Ed Lacy: Lead With Your Left

I touched Mary's ankle again. Maybe she was right. A cop, an ex-cop, was dead and nobody really gave a damn. Just another stick-up victim, as if he hadn't spent most of his life trying to protect people. Hell, who was an ex-cop to get any more consideration than an ordinary murdered citizen?

I thought he should get a damn sight more consideration.

I suddenly smiled at the darkness. Dave Wintino, the boy Dick Tracy! I didn't have a thing to go on but a hunch—like the feeling I had about the lead pipe in my big pinch. Maybe it was dumb to play a hunch... but somehow I was sure Ed Owens hadn't been killed in a stick-up.

Wednesday Morning

At exactly 6 a.m. I awoke as though an alarm had gone off. I can always do that. It was light outside already and looked like a good warm day. I slipped out of bed easily and Mary didn't move. She was sleeping half outside the blanket, curled like a cat, and for a moment I admired the full curve of her hips in the ski pajamas. Then I shut the bathroom door and ran the electric razor over my face and took a shower, thinking how odd it is with women. I mean Mary actually had a straight up-and-down figure, even a bit on the skinny side, yet in certain positions— like that one on the bed or sometimes when she sits with one leg under and I get a flash of her thigh— what curves. I sometimes wonder where they come from.

And maybe Ed Owens' wife had curves he liked to watch too.

I was getting fresh shorts out of the desk drawer when Mary sat up, coming wide-awake fast as she always does, and said, “Are you getting up or going to bed? What time is it?”

“Sixteen after six. Have coffee with me?”

Mary yawned and stretched her arms over her head, her breasts pushing out. “Guess so. Sixteen after six, what a time to get up.”

“My last day on this tour. Starting Saturday I—”

“I know, I know, you start working at midnight. Lovely!”

“Let's not begin the day arguing. Go back to sleep and leave me alone.”

“Sleep— some chance!”

“If we had a bigger apartment instead of a correct address, I could get up without waking you.”

She sat up in bed, got a cigarette working. “Dave, why must you always make excuses for the job? If you were going to work at 9 a.m. like most husbands, we... oh, nuts, I feel too beat to argue.”

She puffed on her cigarette slowly, watching me as I got out my tropical gray suit, a white shirt, cuff links, a heavy T-shirt, and a striped pink and hard gray tie. I went into the can and rubbed some hair conditioner on my noggin, then gave it a stiff workout with a brush and comb, getting it just right—the pomp in front raised and with a good curl. Understand, I don't see any sense in looking sloppy. I put on my shorts and socks and shoes, was giving the shoes a fast shine with yesterday's shirt when Mary got out of bed. She tossed her butt in the John and jabbed a sharp little finger in my gut. She said, “Davie, I'm queer for those ridges of muscle.”

“I go for your tummy too,” I said, pulling her to me, kissing her. Her lips had a stale tobacco taste.

She rubbed up against me for a moment, said, “Keep this up and you'll be late.”

“Man's expected to be late once in a while,” I said, playing with her soft blonde hair, wishing she didn't use such a bright rinse.

“And let law and order go to hell?” she said, the light sarcasm in her voice teasing me.

“Put the coffee on.” I was like the others, forgetting a cop had been killed.

“'Put the coffee on,' my lover says in a sexy tone.”

“Babes, I have a lot of work to do. Look, you go back to bed and I'll stop someplace for coffee and juice.”

She poked my gut again as she drew away. “I'll make you coffee soon as I wash up.” You know how I am, Once I'm awake.”

I dressed while she was in the kitchenette. She had the radio on to an early morning record jockey and the music was hot. When I sat down for my Java Mary said, “Honest, Dave, you belong on Madison Avenue. You have a flair for wearing clothes. You look the part.”

“I've been on Madison Avenue, had a fixed post there during a strike. Madison Avenue and 114th Street.”

“Oh, stop talking about your awful job. I bet even the Commissioner forgets his work when he's home.”

“I was kidding. Getting warm fast, we'll be able to go to the beach soon.”

“I can picture us. When are you getting your vacation, in November?”

“Stop riding me, you know I'm junior man,” I said, sipping my coffee, thinking that if she didn't have her job we'd have plenty of time for the beach on my fifty-six-hour swing every week.

Mary kept stirring her cup. “Don't know how you can take coffee so hot. Dave, will you get in touch with Uncle Frank? At least be polite enough to see what he wants.”

“Okay. Tomorrow, when I'm off.”

Her face came alive. “Really?”

“As you said, at least I can be polite.” Frank wasn't a bad guy, good for laughs—long as he remained Uncle Frank and not bossman Frank.

“That's a promise now,” Mary said, coming around the tiny table and hugging me as she sat on my lap. I wanted to tell her she was pretty but not that pretty. Instead I held her against me with my left hand, finished the coffee with my right.

She suddenly said, “Ouch!” and sat up, rubbing her shoulder. “That damn holster is going to leave me black and blue yet.”

I damn near spilled the coffee on my pants. I tickled her bottom, making her jump to her feet With a gasp. I stood up and kissed her, said, “See you for supper—I hope,” and picked up my wrinkled suit from the floor on the way out.

Waiting for the elevator I checked my pockets again: badge, wallet, keys, pens, notebook, extra shells, touched the gun in its shoulder holster, and ran a hand over my hair. I left the suit at the corner tailor shop, bought the morning papers, and dropped into the first coffee pot I hit to have a slow cup of the junk and see what they had to say about Ed Owens. Not that it mattered what the papers said.

There was a picture of Owens in the alleyway and just a caption in the News. The Times surprised me by giving him a whole column. After a sentence—saying he'd been shot in a hold-up while carrying nonnegotiable bonds, they went on to say Owens and Wales had solved the murder of a Boots Brenner back in 1930. I never heard of the joker but the paper claimed he was well on his way to becoming the Al Capone of New York City when he was found in a vacant Brooklyn lot full of lead. “Within 24 hours, through brilliant detective work” Owens and Wales arrested a small-time bootlegger named Sal Kahn who was running a still near the lot where Brenner's body was found. Kahn had a record of several arrests for making and selling booze. He admitted killing Boots when the gangster tried to muscle in on an electric still Kahn was running. The still was an “amazing work of scientific ingenuity” and although Kahn pleaded self-defense, he died in the chair without revealing the name of his partner, who had built the still. Both Wales and Owens had been cited by the mayor for their fast work.

I gathered the politicians had been busting a “crime wave” and had used the death of a strong-arm goon to crow about how safe the city was.

I finished breakfast with a piece of candy, took the subway over to the precinct house, paying my fare. Seems dumb to me to advertise every day that you're a detective. I walked into the detective room a few minutes before eight. Danny Hayes was already there, breezing with a sleepy-looking fat slob named Ace who has a terrific memory for faces. I picked up the daily report sheet, read the arrests. There wasn't anything of interest except they had collared a clown named Hanson up on Washington Heights trying to pass a stiff check in a drugstore. Seems Hanson had bounced a check in the same store a few months ago. Most crooks are dumb as hell.