Ed Lacy - The Men From the Boys

“Take the radio out to the desk, I have some typing to do. I told you to lay off the back room last night—a guy came in while you were getting your wine chilled.”

“That's a lot of nonsense. I never left... How did you know?”

“Forget it and get out of here.”

It took me an hour to peck out a letter, with a carbon, telling Bill how Bochio had knocked off Cocky Anderson. I played up Lawrence big in my report. I even suggested sweating Willie for the exact details. After I sealed it, I wrote my name over the back of the envelope so Dewey's curiosity wouldn't get the best of him, put Bill's name on the front, along with the phone number of the station house.

I went to my room and shaved and showered like a bridegroom. Dropping some weight made me look in shape—on the outside I looked healthier than I had since I was a teenage punk. I made sure my gun was in working order before I slipped it and some extra shells into my pocket. I dragged an old suitcase from the closet, took out my army .45 which I'd smuggled into civilian, life, checked it, strapped it above my right ankle.

It was eight-twenty and starting to get dark. One thing worried me—Lande might not be home when I phoned him. He could easily be at a movie, or something. But he'd have to come home sooner or later.

Out in the lobby I motioned for Kenny to take over the desk and walked Dewey to my room. He took a swig of the pint of sherry in his hip pocket as he sat down, asked, “Now, what's cooking?”

“We're cooking without wine. Dewey, when you finish that pint, that's going to be all for the night.”

“You a reformer now, too?”

I pulled out all the bills I had in my pocket: three tens, a five, and four bucks. Tearing them in half I gave him one part, said, “After tonight you get the rest, go on a week's drunk if you want. But for the next couple of hours you're working for me, and don't forget it.”

Dewey fingered the torn money. “Marty, why the green salad?”

“A reminder that if you make a mistake I won't be around to give you the rest of the lettuce,” I said, pocketing the torn bills. “Your job is simple: I don't want you to leave the desk —not for a second, even if the Grover is on fire. You're being paid to stay by your phone. And to take good care of this.” I placed the letter addressed to Bill in Dewey's lap. “Don't let anybody get ahold of that letter, even see it—till later. Understand?”

Dewey nodded.

I gave him a slip of paper with Lande's store phone on it. “And keep this handy, too. All right, here's the deal. Starting at ten o'clock you call this number every fifteen minutes. No matter if the desk is busy or not, every fifteen minutes you call. I'll answer and say, 'Lawson is a fag.' That's all. You don't answer anything except one word, 'Okay, Marty.' But if ...”

“That's two words.”

“All right! Goddamnit, Dewey, you just answer, 'Okay, Marty.' Not another sound. Now, when you ring and there isn't any answer, or if somebody else answers, says, 'Hello?' says anything but 'Lawson is a fag,' you hang up—and call Bill Ash fast at the number on the envelope. That's the police station. Tell him—or whoever answers at the precinct—that you want a cop damn fast. If Ash answers tell him you have something important and he must come and get it—at once. You only give this letter to Ash, and ask to see his badge, or to a uniformed cop. Got it?”

Dewey swallowed, his eyes watered, and he touched the envelope like it was hot. “Marty, you in something... something... real bad?”

“This is all the way for me, Dewey. That's why I want you to stay off the wine and on the ball. Remember, if anybody answers with anything but our passwords, don't you say a single word, just slam the receiver down and call the police. And for Christ's sake, be sure you're dialing the right number, the one on the slip. Now, tell me what I told you.”

Dewey stuttered through it and we went over it again. Then I told him, “Good. Finish the pint—you'll need that. Stay at the desk, and remember—start calling at ten sharp. Even if you have to go to the John—stay at the desk!”

Dewey stood up, put Bill's letter in his back pocket, Lande's phone number in his shirt pocket. He asked, “Marty, what are you in? Will I ...?”

“You'll be a lousy hero. One more thing, don't blab about this to Kenny, Barbara—nobody.”

“Listen, Many, you know hew I am—maybe I won't be able to ...”

He was shaking a little and I slapped him on the back. “Just do what I told you and everything will be okay. Hell, we're pals, you're the only one I can trust. Get going. Remember, you start phoning at ten sharp—about an hour and a half from now. 'Lawson is a fag.' If anybody says anything else, even if you think it's me, hang up and call the cops. Get going.”

When he left I put the carbon of the letter in an envelope, addressed it to the kid in the hospital, then put the rest of the torn money in another envelope addressed to Dewey. I dug up a couple of stamps, locked my door, and dropped the letters in the mail chute off the lobby. I took the self-service elevator to the eighth floor, opened the linen-closet window, stepped out on the adjoining fire escape—the weight of the .45 at my ankle making me clumsy.

I went up and over the roof, down into the alley, moving carefully. After last night they'd be wondering how I got out of the Grover. Dropping into the alley as softly as my two-hundred-odd pounds would allow, I stood very still in the darkness.

I had company—somebody in front of me was breathing heavily.

I stood there for a long moment, fingering the gun in my pocket, retasting the sea food, trying not to belch.

Whoever was sharing the alley with me was making a lot of noise with his breathing. I waited, but my buddy was playing it cool. I got my flash out, knelt and placed it on the cement alleyway, pointing it in the general direction of the breathing.

I got my gun out and leaning way over to the right, I reached out with my left foot, pressed the button. I spotlighted an old bum huddled in one corner. I grinned as he blinked his bleary eyes to get me in focus.

I pocketed the gun and picking up my flash I started toward him. He said, “Put that light out, you big sonofabitch.”

“They making you winos braver these days?” I asked.

I was on top of him and he sort of grinned and his teeth were too good for a wino and his eyes were too bright—he wasn't drunk—he was on junk. He was sitting with both hands on the cement and he raised himself off the floor a few inches as his legs struck out, scissored around mine.

I fell on top of him, kicking, swinging with my flash... and thought I heard the swish of a sap behind me before my head exploded in a burning white flame.

Six

I came to on my side, part of my head and neck feeling big as a ton—a numb ton. There was light near me and after blinking a few times, I managed to sit up and look around. The wino decoy was lying a couple of feet from me, blood streaming from his head: I must have followed through with my swing before I conked out.

Turning made my head spin, but I finally faced the light. The face above the small flashlight was Hilly Smith's, all the sharp, overneat features. His eyes were as cold and impersonal as dry ice. For a moment I couldn't see any hands, then I realized he was wearing dark gloves. He must have been holding my Police Special in his right hand—it seemed suspended in the dim light—the business end pointing at me.

I belched and my head hurt. But I moved my legs a little. Bob wasn't any ball of fire; he hadn't found the .45.

We stared at each other for a while. I'd seen him once or twice over the years, but never this close. He was a handsome punk, tall and lean, with wide sloping shoulders. His face was hard and without an ounce of fat, or maybe it was the shadows that made him look so hard.