Ed Lacy: Lead With Your Left

Lead With Your Left

Ed Lacy

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Tuesday NightWednesday MorningWednesday AfternoonWednesday EveningThursday MorningThursday AfternoonThursday NightFriday MorningFriday AfternoonFriday EveningSaturday Afternoon

This is entirely a work of fiction; all names, characters, and incidents are purely imaginary. While I hope the people in the book seem like real people, they are not intended to represent any specific person or persons, living, dead, or about to be born.

E.L.

Tuesday Night

It was a few minutes before eleven when I unlocked our door. The dumb lamp we had in the two-by-four “foyer” was on. The lamp looked like a drippy flower and cost fifty-seven bucks strictly because it was imported from Denmark. If all their lamps are like this job they must be blind over there. I could just about make out the couch opened as a bed, was surprised Mary was in the hay so early. I called out softly, “Babes?” She didn't answer.

I took off my coat and tie, then my shoulder holster, went through my pockets and put everything on the table beside the lamp. I dropped my suit on the floor; it was due for the cleaner's anyway and we only had one closet and no room for soiled clothes. I went to the John and washed, afraid I'd wake Mary if I moved the Chinese screen in front of our “kitchenette” for a snack. For a hundred and twenty bucks a month you'd think we'd have room enough to move around. But not at this “good” address on East Sixty-ninth Street. Still I couldn't entirely blame Mary, I got some kicks out of living in a swank joint, and all the modern nutty furniture we were in hock for. And yesterday almost all my pay check went for old bills. What kicks.

But the old railroad flat in the Bronx had its features too. Like now I could go way up to the front room and get the news on TV, see who'd won the fight as I worked on an apple. But no TV watching in a one-room apartment, not even a swank one. Turning out the damn light I carefully threaded my way through the furniture and climbed into the sack.

Bed felt great. I'd been going since eight in the morning. Staring up at the darkness I wondered if Ed Owens had lived in a hundred-and-twenty-buck apartment. I saw Owens in the alley again. The wrong angle his body made said he had to be dead. Who dropped the newspaper over his face, the headline and pictures about the ball game? Why don't they want anybody to see a dead face? Or maybe the dead don't want to see us live jokers.

Mary had a heavy way of breathing, almost a light snore. I didn't hear it so she wasn't asleep, just laying there sore as a boil at me. I reached under the cover for her hips. She wasn't wearing one of my old shirts, but those damn ski-pajamas she bought to spite me. When my fingers found her she pulled away. I said, “Look, honey, I did try to call—at six—but you weren't home. I got stuck on a big case.”

“Sure, you put in overtime, four to eleven, seven hours—a day's work on a normal job. What did you get, time and a half or double time, for it?”

She had that nasty shrillness to her voice that reminded me of Mom when she was steamed, way she sounded when she knew I was out boxing. The shrillness that meant—with both Mary and Mom—that talking was a waste of time. But I was so full of it I had to talk. “Look, Babes, this is real big. I was in on the killing of an ex-cop. Guy named Ed Owens was shot down right in—”

“I'm not interested!”

“Mary, this was one of these dumb killings where a—”

“I couldn't care less!”

I sat up in bed. “A man who'd been a good cop, gave almost thirty years of his life to protecting people, was shot down in an alley. Sure,- you're not interested, nobody is. That's the trouble today, nobody gives a fat damn about any-. thing or—”

Mary turned over, faced me in the darkness. “Dave, you came home seven goddam hours late, seven hours, so I'm hardly in the mood for any of your childish speeches.”

She said “childish” to steam me but I said evenly, “Maybe Owens' wife doesn't think it's a speech. Maybe she's wondering what the hell living is all about when a retired cop has to work as a twenty-five-buck-a-week messenger and gets killed in the bargain. Some bargain!”

“Is that what I have to look forward to, Dave, you lying dead in the street some night? My God, what do you think was going through my head when you didn't come home?”

I found her shoulder in the darkness, held it when she tried to turn away. “Babes, I said I tried to phone you. That was the only time I was near a phone. Had the big brass from downtown with me, couldn't get away even for a moment. Another thing, this is why I'm so interested in this case, I kept thinking if this was going to be me, working as a lousy messenger when I'm too old to be a cop. Nothing makes sense about the killing, no motive, no—”

“You're too old to be a cop now! Dave, I can't take this much longer.”

“Now Mary, let's not start that.”

“Why not?” she asked loudly and I knew her mouth was a hard line the way it always got when she was angry. When I first met her I thought that hard line was cute, used to tease her just to see the red lips fade into a line and finally burst into a big smile. “I come home and make supper, sit around jumping out of my skin wondering what's happened to you. And at eleven o'clock my husband comes home and makes some small talk about his job—he talks about a killing!”

“Small talk? Damnit, an ex-cop was killed this afternoon!”

“I don't want to hear about it!”

“It concerns you, concerns everybody. A cop was killed!”

“Davie, the boy do-gooder! I don't want it to concern me. And let go of my shoulder, or is this the loving touch, the third degree?”

“That's dumb talk,” I said, letting go of her. “And don't start crying.” I reached out and snapped on the indirect lights that ran along the back of the studio couch. Even in the middle of the night Mary always looked sharp, her blonde hair tidy, the curves of her breasts trim even in the damn pajamas. I reached for one of the curves and she slapped at my hand and missed.

Anyway she wasn't going to bawl. When she's real mad Mary gets into a cold rage like she was about to spit ice. I looked at the hard line of her mouth and knew she wasn't going to cry at all: she was going to talk.

“A husband and wife can usually talk over what happened to them during the day, the office gossip and jokes, but what am I supposed to ask you? Who you caught robbing? What pimp you hit? And when can we ever talk? You work these crazy hours, nights, days, middle of the days, Saturdays, Sundays. You're off Thursday and Friday this week—a big week end ahead for me! Dave, what kind of a life do we have? I want to go out and see people, take in a movie on a Saturday night, but you're only off one week end a month. I get up in the morning and see my husband getting his tools ready for the day—a gun and a blackjack. And for what? I'm just a steno in the agency yet my take-home pay is larger than yours.”

“In a little while I'll be making full salary. And I'll be eligible for retirement when I'm forty-one,” I said and kept seeing Owens' puffy dead face. What kind of job could I get after twenty years as a cop? A store cop, guard, messenger? Why should a guy need a job when he retired? What was the point in retiring? “Babes, be reasonable, I'm doing okay. What the hell, I've no trade, only one year of college—you want me to be a forty-buck-a-week stock clerk?”

“Yes. You're an eager beaver. Start out as a stock clerk and in time you could be a sales manager or—”

“Or/and own the firm. Stop talking like a movie. Last year when I was sweating in that five and dime for thirty-eight bucks a week, they gave me a movie title—I was one of the 'assistant managers' instead of stock boy. Mary, you were all for me taking Civil Service exams: okay, now I'm a cop, I have—”