Ed Lacy - The Best That Ever Did It

But they all sat there without saying a damn word. After a long moment I went on. “We plant two phony stories in the papers, give them a big play. First, that the police have the killer—this is all off-the-top-of-my-noggin thinking—but something about a guy who was brooding about Turner slapping him around months ago—thought Andersun was a buddy of his— killed them both. Whatever the story, has to look good.”

The silence was still upon me like a hot blanket. The Fed asked softly, “And where does all this take us?” Maybe there was sarcasm in his voice—maybe it was my imagination.

“It makes Brown and Smith feel safe, that they can go after the jackpot. Now at the same time we plant another story. Hunt or Cohen... no, best we make it Spear... Irving Spear is picked up in a big crap game and makes the papers on some legal point about the police have no right to the pot. That stinks. I don't know what the gimmick will be exactly, but Spear comes into a hunk of change, maybe because of Andersun's death, and announces he's going to Europe. As I said, have to be a gimmick that would make the papers. Believing they're safe, Brown and Smith will try to knock off Spear, only we'll have him staked out. That puts it up to them—either they have to dump the idea, or knock off Spear and take off for Europe, or wherever they plan to sell the passports.... It will make them move, jump.”

You could still cut the silence with a blunt knife. I wiped my sweaty forehead with the back of my hand. The Fed man looked at the cops and the Fed said, “Granted it's a hell of a long shot, but since we don't have anything better, why not try it?”

“And if it doesn't work, we make the Police Department look like damn fools!” the police brass shouted.

“Who will ever know it didn't come off?” I asked. “The dummy we use will never come up for trial. Case will be forgotten—unless the Andersun family or Mrs. Turner make a stink, and I think we can talk them into co-operating with us.”

Federal shook his head. “We can't have too many people in on this, too much chance of a leak. For all we know Brown and Smith are in touch with the family—I mean see them on a social basis, under other names. As for the reputation of the Police Department, no trouble there. If nothing comes of this, the D.A. will dismiss the case for lack of evidence, or an alibi comes up. All done quietly. More I think of it, better I like our chances.”

“My client, Mrs. Turner, has to be in on it.”

A Fed who hadn't spoken till now asked, “Afraid you'll lose out on a day's pay?”

“That's an idea,” I said, fighting to sound calm. “I don't want Mrs. Turner to think I've solved the case when I haven't. Her interest—and mine—in all this is solely why and how Ed Turner was killed, and we're still a long ways from bringing that under the wire. Also, in my opinion—for what it's worth— you can foul things up easier by trying to hush this than by letting the people concerned know the score. That's why I've ruled out Hunt and Cohen. No point in starting with a new set of people. As for Spear, he's going with Andersun's sister, so he'll tell her. Our best bet is explain it to them and...”

“We'll work out the details,” a police bigwig said curtly. There was a little more chatter, and the conference was over. All the way uptown Al Swan kept telling me how, ”.... Can't get over you, Barney boy. Just keep surprising the crap out of me. You been hiding a brain under that bushel of wild hair.”

I felt uneasy, and when I left Al I went to the office, looked through the ads I called mail. I began to feel even more jittery. I kept telling myself it was the muggy heat, but that wasn't entirely it. I drove around to look up the last known addresses of a couple of deadbeats, then I went home to take a shower. I gave myself a stiff workout with the weights, ended in a river of sweat, and still restless. I finally got in the tub and cooled off, and of course started sweating again as I dried myself. I kept telling myself they had taken my ideas, yet I felt odd, on edge. I drove over to the school and when Ruthie climbed in beside me and I asked what she wanted for supper, she said, “Betsy said we can eat at her house.”

“We're not eating at Mrs. Turner's house. And don't call her Betsy.”

“Aunt Betsy?”

“Call her Mrs. Turner. That's good manners.”

“Daddy, when you know somebody good, like I know Betsy, then you call them by their first name.”

“Not little girls and big people.”

“Well, why can't we have supper with her? She bakes swell and I want to see my new dresses.”

“You'll see them some other time,” I said, driving toward the super market. “We're eating home. Maybe a salad and...”

“But why, Daddy?”

“Because I say so!” I snapped and immediately wished I'd bitten my tongue.

Saying that made me jump back twenty-five years. The only real fight I ever had with my old man was once when I was eleven years old and he told me that, instead of giving me a reason. The old guy had raced with Oldfield—that's why he named me Barney—and as far back as I can remember he was always working on a garage on Sixty-fourth Street—a stoop-shouldered man, dirty with grease, an old skull cap pushed back on his big head. I was so mad I burst into tears and that got him; he made me explain what I was boiling about. Then he said, “Fair enough, a kid is entitled to a reason for everything— if I can give you one. Tell you what, next time I ever slip you that 'Because I say so,' you belt me.” And I'd said, “But, Pop, I can't reach your jaw.” And he'd laughed as he told me, “Don't worry, Barney, you're tall enough to belt me where it would hurt worse than on the kisser.”

There was a group of chauffeurs hanging around—I always disliked them for being snotty know-it-alls. My old man's crack made them hysterical and when I asked Pop why, he said, “That's a reason I can't give you—yet. See, it's kind of a joke. Has to do with sex—something I'll explain when you're older.”

About a year later, Mom overheard me arguing with a friend about Jean Harlow's breasts, whether they were “big” or not, and that night she told Pop it was time to “talk to him.” Being a slum kid, I had a very clear idea of how sex worked, but I went for a walk with the old man, listened to him stammer it out. I remember he started with, “Barney, time you learned other people besides pimps and gangsters drive Cadillacs...”

Now I glanced at Ruthie as I parked the car; she was looking away from me, her little lips a tight line. I told her, “Honey, I didn't mean to jump you. I'm nervous today—maybe because of the heat. And—I'm working for Mrs. Turner, and we can't mix business and pleasure.”

“Why not, Daddy?”

“I don't know, exactly. Unless because in business everybody is rooking the other fellow.”

“What's rooking mean?”

“Oh—cheating, stealing.”

“Why, Daddy, Betsy—Mrs. Turner—would never cheat you.”

“Maybe I'm cheating her.”

“Why, Daddy!”

I pinched her nose, said, “How would you like to buy cans of noodles and bean sprouts and water chestnuts, make our own chow mein?”

She got excited about that, but all during supper she kept asking me why? why? about everything, and when May Weiss came in at seven-thirty and I wouldn't take Ruthie with me to see Betsy, the kid started to whine and bawl, and I kind of lost my head and slapped her. I spent a hard ten minutes apologizing, and by the time I reached the Turner apartment I was hot and nervous and blue.

Betsy was wearing dungarees spotted with oil paints and a T-shirt, both of which she filled out nicely. She asked if I wanted a highball and I said no and sat like a lump for a couple of minutes, staring at the painting she'd been working on, but not seeing a damn thing. Finally she asked, “What are you thinking about, Barney?”