this big publicity—number one wanted man and the rest of that silly slop. Who really knows or cares if a thug heads the F.B.I. wanted list? Our job is collaring crooks every day and not running a popularity contest. Here I'm off on a speech and all I meant to say is, you did a good job, Penn.” He waved the cigarette at me. “Got some fire?”
“What?”
“A match, son.”
“Oh.” I tossed a pack of matches at him. Taking his coat and hat from the closet, I asked, “Any idea what detective squad I'll be assigned to?”
“No. Does it make any difference to you?”
“None. I'm just curious.”
“Kid, you're on vacation. Forget the job.”
I debated if I should help him on with his coat—which sure felt rich and soft—but I'd had the “kid” chatter. I simply handed him the coat and walked him to the door.
The second he was gone I ran to the phone book, found Shep's home number. Funny, I'd never heard him called “doctor” before, or thought of him as one. I dialed his number and then hung up. After I'd put the fear of God in him already, no sense in letting Shep know I was worried. And this Alexander—his patronizing look, his big talk about “we” and “us,” as if he was Mister Police Department. He was only a detective, not even an acting lieutenant. Probably a clown with a powerful “in” behind him. They got the cushy jobs. About time I had that. Ought to make Elma get active in a club, get some political muscle behind me. One thing: It was a big break that Shep came here first, that I made him change his mind, see the light.
When Elma was finally dressed, we drove out to a steak house that had a sad floor show. We had a few drinks and I was happy Elma didn't ask me to dance with her. Around midnight, as we were driving home, I had the radio on. A news commentator said, ”... A new factor popped up in the sensational capture of Batty Johnson yesterday when Dr. Sheppard Harris, an optometrist, claimed he had tipped off Patrolman Bucklin Penn to the top-wanted thug's whereabouts. Dr. Harris said a wanted flyer sent out by the F.B.I. to all optometrists had led him to recognize the notorious killer.... Turning to the Near East, a new showdown is expected when...”
I turned off the radio, glanced at Elma. She was sleeping. As I silently cursed Shep, I felt sick. Why had the department given out the news? Now Shep might hesitate about retracting it. Was downtown protecting themselves, or had it been a leak? Hell, this made the F.B.I. look good. Be a fine thing if I was caught between the brass and the F.B.I. dueling for credit on the collar. Anyway, I knew what I had to do.
I insisted we stop at a bar, bought Elma a brace of double shots, encouraged her to get high. There were some smiles from the jerks holding up the bar, at her size, but happily she didn't notice them. I was so tense I would have turned the joint out. I got her to tank up while I kept to one drink. When we reached the apartment she undressed and was snoring peacefully a few minutes after she hit the sheets.
I took off my shirt and tie, washed up, to relax. Then I stuffed some toilet paper into the mouthpiece of the phone, dialed Shep's house. After two rings I hung up. I put the Late, Late Show on the TV, keeping it down low, and after ten minutes I phoned and hung up again. Then I dialed a few minutes later and when he answered I didn't say a word, but kept breathing heavily into the phone, let him hang up.
I waited until the TV movie was over—and it was well after 2 a.m. Then I phoned him again. When he said, “Hello?” I growled through the paper. “You Harris, the eye doc?” I used a thick accent, an Italian one—and felt lousy about it.
“Why, yes, I'm Dr. Harris. Who is this?”
I could hear his teeth chattering over the phone.
“Who are you? Who is this?”
“Who d'ya think, you lousy stoolie?”
“What—what do you want?”
I tried to make my laugh sound crazy.
He kept asking what I wanted, fighting to hold his voice from coming apart. I didn't say a word. When he hung up I glanced at my wrist watch and waited. Exactly one minute and five seconds later my phone rang. I let it ring a few times, holding a pillow over it to drown out the sound. Then I picked up the receiver, yawned, “Yeah?”
“Bucky? Bucky?”
“Yeah, I'm Bucky. Who's this?”
“Bucky, this is Shep!”
“Hey, it's the middle of the night. What's the matter, Shep?”
His voice was high with hysteria as he babbled, “Bucky, somebody just threatened me! I—”
“They came to your house?”
“Over the phone, Bucky. The phone has been ringing all night. Every time I answered, there wouldn't be anybody at the other end!”
“Shep, you haven't said any more about—what we talked about? I mean, you haven't talked to any reporters, have you?”
“No. But it was on the radio. I heard—”
“I told you to keep your mouth shut. Now every crackpot in the city will be annoying you!”
“Honest, Bucky, I haven't said a word to anybody since I talked to you. I don't know how it got on the air.”
“What did they say over the phone?”
“I could hardly make it out, but a man called me a lousy stoolie.”
“That's not a threat. Don't worry about it.”
“Don't worry? My God! Bucky, what shall I do?”
“I told you what to do. Deny everything when you talk to the police tomorrow. Get off the hook.”
“I will. But you think they might try anything tonight?”
“It was probably only a nut. Don't answer your phone, keep it off the cradle. Now go back to sleep,”
“Sleep? My wife is... I'm... Bucky, we're scared—terrified. Do me a favor. Spend the night at my house.”
“Shep, I'm half dead.”
“Please, Bucky, until tomorrow when I can straighten myself, get out from under this nightmare. I'll pay you for your time.”
“Well...”
“Please!”
It made me feel good to hear the greedy little slob plead. Of course I was going up—he might call the police if I didn't. I said, “Okay, Shep, I'm on my way. And stop talking about paying anybody. I'm doing this for a friend—you. Sit tight. I'll be up in about twenty minutes.”
He lived in one of these ritzy houses with terraces. And he
When I rang his bell he asked a dozen times who I was, and when he finally let me in, Shep damn near hugged me. Taking off my coat, I asked, “Any more phone calls?”
“I have the receiver off, like you told me. Bucky, you don't know how much I appreciate this.”
“I warned you what would happen.”
“You did. Don't worry; tomorrow I'll deny everything at the top of my lungs.”
I nodded. “Best you don't say anything about tonight—the calls. Then the police might not drop it. You tell them you're a crime bug, that you were drunk or something. Make sure it sounds good and make certain the police give it to the papers.”
“Yes, yes.”
I took out my gun, and Shep's eyes became saucers behind his glasses. I told him, “Now go to sleep and forget it. I'll stretch out on the couch.”
“Bucky, I'll buy you a case of rye for this.”
“Forget it. You did me a favor, Shep. I'm paying you back.” There was a kind of moan. I turned to see the frightened eyes of a nice-looking babe watching us from the darkness of the bedroom. She was a runt, too. I said loudly, “Go to sleep, Shep. Don't turn on the lights, and stay away from the windows, just in case.”
The moan was louder. “Tell your wife not to worry. You'll scare your kid awake.”
I put the receiver back in its cradle, was able to get a few hours shut-eye. I awoke to see a little girl in a red bathrobe staring at me with a solemn face. I sat up and winked at the kid; she giggled. Shep's wife came out of the kitchenette to get the girl. The wife looked like a kid herself, except for the dark circles under her eyes. As she took the girl to the bathroom, the wife whispered, “Thank you, very much, Mr. Penn.”
“It's okay. It will be over soon.”
We all took turns going to the John. I phoned Elma, and it took a lot of rings to get her up. I told her where I was.
There was a mild argument during breakfast as Shep explained to his wife that he was going to tell the Commissioner he'd been drunk when he called. The wife wasn't thinking of the reward any longer, but the fact Shep would look foolish.
I said, “So what if he looks like a jerk? It will be forgotten by tomorrow. Those calls last night might be the work of a crank, but we can't be sure. Better to be a fool for a day than a nervous wreck the rest of your lives. Or dead.”
“Daddy, what does 'dead' mean?” the little girl asked.
After they got a morning cartoon show on TV for the kid, Shep told his wife about Arnold Schuster and she was sold. We left the house a few minutes before nine, and if he still had any doubts, his busted windshield was the final convincer. He almost fainted as he whispered, “A—a bullet hole!”
I went through the routine of examining the cracked glass. “Maybe. Might be a pebble from the wheel of a passing car.”
“No, no, it's a bullet hole!”
“Could be. But a slug would have gone through the windshield.” I bent down and ran my fingers through
