Ed Lacy - Lead With Your Left

“And the magazine, this Spectator, what are they doing about your troubles?”

“At the moment I'm not involving them. They can only do what I've done—call in the police. After all, I'm just a free-lancer and the magazine hasn't the money to fight these companies. The Spectator is lucky to break even each month.”

“What are you getting for the article?”

“Two hundred dollars.”

“Why don't these outfits spend a few grand in advertising and buy off the magazine?”

“Because it isn't that type of magazine. Any more questions?”

“You're not getting much pay for all the work you're doing on this. What's in it for you?”

“Partly I do it because they're breaking the law, rooking the public, and I'm part of the public. Also I'll benefit in other ways. The publicity if the article makes enough noise will get me other assignments. Now, do you think I might get some protection from the police instead of a grilling?”

“I wasn't grilling you, we have to check all sides of a story. I'll report this back to my boss, Lieutenant Reed. We've been busy on a murder and I doubt if he can spare a man to guard you twenty-four hours a day. But he might put a tap on your phone, try and trace those calls. I'll let you know what we can do,” I told her, getting up, heading for the door, a little high from her perfume.

“When will you let me know what will be done?”

“Probably late this afternoon. I'm not sure: I don't run the department.”

She shrugged and everything that moved was a boot to watch. “At least you still don't think there's some love-struck idiot after me.”

“I haven't ruled that out.”

“What?” she said loudly. “Can't you see that these—”

“Sure, I can see and I don't rule out a nutty boy friend because... Miss Henderson, let's not fence for compliments, every time you look into a mirror you see an exciting young woman. You certainly know that.” I tried to sound casual but I blurted the words like a schoolboy.

Her face was a slow blush, then came this warm, almost tickling laughter. “I suppose I should say thank you. Thank you, Mr....”

“Wintino, Dave Wintino.” I took out an assignment slip, wrote my name and precinct phone number on it. “Next time you're pushed around on the street, if you're sure it was deliberate, tell the nearest cop to hold the man and have the cop call me. Show him this card.”

“Thanks. I won't leave the house till I hear from you.”

“Miss Henderson, the Police Department is understaffed so I can't promise we'll give you an escort, but even reporting this, having it on the precinct record, is some protection. And don't worry, well keep an eye on you, perhaps have the beat cop stop by now and then.”

We said good-day and I walked down to the basement, keeping an eye out for mutts, and found the super. He was an old mousey duck in dirty overalls and I asked, “Been any men around inquiring about Miss Henderson up in 3C?”

“You another one? I'm too busy to be answering questions all the time.” He had a weak voice and some kind of mild accent. Eating would be a problem for him, he only had a couple of mossy teeth in his mouth.

“Another one? How many men have been here asking about her?”

“Don't rightly recall. I'd say five, six. They come late at night or early in the morning, get me out of my bed to ask about her. And I need my sleep, I work hard.”

“What do they ask?”

“All kinds of things. One asked did I know she was Spanish, a greasy Spick he called her. Guess you saw her name, Hondura, on the mailbox. She's Puerto Rican, and uses the name Henderson to write under. Does she entertain men, these men ask, does she have meetings in her flat, is she a Red? Was one creepy old man yesterday about scared the living life out of me just to see him, he wanted to know if I thought she was selling dope. I understand they been asking some of the tenants too, getting them out of bed. I told them I knew was she was a quiet girl who kept to herself and paid her rent on time.”

“Any of these men give you their names, say what they were?”

“Nope, They just fired questions at me.”

“Can you describe them, would you recognize any of them again?”

“Nope. Except for the creepy one they was all well-dressed, classy-looking men. I told you I ain't got time to be answering a lot of questions.”

“But you have time to shoot your big mouth off. Why didn't you ask who I was before you talked to me?”

“See here, don't you raise your voice to me, young man. Well, who are you?”

I showed him my badge. “Detective Wintino, 201st Squad.”

“A cop. Say, Miss Henderson done anything crooked?”

“No. She complained about some jerks annoying her.” I took out my notebook. “What's your name? How long you been employed here?”

“Heitman. Teddy's the first name. Been here going on fourteen years this August. What you writing me down for? I don't want no trouble.”

“Relax, Mr. Heitman. Have a phone here?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Here's my name and police phone number on this slip. Keep it handy. Next time anybody comes asking around about Miss Henderson before you tell them a thing, ask to see their credentials, write down their name and address. Even if they say they're police or government men ask for—'”

“You'll get me into trouble.”

“You can get into trouble by talking too damn much. Know who you're talking to before you run your gums. I want you to do me a favor, phone me as soon as anybody asks about Miss Henderson. Leave your name if I'm not in and I'll call you back. Don't make a fuss about it but try to get the name of whoever asks about her, ask to see their credentials or badge, then phone me. Got that?”

“Yes, sir,” he said, clutching my card. “I never had no run-in with the police, never. I don't want no trouble. No, sir.”

“Aw, stop drooling about trouble. And don't be so ready to give out information about your tenants: tell 'em to go ask the tenant. Remember, if they ask about Miss Henderson, phone me soon as you can.”

“I'll do that.”

“Fine,” I said, walking away, knowing he was too scared to do anything. I walked up the basement steps and the humidity was like a blanket. I stopped to run a comb through my hair, glanced up and down the street, trying to make her tail.

The street was empty, so were the parked cars. Little ways up the block there was a tall guy of about twenty-five wearing dungarees and a shabby black leather jacket leaning against one of the buildings. What made me forget about my hair was the crumpled wire coat hanger he was toying with in his right hand.

I slipped my badge on my belt as he glanced around like a ham actor, crossed the sidewalk to the Jaguar and shielding the hanger with his body, started working the wire into the rubber lining of the front window. He was less than two hundred feet from me and having a rough time with the window.

I edged up toward him, ready to sprint if he saw me, but he was too busy and I was behind him and on his left side when I asked, “Lost your keys?”

He spun around, one of these jokers with eyes too large for his long thin face. He nodded, tried to smile as he said, 'Yeah, misplaced them.” Looking me over, he turned back to the window.

“How you going to start the car if you haven't any keys?”

“Get lost, buddy. Mind your business.”

“I'm a police officer. Keep your hands in sight and face me!”

He turned quickly, his narrow face frightened pale. I opened my coat with my right hand so he could see my badge, part of my shoulder holster. I told him, “Drop the hanger—do it slow and easy.”

He dropped it.

“Turn around and place both your hands on top of the car. Now keep them there And spread your feet.”