Ed Lacy - Blonde Bait

“Against me?”

“You could have been rapped for assault, disorderly conduct.”

“Lieutenant, haven't you got all this a wee bit rump-backwards? I was the one attacked—or maybe kidnapped is a better word. Where's the private eye? Will it be okay if I talk to him in his cell—through the bars?”

“You can talk to him wherever you wish, but not in here. Since he didn't press charges, we had no reason to hold him,” the desk officer said, his voice sounding bored.

“Are you telling me you let him go?”

He nodded. “You look in rough shape. Want me to call an ambulance doc?”

“Of all the... I have to speak to that guy!” I yelled, refusing to believe what I'd heard. “What's his name and address?”

The desk officer looked thoughtful. “Let me see... Joe... or Jack... I had a fast peep at his credentials but you understand, I have a thousand details to take care of and so I...”

“Look, are you sitting up there and saying you didn't even take his name down, that you haven't any record at all of this?”

“What do you think the blotter is, an autograph album? Mister, a guy is brought in dazed, beaten up. Against my advice he flatly refuses to press charges, or even medical aid. I have no reason to book him or...”

“Damn it, how come you couldn't at least wait until I came here! I was the one attacked!”

The lieutenant gave me a buddy-buddy grin. “On the contrary, he told us you had kicked him—-without provocation—as he was walking along the street. I figured you for a slim type—to kick that high. The officers who brought him in said you acted like you were bagged. I asked him to press charges but he refused, so I could hardly detain him.”

“Of all the goddamn...!”

“Don't raise your voice, this is no gin mill!” he snapped. “You look like a brawler but we tranquilize rougher punks than you every day. Let me see some identification.”

“I lost my wallet.”

He gave me a cynical smile.

“He reported that to me, sir, before this... latest incident.”

I spun around, hadn't heard Babyface return. He told the desk officer about finding me walking around among the leveled buildings, my story about being shot at. Then seeing me stretched out on the sidewalk in front of Sowor's house, his conversation with the old man with false teeth. “I've called downtown, sir. A Willy Sowor was killed by an unknown hit and run driver last November. Also, there's no yellow sheet on this man.”

The lieutenant shook his head. “That's the worst crock of bull I've heard this week. Roll back your sleeves and pants legs.”

“What?”

“Come on, do what you're told.”

I showed him my arms and legs and he said, “You looked too-healthy for a junkie. My advice to you is, go home and sleep it off. Keep on talking like this and I'll send you to Bellevue for observation.”

I started to say something but didn't. I had a feeling I was not only wasting time here but that I was dealing with the enemy. The only thing was to go back and have a talk with the old jockey. The desk officer must have been a mind-reader. He said, “I'm going to give you a break, let you go. But get this straight, haul your hips out of this precinct and fast. You annoy anybody else around here and I'll put you in a straightjacket!”

I hesitated for a moment. The place seemed to be filling up with uniformed cops. I felt trapped. I shrugged and headed for the door. Suddenly I wasn't as much angry as plain tired. All I wanted was to get out of this rat trap, return to Rose and our boat; get the hell back to Ansel's island where the only problem was whether we'd sleep all day or go underwater fishing. I don't know, maybe I was nuts. Or everybody else was.

Walking outside, I wondered what to do: I didn't have one cent on me. I didn't even have a cigar butt. I could phone Rose and reverse the charges, but I needed a dime to do that. And suppose I did call, Rose would have to come to New York to get me. Or wire some money, and wire it to where? I could wire her collect and wait for the money at a Western Union office, only—would they give it to me without identification? For all I knew, in this weird setup we found ourselves in, a telegram might lead them to Rose and the boat. I couldn't risk our last out.

But along about now Rose would begin to worry, might even set out to find me, and that would be a mess. How could I travel the hundred miles, or whatever the distance was, to Asbury Park? The way I looked, nobody in their right mind would let me hitch a ride.

Two columns of cops smartly marched out of the police station and stood at attention on the sidewalk. A sergeant dismissed them and as they broke ranks and walked away, more policemen began to approach the station house. They were changing tours. I watched like a hick until I told myself to snap out of it. I didn't have a friend in town, least of all the cops, and I had to borrow money to reach Rose. But wait—I did have one buddy in the big city.

Hal Anderson had said he lived in New York. If he wasn't at sea I could borrow from him. I walked into a drugstore and looked in the phone book. There were three Harold Andersons in Manhattan, two in the Bronx, and four in Brooklyn and Queens. I racked my brains but couldn't come up with the name of the steamship company Hal worked for, and even if I knew, they probably wouldn't give out his home address. When I asked the druggist if he could spare a hunk of paper and a pencil, he gave me a nervous look and mumbled he was busy. I didn't blame him. I saw myself in a shaving mirror on the counter and I looked like a goon who'd been worked over.

I walked out to find another store. I'd tear the pages out of the phone book. A highschool kid with a brush crewcut and wearing an old windbreaker was crossing the street toward a parked car. He waved at me and walked my way. It took me a second to recognize my young cop. He grinned as he said, “Better not hang around here, Mr. Anderson. The lieutenant can be a wild hair, and give you a hell of a rough time, when he feels nasty.”

“How come he let that guy go without getting his name and address?”

“Well, it was a bit unusual. He should have waited until I—as the investigating officer—showed up. I've covered myself in my memo book, though.”

“You know the dick's name?”

“No. But I wrote that upon reaching the precinct house I found the alleged assaulter, an 'unknown male,' had been released. Maybe the lieutenant was hasty, but consider things from his side, your story sounds fantastic. He...”

“Bull! He let him go before he ever heard my story!”

Babyface shrugged. “Strictly between us, the private badge must have been from a big agency. I shouldn't be telling you this, but the locker room grapevine says the dick was working for an oil company. Big stuff.”

“Oil? What's an oil outfit got to do with this?”

“You tell me. The point is, the lieutenant can't buck the big wheels. Nor can I buck the lieutenant. As I said, perhaps he did act too fast, but that's all. We police have to follow the law, too.”

“Don't talk to me about the law. In less than twenty-four hours I've been slugged, shot at, and rooked—mostly by jerks sporting badges of one kind or another!”

“I don't know what you're mixed up in, Mr. Anderson, but here's some straight advice. Don't hang around here or you'll have more badge trouble.”

“I've had my fill. Look, when I lost my wallet I also lost all my loose change. I haven't a penny, can't even board a bus or subway. Can you lend me a buck? Give me your name and address and I swear I'll mail you back five tomorrow. Or take this busted wrist watch. I broke it on those damn bricks.”

The cop dug in his pocket. “A buck? You must travel in style. A subway token costs fifteen cents. Here's thirty cents, which will get you any place in town. Don't worry about returning it. You're better than a cops-and-robbers movie. Now keep moving, chum.”