Ed Lacy - The Big Fix

Tommy shoved the wallet back into his hip pocket. Trying to hold his temper in, he said, “Look, Miss, I been out of town for a while, training. First chance I get to see May, you start giving me double-talk. What did May start? What trouble is she in?”

“She began picking up numbers. Butch warned her not to start that here. The way I hear things, she was holding out. But May had bad luck. One of the numbers she held out hit for a buck. Naturally the player yelled. So the boys found out she was stealing and the syndicate man slapped her around. Now we don't know where she's been hiding out That's a fact. I haven't seen her in two days. Maybe Butch knows something, but he won't tell. Even though he's sore at her for bringing the syndicate in here, involving the restaurant still he likes May—not the way you think—just likes...”

“He'll tell me! Who's Butch?”

“One of the bosses. Guy who was on the last time you were here.” Bertha sighed. “Look, I keep telling you, even if Butch knows where she is, and I ain't sure he does, he won't tell anybody.”

“I'll call the cops.”

Bertha gave him another sigh. “That would be the best way of making everybody clam up. Butch won't talk, for May's own good.” She examined Tommy's clothes for a second. “You going to give May the dough for my apartment?”

“Right now all I care about is finding my wife!”

“Sure, I understand. Luck, Mr. Cork. I hope you find her okay, and she's like six o'clock with the syndicate—straight up and down. I hope also she gets that one hundred and fifty bucks up, so I can make California. Now that's about all the hoping I can do.” Bertha walked away to wait on a new customer.

“You know where she was rooming, before... this?”

“You're a bright one,” the fat blonde called over her shoulder. “If you're in hiding, the last place you'd be is in your old room.”

“Yeah,” Tommy muttered. As he started for the door, Mac called softly from behind the cash register, “This ain't no mission. We charge for our Java. One dime.”

“You sure say nothing for a slob who talks too much,” Tommy said, throwing the dime on the counter. Outside, he breathed in deeply of the cold night air and wondered what to do. It didn't sound possible—May mixed up with the numbers racket. Why in the old days, she wouldn't even go to the races with him. If she found a nickel on the street she would insist upon putting it in the church poor box.

For a half hour Tommy walked through the markets, the side streets, not really expecting to see May, but not knowing what else to do. He couldn't go to the police, if May was really in this. Then he stopped at another stool joint, phoned Walt Steiner, told him what had happened.

Walt was just taking off his shirt—having decided to stay home—when the phone rang. After listening to Tommy he told him, “Look, if you want to make any charges, go to the local police station and report your wife missing, then...”

“I don't want charges or reports. I want to find my wife!” Tommy said, almost crying over the phone. “The blonde said May's been beaten up. She may be hurt, needing me. Before, we... well... we were living apart; but what I mean, she was not in danger or hurt. Walt, I don't know what to do. But you have a badge, you're a cop. Can't you help me?”

Walt hesitated. He had learned long ago not to volunteer. Throw your badge around and it could easily bounce back in your face. Still, he could feel the real grief in Tommy's voice, and anything was better than moping around, waiting for Ruth. Only because it was something to do, Walt asked Tommy where he was, told him he'd be there in twenty minutes.

When he met Tommy a half hour later, Walt was sorry he'd come and told Tommy, “Before we start anything you have to remember once I step into this as a police officer... that... if your wife is mixed up in any numbers deal... Well, when the wagon comes, everybody goes. Understand?”

“Just find her,” Tommy said, thinking, What's wrong with this big joker? If he knew anything about May, he'd have to know she's too sweet to be mixed up in anything shady. Not May!

“Okay, let's go to the diner. Let me do the talking,” Walt said, shivering slightly with the cold night air. He also knew the numbers syndicate was real big-time, far too powerful for one cop to buck, even an honest one. He almost wished Tommy would argue, give him an excuse to back out of this.

When they reached the diner Bertha was kidding with one of two coffee-and-cake customers. Mac was kneading a pan of dough, having had his usual sampling of “cooking sherry” some minutes before. He gave Tommy and Walt a sloppy, loose grin, told Walt, “Absolutely no point in asking who you are. It's all over your face. What can I do for you, officer?”

“Where's May Cork?”

Mac grinned, as if Walt had told him a joke. “I can answer that one easily and truthfully. I don't know.”

“When did you last see her?”

“Oh, maybe I saw May last month. Once, I think,” Mac said, the silly grin still on his wide face.

Walt glanced at Tommy, annoyed, then asked Mac, “Doesn't she work here?”

Mac nodded, working on his dough again. “Sure, she worked here. But you asked when was the last time I saw her. As it happens I generally knock off about a half hour before May's due on, so...”

“Cut the coy crap,” Walt said, putting muscle into his voice. “I want some straight answers and I want them fast!”

Mac made a slight bow, his hands still in the white dough. “I always work with the police. Like I told him,” he jerked his big head toward Tommy, “if I knew where May was, I'd tell you. All I heard was May was beaten up. I don't even know that for a fact. I didn't see it. I only heard about it. I can only...”

“Was she taking numbers?”

Mac looked sad. “So I've heard. However, officer, I want you to know that if May was doing it—and I said if—she was doing it solely on her own, without our knowledge. In this eating establishment, we don't allow gambling or solicit...”

“You serve beer here?” Walt cut in.

“Sure. Bottles only. You want some?”

“I don't want any beer and unless I get some real information out of you, nobody else is going to buy any suds here, either. I'll request the state board to revoke your beer license—something about racketeers and unsavory characters hanging about.”

The smile fled Mac's puffy face. For the first time Tommy was impressed by Walt, was glad he'd let Walt carry the conversation, as he'd been told. He glanced up at Walt's grim face, which didn't hint that Walt was merely bluffing. Hell, this wasn't even near his squad area.

“Now you guys wait just a fat minute,” Mac said. “I'm not holding out on you. Told you all I know. Don't see why I'm suddenly in the middle of this thing. Like I said, I hardly see—saw—May. You speak to my partner, Butch. This is all his baby and I ain't going to get my feet wet. He'll be here in an hour or so. Comes on around eleven-thirty.”

Walt asked, “Where's he live?”

“Two blocks east. Nineteen Rand Street. Morris, Fred Morris. Talk to him, let him say what he wants. He's the big-hearted slob protecting May. I told him... well, never mind.”

“What's 'never mind' mean?”

“It means nothing. I told him to keep our noses out of it. She wanted to mess with these digit punks, then it's her business and she had to take what she got. We...”

“Got? What did May get?” Tommy suddenly asked, leaping toward Mac. Walt practically lifted Tommy off the ground as he turned him toward the door, said, “Take it slow. Let's see this Morris fellow.”

“Fred Morris, the third, no less,” Mae called out happily, adding for his own benefit, “And you can tell him to quit lecturing me about my drinking. Ruining the business he says and he...”