“No, he can't—and remember me, I'm an authority on how to beat up a guy. All right, a nut may kill faster than a professional, but this wasn't a killing—this was a beating, a warning. The doc at the hospital says Lawrence was beaten in a matter of seconds; the guy didn't waste a blow—that's a pro muscleman. Maybe it's wacky, but I think the kid stepped into something with this nutty butcher, something big enough to make a Bob Smith scare him off. This Wilhelm Lande is phony, he never had a stroke—or he would have had one just now. And he's scared, real scared.”
Ash walked around the tiny drab room. His pants were wrinkled, his shoes unshined. “Marty, hold up a minute, don't go off the deep end on this. I like the kid too, I'm not sloughing this off. But think what you're saying—Hilly Smith is the top syndicate cop. Even if he wanted to slug a CD rookie, he wouldn't do it himself. And he isn't walking the streets. We've been looking for him, routine pickup on Anderson, and Smith can't be found. As for that butcher mess, Marty, do you realize what you're saying? For the love of tears the guy wasn't robbed to start with—there's no charge —and now you want me to believe a lousy little butcher hired the best muscleman in the rackets to beat up an auxiliary police kid who was horsing around with a robbery that never was!”
I shrugged. “All right, I'm not saying this is the blueprint, and I know it's a wild hair, but I think it's worth looking into. Or is Bob Smith so big and protected you're afraid to touch him on a minor case?”
“Cut that kind of wind. There's nothing I'd like better than to get that muscle rat—on anything. Marty, you know me, I'm no hero but I never side-stepped anything because of the angles. I got a man working on Lawrence's case, and with this Anderson thing all over town, it's hard to spare a man. What you forget is there can be a hundred reasons why the kid was slugged—a drunk, a cop-hater, a nut, and maybe something in the kid's background neither of us know about.”
“Don't cover me with it, Bill, it's up to my shoes now.”
He stopped walking and came over to me. “What makes you so all fire sure, Marty? This is the first time you've seen Lawrence in ten years, maybe longer. You don't know a damn thing about him. I think he's a good kid and I'm not saying he's mixed up in anything, you understand. But neither am I dropping everything and buying a crazy yarn about a two-bit butcher and a top racket man being interested in beating up a cop-happy kid, who wasn't on duty, wasn't even empowered to act as a peace officer. He was just an ordinary citizen who got into a fight, and because I happen to know the kid, I'm doing more than I should to find who walloped him!”
I got up. “So long, Bill.”
“I got more to tell you, Marty. Close the door for a second.”
I shut the door, leaned against it, my stomach rumbling.
Ash glanced down at his dirty shirt, as if realizing for the first time that he'd been up all night. Then he looked at me and tried to smile as he said, “Marty, this is tough to say because in our own way we've been pals for a long time. I know you got a lousy temper, fly off the handle. Maybe your toughness was a kite and I was the tail when you were flying high. Marty, I try never to kid myself. I know I've been lucky and therefore ...”
“Too hot for a speech—what you want to say, Bill?”
“Just that you're no longer a cop, Marty. You can't go busting into people's places, question them—slap them around. In short, you can't take the law into your own hands. It wasn't exactly legal when you had a badge—now you haven't any badge. You have a burr up your prat about the kid, I understand that, but... Hell, Marty, for your own good I'm telling you this in front—don't make me run you in; this is my precinct and I'm dancing on enough hot coals now —if I catch you playing cop again, I'll have to throw you in the can.”
“The gold on your badge is making your eyes bloodshot, Bill. There's an angle you don't know here. This means a lot more to me than getting hunk for a badge-happy kid, especially if it is Hilly Smith. You and me, we've made a lot of collars, some good scores, but always the two-bit punks, the small-time hustlers, the little operators. For once I want to nail down a big boy, a top apple. Maybe to make up for all the slobs I've pushed around.”
Ash stared at me, then his tight face relaxed and he burst out laughing. “This is a new one—never thought I'd see the day your conscience would be bothering you—I thought it was made of pig-iron. Marty, I'm not being the big cop with you because I like the idea, but I haven't time for anything till this Anderson deal is...”
“Cocky's death is just another headline to me, another dead crook.”
Bill sighed. “Okay, Marty, Cocky's death is my job and I got to get back to it. But remember, I'm warning you to stop playing cop.”
“Let's both of us play this warning game. Keep out of my way, Bill, or you'll get hurt.” I walked out of his office. Downstairs I stopped at the desk, asked, “Where's the guy in charge of the auxiliary police unit here?”
“Colonel Flatts is downtown, arranging about the transfer of his men out of here.”
“Flatts—what's his first name?”
“F. Frank Flatts. All f's—his mother must have had that on her mind.”
I went out into the morning heat, got a couple of packages of mints and an ice-cream soda, took a bus downtown to the license bureau. I was lucky—one of the old-timers I knew hadn't gone out to lunch yet and I took him out for a fat sandwich and a couple of beers, listened to the details of his wife's fallen womb, gave him the list of Lande's customers, and told him I would call later to get the names of the real owners.
Then I taxied up to a couple of gin mills off Broadway, asked around for two good stoolies I used to own. But “used to” was a half a dozen years ago and they'd disappeared. Then I called a detective in the midtown area to have him check on Lou Franconi's record—only to find the sonofabitch had retired four months before.
I phoned Dot, asked, “Where can I find this girl Lawrence was running around with?”
“She works in the office of a lawyer named Lampkin, near Chambers Street. Why do you want to see her?” There was more life in Dot's voice.
“Routine stuff, can't overlook anything—the trouble is there should be six of me to handle all the details. You been to the hospital this morning?”
“I called. Lawrence is sleeping comfortably, went to sleep as soon as he talked to you, the doctor said. Marty, I was a little hysterical last night, but I really appreciate this.”
“All right. As usual I have my own reasons for looking into this. Dot, was the kid mixed up in anything? I know he isn't the type, but with kids these days... He wasn't in any gangs, stuff like that?” It was a wasted question to ask a mother.
“Of course not. And Lawrence isn't a kid—he's a man.”
“You bet. Look, what's the name of his babe?”
“Helen Samuels.”
“Can't you talk him out of marrying a Jew-girl, Dot?”
I heard her sigh over the phone. “Marty, will you ever grow up?”
“Honey, I'm way past the growing stage. Maybe I'll see you at the hospital.”
I took the subway down to Chambers Street, looked up this Lampkin in the phone book. He shared a suite of offices with a football team of other lawyers. A pretty, big-eyed girl, with a solid bosom, was at the reception desk. When she asked what I wanted, I said, “Are you Helen Samuels?”
“Yes.” Her eyes got that wary look most citizens get when anybody “official looking” asks for them.
“I'm Marty Bond, Lawrence's stepfather.”
“He's talked about you often.”
“Can we chatter for a couple of minutes? Here? Or will it get you in a jam?”
“We can talk here. I just called the hospital. Larry is much better.”
“Look, Helen, you know about me—I'm an ex-cop. I'm on my own and trying to find who beat up Lawrence. I have to narrow down any and all leads, so I'm going to ask you a couple of questions that may sound silly, but give me the truth.”
“I understand. What do you wish to know, Mr. Bond?”
“How long have you known Lawrence?”
“Oh—about three years. We met in college.”
“I take it you know him sleeping well. Was he mixed up in anything shady? And before you shout no at me, think. A lot of kids try dope for a kick these days, find themselves in a swindle.”
“Larry was not in anything like that, I'm utterly positive.”
“All right, utterly. Did he do any gambling?”
“Of course not. Sometimes we played bridge for a half a cent a hundred, or penny poker, that's all.”
“Where'd he get all his money from?”
“What money? Why, we were using my salary.... Oh, that's a trick question, isn't it?”
“A clumsy one. You have any other boy friends... jealous ones?”
“No. I haven't dated anyone but Larry since we met.”
“Lawrence wanted—wants—to be a lawyer. Was he mixed up in politics, hanging around any of the clubs?”
“Never. You see he didn't plan on practicing law; he expects to be a policeman.”
“You like that idea?”
She shook her head, a big shake that made her breastworks dance. I wondered if Lawrence was man enough to handle all that. “No, I didn't, not at first. But then when I understood how much law and law enforcement mean to him, I wanted him to become a police officer.”
“Believe me, he'll be better off as a lawyer. There's a difference of religion—your parents object to Lawrence?”
“Not after they met him. And I haven't any brothers who hated Larry either!”
“All right, don't get ahead of me. I have to ask these questions. Is there anybody, for any reason you know of, who might have hated Lawrence? Maybe another CD cop, maybe a guy in college—anybody who even disliked him?”
“No, nobody.”
“Thanks, you've been a help. Good-by.”
“Well, I've told you the truth, answered...”
“I know, and I mean it—about your being a big help. Thanks.”
Outside I stopped for a glass of iced coffee, tried to remember the name of the CD cop Lawrence had been teamed with when Lande said he was robbed. My memory was still good and it came to me—John Breet. I looked in all the phone books—no Breets.
Long as I was downtown I dropped in to see the joker at the license bureau. He had the list of owners, but far as I knew none of them were racket people.
I went into a bar and used their bathroom, had a hamburger. Maybe I was rusty, being away from the job all these years, but I felt like an amateur. Bill was right, I was spouting off about Hilly Smith like a comic-book dick. If Bob was in this, there had to be a tie-up between the kid and the syndicate, or Lande and the crime mob. The kid seemed clean, and what the hell would the syndicate care about a two-bit butcher? Lande could be a numbers drop, but the driver would have hinted at that—unless he was in on the deal too. But that didn't add up, the store was too isolated; the longshoremen played their numbers right on the docks. Still there had to be some connection, or Smith was out— and so was the little favor I planned on his doing for me.
I found F. Frank Flatts in the phone book, in the ritzy part of the East Side. I took a gamble and sweated out a subway ride up there. The colonel lived in an apartment house with a doorman and a guy with a death mask for a puss who operated a switchboard. Flatts was in, and when I explained I was Lawrence's father, he had me up.
He looked like a real character, brushed gray hair, wearing a heavy smoking robe and slippers, nose and lips like knives, and he walked and stood like he'd swallowed a broomstick— the erect military posture, or something. He was a guy with dough; he even had a butler.
Of course he had to speak with a clipped, society accent, biting off and freezing each word. He said, “My dear man, I can't tell you how upset I am about what happened and I assure you I'm doing everything possible to find the culprits.” His eyes took in my sweaty shirt, my baggy clothes.
“Look, Colonel, save the oil. I'm a former army officer myself....”
“Regular army, sir?”
“Nope, just a clown who lumbered through OCS. Also, I'm an ex-cop, retired.”
“Then you certainly understand how disturbed I was at...”
“Colonel, let me tell you why I'm here. When I was on the force I was a hot-shot detective. Well, today I've found out it's rugged working on your own. In the old days, while I was hunting down a lead, the department would have a dozen other men running down minor clues. That's what I'm up against now; I can't do this alone.”
“You have my complete co-operation, and I think your civic pride is to be commended.”
“That's what I want—your co-operation, your influence. The cops are busy now, won't work with me. I figure you can put a little pressure on them, get them to find out a few facts for me. I want some records checked; for example, I want to know more about one of your men, a John Breet, who was with Lawrence the night...”
“My dear sir, there is no need to question any of my men —they have all been screened before joining the force. As for the police, I am sorry to say they have not co-operated with us, nor appreciated our efforts in the least. I am not talking about any particular police officer, but the department as a whole. They seem to think we are a kind of joke, a stumbling block, underestimating our effectiveness.”
“Colonel, there's a big murder hunt on at the moment— the heat is on the force. In fact the heat is on pretty much all the time—they haven't the time to work with your men.
But that's not what I'm here for. I take it you're wealthy, have influence, not to mention your position in CD. What I want you to do is pull strings, insist somebody in the department work with you—then you can get me the dope I need.”
He shook his head. “Mr. Bond, I assure you that we, as an auxiliary police force, are doing everything we can to solve this beating. Also, I am sure that the regular police force isn't...”
“Colonel, you just said you'd give me full co-operation. Well, that's what I'm asking for.”
“I will in any official capacity. As for pulling... strings, using special influence, favoritism, I have always been against that. I will do everything I can—through channels.”
