Ed Lacy - Blonde Bait

It was almost six and starting to get dark when I passed another subway station and realized if I'd been able to ask I would have saved myself all the walking. Of course there were buses passing me all the time, going up and down the avenue, which didn't help my tired feeling. I was killing myself for a lousy fifteen cents. Even in the old days I'd never been this broke.

I finally reached Hal's street. I walked down it and looked at the numbers, knew I wasn't more than a block away from the house. To be on the smart side I went back to the avenue and up another block. And then I got sick because I saw a stocky fellow walking behind me, a red feather in his hat! I stopped to glance at a grocery window and he went by me, and damn if he didn't stop to stare into a hardware window. I walked slowly by him and casually glanced around. There he was, following me.

When we reached the corner I stopped, pretended I was hunting for something in my pockets. Of course he couldn't simply stop and stand there, so he turned into this empty side street, walked slowly ahead of me. I followed him, waiting to see what he'd do now.

He walked along as if he didn't know I was there and when we started to pass a modest apartment house, he suddenly ducked down the service entrance. I jumped after him, determined to settle one badge's hash!

We were in a narrow concrete alleyway, dimly lit by a single bulb. He half turned as I rushed him, dropped when I clubbed the side of his head with my fist. He crumpled into an odd heap, legs corkscrewing under him. Then he fell forward on his face, the hat with the loud feather rolling away. I quickly frisked him. He was clean. I took out his wallet. There were three singles and some identification cards. One said he was a member of a hospitalization group. Another card said he was certified to operate an oil burner. The last identification card stated he was the superintendent of a building. For a moment I was puzzled, then with a horrible sickened feeling I read the address on the card. I ran out to the sidewalk— saw the same street number on the apartment building.

If my shoe wasn't busted I would have sprinted. I walked as fast as I could, heading back toward Hal's street. Several thoughts were thundering around in my sore head. The guy was okay, or would be in a few minutes. I'd dropped the wallet at his feet so they couldn't arrest me for robbery. But was suspicion driving me crazy? I'd flattened a harmless janitor minding his own business, all because he wore a colored feather in his hat band!

Lord, if anybody had seen me, if the cops ever bagged me, they'd let me have the book, if I didn't land in a padded cell. I'd deserve it. Who would believe my story? Not even me! No wonder Rose had been flipping with fright: suspicion and caution can be harder on your nerves than dope.

But there was little chance the super saw me, would be able to identify me, so I was in the clear. But if I was caught... damn! Why had I insisted upon coming to the States? How much of a clown can one guy be?

VIII

Hal's house was a shingle and brick job with big picture windows, neat and new, like all the other houses on the block. The street seemed empty and, making as sure as I could that I wasn't seen, I quickly ran up the few steps. For the first time I noticed it was a two family house. I rang the bell with ANDERSON above it, and didn't hear a sound.

A man turned into the street from the avenue. I pressed the bell again. No sound. I had to get off the street but fast. I tried the door. It was open. Stepping into a two-by-four hall I was confronted with two doors. I cleverly pushed open the door which had a mat with a large “A” before it, walked up a sharp flight of stairs to another door. I knocked. A child's voice said, “My goodness, you know it's open, Mommy.”

Opening the door I saw a little girl of about five with long colt legs standing naked in the middle of a large and shabby living room. There were many paintings on the walls, a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, a sewing machine, a typewriter. And in one corner a big chair in the process of being reupholstered. Part of it was down to the frame with chisels and planes and a pot of glue beside it. It was a large, low-ceilinged room, shabby only because of the beating the modernistic furniture had taken—from the little girl, probably. I expected the kid to yell when she saw me, instead she asked calmly, “Are you the company Mommy is expecting?” She had a cute pixy face.

“I hope so. Where is your mother?”

“Close your eyes.”

“Why?” .

“My goodness, you should know boys must not look at girls without their clothes on. I am ready to take my bath. You close your eyes.”

I shut my eyes. “Where's your mother, honey?”

“Got ya covered!” a shrill voice at my right said. I jumped and my heart seemed to explode. I spun around to see a boy of about seven standing behind the couch with a toy machine gun in his hands. I gave him a sickly grin. He looked so much like Hal it was startling. He said, “Gave you a scare, didn't I?”

“Yeah. Where...?”

“Please close your eyes until I get into the bathroom,” the girl said.

I turned away from her and faced the boy, who gave me a burst of sparks. The little girl said, “Your eyes are still open!”

Shutting my eyes I told her, “Why don't you go to the bathroom and stop talking?” I half opened my eyelids.

“You are not my Daddy. I don't have to do what you say,” she said.

The boy gave her a burst. “You'd better be in the tub before Mama comes back, Bessie.”

“You shut up, Francois. Mommy told you about pointing that gun at...”

“You'd better call me Frank!” He advanced toward her with another burst of sparks, and with mock screams she ran into the bathroom and slammed the door. All the racket didn't help my head. The boy came back and gave me a man-to-man grin, showing a couple of buck teeth. “Girls are a pain. Gee, I wish I had a face as tough as yours. Did you bring me any presents, Mickey?”

“Well, I'm going to send you both presents in the mail. How did you know my name?”

“Pop talks about you a lot. He has a picture of you as a boxer. Gee, I don't know, can you send anything big through the mail? Like a wagon, or a sled? We almost had some snow the other day and I told...”

Somebody was rushing up the stairs and we both turned to face a small, woman, racing into the room, she was young, her face serious and sort of fleshy, with big bright eyes, and wild dark hair cut close to her head. She was wearing old jeans spotted with paint and a blue sweatshirt. On second look she was fairly stocky.

Holding out a small hand she said, “Ah, you have to be Mickey! I am Colette.”

I shook her hand and she rattled off some French which I think meant she had about given me up, then added in English, “What took you so long? I was afraid you were lost. I went down to see if the bell is working. It is not. I stopped in to tell them downstairs. Ah, I was sure you had gone away after receiving no answer.” All her words came out in an eager rush.

“Mister Johnny lives downstairs. He owns the house,” the boy said. “He has a real gun and he's a police sergeant.”

In French Colette told the boy it was bad manners to talk so much and to get ready for his bath. He said, “Aw, talk American, Mom,” and ran out of the room as she raised her hand.

In my best Haitian French I said, “I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs.—Colette.” While I knew I couldn't waste much time here, it was a relief to feel really welcome.

“I shall call you Mickey because I have heard so much about you. Some place I have pictures of you and my Hal. Every time we see the horrible fights on television, Hal talks about you, wondering where you are. You made a big impression on him.”