Ed Lacy - The Big Fix Страница 11

     When they reached the diner Bertha was kidding with one of two coffee-and-cake customers. Mac was kneading a pan of dough, having had his usual sampling of “cooking sherry” some minutes before. He gave Tommy and Walt a sloppy, loose grin, told Walt, “Absolutely no point in asking who you are. It's all over your face. What can I do for you, officer?”

     “Where's May Cork?”

     Mac grinned, as if Walt had told him a joke. “I can answer that one easily and truthfully. I don't know.”

     “When did you last see her?”

     “Oh, maybe I saw May last month. Once, I think,” Mac said, the silly grin still on his wide face.

     Walt glanced at Tommy, annoyed, then asked Mac, “Doesn't she work here?”

     Mac nodded, working on his dough again. “Sure, she worked here. But you asked when was the last time I saw her. As it happens I generally knock off about a half hour before May's due on, so...”

     “Cut the coy crap,” Walt said, putting muscle into his voice. “I want some straight answers and I want them fast!”

     Mac made a slight bow, his hands still in the white dough. “I always work with the police. Like I told him,” he jerked his big head toward Tommy, “if I knew where May was, I'd tell you. All I heard was May was beaten up. I don't even know that for a fact. I didn't see it. I only heard about it. I can only...”

     “Was she taking numbers?”

     Mac looked sad. “So I've heard. However, officer, I want you to know that if May was doing it—and I said if—she was doing it solely on her own, without our knowledge. In this eating establishment, we don't allow gambling or solicit...”

     “You serve beer here?” Walt cut in.

     “Sure. Bottles only. You want some?”

     “I don't want any beer and unless I get some real information out of you, nobody else is going to buy any suds here, either. I'll request the state board to revoke your beer license—something about racketeers and unsavory characters hanging about.”

     The smile fled Mac's puffy face. For the first time Tommy was impressed by Walt, was glad he'd let Walt carry the conversation, as he'd been told. He glanced up at Walt's grim face, which didn't hint that Walt was merely bluffing. Hell, this wasn't even near his squad area.

     “Now you guys wait just a fat minute,” Mac said. “I'm not holding out on you. Told you all I know. Don't see why I'm suddenly in the middle of this thing. Like I said, I hardly see—saw—May. You speak to my partner, Butch. This is all his baby and I ain't going to get my feet wet. He'll be here in an hour or so. Comes on around eleven-thirty.”

     Walt asked, “Where's he live?”

     “Two blocks east. Nineteen Rand Street. Morris, Fred Morris. Talk to him, let him say what he wants. He's the big-hearted slob protecting May. I told him... well, never mind.”

     “What's 'never mind' mean?”

     “It means nothing. I told him to keep our noses out of it. She wanted to mess with these digit punks, then it's her business and she had to take what she got. We...”

     “Got? What did May get?” Tommy suddenly asked, leaping toward Mac. Walt practically lifted Tommy off the ground as he turned him toward the door, said, “Take it slow. Let's see this Morris fellow.”

     “Fred Morris, the third, no less,” Mae called out happily, adding for his own benefit, “And you can tell him to quit lecturing me about my drinking. Ruining the business he says and he...”

     Butch always went through a simple ritual before he started for the night shift at the diner. He'd sit in an old worn leather easy chair and carefully read the evening paper. He read nearly everything in the paper, including the want ads. The reading wasn't part of the ritual, but sitting was very much the ritual, and an important one, since he would be on his feet for the balance of the night, and part of the morning when he bought meat. These were by far the most enjoyable few hours of each day because his wife was generally in bed by then, and he could read in peace without hearing the TV.

     He was angry when the doorbell cut into his quiet. His anger reached a boil as Walt flashed his badge. When they asked about May, Butch said, “I haven't nothing to say.”

     Butch was standing by his open door and Walt asked, “Can we come in and talk this over?”

     “Do your talking right here.”

     “Now Mr. Morris,” Walt said softly, “I understand you're trying to protect Mrs. Cork. That's fine, but don't you think she'd be in safer hands if she was under police protection?”

     “No! Look, May ain't nothing to me, but she's a good hard-working woman, steady, and I don't stand for her getting the wrong end of the stick. You don't con me. How do I know you're not goons for the numbers boys? And don't wave that badge at me, that don't make no difference, you can still be working with them. Hell, numbers is being played all over the city and they couldn't do it without the help of the police! I don't know nothing about May.”

     “That's a hell of a thing to say about the police force. I know your type, talk us down in one breath and be yelling the loudest for the police when there's trouble,” Walt said, his face flushed. Although this was another sharp bit sticking in the back of his mind, he knew if he fooled with the numbers syndicate he could easily be busted. Their pay-off went right to the top, all the way up to City Hall.

     Butch said, “Sure I'm saying it, but that isn't what makes it a bad thing. It's being true makes it sad. Look, I'm not out to be a hero, or hunting trouble. That's police business, you run it how you see best. Well, we got us a good restaurant business, and we put in a lot of sweat and varicose veins to make it that. But my ancestors battled the Indians and I sure ain't going to help a decent church-going woman like May get hurt no more.”

     “She's my wife!” Tommy said.

     “I heard you say that before—when she had to sock you. You didn't see her from one brace of months to another. I'm busy resting, have a long night ahead of me, so...”

     “You might have a longer night ahead of you in the station house,” Walt began, “unless you act right and....”

     Butch cut in with, “I come from one of the oldest families in America. You think I don't know my rights? You running me in? For what? Is this an official visit? Except for flashing that tin, you haven't even identified yourself as a policeman!”

     “I'm a detective asking if you know the whereabouts of May Cork.”

     “I don't know. Now the both of you get out of my doorway. The next time you come calling, let me see a warrant!”

     Tommy was surprised to hear Walt mutter, “You'll be in real trouble if anything happens to Mrs. Cork. All this talk about oldest family and you don't think the police...” Butch shut the door in their faces. For a moment he leaned against the closed door, shaking a little with fright, but then a feeling of righteous indignation calmed his fears. Besides, he always had a blind dislike for cops.

     On the other side of the door, as they stood in the dim hallway, Tommy said, “I should have flattened him.”

     “That would have been a real third strike,” Walt said, feeling slightly ridiculous, and depressed.

     “From the way he was acting, wouldn't even let us in the apartment, I'd give odds May's in there!”

     Walt shook his head. “I don't think so. If she was, she certainly heard you shooting off your mouth... and she didn't show herself.”

     “Okay, then what do we do now? I thought with your badge...?”

     “My badge isn't a magic wand! You're making dummy-talk. Even if she was in there, and if I believe what you've told me, she isn't being held against her will. It's not a crime for a woman to refuse to see her husband.”

     “Naw! May wants to see me. No matter what we went through, it was never like that. She'd always want to see me. Or me see her. That Morris knew something. I ought to go back there and beat it out of him.”

     Walt's feeling of depression went deeper. “Talk sense. Then I'd have to collar you. That would be a big help to May.”

     “But maybe Morris would say something first? Okay, we'll play it your way. What do we do beside standing here and talking to each other?”

     The “we” hit Walt like a dull slap in the face. He was annoyed—with himself, at Tommy, and at Ruth. If they had a normal relationship, and she'd been at home with him, Walt would never have gone off on this wild goose chase. The men in the squad room would laugh at him, working on his own time. But mostly he was annoyed with this wiseguy, Morris. Walt had run up against this type of citizen before— lumping cops with thugs. He asked, “Tommy, haven't you any idea where May'd go? No relatives or friends?”

     “Naw. Only relative she has is a cousin out in Tacoma, Washington. All my folks have been dead long ago. As for May's cousin, Helen, she hasn't seen her in years. They send Christmas and Easter cards to each other. You're the detective. Isn't there anything you can do?”

     “Dammit, stop talking like a fool. Let me think before I slap your mouth shut!”

     Tommy shook his head. If his eyes grew hard, his voice was friendly as he said, “Now you're talking like a dummy, Walt. You have plenty of weight on me but there never was an amateur yet who could take a real pro. I... I didn't mean to steam you, and I'm sure glad you're trying to help. But you can understand how I feel. What the hell am I still fighting for, staying with the game. Who did I ever stop a punch for, if it wasn't for my May? Sure, I ain't been no model husband, but I have been in there trying all the time, best I can. Now, when I finally get my break, this has to happen.”

     Walt stared at Tommy's beaten face for a second, shocked to realize Cork was probably about his own age, or a few years older, despite looking like an old man. (He didn't even consider that Tommy might be younger than he.) “May's cousin out in Tacoma, when was the last time they saw each other?”

     “What's she...? At least about fifteen years ago, I guess. Helen is married and settled out there. They exchange greeting cards now, that's all. About the only mail May gets, so she's always showing the cards around.”

     Walt nodded slowly. “May must have shown Morris, the blonde waitress, those cards. Wait here for a moment,” he said, going into a drugstore. Walt was surprised and happy to find Ruth home. Then, as he and Tommy rode the bus to his place, Walt got all the dope Tommy could recall about Helen.

     When they entered the apartment and he could tell Ruth had been home for some time, Walt was ashamed of what he'd been thinking all evening. Ruth looked positively beautiful in her robe, Walt thought, as he introduced Tommy and said, “You see, Tommy's wife has disappeared and, while it isn't a police matter yet, we want to find her before she gets into any more trouble. She may be hurt. I've been fishing around but I think my badge frightens her boss, makes him clam up. Might be a sort of adventure for you if...

     “Wouldn't be no real trouble for you, ma'am,” Tommy said. “I mean no chance of you getting hurt.”

     “What is it you want me to do?” Ruth asked, almost giddy with relief that Walt hadn't brought another woman home.

     “May, that's Tommy's wife, has only one relative, a cousin out in Tacoma. I thought that after we fill you in with the dope on this cousin Helen, you could go to the diner where May used to work, pose as the cousin. Say you just came in, or you're passing through, and wanted to take May back to the Coast with you. I think the boss will tell you where May's hiding. As Tommy said, no risk—we'll never be far away. I realize it's sudden and... Ruth, will you help Tommy?”

MAY CORK

     Lying across the narrow iron bed in the dumpy little room, still wearing her soiled gray waitress dress, May was sick and frightened. The skin around both her badly bloodshot eyes was a deep purple. The inside of her mouth was tender and her ribs felt sore. The actual beating outside the diner hadn't hurt. She'd been far too frightened for pain. Burt had punched May about the face so fast she couldn't believe she was being hit, then sent her to the sidewalk with a blow to where he thought her breasts were. May had rolled out of the way, scrambled to her feet and fled. After she had phoned Butch and he'd brought her fifteen dollars, she had rented this room. But in her panic May forgot to buy food. Now she was afraid to go out to eat. As she was afraid to wash her underthings and dress. The thought of being naked in a strange room terrified her.

     Faint from hunger, May was sick with shame. The Good Lord has punished me, she thought for doing evil. Numbers are evil. Holding out on poor Shorty was cheating him—evil. God is my witness He knows I never did wrong before. Not this kind of evil. But then, one time is enough! What can I do now, without my clothes, money, or a job? God must know I only sinned because it was our last chance for a decent life. Lord, Lord, please let my face heal fast so I can at least go for food without attracting too much attention... maybe find Tom. I feel so unclean. If I could only get back to my room and pack, take the few dollars I have, but Burt will be sure to be watching for me there. Lord, don't let them toss my things out on the sidewalk Maybe Butch will come and...

     There was a soft knock on the door. May sat up on the bed, body tight with fear. The knock was repeated but she didn't move. A woman's voice asked, “May? May, this is your cousin Helen from Tacoma. May, do you hear me?”

     “Helen?” May said, running toward the door, thinking, this is a miracle. Helen is here! But at the door caution caught her, held her hand on the lock. “How did you find me?”

     “I came to New York today and Butch—Mr. Morris—told me where you are. May, please let me in. Everything is going to be all right.”

     May hesitated, and suddenly she felt too weak and sick to care what happened to her. That Helen should find her like this! Opening the door a crack, May saw a tall, well-dressed woman smiling at her. The woman had a large face with a big mouth and almost heavy nose, dark eyes. The woman was alone. The only time May had seen Helen was when they were both nine years old. She said dully, doubtfully, “You're not my cousin Helen, are you?”