“You little sawed off...!”
He didn't try to sock, instead he charged, a horrible scowl on his face. I grabbed his lapels, pulling him toward me, jockeying around till I had Boscom at my back. The punk had a hand at my throat, another about to wallop my kidneys, as I sunk one foot in his stomach and suddenly fell back on my shoulders. We landed with a boom, but his arm and my other foot broke the fall for me. I pushed my shoe in his gut as hard as I could and let go of his suit— fighting down a desire to grab his neck. His body made a neat arc as it sailed through the air and crashed into Boscom and his old desk. There was a deep grunt from Boscom, then the sound of broken wood and glass. I jumped to my feet, brushed my suit.
The punk was sprawled across the desk top, a busted ink bottle dripping on Boscom, who was doubled up in his chair, both hands holding his pot belly. The goon must have kicked him as he came in for a landing. For a second I stared at bully-boy and was scared the clown had broken his back—even a simple judo fall can be dangerous as hell. But when he got his wind back, he sat up and worked his shoulders, blinked his glassy eyes.
With mock politeness I said, “Sorry, Mr. Boscom, but you saw him start the show. Now you know what I mean by knowing how to handle yourself. Shall I call you tomorrow, talk over a contract?”
Boscom's doughy mouth was sucking air but he managed to grunt, “Yeah,” as I walked out.
8
I drove up the West Side Highway, watching the shad fishermen working their nets out in the Hudson, turned off at Dyckman Street and went up Broadway. Will Johnson lived in one of these neighborhoods where everybody had been averaging fifty a week for years—nobody real poor, nor eating high off the hog either. I climbed five flights, stabbed the doorbell with my finger. A plump woman in a worn, pink housecoat opened the door. When I introduced myself, she said, “Come in. I'm Mrs. Thelma Johnson. Willie—the detective is here.” She sounded nervous as she called Willie, and when she spoke, all her face seemed to work.
Will came shuffling down the hallway in slippers and as he shook my hand, Thelma said, “Excuse me, I'm cooking,” and went into the kitchen.
Their living-room was a comfortable, standard job, a couple of bad paintings on the wall, even some artificial flowers. Except for being neater, it reminded me of Louise's place. Will said, “Of course I've had the window fixed, but there was a hole in the bottom pane, and here's the one in the Venetian blinds.” I examined a jagged hole in one of the thin metal slats. He showed me the copper vase over the fireplace, the dent in its side. “See, I was sitting here, reading, when it happened. Little lower and it would have ploughed through me.”
“If it hit the bottom pane, then it must have come up, from the street,” I said, brightly, pulling up the blinds. He had a nice view, nothing around but open lots and private houses. I could see the Empire State from his window, and part of the Hudson and New Jersey.
Will said, “The view is worth walking all them stairs. Hey, want to see something real good?” He took an old pair of binoculars out of a desk drawer, handed them to me and pointed to a tennis court about six blocks away. The glasses were powerful, I could plainly see a girl in white shorts banging a tennis ball against the side of a small house. She had her back to me, but her legs were lean and muscular, and her small breasts jumped against her T- shirt.
“Man, you should see the broads there on a Sunday,” Will said, winking like a school boy. “That one you see now, she's there all the time.”
“Nice-looking dish,” I said, scanning the rest of the area. “Any building or excavating near here?” He said no and as I turned to give him the glasses, I saw part of a pink housecoat in the doorway. Thelma was listening hard.
I asked the routine questions, to make it look like I was working and again he told me the bunk about it only being curiosity on his part. As I was leaving, Thelma asked if I wanted tea and cake. I told her no, and Will said to be careful not to lose the sliver of rock. I assured him it was in my office safe, but when he mentioned the stone Thelma looked sick and worried.
It was a little after two-thirty when I returned to the office. I couldn't make Will and his wife, they didn't look the type to be mixed up in anything shady. Anita was reading a true detective magazine. She asked if I'd read about this gal working behind a soda counter who recognized Public Enemy No. 3 by this wart he had on his pinky? Got a reward of two thousand—”
“Forget it,” I said, giving her the sliver. “Knock off for the day and snoop around Will Johnson's place. Some open lots around there, see if any of the rocks look like this sample. Ask around if anybody else got their windows busted. Check with the weather bureau as to what kind of a day it was a month ago... unless it was real sunny he wouldn't have the blinds down in the middle of the afternoon.”
“This assignment is jazzy as all get-out!”
“Look Humphrey, or are you Robert Ryan this afternoon? The guy is paying us, we give him a day's work at least. I'm going to hunt for this Lodge babe, will stop back here before I go home. Call me at six. And grow up—life isn't all cream puffs and excitement.”
She screwed up her cute face at me, pointed to my cheek. “You shouldn't walk around with lipstick there.”
“Where?”
“Here.” She kissed me hard on the cheek, pulled away and laughed. She dropped the rock in her bag and walked out—her hips waving goodbye.
9
I washed up, stopped for coffee and a sandwich, then drove to the last known address of Marion Lodge, a fairly clean rooming house on West 22nd Street. The owner vaguely remembered her, thought she had moved to some place on West 67th Street. There, I had to show her picture to a dozen candy store and newsstand people before one of them remembered Marion lived in a house down the block. This was a real flea-hive, stinking of insecticide and the blowsy old bag who ran it stunk from a lot of other things. It was a small apartment house that had been made into rooms and she said she had seen too many people come and go to recall any. A couple of bucks acted as a refresher course: Marion had fallen behind in her rent, been locked out. A month later Marion had sent the back rent and a truck called for her two suitcases. “Don't know why she bothered, nothing in them but cheap rags and... What? Aw, how do you expect me to remember the name of the trucking company? Some big truck all painted a baby blue...”
At a bar I got a handful of dimes and started calling the various moving companies in the phone directory, asking what color their vans were painted. A buck-twenty later I struck pay dirt. The rest was easy—the company kept records and I found Marion had moved up in the world—to a high-priced brownstone on East 71st Street. This
