Ed Lacy - Sin In Their Blood

“Harry has a bit of pansy in him and these days a man will do anything to keep that quiet.”

“Doesn't look queer to me.”

“He isn't—all the way. But it's in him, probably come out in the open when he's older. Works that way with some of them. Point is, I know he has his fag moments. Framing a guy as a pansy is about the lowest—and easiest—form of blackmail. First, is there anybody else in the P.O. he's after, a young kid, or anybody else who would be willing to work with us? Somebody we can really trust?”

“What do you mean trust? I don't want to get mixed up in nothing shady.”

“Listen, chances are 99.99% Harry won't run to the cops. Never do in this type of swindle. By trust I mean I don't want to run from one blackmail into another. Got anybody we can use?”

Joe thought for a moment, grunted, “No.”

“Then we'll have to do it ourselves, although you're too old and ugly for queer-bait. Listen to me carefully: tomorrow morning you call Harry, make sure you speak to him personally. Tell him you've been thinking things over, that you know of a slew of P.O. guys that are in the same boat as you—were in favor of that stuff about going on strike—be careful you don't go into any details. All you want to do is talk this over with Harry, but not on the phone. Just tell him enough to get him interested. Understand?”

“Yep.”

“You want to meet him some place for lunch. Tell him you can't take off time, so it must be a bar around the P.O. What we need is a place where you're known, but Harry isn't. Any place where you drop in regular for beers?”

“There's a joint two blocks from the Post Office. But I don't get...”

“You arrange to meet Harry there. You have a few beers with him, string him along. Give him a line about what's in it for you if you stool on the other and...”

“If you think I'll stool on...”

“Shut up and listen. You don't mention any names, merely hint you have something to sell, ask Harry what it's worth. See, you want to make a deal. Give him some stuff that you want a statement from him clearing you of any subversive leanings... and a grand in cash. He'll counter with a lower offer. Whatever deal he offers, you tell him you have to think it over, will call him later in the day. The important thing is that when Harry comes in you either introduce him to the bartender as your friend, or talk loud... anything so the bartender notices you. Then...”

“This is all over my head. Why should I...?”

“For Christsakes, listen. As soon as Harry leaves, you have a beer with the barkeep, make some crack about Harry being a fag. That's for protection, in case things go wrong. You call...”

“I'm not interested in this,” Joe said.

“Some of the dough Mady gave you today is mine, so get interested. You call Harry later, agree to meet him in the evening, about seven, in some lonely spot in the park. Since we can't get anybody else in on the deal, I'll be there—hiding with a camera, infra-red film and a flash. Means I can take pictures without being noticed. When Harry comes, you have to get him on your lap for a second.”

“What? What the hell you saying?”

“Either you sit down before he does and pull him down on your lap, or if you can't work that, pick him up—he's small—place him on your lap. I'll get the picture. Then you push him off, slug him, make a hell of a scene about he was trying to kiss you. Harry may be armed, but I doubt it. If anything like that happens, I'll step in and help you. Now if a cop should come along, you insist Harry tried to kiss you—but don't press charges. What will probably happen is, Harry will realize he's been framed and run like a rabbit.”

Joe shivered. “No. I want no part of that—it's dirty.”

“It sure is. But once we send, Harry a print of the picture, he'll never bother you again. No, you'll take the print to him, tell him that's the deal—he lays off you and you forget the pix. That's better.”

“I couldn't do anything like that. I'd feel... like... like a queer myself.”

“You want to keep paying off the bastard?”

“No, but...”

“Harry's playing the rat—we're fighting fire with fire.”

“Suppose something goes wrong? What if he arrests me? It'd make me look like a nance.”

“That's a chance we take but it's almost a sure thing he...”

“We take? I take!”

“We. It's a thousand to one he won't go to the cops. I know, Harry framed a joker like that once. Look, if worst comes to worst I'll testify in court he is a pansy. And I can get other proof. Hell, what if you are taking a chance? I'm only doing this to get you straight, so Mady and I can have a little peace. Okay?”

He didn't answer and finally I said, “He's killing your wife with his crummy blackmail and you...”

“All right, all right!” he blurted out. “I'll do it. And God forgive me.”

“You call me at the house tomorrow, about three. I'll have the camera, and we'll go to whatever park you pick to meet him.” I went over things again, to be sure he didn't screw up—Harry was too sharp to make even a small mistake. Joe didn't like it—neither did I—but I knew he'd go through with it.

When I came back into the house, Mady was ironing in the kitchen. For some silly reason it made me feel good to see her ironing my shirts. She asked, “Finish your business? Was she pretty?”

“Sure. She was a corn blonde. Want to take a walk? I'm tired but I could use fresh air.”

She turned the iron off. “I'd love to walk. Next week it will be your turn to iron and wash.”

“It'll be what?”

“You heard me. No reason a man shouldn't do his part of the housework. Wait till I get a sweater.”

I could picture myself behind an iron or washboard.

We walked along the beach, holding hands like school kids, and I really felt tired. She knew all about shells and seaweed, pointed out the spot where we'd go surf-fishing in the morning. I said, “Best I go home and pound my ear. I've had a big day—for me—and it won't be easy to get up early.”

In the house she returned to her ironing and I took my pill, got into my pajamas, asked, “I have a problem —where do we sleep, in my bed or yours?”

“Mine, of course. The landlady always has the softest bed in the house.”

I kissed her good-night and dropped off to sleep as soon as I hit the sheets. The next thing I knew she was shaking me. I awoke with a start and she was sitting up in the dark stillness beside me. The room was full of early morning cold and I yawned, asked, “Time to go fishing?”

“No,” she said. “Hell with that. It's time for something else,” and pulled my head down into the wonderful warm firmness of her breasts.

THURSDAY

It was nearly noon when I was outside Mrs. Samuels' house. When I rang the bell she answered the door, said, “So you're the one who called. Yes, I remember you.”

“Glad of that.”

“You're late,” she said impatiently. “I've no time to wait around and gossip. I have to look for work.”

We went into the only free room in the house—outside of the John—the community kitchen, and as we sat down I asked, “Anybody around? What I have to say is strictly private.”

“Everybody is where a body should be, working or calling for their kids at school. Or calling for some white woman's kids.”

“I'll pay you for the day you've lost,” I cut in. “Now...”

“What kind of policeman are you? Paying for my time.”

“I'm not a cop. I'm... a... a friend. I need your help.”

“For what?”

“I want to know William Saxton's reasons for killing the Wilsons.”

She stared at me for what seemed a long time, her dark brown face rigid as a mask. Only her eyes moved, or seemed to move as they cut through me. Finally she said, “You're not a cop?”