Ed Lacy - Shoot It Again

“Okay. Can you make it to our seats?”

“Dryden had the junkie in mind when he wrote, “Ill habits gather by unseen degrees...”

“You're pack to par—let's go.” Stepping out of the john my heart flipped—I didn't see the glass ears I Rushing down the aisle like a lumbering idiot —I found the figurine had slipped to one side of the seat. It occurred to me I'd been a dummy, 'somebody' could have easily substituted another cat—although this looked like the cat. When Parks lost himself in a magazine, I used my nail file to scratch a tiny # inside the cat's right ear.

I started worrying again: how I'd handle the pay-off man... plus new thoughts—suppose Hank had crossed me? If the cat was empty it would be assumed I'd crossed 'them,' and 'they' would certainly kill me. Could I switch cats, claim Hank had done it? Although it's supposed to be as easy to steal a million as to swipe a dime, I didn't know enough about crime methods.

My head began to ache. The main idea was to protect myself against any possibility of a double X on 'their' part. The best thing I could do now was rest—be able to think clearly when 'der tag' came.

The balance of the flight was a snap—Robert took a pill every half hour and except for being nervous, seemed his usual stupid self. I managed to doze off for minutes at a time, the cat always in my hands.

No sooner did we step off the plane at Idlewild— in the middle of the night—when a lawyer named Mac Wyckoff ran out to greet Parks. Wyckoff was a short man, with a distinguished face; in fact, somehow he looked like a lawyer. Parks introduced me and Wyckoff shook my hand abruptly, told Parks his mother was too upset to come to the airport. As his lawyer led him away, Robert called back I must look him up when he was released from the hospital.

Since this was before the Customs and other officials reached us, I was impressed. I didn't see Parks when the rest of us went through Customs. I was amazed and proud I wasn't the least bit nervous as the Customs agent poked through my things. I showed him the bills of sale, and of course in my declaration, I'd listed both cats, plus the souvenirs Hank had given me. When he came to my paintings, the Customs man merely grunted, “You an artist?”

I said yes, trying to figure if it was a form of negative criticism.

Within an hour after I'd landed, I was in a Manhattan-bound cab, without the slightest idea where I was going to stay. On reaching 59th and 3rd Avenue, I paid the taxi off, looking like a real greenhorn with the Custom seals half falling from my shabby bundles. Hailing another cab, I had him drive me to an office building on West 26th Street, where I'd once worked as a summer office boy.

The street was absolutely deserted at that hour of the night, as I expected it to be. Paying the hackie, I carried my stuff into a dark doorway and waited. If I was being tailed, 'they' would stick out like that famous sore thumb on this empty business street.

A half hour passed with not a soul showing, not even a car went through the block. I tried to remember friends I could bunk with, but I'd been out of the country too long for that. Finally, moving my stuff from doorway to doorway, I reached 9th Avenue and took a cab to the old Hotel Talbert on East 10th Street. Registering under my right name, I rented a room without a bath, locked the door, and placing both cats carefully under the bed, fell off into a hell of a sound sleep without bothering to undress.

CHAPTER 7

Awaking before eight a.m., feeling rested, clearheaded: I wondered if I should have gone directly to the Hotel Tran. I decided not to chance crossing 'them.' Only a fool is greedy... and I didn't know how to get rid of the stuff on my own.

Leaving my hotel with both cats under my arms, New York City looked hot and dirty, as though I'd never been away. If I was paid off this morning, I'd be on a Nice plane by evening. Walking toward Third Avenue a passing guy asked, “How much you peddling them figurines for, buddy? They hot?”

I realized in my shabby, wrinkled clothes I didn't look far above the winos floating around this area— which used to be the tail-end of the Bowery before Third Avenue became swank. In a pawn shop I bought an old suitcase strong enough to hold both cats, for eight bucks. Separating the statues with a couple of N. Y. Times so they wouldn't rattle and chip against each other, I stopped at a stool joint for breakfast. Paying the tab, I had $11.75 left, not counting my gallery check, and the boat ticket in my room.

Riding a cab to the Hotel Tran I had this definite feeling of walking into a trap. Hank had picked this hotel, it probably was the hangout for 'them.' But there wasn't any way of finishing the deal without meeting my contact. I kept selling myself the pitch 'they' wouldn't risk a three million dollar deal with the minor matter of rooking and/or killing me.

The Hotel Tran was a surprise—while one of Time Square's dowdy hotels, it seemed more of a family place with permanent-type guests instead of the ratty transients you find in midtown dives. The old lobby was well-kept, the desk clerk the conservative, mousey kind found in better hotels. But when I registered as Stanley Collins, the little bastard glanced at me coldly and despite my suitcase, demanded a night's rent in advance. I paid $8.50 as the middle-aged elevator-operator took me up to room 302, giving me an odd look when he picked up the heavy suitcase.

The room was small and neat, hotel phone, wash basin, shower, but no toilet. The only window faced the brick side of an office building. Combing my hair, I unpacked the cats—placing the phony one on the dresser. I wanted to see the contact man before he saw me. Exactly what good that would do, I didn't know—except by sizing him up first, I'd know whether to show myself or not. I could sit in the lobby, see whomever asked for me—but hardly while holding the real cat.

Taking the cat, I studied the empty hallway. The John was around a turn, out of sight of my room. Might do as a last resort—what I really needed was room 305, directly across the hall. Even if I had the money, no way I could rent the room, say, under another name or...

The door of 305 opened. A short, over-dressed woman with dyed copper-colored hair, walked out, headed for the elevator. Blindfolded I knew her type: met too damn many here and abroad. Near forty, divorced from hubby number two or three, usually with modest alimony but never enough for raising real hell... and desperately on the make. When she stepped into the elevator I crossed to her door—didn't hear a thing: she lived alone. As copper-hair hadn't carried a purse or bag, she'd return soon.

Things were breaking for me: I could stay in 305 without renting it.

There was an ashtray, a box of wooden matches on my dresser, hotel stationery in the drawer. I burnt a couple of matches from end to end, waited inside my door. About ten minutes later I heard the elevator stop, the sound of high heels. Leaving the cat on my bed, I opened the door, started a fast sketch of copper hair's face. She had ordinary features, the slack lines of a lush around her over-painted eyes, the weak mouth.

Carrying a newspaper, she paid no attention to me, but unlocking her door she turned, asked, “What the devil are you doing?” It was a dull voice, without anger.

I put on a startled act. “Oh, excuse me. I was so enchanted with the delicate lines of your nose, simply had to get them down on paper.”

“My nose?” She touched it, as if discovering she had one. “Never thought of that as my best feature.” She took a deep breath to show me her best features. She had a soggy bosom, large for her slim figure, obviously wore a good bra under the thin summer dress.