Ed Lacy - The Men From the Boys

He sort of yelled, “What the hell is this?” He was so damn scared I knew I'd made a wrong move. But I had to bluff it out or he could sue the Grover, although I didn't know why I should care, so I snapped, “Got a license to carry a gun?”

“What gun?”

“That's a holster crease across your shirt.”

“A what? I... oh, for... that's from the strap of my gadget case. It's on the bed.”

I glanced over at the bed and there was one of those leather bags camera nuts sport their gear in. I gave him a quick frisk, let him go. He rubbed his arm for a second, then pulled out his wallet, showed me a card in some photographers' society, then an announcement that the society was meeting in New York City.

“Sorry, Mr. Berger, I made a mistake. But we run a respectable hotel and I have to...”

“I know how respectable—a girl solicited me in the hallway a few minutes ago!”

“I'll correct that. You see, you look like a guy that caused trouble here once before. No harm done. I apologize, Mr. Berger,” I said, crawfishing out of the room.

Kenny took me down to the main floor. I wondered what in hell I was so jumpy about—even if it was Bob, he would only be mildly curious about me. But if he was tailing me ...

The door to my room was ajar and I couldn't remember if I'd left it closed or not. I sure was losing my touch. I stood there for a moment wondering if I should take my gun out—I was only in this to stop a slug. But I'd talked myself into getting Bob Smith at the same time, if I could.

I took the gun out of the holster, put it in my pocket as I inched the door open. Harold was sitting on my bed, smoking a pipe and reading the morning paper. I asked, “What you doing in my room?”

He didn't look up, merely nodded as he muttered, “Your door was open, Marty. I knew you wouldn't be in the sack so early. Not yet midnight.”

I closed the door. He kept on reading the paper. Harold didn't look like a pimp, although “few look like the movie version; the greasy joker with an evil handsome face. I always figured all pimps as part queer.

Harold didn't even go for sharp clothes. He was a fat, thick-necked guy who looked like a longshoreman. He was wearing a crumpled white sport shirt and cheap slacks, blue canvas shoes. The only thing queer about him was his long dark hair which he kept wet and carefully brushed, every hair in place. Of course Harold was also queer for expensive cars.

I walked over to the bed and he folded the paper, started in with, “Marty, we got us a sweet little racket here, quiet and hidden away. Everybody is taken care of—be silly for any of us to spoil it or...”

“Barbara call you?”

“That Barbara acting up? Giving you any trouble? King called me. He was upset.”

“Tell him to lay off me. Also tell your mudkickers to stop soliciting in the hallways. Kenny and Dewey get them enough business. And quit socking Barbara—black eyes don't look good in the romance racket. Now, get out, I'm sleepy.”

“No rush, Marty old man, we haven't talked for a...”

“Where do you get off, old-manning me?” I said, hooking him in the belly with my right. I may have lost my touch, but my punch was still there—Harold shot off the other side of the bed, landed on his head, and did a clumsy somersault before he spread out on the carpet. His fat mouth was fish-spread, fighting for air. I was waiting for him to sit up so I could clip him again—for Barbara—but I decided that would only make the jerk beat her more. I had a better idea.

Taking the scissors from the bathroom, I cut off as much of his hair as I could, a chunk here, a chunk there, while he moaned, “No...! Aw, Marty.... No!” I didn't know which was hurting him more, his belly or the sight of the hair on the floor.

“Harold, it's easier on-your puss and my hands than if I belted you around. Now, stay the hell out of my room, out of my way.” I dragged him up by one shoulder, dumped him in the hallway, locked the door. Making sure the alarm was set, I undressed and dropped off into a fine sleep.

I didn't need any alarm to get me up at seven—I was up before that, coughing and sneezing, running a temperature, with the worst damn summer cold I ever had.

My head was stuffed, and my eyes and nose running. Between sneezes, as I dressed, I got down a fine hooker of rye and almost laughed—my gut felt fine and my mouth was sweet—so I was probably dying of pneumonia!

It was dawn outside and Sam wasn't open yet. The streets were almost deserted, only a few cars parked, and I slowly walked my sniffles over to Hamilton Square. I bought some paper handkerchiefs and a box of cough drops in a cigar store, certain I wasn't being followed. I had some Java, eggs and bacon, then took a cab over to the middle of Twelfth Street. I got out and walked slowly toward Fifth Avenue. The street was asleep. No car nor man followed me. I got another cabbie, had him take me up to Twenty-third Street, then downtown. I took a plant behind some parked trailers, watching Lande's place, eating the box of cough drops and wiping my nose every few minutes.

I was still there at nine—not sure Lande would show. I bought some oranges from a guy with a pushcart and felt better. My fever seemed gone and except for my running nose, I felt pretty good.

At a quarter to ten an old station wagon parked in front of the meat store and Lande got out. He was halfway across the sidewalk when he saw the hole in his door. He ran into the store.

Exactly eleven minutes later he rushed out and looked up and down the street—for a cop—then dashed back into the store. A few minutes later a radio car came screaming to a stop and two cops jumped out.

I walked away, stopped for a hot dog and bottle of soda, then went up to Sam's. I felt a little foolish. I'd been certain Lande wouldn't call the cops.

I wondered what I'd done with the cereal—for I felt I was acting like a junior G-man with a box-top badge.

Five

Sam gave me penicillin tablets and a slug of medicine that tasted like stale Scotch. “That will knock it out, Marty. If it doesn't, see a doctor. You got yourself a real cold. I... uh... trust you've been careful with those sleeping pills.”

“Threw them away. You're right, Sam, why mess with that stuff.”

The relief almost oozed over Sam's heavy face. “That was smart. Go back to the hotel and get some sleep. Best thing for a cold. You look awful sad.”

“I don't feel exactly overbright,” I said.

He started gabbing about a fight he'd watched on TV the night before. I didn't listen, for in the back of my head I had this feeling something was out of place.

“... There's this big muscle-bound dope with his knees buckling. Instead of staying away, what does he do but come in. Wham! He's clipped again by the right and it's all over. I'm telling you, Marty, pugs today don't know their business.”

“Yeah, it's always easier to know what to do when you're outside the ring,” I told him. “I remember...” All of a sudden I felt good—Lande had played it the way I figured, after all! The damn cold must have had me groggy—it was eleven minutes before he came out of the shop, looked for a cop. Then he went back in and phoned the police. That meant he'd called somebody else first, had been told to call the cops.

It fitted—I was still in business—even if I didn't know what business.

“As you were saying ...?”

“Nothing, except sometimes it's tough to think in the clinches. I'll see you, Sam.”

I was in business but still in the dark about the link between the syndicate and a small-timer like Lande. I went back to see the driver again. He was packing a truck, told me to wait a few minutes. He was wearing what looked like a motorcycle racer's lined leather hat, only it was too big for him and he looked like the comic in an old burlesque.