Ed Lacy - Shoot It Again

Walking down to 42nd Street where the crowds were thicker—always on the lookout for the tall thug's blank face above the passing people—I had two things to do quickly: get rid of the cat, make a transatlantic call to Hank—ask who I should contact now.

In one of these drugstores which have become small department stores, I purchased a plastic pillow cover and a cheap hammer. Attache cases were too expensive, so I settled for a little blue duffel bag.

I used the last pay toilet in the Grand Central Station men's room. Flushing it to cover the noise, I busted the cat's ear with the hammer. The dumb ear had to hit the floor with a loud tinkle of glass. In a booth down the line somebody laughed, called out, “Jack:, you really need a dose of mineral oil.”

Another clown said, “He needs A.A. First I ever heard of a secret John guzzler.”

“Funny, funny, you uncouth bastards,” I said. “Broke a ten-buck bottle of medicine on dropping my pants.”

“I bet,” the last comedian snapped.

I didn't bother answering—saw only more glass where the ear had been. Waiting a good, sweating ten minutes, hearing men coming and going, I flushed the commode again, hammered at the spot the ear had fallen from. A large crack appeared, and when I removed a big sliver of glass... there it was: flour-like powder. Opening the plastic pillow case I carefully poured over sixteen pounds of pure heroin into it—banged the cat a couple of times so as not to leave a few grand in dust—zippered the case shut. Placing the plastic sack inside the duffel bag, I stuffed Arlene's towel on top of it.... had the most innocent-looking three million bucks ever seen!

Removing my coat, I wrapped the hammer and the remains of the glass cat in that, slung the bag over my shoulder, and walked out. Except for the crude bundle under my arm, I looked the part of a sweaty joker going or coming from a beach. Glancing about constantly to be as certain as I knew how to be—that no one was tailing me, I rode the subway to South Ferry. Standing on the stern of the Staten Island ferry, with a sigh of sheer relief I opened my coat... quietly dropped the ugly cat to the bottom of New York's harbor.

Having a cup of coffee in the Staten Island ferry terminal left me down to my last fifty-five cents. Hating to do it—although there wasn't any time for pride—I found Amy's new address in the Queens phone book. It would be lousy to beg her for a favor. We'd had mother-in-law trouble: Amy found me in the sack with her mama. I'd merely been trying to con the old babe into buying us a station wagon, or some such major item. I could understand Amy blowing her gasket, but on another level I was helping my rich mother-in-law lose her neurotic frustration—she'd been widowed when Amy was ten.

On the ferry back to Manhattan, watching a passing ocean finer with desperate longing, I had a better idea: I'd go directly to the art gallery.

Surely they'd cash their own check, and I had my passport for identification.

Leaving the subway at 59th and Lexington Avenue, I never went near the gallery. The evening papers were already out—with a snap of seersucker bleeding all over the floor of room 302. The picture caption briefly stated:

“Al Foster, thirty-seven, a known criminal, was found shot to death this morning in the room of a Stanley Collins, at the Hotel Tran. Police are seeking a mysterious heavy suitcase...”

Reading the paper, I rode the subway back to Grand Central, changed for a Queens train. Foster, who lived in the West 70's, had a record of ten arrests—including one for armed robbery and assault—but only one conviction—he'd done time as a youngster for stealing a gum vending machine. The news story said the police were searching for a Stanley Collins, who had checked into the hotel room a few hours before the shooting. Only an empty suitcase was found in the room...

Amy lived in a standard middle-class neighborhood of institutional-looking solid apartment houses. It was a few minutes past four p.m.... little chance of her new hubby being home. And if I could get some money from her within the next half hour, I'd be able to phone Hank in Nice before he shut his shop.

A husky little boy—who had to be at least eight—opened the door when I rang, gave me a buck-tooth smile as he asked, “What are you selling, mister?”

“Mother home, sonny?” It gives you an odd feeling when your child calls you 'mister.' Even if Clark had only been two when Amy divorced me, I was amazed he didn't know I was his old man: his face and hair were so much a copy of mine—he looked as if I'd spit him out.

A baby cried someplace within the over-decorated apartment as Amy called out, “Who is it, Clark?” I didn't know Amy had another kid. “A big man to see you, mommy.”

“I told you to always ask a person's name...” Amy said, coming into the foyer, doing a dumb double-take upon seeing me.

She'd put on a few pounds but it only helped her good figure, while her face still had all its startling beauty: she'd always been so damn sure of the power of her looks, used it like a club. Patting the boy's head—he had my soft, curly hair—Amy told him, “Son, go take care of Frances.”

“I want to stay and talk to the man, mama.”

“You look after your baby sister before I report you to your Cub Scoutmaster!” Amy snapped. The second the boy left, she stepped in front of me— barring the doorway like a mother-hen protecting her brood—announced, “Get out of here, Clayton, before I slam the door on your ugly face!”

“Relax.” I put one of my size thirteens against the door. “I didn't come to make a scene. I'm in a mild jam and...”

“That's the only time you'd ever think of coming around, naturally! I've told Fred what a slimy bastard you are—in detail! Clark thinks Fred is his father, so if Fred finds you here he'll break your thick head!

“The boy looks fine. Only be a few seconds, Amy. I happened to be around here and...”

“How much do you want?”

“Come on, I'm not here for a handout. I've recently returned to the States and am leaving for... South America, tonight. I have this...” I pulled the gallery check from my wallet. “You can see it's okay, even you must have heard of this gallery. I've been selling a lot of my stuff lately, have a one-man show in Paris shortly...”

“I couldn't care less!” Amy said, taking the check, reading it.

“Of course. I was on my way to the airport and... having been out of the country, I don't know anybody who might cash this. I thought of you.”

“I don't have anything like $156 with me. I've about $45 in the house. You can have that, and get out!” She flung the check at me.

Picking it up, I asked, “Got a pen? Ill endorse it.”

“I don't want your filthy check! I'll give you the money and you leave at once, before Fred comes!”

“Get the $45 and a pen, Amy. Use the balance of the check to buy something for Clark and...”

“I will not!”

“... and don't say a mumbling word about where it came from. Make it snappy, honey, or I'll wait for Fred, ask him to cash it. I mean that.”

Amy stared at me for a moment, blue eyes full of the icy fury I remembered so well. “All right! But you stay right here, don't try to come into the apartment, or I swear to God I'll scream for the police!”

“Lord, you're the same silly, melodramatic bitch you always were,” I said sweetly.

Amy left to return seconds later with her purse and a pen. She gave me four tens and a five. Signing the check, I handed it to her casually. “Goodbye, hon.”

“Don't ever come back, Clay!”

“But darling, what was there ever worth coming back for?”

“You dirty unwashed louse!”

“Frigid bit...!” Clark and a tiny naked girl of about fifteen months suddenly stuck their cute heads around the corner. They made a startling pair: the boy looking like me, the girl a copy of Amy. “Thank you for your time, madame. I'm sorry you're not interested in ordering rugs. Perhaps next season. Good day.” I cocked my thumb in a pistol motion at the boy, as I walked toward the elevator, heard him giggle. Then my son shouted, “Bang! Bang! I kill you...!” as Amy slammed the door.