Ed Lacy - Lead With Your Left

“Damn it, Mary, another ex-cop has been gunned. I'm not only on the case but if I'd followed my hunches, Wales might be alive now. Do you need cab fare?”

“We can't even have a decent evening out,” Mary said. She was on the verge of crying but held it in. “Just leave me alone!” She turned back toward the others and I walked out. I listened for a moment outside the door—there wasn't any laughter. Mary was all wrong.

I walked around the corner and found myself at a subway entrance. Riding up to the station house I didn't think much about Mary being sore—all lovey-dovey at 6 p.m. and a hot pistol by II p.m. Hell with that-Al Wales was dead! That made a monkey out of the robbery theory in Owens' murder, and murder was what it was. My hunch was the correct one-somebody was out to get both men and that could only mean a collar they'd made. Perhaps the killer did a long stretch and just got out. How else could ex-cops make enemies? Instead of horsing around with the Henderson case or writing up a report, if Reed had let me talk to Wales when I asked, the old guy would still be alive now, probably helping me solve the Owens killing.

I reached the precinct house at twenty to twelve. The midnight tour was in the muster room, studying the post condition board and shooting the breeze. The desk lieutenant was a fat slob who'd never heard about the invention of the comb. As I walked in he cracked, “Hey, sonny, where you going? Oh... it's you, Wintino.”

The sonofabitch went through this corny routine every time he saw me, which fortunately wasn't often and the patrolmen in the muster room gave it a big yak-yak.

“I came back to get a Popsicle I didn't finish this afternoon, Lieutenant,” I said to show the joker I could go along with a gag, even a cornball one.

There were only two men in the detective squad room, a guy built like a football tackle—named Wilson—and a sum, dapper (if you go for herringbone weaves) gray-haired man who was the senior detective on the squad and in charge when Reed wasn't around. He was Tom Landon, the quiet type who always looks bored and never gets excited. He asked, “Got your tours mixed, Dave? What you doing here?”

“Heard on TV about Al Wales being killed.”

“Yeah, quite a thing. Eleven thousand bucks in a money belt wrapped around his gut. Shame a man has to kick the bucket with that kind of dough unspent.”

“Where's everybody? Where's Lieutenant Reed?”

Landon leaned back in his chair and ran dental floss through his phony teeth—he was always playing with those false choppers. “Home, I guess. Why? Something go wrong in Night Court?”

“No. I thought with this Wales shooting, I mean it proves Owens wasn't in any stick-up, he was deliberately gunned... figured we'd all be working tonight.”

“Sure does throw a different light on the Owens thing,” Landon said, starting to work on his uppers. “But Wales wasn't killed in this precinct and anyway, Central Office is handling both killings now. I got my paper work to write up before midnight so... Wintino, you actually came here because...? If we wanted you we would have phoned. Beat it.”

“We should be working. These two are former cops!”

Landon held the dental floss up toward the light for inspection, dropped it in the waste basket. “Cops die too, like everybody else. Tell me, what were you doing when you heard about Wales?”

“I was at a card party with my wife.”

I heard Wilson snicker behind my back as Landon said, “And you dropped everything and came a-running. Dave, why don't you grow up and stop playing cops and robbers?”

“But I had a hunch on Owens all along and if I'd seen Wales today, as I wanted to...”

Landon shook his little head. “Don't take your job home with you, Dave. Leave it in your locker with your walking shoes. What are you made of, Dave? You have two days off, take your wife to the movies, get high... young fellow like you should be in bed a lot. And never come a-running, they'll get you out of bed often enough. All an eager beaver gets is tired.”

“Cut the eager-beaver bull. Owens and Wales are different than an ordinary case and I thought—”

“Why don't you get drunk with your wife and stop thinking so much?” Landon said, turning back to his desk. “And let me finish my work, I'm going home in a few minutes. You ought to do the same.”

“Is that an order?” I asked sarcastically.

Landon looked up quickly. “Don't act the snotnose around me, Dave. Heard you slugged one of the boys today. Okay, you don't have to prove to me you're young and tough and full of ginger. Me, I'm just tired. Now beat it. And that is an order.”

I was so damn mad I waited a second before I asked, “Be okay if I do some looking around on my own—on my off days?”

“It's your time, wear your nose down to the bone. Look, Dave, I'm not eating you out. I'm just busy and in a hurry to get home and get my sleep. Sure, look around if you like, only take it easy, don't get in the hair of those supersleuths downtown, the glory hounds.”

I suddenly felt let down as though all the air had gone out of me. “Sorry I blew up, Tom. Just that... two retired cops... Hell, guy can't help thinking that it could be me, in time.”

“Nobody is goofing on the case, so don't worry about it. You got to learn how to unwind, Dave. That's as important as getting steam on.”

I started for the door, stopped. “What's the latest dope on Wales?”

“He was shot with a .22 through the right eye, at short range. Whole side of his face has flash burns. Must have used a silencer. There were two other men in the rooming house at the time, one asleep, one reading in bed—they say they didn't hear a thing. Wales hadn't been to work today so he must have been sleeping off a drunk when he got it. Medical Examiner places it around noon. Nothing was touched. Wales was fully dressed, probably passed out in bed. Maybe the killer didn't know about the money belt and the eleven grand. So far, no leads, no prints—nothing. Now go home and let me finish up.”

“I suppose they're checking the arrest record and—”

“Central Office boys know their business.”

“Hell of a way for a couple of good cops to end,” I said, making for the door.

Landon nodded. “Wales was especially good. This isn't out yet, so keep it damn quiet, Dave. They found a .38 Smith & Wesson that belonged to Wales in his room. Ballistics says it's the gun that killed Owens.”

Thursday Morning

We had a rough night. Mary came home half-bagged, which didn't help my mood. Then I stupidly told her what had happened at the precinct and she said, “The boy wonder got his prat booted home where it belongs. And you had to dash out like a fool, before my friends.”

“Your friends keep up their clever conversation, did they ever find put who was on the gate?” I asked, and we took it from there.

I couldn't even keep up with her, most of my mind was busy trying to figure why Al Wales shot his partner. After a while Mary fell off and I stared at the darkness and nothing made sense. Wales had said a crime was like an iceberg. This one was sure hidden, needed a lot of spadework. Two old coots, friends and partners for nearly a quarter of a century and when they're both hanging around, taking it easy before they die, one kills the other. And Al Wales, dressing like he was warming the buffalo on a nickel and eleven grand in his kick. I went to sleep full of questions—and not a single answer.

Mary was up at eight and had the same record on: namely I was the all-American jerk and she hoped last night would teach me a lesson and be sure and see Uncle Frank today and where in hell were the aspirins.

I didn't get up to have breakfast with her, stayed in bed and thought about a cop killing his partner. What would Danny Hayes have to do for me to kill him? When Mary took off I got up and made the bed back into a couch, had some orange juice. I felt lousy, restless and blue. For no reason I put on old slacks, army shoes, a sweatshirt and a long sport shirt to cover my gun in a belt holster, and decided to do some roadwork. I walked over to Central Park and trotted around the reservoir, throwing punches like a pug. I enjoy exercise and the clean air in my lungs seemed to drive away the blues. But when I reached the west side of the reservoir I suddenly stopped—what the hell was I training for? I wasn't a would-be pug anymore but a detective and I'd already wasted too much time. I was on my own these two days, and could devote all my time to the case. I walked over to Central Park West and took a subway to Brooklyn. I had two addresses I wanted to check.