Ed Lacy - Dead End

As I took out the key, my eye hit the dateline on the newspaper. It was a small shock to realize tomorrow would be exactly eight years since Daisy had died. I stared at the date for a moment, upset. I always made a point of putting flowers on her grave every year. I wanted to do it now, wanted to badly because I had a hunch I'd never see her grave again.

I turned around and walked up the street, hunting for a florist shop. It was silly; a florist would starve in this neighborhood. And it would be dangerous going to her grave. Not only all that traveling, but they just might have it staked out. Still, they didn't know her as Laspiza; on police records she was down as Mrs. Daisy Perm.

I kept walking in the night, thinking at least I could send some flowers. It was the very least I could do for Mom, and if I sent them under the name Laspiza, as I'd have to, there was little chance of anybody getting wise. But a little voice in the back of my noggin kept telling me it was risky. A small thing like this could be the very bit that would trip me. Yet this would be my last chance to give Daisy flowers.

I walked across town several blocks—I'd never been this far from the house—and came out on Seventy-ninth Street, which is a pretty big thoroughfare and well lighted. I wasn't too worried, had plenty of confidence in my “clown” outfit. I walked about a block up Seventy-ninth, most of the stores still open, thinking that even if I didn't send them I ought to buy flowers for her. Somehow, she'd know I had her in mind. And would Daisy also know I was on the lam? A—

My heart jumped out of my mouth as I hurriedly faced a store window, raised my grocery bags over my face. There at the curb, getting out of his low-slung MG, was Shep Harris!

Maybe he saw me and maybe he didn't. In the window's reflection I watched him walk directly into a hobby-toy store. I turned and walked by the store—fast—and saw Shep's owl face as he talked to a clerk, pointing to something on the shelf. His back was to me and I turned the corner, headed for the house, trying not to run. I was so jittery I walked into a couple of teen-age girls who giggled at me to watch where I was going.

Shep with his dope about facial angles—had he seen me? With a million bucks in my kick, I was worrying about flowers for a grave. That kind of carelessness could put me underground myself!

Unlocking the door, I made straight for the kitchen, walking fast in the dark. I put the food on the table, turned on the light. My hands were trembling and I leaned against the refrigerator for a moment, to calm my nerves. There was a faint sour stink in the house. Probably only faint because I was used to it—and probably Molly. I was always aware of it after I'd been out of the house. I called out, “Doc?”

There was a few seconds of silence. I got jittery all over again about something else—maybe Doc had taken off with the dough!

But then I heard his steps and a moment later he appeared in the kitchen doorway. I could smell him, too. He sure looked a mess: his clothes crumpled and stained, hair uncombed, the thick gray stubble on his face. Dapper Doc—he hadn't washed or had his clothes off since we'd been here. He asked, “What took you so long?”

“I was shopping around for your damn frozen strawberries,” I said, walking over to the sink, easing the cotton out of my nose, and running cold water over my wrists.

“Pull the shade down,” he snapped, looking through the paper bags on the table. “You get them?”

“No. I didn't see any and I couldn't ask. Dressed like a working stiff, a storekeeper might get suspicious.”

Doc sighed. “You're right. But I certainly have a yen for them. Sound like I'm pregnant.”

“Get pregnant with some ideas for leaving this dump.”

“I hope this chicken isn't stale. Let's get back to our room. Stinks in here.”

He turned out the light and I put two beers in the refrigerator, dropped one of them. It made a noise like thunder in the still house. Doc jumped, then grinned as he asked, “Getting the shakes, Bucky?”

“Could be.”

After we ate, and I threw the garbage in the unused old coal furnace in the damp cellar—and how I wanted to light all the junk in it, burn the bugs that were having a holiday there!—I came back to the room to see Doc sprawled on his cot, smoking a cigarette and contentedly reading the papers. He looked like he was right at home. I asked, “How much longer are we going to stay here? No sense in pushing our luck too far.”

“We haven't been pushing it. This is a good spot.”

“Is it? Molly's odor is reaching outside.”

“Not yet. If this were an apartment, or an attached house, it would, but with empty lots on all sides we're safe.”

“I smelt her outside,” I said to annoy him.

He glanced at me over the top of his paper. “You really did, Bucky boy, or was it your imagination?”

There wasn't any sense playing games in our spot. I shrugged. As I changed into my regular clothes, I told him. “Maybe it was all in my mind. But this is for real. I saw Shep Harris on the street tonight. You remember him, the eye—”

Doc sat up fast as a cat. “Did he see you?”

“I don't think so. He was rushing into a store, probably trying to get in before closing time. I doubt if he could make me in this disguise.”

Doc seemed lost in thought for a moment. “This Harris, he's the square who tipped you off on Johnson, isn't he?”

“Yeah. He knows a lot about facial measurements, bone structure. I goofed: I was over on Seventy-ninth Street and he—”

“What the devil were you doing over there? Damn it, Bucky, I told you not to walk too far or—”

“Relax. I was looking for your lousy frozen strawberries. I'm certain he didn't make me, but the point is, sooner or later somebody will recognize me, start asking questions. We've been here long enough.”

“This Harris thing can be a bad break. Of all people, he'd be on the lookout for you.” Doc poked the newspapers. “I think we can move in a day or two. We've already vanished from the papers.”

“Got any ideas cooking?”

“I always have,” Doc said, smugly. “Of course, they will still be covering the railroad station, bus and plane terminals, and maybe the highway entrances. But by this time the dragnet should be off, only have a comparative few men watching—and they'll be looking for us, for two men carrying suitcases. I imagine that's where they think they have us: A million dollars is bulky and they know we wouldn't leave the money behind. To them, it's the albatross around our neck.” Doc smiled at me, waiting for me to ask what that last crack meant.

Instead I said, “That's assuming they don't think we blew town at once.”

Doc scratched the toothbrush whiskers on his chin. “We have to figure as if they're still watching for us in town. If they aren't, so much the better. Here's my idea, son: Suppose we leave town separately, you dressed in your clown outfit, and I'll get some dirty work duds for myself. We'll each be on our own for a few days.”

“Yeah?” I said, trying to keep suspicion out of my voice. “How do we leave—on a magic carpet?”

Doc gave me his best tight smile. “Could be, Bucky, a million bucks is a modern genie. Cut the smart-aleck talk and see what you think of this. Maybe you can come up with something better. Now—a few hours apart, and in the early morning hours, we'll go down to the farmers' market, which is very busy at that time. If the place isn't being watched too closely, we each look for a trucker who will give us a hitch. Maybe offer him a few bucks, or a carton of cigarettes, tell him we're down on our luck. Now—”

“What if the market is being watched?”

“Then we return here, work out something else, like buying us an old truck. However, I don't think we'll have any trouble. Unless the market is heavily staked out, we should make it with our disguises.”