Ed Lacy - The Men From the Boys

I went over to him. His skin was waxy and drawn tight over his bony puss. “Why don't you change your record? You're an old man and I guess you want to live longer, although I can't figure why or...”

“You can't bully me!” He actually made his little hands into fists.

“Yes, I can, King. I can bully you all I want because if I feel like it, I'll belt that funny-looking chin of yours, bust all the bones, including your store choppers. I can do that with one punch, one good ...”

“Roughneck!” He almost screamed the word at me as he retreated into his office.

I don't know what it was, maybe the hatred in his eyes, but it was like looking into a crystal ball, seeing my life, and that one word, “roughneck,” summed it up. Roughneck, lout, bully... they covered the years, my lousy stupid life, all of it. It made me feel crummy.

King got courage, and some color back in his face, stuck his stickpin head out of the office door. “You think you can push me around because you're all muscles. Well, there will be an accounting soon that will...!”

“All right, don't crowd your luck with a roughneck,” I growled, and walked to the front of the small lobby, sat down, wondering why the cockroach had upset me—and he had. I sat there for maybe ten minutes, thinking of nothing, almost wanting to bawl.

Sam came over himself and I paid him for a bottle that looked like a watch charm, it was that small, but Sam wasn't the kind to gyp me. He asked if my cold was better, told me to drop over for some more pills.

Back in my room I found Barbara dressing. I placed the tiny box in her hands as she pulled on her dress, asked, “What's this?”

“A time bomb—what does it look like?”

She unwrapped it and stared at the little bottle, then up at me, and began to cry a little. “Lord, Marty, this is Arpege!”

“Sure is,” I said, as if I knew what she was talking about.

“I've bought the toilet water but... this is the perfume!”

She came over and gave me a sloppy kiss, whispered, “Hon, it's been a long time for us.”

“Sure, but you just took a shower, no sense getting sweated up. Some other time.”

She pulled away, rubbed her nose with the bottle. “You're a funny one—lately. Before you were so tough and ...”

“Being tough is a lot of crap,” I said, slapping her hips.

“... and now you're sentimental.”

“You bet I am. We've had some good times together. And being sentimental over a whore is getting down to the tacks of life.”

“Why did you have to use that word, Marty?”

“Why not? We never kidded ourselves. Let old poppa Marty tell you what I've learned the last few days—this is a whoring world and it makes us all whores in one way or another.”

Barbara slipped me the coy look again. “I suppose what you said is awful deep or something; I'll have to think about it. Marty, was the girl asking for you this morning really your wife?”

“Yeah.”

“She looks like what I used to dream about when I was a kid—being real big-time, real beautiful.”

“You should have seen her eight or nine years ago.”

“No, she looks beautiful now because she knows she isn't any kid and still she has it—what a figure.”

“Maybe she was too pretty.”

“How come you let something like that go?”

I slapped Barbara's hips again. “Something like that let me go. But by then it didn't matter. Flo was like a pug in training—all the time. Couldn't do this or that because it might spoil her figure, surf casting roughened her skin... all that. Now she wants me back and she has a swell setup.”

“No wonder you've been fluffing the duff here—you're going back to her.”

“No, it's too late for that.” I was suddenly bored with all the small talk. “Honey, want to take a walk, or something? I need some shut-eye.”

“Okay. Thanks for the perfume. Guess it is too muggy to do anything but sleep.”

When she left I sat on the bed, wondering how to kill the afternoon—my last afternoon. Be good to get drunk, but with my gut it might spoil things for tonight—and it was going to be tonight. Jones Beach was too much effort and ...

The phone rang—my boy in Immigration. He told me what I expected, and of course it fitted, as I knew it would. There it was, all wrapped up. I could pull the string now by merely calling Bill—they'd make him a captain at least for this—only there was my own very special angle, the only thing that mattered for me.

I still had the rest of the afternoon and my room depressed me. I went out and Lawson asked, “Where you going, Bond?”

“I'm going to break your nosy head!” I said, making for the desk.

He backed into the office. “I'm only asking in case you get any calls.”

“Tell them I'm out counting the pansies in Washington Square,” I said, turning toward the door.

I walked over to Seventh Avenue, stopped for pie and iced coffee. I was still being tailed. I decided to tell Lawrence good-by.

The doc wasn't happy to see me, said, “Mr. Bond, you upset him badly the last time you were here. I'll find out if he wants to see you.”

He returned in a few minutes to tell me I could go in. “But please make it brief and be careful what you say—no arguments.”

The same cop was on the door and he gave me a hard look as I went in. The boy was in a wheel chair, tape over his nose, the top of his head bandaged. He was bare to his waist although most of his ribs were taped. I said, “Well, kid, you're coming along fine.”

“That's what they tell me.” His eyes seemed to be studying me. “Glad you came by, Marty. I've thought over what you told me—I'm still going to become a cop—at least try to. I'll be a good cop if for no other reason because I'll stop any other Marty Bonds from abusing their authority.”

I shrugged. “You do that, Lawrence—if you can. All right, if you're still badge-happy, pass the exam and they'll welcome you with open arms.”

“Is this another of your... uh... jokes?”

“Kid, you stumbled on the hottest thing going. You stick to your story; you always knew this was big.”

“I don't understand you.”

“You will by morning. And don't be modest. Blow your horn loud. The cops wouldn't listen, but you knew there was something fishy about Lande from the go. Don't rap the department, but don't let the reporters forget you. I'm giving you full credit for ...”

“You've cracked it?”

“By tomorrow you and I will have cracked New York City wide open. Now don't ask no more questions—just wait.” I shook his hand. “So long, kid.”

“Marty, what's all this about?”

“You'll know tomorrow. I hope this beating has taught you something, but I doubt it. Maybe it may teach you not to learn things the hard way. Good-by, Lawrence.” I let go of his hand.

“But, Marty...? Wait!”

I opened the door as he called, “Dad—wait!” I closed the door softly, winked at the cop, and walked out onto Seventh Avenue.

It was a few minutes after three and for no reason I walked across the street and bought a ticket for Loew's Sheridan, lost myself in the darkness. It was cool and the movie was one of these color jobs shot over in Europe, and I got a kick out of seeing the streets of Rome and Naples I remembered from the war. The story was silly as hell and the other feature had Hollywood winning the West from the Indians for the millionth time. I chewed mints and worked on my running nose, wondered if my shadow was enjoying the pictures.

It was almost seven when I came out into the hot end of the day, feeling rather sorry for myself—a guy who didn't know what to do with his last hours but spend them seeing slop on the screen.

I walked over to Eighth Street and had a good sea-food supper. It was a big meal and didn't seem to bother my gut, although when I reached the Grover I had to dash for the John. I came back to the lobby, shut off the radio in the office. Dewey came in from the desk. “Hey, I'm listening to a story.”