broad.’
‘I’ll find him,’ I said. But in what order? First or second?
On the dark — street in front of St Vincent’s my eyes took in everything that moved and all the shadows. I was jumpy. I felt like a spy on his first day in a strange city — all alone and not sure I could pass the first challenge. This was not my city now. It belonged to a killer. A killer who could hire men to look for Jo-Jo, and maybe for me. Two shadows who had no names and no faces, but who killed just for answers. It was their city now, because now I had some answers to give.
Patrolman Stettin had ticketed that black convertible because Jo-Jo and Pete had shoved it down into a no parking zone. It was all that made sense. The killer had come back to his car and found that it had been tagged. For some reason this was dangerous. Probably because it placed him on the block at that time, and for some reason that was very bad for him. Was it bad because it told the police, or told Pappas, or both? I did not know. But it had to be that he found the tag, hunted Stettin, mugged him, and took the summons book. That was one big answer. It left me with a big question: If the killer had the ticket and the summons book, why was he after Jo-Jo?
I was no longer in front of St Vincent’s. All this time my feet had been walking. My feet were taking me where I had to go next, where I would get the rest of it. I was not sure I wanted the rest of it. When I pushed this time it would be too late to back off and think. One more push and I could not turn back.
Chapter 14
I stood at the head of the block where Swede Olsen and family lived in their gaudy sewer and watched all the shadows around me. This street was dark, but it was not deserted. In the hot summer night the stoops and fire escapes and sidewalks were festooned with men in vests and women in house-dresses. They had carried chairs and boxes out of their stifling rooms and sat in silent apathy. Some rested on the kerb. The women stared into nothing. The men drank from beer cans. From time to time someone moved, talked. It was, after all, Saturday night. The free time. The happy time.
I went down the block, and they barely looked at me. They did not care about me. They did not see me. They were too busy trying to see themselves. I passed them and climbed the few steps into the vestibule of the Olsens’ building. The downstairs door was open on the hot night. I blended into the shadows of the dim downstairs hallway. I stood there for some time. There was no one suspicious on the street outside. Had they learned something from old Schmidt after all? If they had, it had probably been too late for Jo-Jo for some hours now. I was sure they had learned nothing from Schmidt, but where were they? I did not like the feel of it. I felt things closing in.
I climbed the stairs. Doors were open all through the tenement. The rooms inside the open doors were dark, because lights give off heat. Phantom shapes moved inside the dark rooms. The blue-white light of television sets flickered. Electric fans whirred. I went on up, slowly, and no one even turned a head to look at me.
The Olsens’ door was closed. The Olsens had more on their mind than the heat. I pressed the button and waited. I knew, of course, that I was taking a risk. I had been warned to lay off. This visit to the Olsens would be the final push. There was a big risk, but that is what life is in the end — the risks you take. If you never take a risk you never live. You just exist the way a carrot exists. I did not feel brave, I just had to go on living.
Swede himself opened the door. ‘You’re crazy, Fortune.’
His sons sat in chairs behind the big Norwegian. They got up as Swede spoke. The mother, Magda, was in a green dress that made her wrinkled face a nauseating yellow. She seemed, for an instant, unable to believe that I was actually there again. I did not see the daughter. I pushed in past Swede. The two boys came to meet me with their clenched fists. I felt Swede big behind me.
Before they could gather their wits and swing into action I started to talk. I hit them with every hunch I had and every word I could remember. No names and a lot of guesses. It’s an old police method.
‘He came back and found that Stettin had tagged the car, right? After he killed Tani Jones he came back and found that Jo-Jo had moved the car; it was tagged, and he went out and got the summons book from Stettin. Then he came after Jo-Jo. Sure, I can see how scared you’d all be. I would be, with him after me. I’d be terrified. A man like that, big enough to try to buck even Pappas? Caught in the middle…’
No names, just ‘he’, and it sounds like you know more than you do. If the other man is confused, scared, he will usually slip. The other man knows, he has the secret inside his mind, and all at once under the barrage of words he assumes that you too know. It slips out. He tries to defend himself, and out it comes. I’ve used it a hundred times in divorce cases. A guy thinks his wife knows, and I make him think that; and out it comes.
‘… There he was cheating on Pappas, making a big play for Andy’s girl friend. Then, bang-bang, he kills her. Man, I mean, he’s got trouble. But he can get away all right. Then he gets to the car — and it’s been tagged. People know he’s on the block. Jo-Jo knows he’s on the block. He had to try to kill Jo-Jo! Jo-Jo saw him! What else could he do but try to get Jo-Jo?’
Swede Olsen shook his head at me. The two sons looked like death. I suppose it was death they were thinking about. Even Magda-the-rock blinked those washed-out eyes and seemed hypnotized as I talked. You see, they knew. Like the guilty husband or wife in a divorce mess, they knew and they thought I knew. They thought, I made them think, that I knew more than I did. But I did not have it quite right, you see? They were sure now that I knew too much, but I had it a little wrong. They had to explain to me where I was wrong, why it was not as bad as I made it seem. At least the weakest link did, and that was Swede. Swede and his big boys. Swede was up to his eyes in guilt, and that is the real trap. Swede had been living with it too long. He had to explain how I had it wrong.
‘No, he don’t hurt Jo-Jo,’ Swede said, insisted. ‘He won’t never hurt Jo-Jo. Jo-Jo don’t see nothing, and he ain’t gonna say nothing, see? Okay, he got the lousy ticket, only he ain’t gonna talk. Jake he knows it’s okay.’
‘Don’t make me laugh,’ I said. I laughed. ‘A murder rap?’
‘Jake he don’t hurt Jo-Jo,’ Swede insisted, tried to convince himself. I suppose he had convinced himself up until then.
‘Dumb Jo-Jo got to grab that ticket,’ one of the boys said.
‘Stupid jerk,’ the other boy said.
‘Shut up!’ Magda Olsen said, shouted, raged. ‘Shut up!’
Magda had seen the trap. She had sensed the trick I was playing out. She tried to stop them. But Swede had lived with his doubt too long.
‘Hell,’ Swede sneered, ‘it’s okay. Jake he won’t hurt Jo-Jo, but he’ll take care of this creep. You’re through, Fortune. Jake, he’ll handle you good.’
Jake. There it was. At that moment, as I watched all of the Olsens, one thing only was going through my mind — a thought, almost out of left field: If Max Bagnio had not been in Marty’s apartment last night, I would be a dead man now.
Jake Roth had not dared to kill me with Bagnio there. Because Pappas would have wanted to know why Jake had killed me, and the reason was that Jake Roth had killed Tani Jones! That was the one thing Jake never wanted Pappas to know. And that was what was behind the whole mess.
Jake Roth.
It happens like some great discovery in science. Once that first small break comes, then it all fits. It is suddenly all clear. All the pieces come together. Of course Jake Roth.
Isolated facts suddenly assume a pattern. A distorted picture comes into focus. Jake Roth. A cold-blooded killer, not too bright but cunning. A big enough man to hire other men to go against Andy Pappas. Stupid enough to cheat on Pappas and animal enough to kill a dumb girl if he became scared. An animal who lived by violence and the gun, and violence had been the key all along. Of course Jake Roth, and my mind began to put the rest of the pieces together.
‘Jo-Jo took the ticket off the car,’ I said. I saw it in my mind, the action on Water Street that Thursday evening. ‘He pushed the car. It was tagged by Stettin. Jo-Jo was afraid the owner of the car had seen him on the block all day. He thought that maybe the owner would guess who had pushed the car and got it a ticket. He figured the owner would be mad. So he took the ticket and thought the owner would never know. Sure, a kid’s trick, a little prank, a funny move. Very clever. Just take the ticket, and the owner would never even know he had been tagged. Only Jo-Jo made a mistake, didn’t he? Some mistake.’
