Ed Lacy - Dead End

“You never told me. What you need a car for?” Elma asked, rubbing her wrist, which was very red.

“I met some guy who wanted to move a lot of stuff, and I thought by renting a car I could come out a few bucks ahead. But I never got to it. Forget it and get dressed. While I take a shower, make me a sandwich or something. I'm starved. I'm sorry about your wrist.” I pulled her to me, kissed her.

“I'm the one who should be sorry, Bucky. It slipped out. I didn't mean that—that name.”

“I know.”

“I'd never call you that.”

“Sure. Elma, things will be different now. We won't be so strapped for dough. As a detective, I should have more chance of picking up extra bucks.” I slapped her barrel-like rear. “Let's get dressed and have a good time.”

Under the shower a new idea hit me. If I admitted Shep's part in things, took a chance on still holding my new badge, he probably would get the reward. But would he split it with me? Twenty-five hundred bucks was a lot of folding money. But once he got the reward, or knew he was entitled to it, how could I make him split? And Shep would be stuck for the tax bite on it. A grand for Sam would only leave us four to split.

I thought about it as I dressed, had a cheese sandwich and coffee. There were two things wrong: I couldn't be sure Shep would agree to share the dough, and I didn't want to look the fool to the police brass. Still, two grand was...

The bell rang. I opened the door to see this thin, dapper man standing there. He didn't look like a reporter. He smiled, said, “Hello, Penn. Remember me, Detective Alexander? I was in the Commissioner's office this morning when he talked to you.”

“Sure I remember you,” I lied. “Come in.”

He gave me a small, amused smile as he walked in—the smile saying he knew I was lying.

As I took his coat and hat—both of them real expensive, and not the kind of clothing that had to shout how much they cost, either—Alexander glanced around the living room. His eyes said I was living in a dump. Just then Elma had to come out of the bathroom, a robe around her, a towel wrapped about her head. She looked like a walking tent. I introduced her and she giggled something about excusing the way she looked and ducked into the bedroom.

Alexander grinned at me politely. His tight smile said I was married to a pot. I asked, “Want a beer?”

“No, thanks. I'll make this short. Deputy Commissioner Oast has a dinner engagement, so he asked me to come up and talk to you. Penn, do you know a Dr. Sheppard Harris?”

“Yeah. Has an office on my old post. Why?”

“He phoned Howie—Commissioner Oast—late this afternoon, claims he tipped you off to Johnson. We're going to talk to him in the morning, so we want to get your version straight first.”

“My version of what?” I asked, trying to sound calm.

“Of how you knew the car washer was Johnson. It would not only embarrass the department a great deal if the doctor's story is true—considering that we've told the papers you did it solo—but there's also the matter of department discipline. But I don't have to tell you about that. The point is, if the doctor's story is true, we have to know it now, so we can straighten out the newspaper stories. Did he tip you off?”

Alexander took out a cigarette, toyed with it. I was not only nervous, I was getting sore. Maybe his not offering me a cigarette did it. I mean, he was acting so damn big, as if he knew all about me. I said, “Shep is one of these crime nuts. Also the kind of guy who likes to fondle cops. You know the type. He reads the wanted circulars at the post office, fact-detective magazines. I used to drop into his office now and then and—”

“What for?” He was tapping the cigarette. His nails were actually manicured.

“What?”

He said gently, almost like Nate used to talk, “How come you dropped in to see him so often?”

I thought: This slick character with his good clothes and fancy nails—he probably never pounded a beat in his life. I said loudly, “Off the record, to get out of the cold, maybe use his John.”

He didn't say a word, kept playing with his cigarette.

“I sent some of the boys at the precinct house to Shep for glasses. He gave them a good deal. Well, Shep liked to shoot the breeze about famous cases, the stuff he read about in these magazines. When Johnson was named the top wanted man, Shep said he hoped I could collar him. He would say that about every wanted criminal and—”

“Was the contact lens bit his idea?”

I rubbed the side of my head, as if in deep thought. “He mentioned it once, as a possibility. You see he was especially interested in Johnson, since he had knocked off an eye man.”

“Dr. Harris didn't spot Johnson in the car wash first?”

“No.” (I almost said, “Sir.”) “As I told the Commissioner, I spotted him because of his odd face.”

“Yes, that's what you told us. So Dr. Harris merely mentioned Johnson's name, along with a lot of other wanted clowns?”

“Yeah.”

“He's another crackpot after publicity?”

“Yeah, in his own way.”

“Should the department brush him off as a crackpot?”

“Yes.”

He gave me a real smile, stood up. “That's what I want to know. You bagged your man; that's all that should count, Penn. But there's this big publicity—number one wanted man and the rest of that silly slop. Who really knows or cares if a thug heads the F.B.I. wanted list? Our job is collaring crooks every day and not running a popularity contest. Here I'm off on a speech and all I meant to say is, you did a good job, Penn.” He waved the cigarette at me. “Got some fire?”

“What?”

“A match, son.”

“Oh.” I tossed a pack of matches at him. Taking his coat and hat from the closet, I asked, “Any idea what detective squad I'll be assigned to?”

“No. Does it make any difference to you?”

“None. I'm just curious.”

“Kid, you're on vacation. Forget the job.”

I debated if I should help him on with his coat—which sure felt rich and soft—but I'd had the “kid” chatter. I simply handed him the coat and walked him to the door.

The second he was gone I ran to the phone book, found Shep's home number. Funny, I'd never heard him called “doctor” before, or thought of him as one. I dialed his number and then hung up. After I'd put the fear of God in him already, no sense in letting Shep know I was worried. And this Alexander—his patronizing look, his big talk about “we” and “us,” as if he was Mister Police Department. He was only a detective, not even an acting lieutenant. Probably a clown with a powerful “in” behind him. They got the cushy jobs. About time I had that. Ought to make Elma get active in a club, get some political muscle behind me. One thing: It was a big break that Shep came here first, that I made him change his mind, see the light.

When Elma was finally dressed, we drove out to a steak house that had a sad floor show. We had a few drinks and I was happy Elma didn't ask me to dance with her. Around midnight, as we were driving home, I had the radio on. A news commentator said, ”... A new factor popped up in the sensational capture of Batty Johnson yesterday when Dr. Sheppard Harris, an optometrist, claimed he had tipped off Patrolman Bucklin Penn to the top-wanted thug's whereabouts. Dr. Harris said a wanted flyer sent out by the F.B.I. to all optometrists had led him to recognize the notorious killer.... Turning to the Near East, a new showdown is expected when...”

I turned off the radio, glanced at Elma. She was sleeping. As I silently cursed Shep, I felt sick. Why had the department given out the news? Now Shep might hesitate about retracting it. Was downtown protecting themselves, or had it been a leak? Hell, this made the F.B.I. look good. Be a fine thing if I was caught between the brass and the F.B.I. dueling for credit on the collar. Anyway, I knew what I had to do.