Ed Lacy - Dead End

Doc yanked the paper from her hand, spread it out on his cot, and sat down. He even yawned as he started reading the story. I sat on the edge of my cot, my legs blocking the “door.” Without looking up from his reading, Doc said, “Okay, Molly, now you know. What about it?”

“Great Gordon Gin, you really got a million in them bags?” the old witch said, excitement making her voice shrill.

“We have clothing in those suitcases,” Doc said calmly, dropping the paper, facing her. “What's on your mind, honey?” Doc's sharp face was relaxed but his eyes were bright.

“You know what's on my mind! This makes a difference. They'll be combing the city tight! I'm taking a hell of a risk in—”

“How much, Molly?” Doc cut in.

“This changes our deal!”

“How much do you think it changes it?”

I could almost see her pin-head making like an adding machine.

“It'll cost you a thousand bucks a day!”

Doc shrugged. “I'm hardly in a position to argue, my dear. Okay.”

A grand a day—each!” this walking fright rasped. Doc grinned. “All right, but don't push it too far, Molly. Two grand a day it is. And at least give us some decent food—my stomach is tired of your canned slop.”

“Food shouldn't worry you.”

“Oh, but it does. I pride myself on being a gourmet.”

“Skip the big words. I want my money now, and two grand every morning—in front. I ought to ask you for back rent at the same rate but I'll give you a break.”

“Thank you, my sweet. Your kindness is blinding.”

“None of your smart lip, Doc. Give me my two grand for today.”

“Of course.” Doc picked up his coat, which was crumpled over his pillow. Pulling out some bills, he counted them swiftly. “I only have twelve hundred here. I—”

“No funny stuff, Doc. I want all my money. Open them bags!”

“You wish to be paid off in clothing? Stop screaming; you'll get the money.” Doc looked at me. “Give me some cash, Bucky.”

As he walked over to me I knew what was going to happen, what had to happen, just as I knew Doc had five thousand on him—like I did. I went through the motions of reaching into my hip pocket for my wallet. Me and Doc worked so well he didn't have to say a word, or give me a sign.

My coat and holster were hanging on the back of the one chair. Doc did it neatly—grabbing my pillow with his left hand, yanking my gun out with his right. It was practically all one motion, his back toward Molly. He spun around and shot the old biddy twice in the body. She fell face down, as if her legs had been yanked from under her, the muffled shots echoing in the room like tiny thunder. The acrid stink of gunpowder filled the place, a welcome odor compared to the usual stale smell. And my pillow needed ventilating.

Without a sound, Molly turned on her side, curling up like a burning worm, hands pressed to her scrawny belly. Her mouth was wide open and her plates came loose, pushed half across her lips. Her eyes were staring down at her stomach too, as if she had forgotten all about us, was so busy dying she was in a world of her own. After a few seconds the look in her eyes was too steady and I knew she was dead.

Handing me my gun, Doc listened carefully for a few seconds, one slim hand up for silence. Then he asked softly, “You knew it would come to this, Bucky?”

“Yeah.” I holstered the rod. I didn't feel a thing at seeing the witch die. It had been so different when Betty was killed. That had ripped me wide open. I pointed to the corpse with my shoe. “What do we do with that?”

Doc knelt and took her pulse. When he let the thin, pale hand fall it made a sharp sound against the floor. Doc stepped through the “door” and returned a second later, dropping a worn rug on the floor. “Wrap this around her before she bleeds all over our room. We'll park her in an upstairs closet, let the rats decide if she's worth eating.”

“Do you think she told anybody?” I asked, kicking the rug over Molly, wrapping her in it as if she was a hunk of baloney.

“Not this pig. She probably figured on going for the dough alone by killing us in our sleep.”

“Suppose somebody comes around asking for her?”

“Molly was never the friendly type. If the doorbell rings, we'll face it then. Another few days and we'll be ready to blow this hole.”

“And go where?”

“I haven't the faintest idea—yet.” Doc smiled down at me as if talking to a kid asking dumb questions. Sometimes that annoyed the devil out of me.

We carried the rug and Molly upstairs. I'd never seen much of the house before and it was awful creepy, full of broken furniture, thick dust and dirt over everything. In Molly's bedroom we found stacks of old newspapers, boxes of dirty clothes—things piled high as the cracked ceiling. It was strictly nutty, miser stuff. And if our room was under this—old as the dump was—it was a wonder the floor didn't collapse. Her closet held torn dresses, hills of worn shoes, scattered dirty underwear that had to have come from a trash can. Molly never even threw a used toothpick away. But her bed was a modern foam mattress on smart iron legs, and in a cedar bag we found a mink coat smelling clean and new—a good mink like Judy wanted.

Doc laughed at the coat. “Bucky, as you see, vanity never ages. Why, this must have set Molly back at least a thousand, even if she bought it hot. If we look hard enough we'll find money here.”

“Let's get back downstairs. Makes me nervous leaving the bags.”

“I wasn't thinking of her lousy few bucks,” Doc said, almost to himself. “If we ransacked the house, make it robbery, the work of a punk who had his eye on miser Molly, killed her while hunting for the loot...”

“That's an idea,” I said, admiring Doc. His brain was always ticking.

“No.” Doc shook his head. “Be a waste of time. Ballistics will check the lead in Molly and link it with the slug in the kidnapper; they'll know it's us. No, forget it. Shut that closet door tightly and stuff the cracks with paper—the old gal will smell rather strong in a few days.”

“I hope we'll be long gone from here in a few days,” I said as Doc went into the hole she called a bathroom, began poking around. I took some newspapers—dated two years ago—and closed the closet door as hard as I could, got down on my knees and began stuffing paper around the door. That was another thing about Doc that sometimes got on my nerves—his habit of ordering me about. Of course he was the senior man, but this was hardly police work!

As I was stuffing the top of the door, Doc returned, holding a small bottle.

I asked, “What is it—dope?”

“It's a blond rinse. She has a case of the junk. A lot of cosmetics.” He pocketed the bottle. “Move some of those boxes of junk against the closet door—no, put a couple piles of papers against the door. We'll look through the boxes—we ought to find some men's clothing. And keep away from the windows.”

“Hell, the windows are so grimy nobody could see us.” I moved a big stack of old papers against the closet door, began to sweat. Then I kicked a cardboard carton open. “What do we need clothing for?”

It was real disgusting, the lousy boxes were just that—full of all kinds of bugs, even worms, and a startled mouse. Doc picked out a dirty, cracked leather windbreaker and a couple pairs of shabby pants. I still didn't know what he wanted with this junk. Shaking the windbreaker, Doc grinned at me, said, “I wonder what thug owned this? Must be a dozen years old.”

“When do you figure this joint was last used as a hide-out, Doc?”

“Hard to say—perhaps ten minutes before we pulled in. Who knows? Back during Prohibition this was a blind pig and a popular hiding place for the big shots. Molly even had girls stashed away for the boys. The last I know of anybody using this was Baldy Harper, who was wanted for a knife party back in 1949—or was it 1951? I wasn't on the case but—”