Ed Lacy - The Men From the Boys

I put my elbows on the cement ground and relaxed, wondering what the next move was. I'd walked into a trap, but it didn't make any difference to me. Dewey would call Bill at ten when I didn't answer. Even if the wine got to Dewey, Lawrence would have the carbon copy of the letter in the morning and then they'd pick up Bochio, maybe Smith. All I had to do was see to it I didn't leave the alley alive. And if Bob made a mistake, I'd like to knock him off. Sort of a going-away present to somebody... maybe myself. A kind of...

He said, “What's ya story, ya bastid?” There was something wrong with his lips, like they were too big for his mouth— they didn't stop at his face, went inside his mouth. Or maybe that was the shadows too.

“I was going to tell it to you—in Willie's shop. But this is just as good a spot.” My voice sounded strong in the stillness.

“Figured that. But didn't want to knock ya off in the store, too much explaining.”

“What explaining?” I said, mocking him. “You could do me like you did Cocky, knock me off in the freezer, then dump the body any time you felt like it. Bochio must have thought he was real clever; shoots him, then goes down to Miami and establishes his alibi. Couple of weeks later you dump the body in the Bronx, it lays in the heat all day and no medical examiner can say it was frozen, that Anderson wasn't shot the night before. That's old stuff—he wasn't so smart.”

“A knife in the back is old—but it still works.”

The “bum” near me groaned and then was silent again.

Bob stared at him for a moment, then turned to me, asked, “What was ya doing, giving a public lecture?” He moved fast, jumped to my side and kicked me before I knew what was happening. As I doubled up he split the side of my face with my own gun.

I didn't black out, but for a long time I couldn't move, could hardly breathe. Blood was flowing into my shirt collar, down my side like syrupy sweat. I began to doubt Bob was going to make a mistake.... Then I had a frightening thought: Maybe he wasn't going to kill me, only work me over to scare me off?

I waited till I could sit up again, sure I could move my legs. My only play was a corny one; the decoy had used it on me.

Smith said, “I know all about ya, big hero copper now a two-bit lush, a lousy hotel dick. Who ya working for on this?”

When I opened my mouth, blood ran in and damn near choked me.

“What ya trying to do, make a name for yourself, get back on the force?”

“I want in,” I said, and it sounded like I was talking through a mouthful of mud.

“In—a shakedown?” He laughed, but no sound came out.

I tried to nod and my head seemed to be coming off. “Killing me won't do no good,” I said, and my voice came back strong and clear the more I talked. “I sent a letter to myself care of general delivery, with a cop as the return address. If I don't call for it... tomorrow... it goes back, will be opened.... You and Bochio will fry.” It wasn't much of a story, but it would do.

“Ya think ya're playing with kids, ya bastid!”

“No, I think it's time to separate the men from the boys, Bob.”

He didn't say anything for a moment, those ice-eyes watching me. I was in a sudden panic he might walk away, leave me. I said, “I never would have got onto this if you had learned to talk straight. You talk like a backward...”

He kicked me in the ear. For a second my head seemed to balloon up, then everything became clear again. “Every kick only jacks up the price. You and Bochio made a lot of mistakes by shooting Cocky in the freezer—don't make no more. Why did Bochio have to become a hood again after all these years? Start messing around with a perfect crime, no less?”

The “decoy” groaned again and Bob clouted him with the gun, knocking him into silence.

He said to me, “I told ya, no lectures!”

I was getting weaker, my whole shirt wet with blood. I lowered my voice as if I was passing out, said, “Everything is in... the... letter. Bochio probably never even knew Lande... was... a... relative. Or maybe Willie never knew. Then... old Bochio gets this... this... yen to kill Cocky. Maybe saw this freeze deal in a movie... or something. Looks around for a butcher, a freezer, and there's... one right in the family. All in the... the... letter.”

“Ya lousy chiseling bastid, whatcha want?”

“Ten grand,” I whispered.

Bob bent over me a little. “Whatcha say?”

“Ten grand.” I wanted to smile. Bob Smith the syndicate cop—a dumb punk.

He was almost stepping over my legs as he repeated, “Tea grand?”

I muttered, “If... I... die, you're done.”

“Ya think we're dumb enough to pay off, so ya'll keep shaking us down!”

I waved my hand. “Sure I will... but small stuff. I... I know when not to... overplay my hand.” I ended this in a mumble of double talk.

“What? Talk louder.”

I gasped out something neither of us could hear and inched my right leg out. Even if I didn't make it he'd shoot me dead.

“Ya're a muscleman—ya know I can do things that will make ya talk, beg for the finisher!”

“The letter... remember that,” I said loud enough for him to hear. “Get me to a doc before... I die.”

He hesitated and I mumbled, “I'm... dying!” and stiffened like a ham actor—getting my right leg way out.

Bob bent lower. “Hey! Ya get the dough! Hey!” he repeated like an idiot. Blood was forming in my mouth and I gargled with a little of it, sounded like a death rattle.

He stood up and I thought I'd overdone it. But he pulled out a fistful of money, bent down and waved it in my face. “Here, ya get the dough! Ya hear? Ya get...”

I put everything I had into swinging my right leg—with the .45 strapped against it—into a long arc as Bob tried to straighten up. There was the blast of my own gun—in his hand—that seemed to go off in my eyes as my leg clouted him on the side of his face.

Smith fell over sideways as I tried to sit up in the blast that blinded me. After the flash of gunpowder, the darkness was awful dark and it took me a long time to see. But it didn't take any time to feel the pain in my shoulder where he'd shot me. I could move my left arm so it wasn't too bad, but it took me a lot of years before I was able to stand. On my feet I felt much better.

I picked up Hilly's flash and looked at the “bum.” His head and face were all blood, but he was alive—the blood was bubbling at his lips. I straightened up. Bending down hadn't done me any good. I was dripping blood so badly it was really sloshing around in my shoes.

Blood never worried me and I had things to do. I took a deep breath, like a weightlifter, and dragged Bob over to a corner of the alley, set him up where he would be a dead duck in my private shooting gallery. The effort about kayoed me and I had to lean against the wall myself for a bunch of seconds. It was funny, the way I could move now, wasn't scared when I wasn't doing my own killing.

Bob started to move and I kicked his head against the wall, careful not to kill him... ruin my angle in this mess. I put the flash down so it covered us and frisked him. He had a gun on his hip and another up his sleeve. The sleeve job would be a lousy small-caliber deal, meaning only a lucky shot or a brace of slugs would do me in. I didn't touch the sleeve rod—that had to be it. The money he'd offered me was laying in his lap and for some stupid reason I picked up a few of the hundred-dollar bills, then picked up the flash with my left hand. My left was too bloody and the flash slipped out, and broke on the cement.

I stood up in the darkness, trying to steady myself, cursing my stupidity. Both Bob and I would need light. I bent over Bob, ripped off part of his coat, stumbled over to the bum and ripped off his coat and pants. I made a pile of the clothing, dropped the money on top of it. Then I made a small pile of a few crumpled bills twisted together, lit them with my lighter. I put Bob's gun and my Police Special near him where he could see them, but out of his reach. I wiped my hands and put the .45 in my pocket. The burning bills died out and I leaned against the wall, shut my eyes till my head cleared... and waited.