Ed Lacy - The Men From the Boys

I screwed the light off, went out and put the drawers back, picked up some mail and a cashbox, went back to my ice den. There was a key sticking in the tin cashbox and about six bucks in change, petty-cash vouchers for stamps and string. The mail seemed all ads and bills. I went out, slamming the door in a hurry so the light wouldn't be seen, returned the box and mail to the office. The store was a bust as far as I was concerned, although if he was running dope that would be the link, and you can have a fortune of the junk in a pound candy box.

I took the ham and the tongue, made sure the street was empty, then stepped out and walked up Front Street. I dumped the glass and tape from the door down a sewer opening, left the tongue and the open can of ham atop a garbage can—if the cats didn't get it, the market bums would when they made rounds, collecting for their Mulligan stew.

Via the fire escapes I got back into the Grover, put the gloves, flash, and gun in my room, then walked casually out to the desk. I'd been gone exactly an hour and thirty-three minutes. “How's things?” I asked Dewey.

“Nothing much. Marty, this Doc Dupre called again. Why don't you call him and get him off my back? You owe him money?”

“He wants his pound of flesh, rotten flesh,” I said, enjoying my own little joke again and suddenly realizing that for the first time in days, at the moment I felt swell, no stink in my mouth, no tight feeling in my gut.

Dewey said, “Also, I keep telling you to call King. He said to call him at his house tonight.”

“All right, you told me. Dewey, anybody check in today?” If my tail was a clever slob he might be stopping at the Grover.

“Those kids. And a trucker.”

“The trucker—old customer?”

“Yeah, the fat one who hustles watermelons up from Georgia.”

“Where's your empty-room check sheet?”

He arched the shaggy eyebrows over his watery eyes. “One minute you're stroking the duck, the next you're an eager beaver. Here's the sheet.”

“Dewey, I want a favor. Keep your bottle under the desk, don't go into the back room tonight, don't leave the desk. If anybody looks funny, or if anybody registers, call me in my room at once.”

“In a jam?”

“I don't know, could be.”

I went into the-office and phoned King at his house. He shrilled, “It's near eleven—what do you mean by calling me so late, Bond?”

“Want me to hang up?”

“See here, Bond, I'm sick of your high-handed ways. Either you stay on the job or...”

“Oh what? King, people in glass cat houses shouldn't talk so loud, or make any trouble.”

“How dare you talk to me like that? I'll have you thrown out of your room and ...!”

“I didn't call to hear you blow your nose. Listen, King, far as you're concerned I'm on vacation for a few days, so stop pestering me, keep out of my way.”

“As manager of the Grover, neither I nor the office will stand for such impertinence from...!”

“Bag of bones, J won't tell you twice to stop running your mouth. As for that fancy office, tell them I'm coming down and underneath all the gold lettering on the door, where it says real estate, appraisals, insurance, I'll add... pimping. Now, don't make waves!” I hung up, then went from floor to floor, starting with the check room in the basement, full of a lot of old trunks and boxes, checking the empty rooms. It isn't hard to sneak into a hotel, especially the fourth-rate ones, and there's little chance of getting caught if you only stay a night.

The rooms were okay. I dropped into, the girls' room. Barbara was playing cards with a new babe—a tall strong blonde who looked fresh from the farm. Barbara asked, “Marty, where you been? Still feeling punk?”

“I'm okay. Who's this?”

“Agnes. A friend of Harold's is breaking her in and since Florence was sick tonight, Harold sent her.”

“Isn't Jean here?”

“Sure, she's working. Why?”

I went over to the closet. Next to Barbara's square makeup bag—“like all the show girls have”—there was a small cardboard suitcase that would be Agnes's. As I opened it the big blonde asked, “What's the idea? Who you?”

“'Who you?' is Marty the house dick,” Barbara told her. “What you looking for, Marty?”

There wasn't much in the bag—a dress, stockings, a change of underwear. If this was the syndicate I was wrestling with, a woman hood wasn't impossible.

Agnes came over and asked again, “What's the idea, lumpy?”

“Watch your mouth, honey,” I told her, “or you'll be packing your vaseline and on your way out of here.” I put the suitcase back and walked out into the hall—only had to wait a moment before Barbara came out, asked, “What's wrong, Marty?”

“Nothing, thought she might be a junkie. You know this hick?”

“I've seen her before, if that's what you mean.”

I squeezed her hand. “All right, that's good enough for me.”

“Ain't like you to be jumpy. Something up? Hope there ain't going to be a damn raid. I hate the...”

“Everything is okay, honey.” Looking at her closely I saw the remains of a black eye expertly covered by make-up. “Rough customer?” I pointed at the eye.

“Harold. He never understands that when it's so hot and muggy, business slumps. I'm glad you're back. I feel better with you around.”

“I bet you tell that to all the boys.”

She gave me a startled look, burst out laughing. “Get you, old two-ton turning coy.” She dug a ringer into my stomach. “Seriously, you know what I mean.”

“All right,” I said, to say something.

She dug a finger again. “You're losing weight, Marty.” She slapped my pockets. “Knew you'd forget it.”

“Forget what?”

“The perfume you promised me.”

“You're wrong, I did buy it, but it broke in my pocket.” I took out a couple of bucks. “Do me a favor and buy it yourself. You know what you want.”

She shook her head. “It won't mean nothing unless you buy it, even if it comes from the dime store. Let me pet back to Agnes—she's jittery. Hey, who's the scouts we got here with short pants?”

“Couple of health nuts. They ain't got a buck between them, so leave them alone. Don't work too hard, honey.”

I put the keys back on the office rack, went to my room. I set the alarm for seven in the morning, took another shower, and went to bed. I felt good, like my old self. I wondered if I was being overcautious, but then I didn't want my boy Smith to find out I didn't know a thing, and lay off me. Although Lande would be bait any time I wanted Bob to come running—if it was Bob. Only it had to be him, and he'd do that little favor for me. I wanted a cigarette and a shot, decided to hell with it, dropped off into a deep sleep.

About a half hour later the phone buzzed and I had to jerk myself up a thousand yards of good sleep before I managed to sit up, growl, “What the hell you want?”

Dewey said, “A guy just registered.”

“So what?”

“You off your noggin, Marty? Didn't you tell me to let you know if anybody registered?”

“All right, all right, this a new customer?”

“Never saw him before. Well dressed.”

“Where is he?”

“Room 431. Name is Al Berger. In from Stamford City. No baggage and paid in advance, of course.”

I dressed, wore my gun, and went up and knocked on 431. A young guy, lean build, opened the door—the type that could be anything. He had his coat and tie off, and his white shirt was damp with sweat. There was a shadow of a line running across his chest—the kind of indentation the strap from a shoulder holster could make. He looked me over coolly, asked, “What do you want?”

“I'm the house dick—want to be sure everything is okay,” I said, pushing the door open, spinning him around and bending his arm up behind his back before he knew what the play was.