“Nothing I can hold you for. Sure you're feeling okay?”
“Yeah.”. I glanced at my wrist watch. The crystal was smashed but the watch was still ticking. Sowor would be back by now. I'd sure
The cop pulled out a notebook. “Give me your name and address, list of any papers you had in the wallet, and how much money. In case it's found you'll be able to claim it.”
“There was over six hundred bucks in the wallet; nobody will turn it in. I'm late for a business appointment. So long, officer.” I headed toward the avenue. He didn't stop me. Turning the corner I glanced back to see the young cop still standing where I'd left him, swinging his club vigorously. For a second I wondered if he wasn't
There was this dull little bar and I went in and asked the fat bartender where the men's room was. He pointed to a narrow door, asked, “You been playing potsy with a truck?”
“I fell in the remains of the houses around the corner,” I said, making for the John. I heard him call out, “Then sue 'em.”
The men's room wasn't much bigger than a coffin but I was able to clean up my face and hands, brush most of the dirt off my torn clothes. I still looked terrible, a few bruises on my face, and my hands full of cuts. I tried to comb my hair with my fingers and felt blood on the matted hair. When I came out the barkeep said, “You look like you need a belt. What will it be?”
“I sure need something. Rye neat... Wait.” I felt of my pockets. I didn't have a cent on me. “Never mind, I lost my wallet in the bricks. Unless you want to take a slightly busted wristwatch in payment?”
The barkeep glanced at my watch and shook his head. A little guy wearing a stained butcher's white coat and a battered straw hat who was reading a track tip sheet and sipping a brew at a table said without looking up, “I'll pay for his shot, Jim. If he needs one half as bad as he looks, be inhuman not to give him a taste.”
I thanked him. He winked as he told me, “I know how you feel. I go on a bender for a couple days myself. Anyway, soon as they build this project, all us storekeepers are going to be rich. That's why they jack up my rent
I gulped the rye and thanked him on my way out. I didn't have time for bar chatter. The drink didn't work any miracles, I still felt sore and hurt, but it cleared up some of the fog. I knew one thing. Rose hadn't been imagining a single incident. I also knew I was going to get to the bottom of this fast, and on the way I'd get hunk with somebody for the beatings I'd been taking the last dozen or so hours.
Reaching the brownstone I went up the steep stairs, rang the bell. The toothless old jockey in the dirty turtle-neck gave me both gums in a smile—which vanished as he took in my torn clothes. I asked, “Sowor here?”
He nodded, pointed toward one of the heavy wooden doors, and whispered, “You go—in there.”
I suppose in the old days this must have been the sitting room. I slid the big doors open and it was still a sitting room. Two burly men were sitting there. They scrambled to their big feet and one of them flashed a small badge. “We're detectives. We'd like to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“A few questions. Nothing to worry about. Come with us.” One of them took my arm at the elbow, the other walked with his hand brushing my free arm. They certainly looked like cops, yet I had a hunch it was phony —too fast and pat. Turtleneck opened the front door and we went down the steps and toward a plain car. I stopped walking, shook my arm free. “Where are we going for this talk?”
“Just to our office.”
“I want to call my lawyer before I go any place. Let me see your badge again.”
“No need to be alarmed. I said we only want to ask you a few questions. May be a good deal for you...”
“The badges!”
The guy at my elbow said, “You've nothing to get 'em in an uproar about,” and flashed a badge in a leather case. I knew what had hit me as wrong before. The badge seemed too small. I grabbed his wrist and read enough of the tin to know he was a private snoop!
I spun him against his partner and, lunging backwards, kicked out with both my thirteens. It was the old drop-kick, only we used to be careful to kick the other guy on the shoulder or chest, and as he was expecting it, he'd be falling away and wouldn't get hurt. Now, one of my shoes caught a dick on the side of his head—and I could feel it up to my knee—while the other clown stopped a shoe on his arm. He had good reflexes. He stumbled back, then turned and ran. His partner dropped to the sidewalk—out cold.
I saw all this in a flash as I was in mid-air. In the ring you broke the fall by landing On your shoulders and rocking forward on your backside. I never found a ring canvas soft but compared to the sidewalk it would have felt like a foam mattress. I hit on my back with a thud that knocked all the air out of me and sent my sore head spinning like a drunken rocket.
For a long time I couldn't get up. I wasn't out, merely lying on the hard sidewalk in a kind of dizzy comfort. A few people began to gather on the other side of the street. They looked like a distant horizon to me. I sat up and held the sides of my face to keep my head together. The dick I'd kicked in the head was still crumpled near me. The crowd came into focus, it had more people. I heard the sound of running feet, a voice asking, “What's going on here?” The voice sounded slightly familiar.
I looked up into the baby face of the young cop. He said, “You cover my post better than I do. Now what happened?”
“This lump and another guy claimed they were police officers and tried to force me into that car over there. They're private detectives and I refused to go with them.”
“You been knifed—your neck is full of blood,” the cop said as he knelt beside the private eye. “I hope this one is alive. What did you slug him with?”
“My foot.”
“Cut the jokes and tell me a straight story.”
“I am. Listen: I came to this house to see a man. Some old little guy in a turtleneck sweater who doesn't speak much English told me the fellow would be back in an hour. I was walking around when two young fellows pulled guns on me—all that stuff I told you happened back where they're knocking down the buildings. When I left you I returned to this house and these two jokers were waiting for me. When I found they were private peepers, I refused to go with them.”
“Where were they taking you? What did they want?”
“Beats me.”
The young cop sighed. “Everything happens to you.” He pulled out his notebook. “What's your name and address?”
I told him Mickey Anderson, a phony address in Tampa. A radio car drove up and two more cops came over, went into conference with Babyface. The private eye finally sat up, groggy as hell, a little blood on his ear. I managed to stand and the young cop grabbed me as I started for the snooper. “No more roughhouse, Anderson.”
“I'm getting fed up with it myself. I'm too old for these falls. But I want to ask this character what the devil this is all about.”
The other cops were helping him to his feet and
I put my hand to my neck and stared at the blood on my palm. “I'm okay. That's from the bump on my head. I was slugged last night.”
“You really live dangerously. What business you in?”
“Shrimps.”
“That hooked up with the rackets?”
“No. I keep telling you I don't know what this is all about. I'm only up here for a vacation. Where are they taking him?”
“I told you, to the precinct house. If you feel okay, let's you and me talk to the old man you claim you saw in this house, then we'll go to the station.”
“Fine.”
When we rang the bell the little old jockey opened the door immediately and said, “Officer, I'm glad you're here. This man has been a ruddy nuisance!” He had a mouthful of perfect teeth and spoke with a clipped British accent.
The cop gave me big eyes. “This the fellow you were looking for?”
“No. He's the one I talked to, who told me to come back in an hour.”
“I thought you said he spoke broken English?”
“He didn't have his teeth in then.”
The little man drew himself up. “What sort of bloody nonsense is this? Officer, do I have to be insulted on my own property? This creature has been making a pest of himself for...”
“Who called those two private bulls waiting for me in the living room?” I cut in.
“I haven't the smallest idea what you are raving about. I run a respectable rooming establishment and resent these thugs scuffling in front of my property.”
“Let's start from the beginning. Did this man come here an hour ago?” Babyface asked, pointing his night stick toward me.
“Indeed he did. He seemed to be under the weather, too. He asked for a former tenant. I tried to explain that Mr. Sowor no longer lives here. He returned minutes ago, obviously after having imbibed more liquids and having been in a drunken brawl. He again asked for Mr. Sowor. I again informed him Mr. Sowor no longer is a tenant here and shut the door in his face. The next thing I knew, there were sounds of scuffling and I looked out to see him and another chap stretched out on the sidewalk.”
“He claims two men, including the one on the sidewalk, were waiting in your house when he returned,”
