Ed Lacy - The Men From the Boys

“All right. How bad is the kid?”

“Still on the critical list, but they say he has a chance. He's calling for you.” She dug her nails into my palm again. “Marty, you'll do this for me, for Lawrence?”

“Yes. I told you I would.”

She dropped my hand, stood up, said simply, “Thank you, Marty,” and headed toward the door.

I ran after her. “Where are you going?”

“Home. I'm very tired.” Her voice was dead, listless.”

“I'll get you a cab.”

“Don't bother. Marty, turn your strength, your cruelty, your toughness to some good—find out who did this.”

“All right, all right, but let me get you a cab.”

We stopped a cruising taxi over on Winter Street and she gave him an address way uptown and I slipped him five bucks, told him to take her directly there.

As the taxi drove off, I had a mouthful of bile, or something that tasted bitter as hell. I had my own troubles, and now this.

I spat the bitter stuff out and walked toward St. Vincent's Hospital.

Three

At the hospital a doctor told me, “It's good you've come, Mr. Bond, he keeps asking for you. Perhaps if you spoke to him for a few seconds, he'll relax and go to sleep. Sleep is so important for him.”

“How bad is he?”

“Off the critical list, temporarily. He's been beaten up by a professional, if you know what I mean. In the space of seconds he received a concussion and a nasty scalp cut— from a gun butt no doubt—a broken nose, broken eardrum, and internal injuries. I imagine after he was knocked down he was stomped upon—he has what appears to be a small rupture of the left kidney plus several broken ribs. That's all we've been able to find, so far. He's passing blood in his urine which could mean other injuries beside the kidney.”

“Can he talk?”

“Oh, yes. He's under a sedative, but continues to fight sleep, has been asking for you all night. Let him talk himself out and say nothing that will excite him.”

“All right.”

He took me into the kid's room, and Lawrence was just another body in a white bed, his head and face wrapped in bandages like a mummy. The doc left and when I said, “Hello, Lawrence,” the bandages moved and a small voice asked, “Marty? Marty?”

“Yes, kid.”

“Dad! I've been waiting for you such a long long time.” The voice sounded terribly tired.

“I just heard. Now take it...”

“Marty, it doesn't matter. But this has to be tied up with the butcher. You see that?” There was more strength in his voice now.

“Looks like it, Lawrence.”

“See, we auxiliary cops... there're fewer of us.... The fellows think the police department isn't... They think we're a joke. Point is, I happened to call in. There was a cop without a partner scheduled to do patrol duty, so I volunteered to come in. I was walking through a side street; I'd come down by the Fifth Avenue bus. I passed a hallway and a voice called out, 'Officer! Officer!' When I stepped inside I was hit over the head.”

“See anything of who did it?”

“No. I caught just a glimpse of a man who looked—don't laugh—he looked like Dick Tracy. When he was kicking me I must have come to for a moment. I remember him saying 'Bastid! Bastid!' with a sort of growl... a hiss.”

“How about the voice that called you, man or woman?”

“A... a false voice.” The words dragged out.

“Lawrence, you're sure he said bastid, not bastard?”

“Bas... tid.”

He was either sleeping or had passed out. I pressed the buzzer on the bed table and the doc came in. After looking over the kid, the doc tugged at my arm. I nodded but didn't move. I had a feeling, a hunch, about who'd worked the kid over—although it was a crazy hunch. As I stood there a sense of relief came over me. If I was right—about the hunch—he was the roughest monkey in the business. And he'd be my boy too, for if I went after him I wouldn't have to worry much about living—especially if I was a little careless.

The doc said, “Might as well go now, Mr. Bond. He'll sleep for ten hours or more, I hope.”

I nodded and when we stepped outside his room there was a cop—a real cop—on a chair tilted against the wall, smoking a cigarette. He was a tall, lean cop, a youngster. I asked, “You guarding this room?” He nodded.

“Where the hell were you when I went in?” “Stretching my legs, but I had my eye on the room.” “Your eye isn't what's wanted—we want you and your gun on the door!”

“I saw you come in with the doc so I knew...” The doctor said, “This is the father of Lawrence Bond.” “Well, Pop, don't you worry about a thing. I'll...” I grabbed his shoulder and jerked him to his feet. “My name is Marty Bond and if I catch you dogging this job I'll break your back! Marty Bond—name mean anything to you?”

“Yes... sir,” he said weakly. “I know all about you.” I let go of him. “All right. Sorry I blew my cap, buddy. But it's not impossible they may try to finish him off.” “No one gets by this door, Mr. Bond.” “All right. Keep awake.”

Outside the sky was red, and it was the start of one more muggy day. I had a dry, rotten taste in my mouth, but I felt at peace with the world, almost happy. If my hunch was cooking, my work was cut out for me and it was more than even money I'd end up with a bullet fired by a joker who couldn't care less if he killed me. No paralyzed hands for him, no fear. Old Marty, the gutless wonder, finally found his out.

I had a cup of Java and a roll. It was a few minutes after six. Bill Ash wouldn't be on yet, but the wholesale markets were already working a half a day. I headed for the Lande Meat Company, Inc.

It wasn't much to look at. The door was locked and the windows were painted black halfway up, with the name Lande Meat Company, Inc. lettered in with gold. The door was locked but Mr. Lande didn't even bother with a burglar-alarm system.

Looking over the top of the painted windows, I saw a couple of meat blocks, a partitioned office, and two big icebox rooms made of unpainted pine boards. There were a few other tables and some empty wooden crates piled at one end of the store.

There was a garage down the street and I dropped in there, asked one of the mechanics, “You know the guy who used to be the driver for the meat company on the corner?”

“Lou? Yeah, I know Lou. He in a jam?”

“No. Understand he ain't working for the meat outfit now. You know where he lives?”

“Lou's working—helping out at the Bay Meat.” He measured me with his eyes, “Lou in trouble?”

“Lou ain't in anything. What's your Lou's last name?”

“Lou Franconi, what you think?”

He told me where the Bay Meat was and I walked along Front Street, watching the gangs of longshoremen waiting around the docks for the shape-up. I turned off and the Bay Meat Company was like Lande's—a large store—only there was a lot of action going on. Two small delivery trucks were backed up and men in white butcher coats and caps or paper hats were loading one truck and unloading the other. I went in.

Two men were cutting meat on chopping blocks, while crates of dead chickens were stacked high and dripping with melting ice. Legs of lamb were hanging from wall hooks. There was a bloody hunk of some kind of meat on a scale that hung from the ceiling, and through a window in a room-size icebox I saw another butcher making mountains of chopped meat at a grinder. A hatchet-faced joker left one of the blocks, a big knife still in his mitt, and asked in a Swedish accent, “Yeah, mister?”

“Lou Franconi around?”

“He's in the market. Should be back in a few minutes.”

“I'll wait.”

He didn't ask me who I was, merely went back to work. I found a chair and sat. They evidently supplied bars and restaurants, and there were a number of large wicker baskets against one wall, each with a bar or eating place tagged on the handle. The butchers were filling orders—hatchet-face weighed up a steak, wrapped it and tossed it into one of the baskets, and checked it off on an order pad. Then he went into the icebox and came out with a whole liverwurst, a bag of franks, and chopped meat.