Ed Lacy - Lead With Your Left

“No, just Wales. Don't recall the other face. 'Course at the time of the shooting, whole block was full of detectives. Trampling all over my tomato plants. Why did Wales shoot hisself?”

“He didn't, he was murdered,” I said, jotting down the dates in my notebook.

“Murdered? All you read about these days. I say these teenagers should be given a taste of the strap and then—”

“I want you to do me a favor, don't talk about this. Don't even tell anybody you remember Wales. You see what you've just told me can be nothing, then again it might help us solve Wales' murder.”

“I won't say a mumbling word. Don't want to get mixed up in nothing. Not me. Say I sure got to read the morning paper now.”

I wanted to tell him to keep his trap shut even if that beat cop happened to ask what I wanted, but that might make the old boy suspicious of me. I wrote my name and the squad phone on a notebook page, gave it to him. “If you think of anything else, even if it doesn't seem important, but anything you haven't told me—anything— give me a ring. If I'm not there, leave a number where I can reach you. Got a phone?”

“I only room here, with my grandson, but they got a phone. And you can call me at the dye plant all during the night. I'll think about it, maybe I can recall something. But it was a long time ago.”

“Anybody eke around here who might remember the killing?”

He shook his head, almost proudly. “Nope, I'm about the last of the old-timers here. That's because I drink two full glasses of buttermilk every morning before I—”

“Well, thanks for your time. And not a word, not even to your grandson or son.”

“My boy was killed in the war. I live with my daughter's boy. Now don't you give it no worry, not a word out of me. And I'll phone you quick if I think of anything. Ain't had nobody to phone in years.”

On the subway ride back to the apartment I felt swell I had a lot of pieces that would fit into one picture damn soon. And then Landon and Reed and the rest of the squad would know who was a snotnosed kid.

I thought about getting off and taking a look at Wales' room. But downtown would certainly have covered that, and then the way I was dressed—a sweatshirt.

I got home before noon and had some eggs and went over my notes, still thinking of seeing Wales' room.

The gun had never been found in the Brenner killing. Was that what Wales was looking for? But why keep looking for it sixteen years after the shooting? And when he did find it, what? There had been nothing in the arrest record about finding the gun. Did he think the rod might convict Kahn's missing partner, this Bird? Or was Al Wales hunting because he felt Kahn was innocent? But then why keep looking years after Kahn burnt?

It didn't have to be the gun—buried money wasn't a bad angle. Brenner wouldn't have muscled in unless there was plenty of loot, and that would account for the dough Wales had on him. But Wales was a good cop and would have reported the money if... A good cop who shot down his partner!

The thing to do was let what I had jell, maybe dig deeper into Sal Kahn's past. I had the feeling my hunch was hot and in time... The phone rang.

I picked it up, expecting Mary to say she was sorry for being a bitch. “Mr. David Wintino?” It was a woman's voice and vaguely familiar.

“Talking.”

“This is Rose Henderson. Hope you don't mind my calling you at home. I looked you up in the book.”

“I don't mind. What's up?”

“I waited and then phoned your police station twice for an escort. They tell me they can't spare a man today.”

“They're very busy.”

“But this will mean the second day I've lost. That's exactly what they want. If I miss my deadline the article might be postponed for months. You promised I'd have an escort today and now you—”

“Have any trouble since yesterday?” I asked, in my mind seeing her curled up in the red camp chair, the full curve of her stomach I wanted so much to poke with my little finger. And if I hadn't been bothering with her, I might have seen Wales and saved... No, he was already shot by then.

“Yes, there was a phone call at 2:20 a.m. No answer when I picked up the receiver. This is driving me to a breakdown. I feel like a prisoner. All I need is a few more days of research and I could wind things up. You told me I'd have—”

“Listen to me carefully. It's seven after twelve. I'll be in front of your house at one. Where did you plan to go this afternoon?”

“To the Forty-second Street Library.”

“Okay. Exactly at one leave your house. Walk over to Broadway and down to the IRT subway. Get off at Times Square and walk toward the library. Keep on the downtown side of the street. I'll be following you but don't ever look for me—that would tip them off. Even if you're pushed around, unless it's real trouble, I won't step in. Idea is I want to make whoever is shadowing you. Remember, don't act self-conscious and don't look around for me. If you should see me, act as if you don't know me. Got that?”

“I think so. One sharp... IRT... downtown side of the street.”

“Now, after you finish at the library, go back to your place the same way—downtown side of Forty-second Street to the IRT. How long do you need in the library?”

“At least four hours.”

“That's too long. You stay an hour, at exactly two you leave, side entrance, and wait at home till I either call or drop in. That may not be for a brace of hours. We all set? One o'clock on the nose.”

“Yes. And thank you.”

I took a fast cold shower and started to dress—tropical suit, open dusty-gray sport shirt, and new socks. I put some oil on my hair and gave it a good brushing, then combed it carefully. I should be looking over Wales' room but I'd only be eaten out by the downtown brass. And unless I took a breather from what I'd found out this morning, I'd get stale on the case. And this would take only a few hours.

I checked my pockets, made sure my hair didn't look oily, and took off. I was planted on her street corner by seven minutes before one. I stopped kidding myself, I should damn well be spending this time working on Wales' background. But I didn't feel too bad about it—I felt swell.

I wanted to see Rose again.

Thursday Afternoon

Exactly at one she came out of her house wearing a neat red suit which wasn't for her—it didn't do much to her chunky figure. She held a large paper folder and a pocketbook under her left arm. I watched the doorways, the parked cars, but couldn't make anybody shadowing her as she slowly walked toward Broadway. I stayed a half a block behind and on the other side of the street. We reached the subway okay-and I still didn't see any tail. Rose looked herself over in a gum machine mirror without glancing at me. There were only three other people besides us on the platform and seven people in the subway car. I didn't bother with the people in the car—a good tail wouldn't be riding in the same car. I kept my eyes on Rose, as if I was a stud on the make looking her over... and she looked fine: the dark hair, the sullen hot mouth, the strong figure. Even if nothing happened, it was a good way of killing a few hours. I wondered if Rose's friends would ask if I was a corrupt goon?

We walked along Forty-second Street on opposite sides of the street. Alongside Bryant Park they got her. There was a tall wiry guy who fell in behind her—did it fast then slowed down. He was about thirty-five, wearing a new coconut palm hat and one of these corny gray flannel suits, as if sure it made him look the executive type.

Coming toward her was a lumpy joker built like a fat football player, dressed in an old plain brown suit and no hat on his noggin, baldness giving his thin hair a horseshoe shape.