Ed Lacy - The Best That Ever Did It

“I don't know, Irv. But then Franklin Andersun wasn't my buddy, nor am I going with his sister.”

“Juanita is against it—she knows this hero stuff is all for the birds.”

“Sure it is, but we're not asking you to be a clay pigeon,” I said, but I knew I didn't sound convincing. “After all, we have pictures of them and...”

“Sure, disguised pictures!”

There were a few seconds of silence, and an idea tickled my noggin. Irv fidgeted in his chair, said, “Funny, I feel like a louse. When they first came to me, I said, okay, I'd hang around the house for a few days, with some cops. But they said no, that would be a tip-off it was all a plant. I'm supposed to go about my daily routine—won't even let me have a gun. That might be a tip-off too. Hell, Harris, that's asking too much. These killers are sharp on this make-up stuff. I understand they even posed as a colored fellow once. How are the cops going to recognize them—in time?”

“I know somebody who'd recognize Brown, could act as a bodyguard for you.”

“Who's that?”

“Danny Macci.”

“But he's blind!”

“That's why he'd know Brown's voice at once—swears he'd remember that twang any place. Look, with Danny beside you all the time—and he'd never be mistaken for a cop—he could shout a warning to the police the second Brown opens his mouth.”

“What makes you so sure these clowns are going to talk first? Hell, they don't want to chitchat with me. Might be only two sounds—the bang-bang of a gun and the plop of my dead body hitting the street.”

I shrugged. “I'm not selling you anything, Irv. Sure, that's a possibility. But this is the only way we can ever get these guys— if they are still in the country. But with Danny with you and a flock of cops ready to close in and shoot at a split second's notice, I think you're reasonably safe. Also, we'll give you a bulletproof vest...”

“Got any bulletproof heads!”

I tried to give it a long laugh. “Irv, would you take me for a cop?”

“Well—no. Something about you, you're too big—look too tacky, down at the heels.”

“Okay, you're a cabbie and I'm really a mechanic, and Danny, if they remember, is one of the boys at the bar. Suppose I tail along with you, and Danny—as our bloodhound? Buy that?”

He fooled with the few hairs on his head. “You guys are just trying to get me killed! All right, if I can have you and Danny with me, I'm in. At least I'll be surrounded by muscle.”

“I'll talk to Danny right now,” I said, getting up.

When we reached the street, Irv glanced around like a ham actor, muttered, “Haven't even started and I'm scared.”

“Relax.”

He took a deep breath. “That's the trouble—I might relax permanently.”

“Long as you can joke about it, you'll be okay. Where can I find you in an hour or so?”

“I'll be at the garage by noon. Not in the mood to push a hack today. Boy, this is how a bull's-eye must feel.”

“Stop it. Tell you a trade secret. A guy has to be damn good to hit anybody with a pistol, unless they're right on top of 'em.”

“Harris, you're the one making with the jokes. These guys have proved how damn good they are!”

“But they took Frank and Turner by surprise. This time they'll be the surprised ones,” I said, and the words suddenly hit my brain like a hammer. “I'll see you at the garage at noon. And whether you believe it or not, the cops really don't want you killed. The... eh... publicity would be bad for them.”

“That's a real comforting thought!” he said, getting into his cab. “Save those words for my tombstone!” He waved as he drove off. I stepped into the coffeepot, told Cy the office was his.

He made some corny crack, as usual, to Alma, and left. Alma gave me her best hard smile, as I asked for change of two bits, and asked where I'd been. “Busy, busy,” I said, stepping into the phone booth.

When I got Franzino, I told him, “Got an idea. The...”

“I wish I could say to hell with your ideas, but so far yours have been better than mine. Hear about this jerk, Spear?”

“Just left him. I think he'll play ball with us.” I told him about Danny and myself guarding Irv, and Franzino said, “I don't know about you—some guys assume any big slob must be a cop. But the blind man is a sweet touch. What kind of gun do you carry?”

“Gun? I don't have one.”

“Sure be some guard. If I get you one, know how to use it?”

“Was checked out on .45 automatic in the army.”

“Better learn—fast. Never know which way these guys will pump lead.”

“Hadn't considered that,” I said, wondering what I'd got myself into. “But this is the idea I called about. How does this sound for Turner's death? There were two guns involved in this. Turner was taken by surprise.”

There was a moment of silence over the phone. The booth was hot and I kept opening and closing the door, trying to make the air move. Franzino said, “Okay, quiz kid, what's the answer? I'm not sharp this morning—what the hell you talking about?”

“Turner, the ambitious cop, was shot in the back—never even went for his gun. Up to now we've been figuring on one guy, and the same gun, killing both men. We know Turner was in his car, watching Louise's room. Now suppose he sees Brown shoot Andersun, steps out of his car—but Smith might have been standing a dozen feet behind Turner. Probably as Turner went for his gun, Smith shot him in the back.”

“Well... Yeah, we might try that for size,” Franzino said, his voice polite. “Because the slug that took Turner was missing we have assumed there was only one guy, one gun—although I don't know why. Harris, you're going to force me to go to the movies again—you private eyes aren't as stupid as you look. But that's as good a theory as any we've dreamed up. But see this blind man. We need action now, not theories.”

“Thanks, I'll let you write a commendation for me to my correspondence course,” I said, as we both hung up. I kidded with Alma for a moment, and she asked when I'd have some more calls for her “sexy voice.” As I left she called out, “Be careful, Barney—I may try it out on you some day.”

At five minutes after eleven I parked in front of the Grand Cafe. Jimmy, the bartender, wrinkled his nose as I entered, as though he smelled something bad. Danny Macci had a can of beer before him, while at the other end of the bar, a hungover joker was trying to taper off with an early morning shot and talking to himself in a low, soothing voice.

Slapping Danny on the back, I said, “Howya, Danny? This is Barney Harris. Remember me, the...”

Wailing “You miserable bastard!” Danny showed me his beer-can-bending stunt again, only this time he bent the can over my head!

I vaguely knew I sat down on the floor, that blood was running all over my head and down my face—cool blood. My head was throbbing like a jet plane trying to take off.

From a million miles away I heard Jimmy shout, “Danny! Want me to lose my license? Leave him alone.... Danny! you already hurt the louse...”

My head finally worked itself loose and took off from my shoulders as I blacked out.

CHAPTER 7

I CAME TO, still sprawled out on the dirty floor, although I don't know where else I expected to be. I touched my wet face, got my hands into focus. I wasn't bleeding—Danny had clouted me with an almost full can of beer and the stuff was all over my head and shoulders. I had an acute headache and even my wild hair couldn't hide the not-so-graceful, and throbbing, lump on the right side of my noggin.

I thought about getting up, glanced around. A few morning street-corner characters were staring in from the doorway, amused. Danny Macci was sitting in a booth, waving his white cane like a baseball bat, as he cursed. Jimmy, who was standing over me, said, “Warning ya, Danny, one more rhubarb like this and I'll banish your ass from here—for good!”