had to get moving.
I started by getting out of bed. I was sore everywhere. The tape on my ribs helped, but it was hard to breathe. It was harder to breathe through my broken nose. My clothes were gone. I began to swear at Marty, when I opened the closet and found a whole change of clothes. She must have called Joe. It was good to have friends. I dressed and then took my first look into the mirror.
The broken nose hardly showed, except for a thick piece of tape across the bridge. There was tape on my cheekbone, and on my jaw. I was bruised, cut, and swollen. My lips looked like a hamburger bun, my gums looked a little like the hamburger. But it was the eyes that were prettiest. They were both that sick shade of dark yellow- brown-black for over two inches all round. I looked awful.
Before I got out of there I looked out of each window to see if I had any shadows lurking. I saw none. I went down the stairs warily, and before I left the entrance I surveyed all the doorways I could see. The Saturday night crowds did not make it easy. An army could hide in the mob of beat kids, students, bagel babies, and drunks. I saw no suspicious characters. Just in case, I took a few fast twists down side streets and through alleys and back yards to see if I could flush anyone. I drew a blank. No one was following me. I straightened my course for Doyle Street.
My course was obvious — too damned obvious. I had to start around again. Whatever Jo-Jo was, he seemed to be a good rabbit. No one had found him yet; not even Pappas if Pappas was after him. One fact stood out like a bikini blonde at a Quaker meeting: Jo-Jo had not seen fit to tell his family where he was, or whoever was after Jo-Jo beside myself had a reason for not asking the family. I put my money on the former — Jo-Jo had not told his family, which gave me a lot to think about. Why had Jo-Jo not told his family? It was a new question. Maybe old Schmidt would have an answer. Or Pete. After Schmidt, Pete would be my next stop. After Pete I would finally have to start the long round of travel depots. I did not look forward to that.
The murder block of Doyle Street was on top of the river. It was dark and deserted even on a Saturday night early. The West Side Highway stood raised at the far end, with the shadows of piers beyond it, and then the river. The apartment house where Tani Jones had died stood like a giant among shabby pygmies on the north side of the street near the east corner. An alley ran beside it, as Gazzo had said. I entered the alley beside the new building and walked through to Water Street. Schmidt’s Garage was just down from the Water Street end of the alley, on the north side of the street. The alley where Stettin had been mugged was far down on the south side of Water Street near the river. I crossed Water Street and stood where I could see the alley beside the building, Schmidt’s Garage, and the far-off mouth of the alley where Stettin had been attacked.
I could see the rear entrance to the building where Tani Jones had died. It was in the alley with a light over it. There was a ramp down to the garage of the building. The building itself towered above all the buildings on Water Street. Most of its windows above the seventh or eight floor were visible from Schmidt’s Garage. It had no fire escape. There was little cover in the alley beside the building. I walked on down to Schmidt’s Garage.
The entrances to both alleys were in plain sight from in front of Schmidt’s Garage, but nothing more could be seen; nothing inside either alley. But someone driving up and down the street on a motorcycle could have seen almost anything in either alley. I did not search the alleys. The police would have combed them both, people walked through them all day, and cars and trucks used them by the dozen.
I looked around to be sure I was alone. Cars were parked on both sides of the street, bumper to bumper at this hour, except in front of the alleys and the two driveways of Schmidt’s Garage. They were even parked in front of the two loading docks of a warehouse next to Schmidt’s now that it was night. I looked at the garage and saw there was light inside the office as well as in the garage itself. At least Schmidt worked late and would have time to talk to me. It was a good omen.
Then I heard the bad omen. Silence.
A garage is not a quiet place. With light in both shop and office there should have been noise. There was no sound of any kind. I looked into the office. It was empty. There was an open ledger and a paper coffee cup. I went into the shop section.
I found Schmidt in the rear behind a stripped-down truck. They had worked him over good before he died. I did not think they had intended to kill him. He had just died on their hands. His white hair lay in a pool of blood that had poured from his nose and mouth. The blood was still wet. His bloody face was a mass of bruised wounds. It looked like at least one arm had been broken. I did not look for the rest of the details of what they had done to him, but a blow-torch burned on the workbench. There was a long steel rod in his right hand. It looked like he had fought back at some point. Some old man.
Fight had not helped. He was dead.
I went into the office and called Gazzo. I smoked while I waited. I had the feeling that eyes were watching me. That was probably only nerves, but the blood was still wet out there in the garage, so I was wary. A man came in to ask if I had a cigarette machine. I told him no, but I tried to keep him there. He had a girl out in a car and he left. I smoked and listened to every sound until the sirens growled into the street and I was surrounded by blue uniforms. Gazzo sat at Schmidt’s desk. I told him my story of this killing.
‘You better take a vacation,’ the captain said. ‘I can’t handle many more bodies.’
‘Bodies are your business,’ I said. ‘You live on dead bodies, Captain.’
I suppose I felt bad. And nervous. Schmidt had been a good, tough, honest man. None of it had helped him.
‘I don’t want the next to be yours,’ Gazzo said.
He had seen my face. I did not want the next to be me either.
‘You’re getting close,’ Gazzo said. ‘Schmidt is still warm. You’re maybe too close. You’ve maybe got someone worried. You want to tell me why?’
‘I don’t know why,’ I said. ‘I don’t know anything.’
‘Sure,’ Gazzo said. ‘Someone worked you over for fun.’
‘They think I know, Captain, but I don’t.’
He looked at me. ‘That’s bad.’
‘I know how bad it is,’ I said. And I did. It is bad enough to know something dangerous enough to be beaten for; it is much worse to not know what they think you know.
I went out into the dark of Water Street. Squad cars blocked the street. Their red revolving lights played across all the parked cars. I thought about Schmidt. The killers were still looking for answers. I did not think they had found any here. I took deep breaths in the hot night. I almost wished they had found their answers, ended it all. I lighted another cigarette. At a time like this the dangers of cigarettes don’t seem so bad. You have to live a while for them to kill you, and I’m not sure many of us are going to make it. The men who control the bombs wear better clothes and speak better in more languages than Pappas or Jake Roth or the ones who killed Schmidt, but they are the same men.
I smoked and watched a solitary patrolman walk along the dark street. He was not one of the squad-car boys; he was a beat cop. Stettin’s replacement. I watched him and smiled. He had come round the corner, and caught my eye, at a slow amble. He had probably been snoozing somewhere or cadging a quick free drink and had not heard the squad cars arrive. In the instant he saw the squad cars he assumed a purposeful efficient air. He came down the block batting car tyres with his billy, trying to appear tall and alert. He peered closely at the cars parked near the driveways and fire hydrants. He stopped at the cars parked in front of the loading docks. That was legal at night and on Sundays. He seemed annoyed that no one had parked illegally. I watched his slow progress down the block towards the river. I saw him pass the mouth of the alley where Stettin had been mugged. He looked into that alley.
There was a click inside my head.
That’s the closest word I can think of. A click. A sudden sensation of something being released, of clicking into place. Where there had been all jagged pieces there was a click and a sudden smooth surface.
I knew where Officer Stettin fitted into this. I knew why he had been mugged. Suddenly, like that.
Not chapter and verse, not the full implications, but the connection. I was suddenly as sure as a man can ever be sure of anything. I did not know why I had not seen it before. It was so clear. So obvious. I knew what the mugger had wanted. I knew why Stettin had been attacked. The mugger had wanted the only thing taken from Stettin that could possibly have been a danger to anyone. The only thing taken that could have involved anyone else.
The summons book.
