Ed Lacy - The Best That Ever Did It

“Fine,” Franzino said, his voice suddenly soft and polite. “I'll have Spear brought in and we'll get started. Lot of wheels to get in motion; maybe be able to plant the stories in the evening papers. Danny, you have to keep quiet about this. One leak and we could have a couple more stiffs on our hands—including you.”

“You can't even tell Jimmy,” I added.

“How will I explain to him about the job—my being away from the bar for a day or two?”

“The job fell through, and you got a sudden pain in your stomach, have to go to a hospital for observation,” Franzino said. “Something like that. Only don't make it too complicated. Barney will think up something bright—he always does.”

We were to report back later in the afternoon for further details, and as I drove Danny to a cafeteria for lunch, the old man said, “That cop sure had me scared for a time. I stole a traffic stanchion about a week ago—you know, one of them big ones with a concrete base—and I was sure he was wise to me.”

“What did you steal that for?”

“To work out with—can't afford no bar bells,” Danny said, as though I'd asked a stupid question.

They rigged out an elaborate setup to protect Irv—even he was satisfied. On the theory that the killers didn't know the cab company he worked for, the cops and the Feds took over a small garage on One Hundred and Fifty-fourth Street, overlooking the Harlem River, and across the street from a post office—-which gave them a legitimate place to hang out, watch the garage. There were a couple of independent cabbies operating from the garage, but they were out all day and most of the night. Instead of having me ride around with Irv, I was to be the mechanic inside the garage, while Danny and an assortment of dicks would be Irv's passengers.

It was a dingy little garage, with a ramp leading down from the sidewalk, and an overhead door with a smaller door cut into it. During the baseball season they made some dough parking cars, and I figured the garage held about thirty-five autos when packed to capacity. Irv was given an old cab, but it had a small sending set under the dashboard which was in contact with police cars, and supposedly would pick up even a pin-dropping sound. I had a tow jeep and I was to drive Irv home at six, with Danny beside me. A couple of young cops were assigned to his classes in college, and two more were stationed around the clock in his mother's apartment where he lived. Three buttons had been installed in the garage—one push— and they'd bring the boys across the street on the run. They gave me a .38 police special to wear under my coveralls, but I wasn't sure I knew what to do with it.

The stories broke in the evening papers—broke in big headlines. A Tommy Wills had admitted shooting both Andersun and Turner, said he'd been drunk at the time and sore at Turner for roughing him up on a previous drunk-disorderly-conduct arrest. They had a picture of a ragged-looking guy, shielding his face from the cameras, and a lot of blah about the police commissioner being “highly gratified” at the excellent and relentless work of the Homicide Squad. At the end of the piece, there was a statement from the pudding company that they had given Franklin's one thousand dollars to his sister, who was going to use the money for a honeymoon trip to Europe with her fiance, Irving Spear. There was a picture of Irv and Juanita kissing. It made good reading—two killings solved, and a honeymoon coming like a happy ending.

I immediately phoned Betsy and warned her that if any reporters called her, to say she was glad the case was finally solved and nothing more.

I still felt uneasy about things and when I called for Ruthie, she jumped up on my lap and gave me a great big hug and one of her little hands hit the bump nestled in my hair, and I screamed and saw stars—technicolor ones. Ruthie asked a million questions and insisted upon kissing it—which hurt like hell.

Then when I talked to May Weiss about picking Ruthie up at school for the next day or so, staying with her at night... May said she was behind in her homework and her folks gave me a speech about not sacrificing their daughter's future for a few bucks. I didn't get the connection, but the answer was a large no. Of course Ruthie immediately suggested Betsy and there wasn't anything else left to do but phone her. She not only agreed but said it would be easier if Ruthie lived at her house. For a while. I didn't bother to ask Ruthie if she was in favor of the idea.

Jake called as soon as I hung up, said he'd read in the papers about the case being solved and was glad, although it didn't seem as if his tip had helped much. He sounded disappointed.

Ruthie and I packed a bag, and I drove to the Turner apartment. Betsy looked properly domestic in slacks, a flannel shirt, and an apron. She had cake and milk ready for Ruthie, and yards of cloth all set beside the sewing machine. I started to tell her about not keeping Ruthie up late, what time she had to be at school, and Betsy cut me off with, “Oh, go look at TV or something, and leave us women alone.”

Ruthie giggled at this coy corn and I told Betsy, “Going in a few minutes. I have to...”

“I really didn't mean you had to leave, Barney.”

“Look at Daddy's lump,” Ruthie said. “He got hit on the head.”

Before I could stop her, Betsy gasped and stood on tiptoe and cached for my noggin. I saw the usual galaxy of stars as my dome seemed to crack. “What happened, Barney?”

“Nothing. Guy offered me a can of beer. Look, I have to go home because I got an early and long day ahead of me tomorrow.” I gave Betsy the eye to walk me to the door. Then I kissed Ruthie, told her to be good, and I'd call her tomorrow night.

She planted a hard chocolate kiss on my mouth. The cake tasted pretty good, so I took a big mouthful of the piece she was holding, which didn't please Ruthie—I really have a big mouth.

At the door, Betsy stepped out into the hall with me and I told her, “If reporters call, play it straight. I don't know how long I'll have to stay with our pigeon. But I'll keep in touch with you by phone. Don't let Ruthie be a pest.”

“She'll be all right.”

“Look, I think I know what happened to Ed. We—the police —assumed it was the same gun that killed both men. Now that we know we're dealing with two men, seems logical to believe Ed was sitting in his car, waiting...”

“In front of that woman's place!” she cut in bitterly.

“Yeah. The killers didn't know he was there. One of them steps out of the shadows and plugs Andersun. Ed probably jumped out of his car, only he didn't know the other killer was behind him. He probably shot Ed in the back as Ed was going for his gun. More in keeping with Mr. Turner's... eh... ambitious character. Definitely rules out suicide. Might say Ed was just a cop trying to do his duty, lost his life at it.”

She bit her upper lip, sucked on it for a long second. “Thanks. That makes me feel better.”

“Now that you've found out what you wanted, about winds up the case—for you. From here on in I'm not charging you, but I want you to still retain me—gives me a right to stay on the case.”

“I hired you to find Ed's murderer—you're still working for me. Only that will close the case for me. And be careful, Barney.”

I said okay and nodded—and wondered why I still wanted to be on the case, for nothing started my bump acting like a midget buzzer.

When I got home the apartment was too quiet. I made myself a big bowl of Shredded Wheat and chocolate syrup and tried to listen to the radio. But when I finished eating, I set the alarm for 5 a.m. and went to bed.

A few days ago I'd thought of Betsy as the possible killer. Now I was letting Ruthie stay with her.... I thought about Betsy, the way she'd been throwing herself at me, and whether I was a dummy or not for turning her down. After what she'd been through with Turner, she felt she had to prove herself, and I was the first pair of pants that had come along. No, that was too simple, although she sure looked like mighty pretty proving grounds. But I was a little too old and set in my ways to bother with a young girl's complexes.