Ed Lacy - Lead With Your Left

I shook my head and yawned, reached up to straighten my hair. “Heat must have me. Have I been dozing long?” My coat was wrinkled.

“About ten minutes. I have some beer, or would you rather have orange juice?”

“Orange juice will do the trick. I feel like a slob, spilling my troubles all over you.”

She went to her tiny refrigerator and poured two glasses of juice, squeezed a lime in them. “I don't mind. As a writer I'm curious about such problems.... The truth is we all actually enjoy hearing the other person's troubles. That enjoyment is the root of all gossip. I wish I could help you, could give you advice, but I'm hardly the one.”

Handing me a glass she sat down again. I said, “I didn't mean to-talk about it. Slipped out.”

“I'm not married, never have been, yet I can't understand what you told me. I suppose I have naive and romantic ideas about marriage, but for me a husband and a wife should be a separate little world of their own. Nothing on the outside should be able to touch that world. I'm not that simple I don't know poverty can shatter anything, but aside from real poverty, I can't picture anything penetrating this inner world of understanding. But to start with it has to be two-sided, a complete sense of give and take.”

I drank most of the juice. It was cold and the lime hit me like a shot, woke me up. “I think I get what you mean. And at times I tell myself I am inconsiderate, but then so is she. All boils down to my job. Maybe she's right about it not being the best job in the world for me, maybe I would be a whiz-bang at something else. But still, it's my job, it's the only thing I know and I like it. That's what she can't understand: it's more than a job to me, it's something I like. Would you care if your husband was a cop?”

She shook her head and leaned against the wall, resting the juice glass on that fine curve of her belly. “I wouldn't like him to.”

“Why?”

She was looking at me through half-shut eyes as she said, “Let's not go into my reasons now. But that wouldn't matter. This private world of understanding I think of, it would have to be a world of small compromises too. In short, he has to be the only man I want and I must be the only woman he wants, and I truly mean want. For such prizes one must make concessions. No, I wouldn't want my husband to be a hunter of men, a walking club, but if that is what he honestly wants and feels, well... there's that wonderful saying about we all can't be in step and each of us must march to the music he hears.”

“What makes you think cops are walking clubs?” I asked, finishing the juice and getting up.

“Let's not talk about that, we'll just get into an argument. I didn't mean it as anything personal—and I hate that stupid phrase. But to a colonial the police usually are...” She stood up and gave me the smile. “I don't want to argue with you. It would be rude; you've been so very nice to me—and nice is another bland word. But I honestly do appreciate all you've done for me.”

“I told those Data jerks I was acting as a friend not as a cop. That's for true—and don't think I'm making a pass—we are friends,” I said, thinking how much I'd like to make a pass at her.

“Thank you. All peoples should be friends and—” “All peoples is a crowd, I want to be your friend.” “I hope we will always be friends, truly. Only... I should warn you... life has been simple for you, but for me, raised in a colony, even though I was fortunate enough to be island-rich, my father was the editor of an island newspaper, I am full of many frustrations and deep hatreds you cannot understand or... God, don't let me get started on that. And not with you. You have been wonderful. Yes, we can be friends.”

“Okay. And my first friendly act will be to shove off. I'll keep in touch, and if you have any more trouble, phone me at once.”

“All right. And thank you again—my friend.” We shook hands at the door. Downstairs I started walking toward the precinct house. I wanted to get the latest dope on Wales, tell Reed the stuff I'd dug up in Brooklyn. I'd slipped Rose this big speech about what a swell deal it was being a cop—and if these Data clowns had pull I could be on my way out as of now. Bet Mary would love it if I had to come to Uncle Frank. Forget all that.... Rose, a sweet bundle of fire, living by herself, maybe waiting for a— “Hey, Junior.”

I turned to see a squad car at the curb, Landon and Wilson grinning at me. I didn't realize it was after four already. Walking over I asked, “What's the action?”

“Nothing too much. Crazy storekeeper phoned in he'd been stuck with a couple of queer ones. Stupid bastard never saw one of the old-fashioned, large-size dollar bills before. Somebody must have found an old sock treasure. What happened to your face?”

“Nicked myself while shaving. Anything on Wales new?”

Landon shook his head. “What you shave with, a broken bottle?”

“You mean there's another way to shave? What's on Wales?”

“Nothing new that I've heard of. Seems to be one of those tough ones, no witnesses, just a lot of nothing. Reed's been calling your house.”

Wilson said, “I did hear something—the Brooklyn cops don't think you're old enough to shave.”

“Must be tough on this heap having to ride your dead weight around.” I turned to Landon. “Know what Reed wants?”

“Something to do with Mrs. Owens. We'll drive you to the precinct.”

I wasn't going to face, any more ribbing on my own time. “I'll phone him, if he's still there.”

“He's there,” Landon said, giving Wilson the nod to drive on and the big jerk had to call out as a parting shot, “Next time you want to go to Brooklyn, let me know and I'll go along to vouch for your age.”

I phoned Reed from a drugstore, told him, “This is Dave Wintino, Lieutenant. Landon says you've been calling my house. Sorry I wasn't there. I've been out—”

“What's to be sorry about? You're off duty, you can be any place you want. Mrs. Owens called, said she wants you to call her.”

“Me?”

“That's what she said. Must be something personal. Dave, if you speak to her, don't say anything about Wales' gun having killed her husband. Central Office Bureau hasn't let that out yet. Landon said he told you.”

“I understand. Lieutenant, on the Owens-Wales murders, I was out in Brooklyn and—”

“I know you were out in Brooklyn,'“ Reed said, and I could feel the grin on his face.

“The point is, I think if we dig into the Sal Kahn murder rap, we'll find that—”

“Dave,” Reed cut in, his voice tired, “Central has the best men on the force, they say so themselves. This is their wagon and they'll know how to pull it, without any free advice.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Just be careful what you tell Mrs. Owens.”

“Yes, sir.” I damn near slammed the receiver through the phone. I dialed Mrs. Owens and a crisp female voice asked, “A-ha?”

“Mrs. Owens, please.”

“This is Miss Owens, her daughter. Who's this?”

“Detective Wintino. Mrs. Owens called me.”

“Oh, yes, Ma wants to see you. It's... uh... rather personal and important. Could you come up to our place, Mr. Wintino, now?”

I glanced at my watch: four-fifty. “Well, I'm due home for supper. Let me check with my wife and call you back,” I told her, thinking I must sound like the henpecked husband.

“We'd appreciate it if you could drop over soon as possible. Any time this afternoon or tonight you can make it.”

“I'D call you back.”

We hung up and I dialed Mary's office, knowing I'd get hell. Still-, if I got to the Owens house right away, I might be able to be home by six-thirty or seven. Soon as Mary got on the phone she asked, “Where have you been all afternoon? I've called the house at least half a dozen times.”