Ed Lacy - The Best That Ever Did It

“Marty, you know me. I ...”

“I know your big mouth very well, that's why I'm telling you. Sam, this means fifty or sixty thousand dollars. We make our picture, we're set for life.”

“And in a couple of years, if there's still a demand for passports, we can work the deal again, or...”

“No, just this one time. We're going to be smart operators. Most jokers get caught because they work a good thing thin.”

Sam jumped up, knocking his chair over. “Where's the paper? See when the Liberte is sailing.”

“Easy, Sam, my head won't stand one of your bursts of energy. And we'll go by a Dutch ship—they're cheaper. First thing you have to do is start parking your car around the PX, and at SHAEF headquarters out at Fontainebleau. Pass the word that you're selling the car. Only forget you're an actor, don't talk too damn much.”

CHAPTER 5

“WHAT'S THIS all about, I say something bright?” Jake asked.

“Tell me more about Andersun.”

“Not much to tell. I remember him because I get along good with all the people on my route. They're my friends. Andersun was living in a rooming house near Broadway and of course I don't get to know roomers much, but for a few days he was always waiting for me, asking if I didn't have a registered letter for him. When it finally came—I could tell it was a passport— I asked for identification and he said I knew him, but I said I needed identification and finally he came up with his birth certificate.”

“When was all this?”

Jake rubbed his nose. “Oh... at least three, four months ago.”

“Four months ago?” I repeated. Betsy said, “If it's that long ago, it would hardly have any connection with this...”

“It has to hook up.”

The cone dripped on her hand, onto Gloria's toy and for some reason as I brushed the toy off I wondered if Louise had toys and attention when she was a kid. And what did that prove and why was I even thinking about it now?

Betsy said, “I'd best go out and give this to Ruth.”

I asked Jake, “Where's this rooming house? Andersun still there?”

“Crummy joint on One Hundred and Second Street. I don't think he's there. Never get any more mail for him. Although he never put in a change of address card either. They come and go in these houses.”

“Can you remember any other letters you had for him?”

“Nope. Only would recall something special—like a reg.”

“Tell me again what he looked like.”

“Can't exactly say, except his hair seemed too red. And his voice.”

I wrote down the address of the rooming house, thanked Jake, and went back into the drugstore and phoned O'Hara, asked if he could baby-sit for me. Cy said, “Damn, you sure pick odd hours to ask! You know what time it is? Anyway, we got a bridge game going. Look, if you want, bring Ruthie here and she can sleep on the couch.”

“No, that wouldn't work,” I said. I didn't want her shoved around like a piece of baggage.

“I'm sorry, Barney, but if you'd only let me know sooner.”

“It's okay. See you, Cy.”

I went out and stepped into the car. As we drove off, Betsy asked, “What's all this mean, Barney?”

“What happened, Daddy?” Ruthie asked over her ice-cream cone.

“Look, honey, Daddy will probably be gone all night. Guess I can get May to stay with you—I hope.”

“Oh, her. I heard her say she was going to see her uncle in New Haven for Saturday and Sunday. Said he was a rich uncle —always showing off.”

I swore under my breath, tried to think of anybody else I could get to baby-sit on a Saturday night. “Ruth, would you like to sleep at my house?” Betsy asked. “In the morning we can start making some dresses.”

I was about to tell Betsy to take it slow, but where else could I find a baby sitter? Ruthie asked, “May I, Daddy?”

“Well... okay.”

Betsy smiled at Ruthie and said “That's lovely,” then asked me, “Barney, because a man with the same name as Andersun gets a passport—months ago—what does that mean for us?”

“The red hair, the twang in his voice—that's Brown, the joker who was in the bar the night of the shootings. Still haven't any motive, but he's our boy. I'm going to see Franzino, go down to that rooming house tonight. After all this waiting around, I think we're finally moving in high gear.”

I dropped Ruthie and Betsy off at her place, then drove up to the precinct house. It suddenly came to me that Brown's rooming house was just a few blocks from the Turner apartment and I wished I had some place else to leave Ruthie. The duty sergeant must have thought I was a salesman; he tried to brush me off for a while before he got Franzino on the phone. Within a half hour Franzino was at the station house, and a few minutes later Al Swan joined us, a bigwig from Homicide with him.

We raced down Broadway, the siren going most of the time, and it gave me a kick. Although when the siren was off, the engine made quite a racket—needed a valve clearance check. The rooming house was an ancient three-story affair and we promptly scared the night lights out of the old couple who ran it and most of their roomers, who were just coming in from their Saturday night elbow-bending.

The couple vaguely remembered Andersun—he'd lived there for about a month, paid promptly. They said he was a quiet fellow, didn't drink or raise any hell. No, he didn't seem to work, but he wasn't worrying about money either. Sometimes he carried a camera around. No, they couldn't recall any visitors he had except a tall handsome man who had also roomed there for a week. His name was Smith—they thought. He and Andersun were friends, moved in at the same time, but Smith only stayed a few days, although sometimes he came around to see Andersun. The couple kept sloppy records, didn't even have a record of when Andersun and Smith roomed there, the exact date, or Smith's first name. Andersun had moved months ago, left no forwarding address, and they'd never seen him since.

The letdown was pretty bad. We took them and some of the steady roomers back to the station. We also picked up Jimmy, the bartender, and Franzino got Louise out of the cooler. I had a chance to tell her how sorry I was, and what she told me I can't print. They all spent the rest of the night beefing about losing sleep and looking at pictures sent up from the rogues' gallery downtown. But we came up with a blank.

At four in the morning, over containers of bad coffee, Franzino asked me, “Got any more ideas, bright boy?”

“Why the sarcasm, Barney's been batting 1000 per cent,” Al said.

“Who said I was being sarcastic?”

I asked, “Can we get the State Department in Washington to send us the passport application?”

“Already wired them. FBI is in the case now. They'll be here in the morning. We'll have to shake down the Andersun family again—why the hell should this Brown get a passport as Andersun? Maybe he's a relative, or ...?”

“At least we know why the real Andersun was killed,” I said.

“Do we?” Al asked.

“Look, for some reason Brown gets a passport under Andersun's name. Then Brown reads in the papers about the kid winning the cash, heading for Paris. Meaning the real Andersun would need a passport, find out about Brown getting one in his name—so Andersun is knocked off.”

“Too simple. For all we know there can still be two Andersuns, or maybe Brown and this other Andersun are the same guy, or again, Brown and our Andersun may have been working together,” Al said, and in the early morning his voice was so hoarse it was a continuous whisper. “Still a lot of ifs we know strictly from nothing about. Like we haven't any idea how Turner fits into this.”

Franzino yawned. “First thing we do is grab some shut-eye, see what those FBI glamour boys come up with in the morning. We might as well use the cots upstairs.”