“Left that louse couple of years ago. Didn't I read about you being bounced from the force?”

“Aha. But they fixed it so I retired on physical disability, said I was 'nervous.' I saw you in the movies a couple of times.”

She sat on the bed. Aside from a few tiny veins starting to show, her legs were as perfect as ever.

“Come up to see my legs, Marty?” she asked, raising her skirt.

“Don't think so. I could drop into the club if I wanted to see them.”

She ran her eyes over my clothes, my shoes. “If you came for a handout, you're wasting time.”

“I never held my hand out to you. Told you I'm on a pension. And I have a two-bit job. You need a couple of bills?”

“You giving me something? That's a twist. Come on, Marty, I have a show to make. What's this all about?”

“Nothing. Wanted to see you, talk to you. Lately I got to thinking about us, the way it was real fine—at the start.”

She puffed on her butt like an engine. “Selling something, Marty?”

“What's wrong with a joker getting a yen to see his ex-wife? Here.” I took out Barbara's perfume. “I brought you a little gift.”

Flo stared at the tiny package as if she expected it to snap at her, then slowly opened the gift wrapping, said, “Oh, it's some Clichy! This is real sweet of you.”

“Nothing much—ten bucks.”

“Ten bucks your ass but it's the nicest gift I ever got,” Flo said quickly, and for a moment I thought she was either going to cry or put on an act. Her hand hugged the bottle. “Marty, you really do want to see me.”

“Sure. What's the matter—don't guys chase you any more?”

“I don't mean that. Would you believe it, Marty, I was thinking about you recently, too.”

“No, I wouldn't believe it.”

She suddenly laughed and crushed the cigarette, came over and sat on my lap. “You're still the same mean sonofabitch, the only stud I ever knew who didn't bull me, took me as I was.”

“Sometimes you were quite a lot, Flo,” I said, opening the back of her dress, then giving up the idea. It felt swell having Flo on my lap, smelling her, talking to her.

“I know, sometimes we were real good, and then other times...” She nibbled at the lobe of my ear, the right one that used to be cauliflowered. “Marty, I'm sick of a lot of things. Lousy hotel rooms, stale night-club dressing rooms. I'm sick of climbing. I was foolish, never even knew exactly what I was aiming for.”

“You mean you're getting on. You were all right, Flo, except you never stopped bouncing.”