Ed Lacy - Room To Swing

“Look,” I said, keeping my voice down, “let's get one thing settled. Don't make a civil-rights case out of everything.”

“Me? Really, I fail to see where I—”

“I'm only saying when I want a cup of coffee I want coffee and not a scene. When I want to make a test case of something, I will. I'm not blaming you or anybody. Not even that redhead louse. I'm merely making a statement.”

“I don't get it.”

“When you go in for food you don't think a thing about it. But me, in a white restaurant, there's always a doubt, a... Forget it.”

“Forget what? Do you mean you only want to eat in Harlem restaurants?”

“Of course not. I mean, in the future, tell me what you want, food or excitement.” I was about to add she had a pipe, she didn't need me and the pipe to attract attention. Instead, I smiled as if we'd been kidding, said in a normal voice, “Only have about ten minutes; shouldn't we be on our way?”

“Yes,” she said, making a casual but smiling exit. Outside she said. “This disturbs me. I've always gone out of my way to be considerate to Negroes, but you're all so touchy.”

“I always go out of my way to be nice to you people, too.”

“Why must you make fun of me? I told you I don't like it.”

“I'm not making fun of you—you're the one who's touchy,” I told her, and told myself to shut up before she pulled me off the case. I gave her a best grin, added, “We're fighting over nothing. Let's get to work. We'll be too conspicuous standing opposite or outside the freight entrance together. Has Thomas ever seen you?”

“No. I've been quite a detective on my own. Here's all our data on him, home address, age, etc. This is a snap of him taken six years ago. He hasn't changed much, except he keeps his hair crew-cut, and it's a sandy blond now. You can pick him out from the snap, but if you want, I'll point him out.”

“To be on the safe side, you might as well finger him. Look, we'll stand across the street, but not together. Soon as you see him, start walking toward the corner. I'll stop you and ask for a match. Corny, but it will do. Without looking across at him, you'll tell me what he's wearing, to be doubly certain I have the right man. Keep walking and wait for me at the corner. I'll drive you back to your office.”

“Don't bother, I can take a cab. You'll phone me at my apartment around eight tonight and let me know how it's going?”

“Sure,” I said, putting the papers she gave me in my pocket.

She gave me the dazzling smile again. “You've made this a most interesting morning for me.”

“That's fine. People are coming out for lunch; let's get going.”

We were on the fringe of the garment district and the street started to fill up, mostly with women, many of them Puerto Ricans and/or Negroes. Miss Robbens stood near the entrance of a building, looking like a model waiting for a lunch date. I leaned against the window of a small coffeepot, packing my pipe.

Across the street, a steady stream of men and women came out of the freight-company building, which was a modest skyscraper housing a couple of dozen other concerns and dress factories. Miss Robbens walked toward me and we went through the match routine. I felt silly but as I lit my pipe she said in a fierce hammy whisper, “He's the one in the blue sweat shirt. See him?”

“Yeah. I'll phone you tonight.” She walked on and I watched her stop a cab.

Thomas was an easy make, tall and wiry with a stiff, military way of holding himself and a lean sharp face— except for his lips, which were thin and almost girlish. It was an easy face to remember, those lips and the strong square jaw. He looked about twenty-five, and if his dirty-blond hair was dyed it was a good job. He was wearing dungarees, a blue sweat shirt, and work shoes. With a couple of other young fellows, he marched into a luncheonette. Crossing the street, I read the hand-written menu pasted on the luncheonette window. Thomas was sitting at the counter, blowing on a cup of coffee. He had a cigarette behind one ear and his right cheek was pockmarked.

I went to the corner and bought an afternoon paper, looked through it, and twenty minutes later walked slowly back to the luncheonette. Thomas was lounging against the counter, the cigarette pasted to his funny lips, bulling with the other guys. From the relaxed way they were leaning against the counter, they did hard physical work: looked like pugs resting between rounds. I walked away as they came out, went across the street to lean against a parked truck and talk some more as they got a little sun. I stood in the lobby of a building, smoking my pipe and watching Thomas until he went back to work at twelve forty-five. Kay's info said he knocked off at five, leaving me free till then. Life was terrific; a month's work and I was getting it on a silver platter.

Back at the parking lot I found one of my whitewalls flat. Maybe the attendant did it because he saw a white woman with me, and maybe it was a leaky valve, as he said. My rubber was old. He kept a straight face and, since the tire wasn't cut, I had him put in a new valve and air.

Sybil works as a long-lines operator, a service assistant— a kind of foreman—and worked a split tour: 11 a.m. to 2 p.m., then back at 8 p.m. to work till 11 p.m. She liked the tour because she didn't have to get up early and actually only worked six hours although she was paid for eight. I phoned her at the public phone in the locker room, left a message with some girl that I'd pick her up at two. I called Sid to thank him for recommending me, and to get a line on Miss Robbens, but he was out.

With an hour to kill I phoned Ted Bailey, but he was busy on another skip-tracing job in the Village. I told him to be in front of his building in a few minutes, I'd drive him downtown.

When I got out of the army in '48 and went to N.Y.U. on the G.I. Bill, I told Sid I needed a part-time job and he had Bailey take me on as a weekend guard at the department store. Sid is a real sweet guy; he was a pilot and we got drunk together in Rome back in '45, have been friends ever since. Bailey ran a fairly big agency, used seven men in the department store, and was okay. Didn't treat me any different than the rest of his men—he was huffy with all of us. I was called back into service in '50, and when I came out in '53—lucky enough not to go to Korea—the store had its own guards. They were using one of Ted's men for the Friday and Saturday rush. Ted said it wasn't worth bothering with, gave me the job, which was how and why I started my own agency.

Ted was waiting for me; I didn't have to double-park. He dresses and looks like a fat hick. Actually he's a rough oscar and far from stupid—as a dick. I get a bang out of the way he speaks in grunts—as if talking was a waste of time.

As he sat down beside me I saw he was still wearing old-fashioned high shoes. Ted said, “What a car for an investigator. An operator should have an ordinary buggy— nothing stands out like this. Jeez, what seats—like I'd slipped off a bar stool. Get my letter?”

“Thanks. I'll work on it tomorrow. Kind of busy now. Where do you want to go?”

“Drop me at Sheridan Square. So you're busy, Toussaint?”

He never called me Touie. “Things have picked up.”

“You're lucky. Whole damn racket is changing. Today you can't make your pork chops unless you're a regular mechanical whiz, and even then you need contracts. I just hired me a kid who got busted out of engineering school.”

“That's what I want to talk about. I'm thinking of expanding.”

He pulled out a cigar and began chewing on it. “Expand where? Why stay in this two-bit racket? Ain't enough money in Harlem to make it worth your while.”

“That's what I mean by expanding—out of Harlem.”