Ed Lacy - Room To Swing

Either because of the punch, or from loss of blood, after that things moved fast and jerky, like in an old-time movie. Ted and Bobby came busting in when I finally got the door unlocked—and Ted's two-pants suit seemed the only real thing in sight, somehow made me think of that farm back in Bingston.

In a matter of seconds, or so it seemed, there were a fat reporter and a young kid photographer, and a dozen cops filled up the room. I was getting blood over one of Steve's plush chairs, trying to answer a million questions and not saying anything clearly. Finally I simply sat there and watched the others talking and rushing about. A little runty ambulance doc appeared and ripped off what remained of my clothes, gave me a shot of something that left me hovering in midair. I knew he was cleaning my cuts, stitching here and there, and then I was insisting I could stand okay and a cop gave me a blanket to wear.

Maybe I dozed. Now we were in the local precinct house, with the police brass and more reporters, flash bulbs going off in salvos. Steve must have decided to go for insane; he was gibbering and screaming until they carried him out of the room. I was watching things like a spectator, but two things I remember clearly.

Kay—the photographers had a holiday with her dress —was the busiest person in the police station, but she got me off in a corner and shoved a piece of paper and a pen in my bandaged hands, said, “Sign this, Touie. We're going to re-enact everything on film, to show after You — Detective! premieres with the Thomas episode. Lord, Lord, there will never be a publicity splash like this! I couldn't do more with a million-dollar budget... it's a river and I'm squeezing every drop....”

Her face suddenly looked old and hard. “What's the paper about?” I asked, my voice thick from the dope shot.

“You're to act out your real-life role on film—for two thousand. Best I could get. Sign, Touie, I have a thousand things to—”

I signed, asking, “Am I still on salary, on the case?”

“Certainly.” She pointed to a box in one corner of the drab detective squad room. “I brought you a suit and shirt from wardrobe—biggest I could find. Put your torn clothes down on your expense sheet.”

“Thanks. Jeez, my shoes are still out on that fire escape. My wallet must be around someplace. I'll cab home and—”

“Yes, yes. Be at my office tomorrow—today—at two sharp. Now I have to get back on my horse.... Oh, you have no idea how big this will be.”

The other thing I remember was a beefy cop with captain's gold bars on his shoulders, a hard-featured face and eyes that said they hated my brown skin, telling me, “Don't think you were such a hot-shot detective, Moore. The papers will make you a hero and you'll be big time on Lenox Avenue, but we knew all about you, boy.”

“You mean you knew I was down in Bingston?” The “man” was talking; I was “boy” again.

“We didn't bother looking. A wino down the hall heard this stiff argument in Thomas' room, saw a white man leaving. His wine put him to sleep but in the morning he told us. We weren't looking for you—for murder. I ain't doing anything about you kneeing that beat cop.... But I'll give you some free advice: don't ever get into trouble, not even a traffic ticket. Because I ain't doing anything about you kicking a cop doesn't mean we're forgetting it.”

“What was I supposed to do, let him bust my head open?” I asked, but the captain had walked away.

As it turned light outside, Ted, who had been smiling and handing out his cards as if he'd been elected mayor, told me, “Come on, Toussaint, I'll drive you home.”

I finally got my wallet and stuff, and outside as I got into his car I said, “Let's get coffee. I'm empty-hungry.”

“You haven't any shoes on.”

“I don't drink with my shoes,” I mumbled, full of tiredness.

Ted actually doubled up with stupid laughter.

10

WE STOPPED in a cafeteria on Eighty-sixth Street that was jumping with sleepy people drinking a fast cup of coffee before taking off for work. My stockinged feet didn't attract any attention, although the suit Kay got me should have been a crowd-stopper—it was made of a dark blue stiff material that simply hung on me. It was either a gag suit or custom made for a giant. The shot the doc had given me was wearing off, I was starting to feel pain, and very tired.

Ted was just the opposite. Although his eyes were bloodshot with strain and the bags under them dark as storm clouds, he was full of pep and on a talking jag. He was going to be in on the re-enacting of the McDonald capture, of course, and he kept chattering about what a break this was for his agency. After a couple of hot buttered bagels washed down with several glasses of orange juice and milk, I felt better; maybe the liquids were already replacing the blood I'd lost. But I was still blue and beat.

Ted dashed out and got the morning papers. I was all over the front page of most of them, even a small column in the Times. The News had a full-page picture of me standing in Steve's apartment, the busted window in the background. I looked out of this world—my clothes ripped and hanging in places, blood all over them and my shirt. My eyes seemed glassy, perhaps from the belt Steve gave me on the chin. Crazy the way a slim guy could punch like that. There were more pictures inside; of Kay, of Steve being led up the police-station steps, and one of Ted pointing to the recorder in the back of his car. Ted even had his coat open, showing his shoulder holster. I tried reading a few paragraphs and lost interest.

Ted read everything in a hoarse whisper, grunting with joy whenever his name was mentioned. He said, “I'm going to buy a couple dozen papers. This is worth a thousand bucks in advertising to me.”

“You couldn't buy it for ten times a grand. Tell me, Ted, are you going to stop wearing two-pants suits now?”

“What's wrong with this suit? Needs pressing but—”

“Nothing. It's a beautiful hunk of cloth. Let's blow. I need my beauty rest before facing the cameras. What do you know, suddenly I'm an actor.”

“Listen, Toussaint, we got some business talking to do.”

“I'm exhausted. Let's chatter while you drive me home.” I was too tired to be surprised at Ted's trying to hold me up for a day's pay, or whatever he wanted.

As we headed uptown, Ted chewing on a fresh cigar, he said, “I been thinking hard these last hours. You—we— have a good thing in these Madison Avenue buffs, a salting-money deal if we act smart and fast. Remember me telling you about this industrial stuff I'm going after? TV is an industry too, a big one. They must need private dicks on a thousand deals: spying on other networks, hush up scandals, keep track of a star's drinking, protect him—or her—from babes and con men—plenty of work. By acting smart I mean this: you have the “in” and I have the outfit. I'm offering you a partnership. Bailey and Moore. You get forty per cent. How's that, Toussaint?”

I shook my head. My eyes half closed with sleep, I was watching a TV show. Once more I was seeing Steve's apartment framed by the window, all the cockeyed furniture. Steve was “explaining” again why he killed Thomas. Kay was sitting there, calmly listening to him... agreeing with him. Cockeyed furniture, cockeyed sick people. Both of them talking like...

“I'm not chiseling you. I'd give you a straight fifty per cent only I am bringing in the equipment, a going agency, so seems to me I—”

I opened my eyes. “You can have it all, a hundred per cent, Ted. I'm throwing away my badge. I'll plug you to Kay. You'll be a cinch, the life of her parties.”

We were stopped for a light. Ted turned to stare at me, the strong cigar almost in my face. “Toussaint, you know what your mouth is saying?”