Ed Lacy - Shoot It Again

“Too early now—after we eat,” she said, starting the coffee, putting a slew of sliced fruits and wheat germ in the blender, some sort of hard-tack crackers in the toaster.

The radio said it was going to be another muggy day. I eagerly ate the dizzy food, but wasn't able to match the savage delight with which Lucille tore into her breakfast. I helped her wash the few dishes, then she started to make-up her face, laying the stuff on with a heavy hand. When I asked why she used so much make-up, she astonished me by saying, “I find it very comforting. I read where a head doc said make-up gives one a sense of security —a mask to hide behind.” An educated, (outright) whore was novelty for me.

I saw her, from the window, cross to the drugstore, the same feeling of trapped panic welling up inside me. Sketching always calms my nerves and still watching the street, I ransacked the table drawer—looking for a pencil—my guts ready to burst with the tension.

I found a box of chalk and turning the frying pan over, tried roughing in the street scene below on the blackened pan bottom. The lines ended up a series of messy smudges—so much nothing—but I felt better. When I saw Lucille returning, the hippy walk, I ran water over the pan, left it in the sink.

She dropped the morning paper and a pack of butts on the table. “Hot out, already. My connection's coming right over.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That I had a chance of making a good buy on a big white car, wanted him to look at the motor. Have to be careful over the phone—but he understood.”

“When he comes, I'll do the talking.”

“Of course. It's your stuff, Tony.” Lighting a cigarette, she began straightening up the bed.

I glanced at the newspaper. It was on the fifth page, a short item about:

POLICE SEEKING FOOTBALL PLAYER-ARTIST

Clayton Biner, a one-time professional footfall player who became an abstract painter, was being sought today by the police for questioning in the hotel room slaying of hoodlum Al Foster yesterday. The police refused to say what connection Mr. Biner had with the shooting, except that they thought Biner might have been a tenant of the hotel. Mr. Biner does not have any criminal record.

Al Foster, a known criminal, was killed in the room of one Stanley Collins, who registered at the hotel a few hours before the shooting, and who has not been seen since...

Lucille asked, “Curly, what you sweating about?”

“The humidity,” I told her, turning to the sports pages, then casually dropping the paper on the table. My guts were in a tight knot. How had the police learned my real name so damn fast? Goodbye to Syd and her Australian land, the last chance for...

“Tony, are you in a trance? Didn't you hear what I said?”

“What?”

Lucille grinned, the heavy lips truly inviting. “I was saying, if we get this settled, we both might go to the beach today. I haven't been swimming in years. Guess I could rent a suit. I like Jones Beach.”

“Good.” I was listening to steps in the hallway outside; steps of a man who walked carefully. My insides tightened harder at the sound of two mild knocks. Lucille made no move, and a split second later a key opened the door.

A young fellow—about thirty—stood there. He wasn't tall, perhaps on the trim side, wearing a neatly pressed but cheap linen suit, open grey sport shirt, crewcut dark hair. His face was sharp and mean, neither ugly nor unhandsome, eyes shrewd with a wiseguy expression. The face was so much pure rascal, it was attractive. He was very sure of himself, even the way he moved into the room, gently shut and locked the door, expressed confidence. The feeling of dread increased within me.

“This the pigeon, Lu?” His voice was a practiced toughness.

“Yes, the fellow I told you about, Gus.” Lucille sounded very nervous. “Tony, this is Gus.'

We nodded at each other and he grinned at me, licked his skinny lips, while his eyes raced to the duffel bag in my right hand. Sitting on the table, swinging his cheap Italian-styled shoes, Gus said, “Okay, big boy, let's see what you're peddling.”

She said, “It's pure, a real banger, Gus! I already scored.”

“I know you did, a free night for a free take-off, stupid tomato!” He suddenly smiled at me—Gus had the whitest teeth, was obviously quite proud of them. “Let's see how much you have, Tony, then we talk.”

“One pound of uncut heroin,” I said, suddenly getting the scene in focus—this was her pimp. I had a hopeless feeling of wasting time. “I want five grand for it. Since you don't look like you can raise five bucks, bring me somebody who flashes the long green and I'll show my wares.” I glanced at Lucille. “Thought you were going to get me your pusher? I don't need a pimp for...”

“Business manager,” Gus cut in, voice harder.

“Gus is my connection, gets my white stuff,” Lucille began.

“Shut your face, Lu! Big boy, let us all get straight: you're dealing with me. Lu's mine, so talk with me.”

“Gus, I think the whole bag is full of horse!” Lucille said.

“Too much chatter,” Gus said, flashing his choppers in a smile at me. “Tony, the bag.” He held out a slim hand.

I tried to grin coldly. “First let me see the sight of welcome green.”

“Sure.” He pulled a snub-nosed pistol out of his pocket. “How's the color of this? Lu told me you're a great talker, but don't try to outtalk a .321 Open the bag!”

I knew I'd been had, and I didn't give a goddamn. It was all such a helpless mess—me broke and carting around three million dollars without the slightest idea of how to cash it in. For a split second—perhaps it was a hangover from my months of dejection in Europe—I felt it would be best to let this pushing punk kill me. Of course, I wouldn't stand still for a beating or... Resigned, I tossed the bag on the table, mumbled, “Easy Gus, don't let that rod get too good to you. A gun shoots both ways.”

With his left hand, Gus pulled out the damp towel, then looked positively stupid on seeing the plastic case full of heroin... eyes actually strained to leave his skull as he zipped the pillow case open, put a fingertip full of the white powder on his tongue. Screwing up his thin face, he gasped, “Jeez, it is uncut!”

Lucille came over to gaze into the bag with all the respect of a person peeping at the Future. Gus pushed her away and the same anger swept her crude face as when I'd slapped her.

While he was busy with her, I reached for the bag, stepped next to the window. Gus spun around, pointed the gun at me. “Put the bag back! At the races I'm a lousy hunch player, but now... I've won me the biggest daily double with a hunch! Heard a rumor of a large shipment got screwed-up yesterday... here I have it! Put the bag on the table before you get hurt.”

“Stop waving that silly gun like it's a magic wand,” I said, wondering why I bothered—but the hope of three million, or even fifty grand dies slowly. “Told you a gun works both ways: if you knock me off—and you'll have to kill me to get this —then you'll have a murder rap hanging over your thick head... be the best heeled creep ever to sit in the chair.”

“I'm warning you, Tony, to...!”

“Oh, shut up. Keep the tough act and I'll toss the stuff out the window into the...”

“God, don't do that!” Lucille gasped.

I actually laughed at her. “I don't need you two small-timers. Let's say I... eh... stumbled across this junk-pot. If I can't sell it, all I do is hand it over to the police and I'm in the clear. But suppose we give it one more try, stop acting like angry bulldogs, talk a little sense? As the worn phrase goes, there's enough here for all of us. I need a path to the top men, to sell this at a fair price. I offered Lucille 10%. Since you're in now, I'll make you the same offer. I know this is worth about $70,000. Bring me anybody able to buy it, and you each get a 10% slice.”