happen—Andersun has to win a prize and decide to go to Europe. I could almost feel the way they must have felt, suddenly finding their perfect crime going up in the air, maybe the Feds on their tails, and murder the only out. Like a guy highballing along the highway, weaving in and out of the stream of cars—maybe just to show off for his girl. Then there's a car speeding the other way and showing off—a gag that in a matter of seconds becomes life or death.
And then, of course, the fantastic piece of luck—my cousin being Brown's mailman, and by another hunk of luck—telling me about it.
I took a shower and toweled myself, knew I wouldn't sleep much. I decided I'd have some talk with Irv Spear in the morning. I had another slug of rye and went to bed, feeling the tears of sweat rolling down my body as I waited for sleep to come.
It came fast—next thing I knew Ruthie was waking me and it was a bright clean morning, and cool. I felt pretty good and spent ten minutes swinging her in the air as she shrieked with delight.
I drove her to the nursery, headed for the office. As I got out of my car, a taxi gave me the horn and Irv Spear stuck his balding dome out of his cab, said, “Been waiting for you, Harris.”
“Come on up to the office,” I told him.
Cy O'Hara was busy reading the morning paper, but soon as he saw me usher Irv in, Cy said, “Going down for coffee,” and went out after locking his phone.
Irv took a seat, cleaned his thick-shelled glasses and looked the office over. “So this is a detective's office? You're small time, but always smart business to keep your overhead down.” He suddenly leaned forward as I was glancing at my mail, pulled out the bottom drawer of my desk, saying, “In the movies the private eye always has a bottle in the bottom drawer.”
It was embarrassing; I had an unopened pint there. Irv looked startled. I asked if he wanted a drink and he said no, then studied my face with his solemn eyes for a second, said, “Hear this deal is your bright idea.”
“And I hear you don't think much of it. Don't you want us to take Frank's killers?”
“Harris, let's you and me get straight. Don't throw me no curves or sales talks. Sure, I'd like to see the guy that plugged Frankie get his. And if it would bring the kid back to life, I might take the risk. But Frankie is dead and buried and I fail to see any point in becoming corpse three just to take the heat off the cops. I don't believe in making the headlines—feet first.”
“Relax,” I said, trying to make my voice sound light and easy. “Nobody is asking you to be a dead hero. Where's the risk? These guys have probably jumped the country already, so...”
“Crap. If you cops thought they had skipped, you wouldn't be pulling this stunt. Harris, I read someplace about a honest man being one who has a choice. I'm leveling with you—what's it going to get me to risk stopping a couple of slugs?”
“You'll be better protected than Fort Knox. There'll be...”
“Harris, don't crap me. You guys don't know for sure what these two killers look like. They aren't going to come up and make small talk—first thing that speaks will be the guns in their hands. I'm willing to gamble, but not when the stakes is me!”
“But you'll be surrounded by cops, FBI guys.”
Irv slipped me a hard quick smile. “Frankie had a cop with him—they died together. Know what the cops want me to do? I'm supposed to go about as usual, hacking, school, see Juanita, and all the time they claim there will be cops 'someplace' around me. Sure, maybe the cops will nail the guys, but after I'm dead. This isn't a chance they're asking me to take, but sure death. Would you do it, Harris?”
“I don't know, Irv. But then Franklin Andersun wasn't my buddy, nor am I going with his sister.”
“Juanita is against it—she knows this hero stuff is all for the birds.”
“Sure it is, but we're not asking you to be a clay pigeon,” I said, but I knew I didn't sound convincing. “After all, we have pictures of them and...”
“Sure, disguised pictures!”
There were a few seconds of silence, and an idea tickled my noggin. Irv fidgeted in his chair, said, “Funny, I feel like a louse. When they first came to me, I said, okay, I'd hang around the house for a few days, with some cops. But they said no, that would be a tip-off it was all a plant. I'm supposed to go about my daily routine—won't even let me have a gun. That might be a tip-off too. Hell, Harris, that's asking too much. These killers are sharp on this make-up stuff. I understand they even posed as a colored fellow once. How are the cops going to recognize them—in time?”
“I know somebody who'd recognize Brown, could act as a bodyguard for you.”
“Who's that?”
“Danny Macci.”
“But he's blind!”
“That's why he'd know Brown's voice at once—swears he'd remember that twang any place. Look, with Danny beside you all the time—and he'd never be mistaken for a cop—he could shout a warning to the police the second Brown opens his mouth.”
“What makes you so sure these clowns are going to talk first? Hell, they don't want to chitchat with me. Might be only two sounds—the bang-bang of a gun and the plop of my dead body hitting the street.”
I shrugged. “I'm not selling you anything, Irv. Sure, that's a possibility. But this is the only way we can ever get these guys— if they are still in the country. But with Danny with you and a flock of cops ready to close in and shoot at a split second's notice, I think you're reasonably safe. Also, we'll give you a bulletproof vest...”
“Got any bulletproof heads!”
I tried to give it a long laugh. “Irv, would you take me for a cop?”
“Well—no. Something about you, you're too big—look too tacky, down at the heels.”
“Okay, you're a cabbie and I'm really a mechanic, and Danny, if they remember, is one of the boys at the bar. Suppose I tail along with you, and Danny—as our bloodhound? Buy that?”
He fooled with the few hairs on his head. “You guys are just trying to get me killed! All right, if I can have you and Danny with me, I'm in. At least I'll be surrounded by muscle.”
“I'll talk to Danny right now,” I said, getting up.
When we reached the street, Irv glanced around like a ham actor, muttered, “Haven't even started and I'm scared.”
“Relax.”
He took a deep breath. “That's the trouble—I might relax permanently.”
“Long as you can joke about it, you'll be okay. Where can I find you in an hour or so?”
“I'll be at the garage by noon. Not in the mood to push a hack today. Boy, this is how a bull's-eye must feel.”
“Stop it. Tell you a trade secret. A guy has to be damn good to hit anybody with a pistol, unless they're right on top of 'em.”
“Harris, you're the one making with the jokes. These guys have proved how damn good they are!”
“But they took Frank and Turner by surprise. This time they'll be the surprised ones,” I said, and the words suddenly hit my brain like a hammer. “I'll see you at the garage at noon. And whether you believe it or not, the cops really don't want you killed. The... eh... publicity would be bad for them.”
“That's a real comforting thought!” he said, getting into his cab. “Save those words for my tombstone!” He waved as he drove off. I stepped into the coffeepot, told Cy the office was his.
He made some corny crack, as usual, to Alma, and left. Alma gave me her best hard smile, as I asked for change of two bits, and asked where I'd been. “Busy, busy,” I said, stepping into the phone booth.
When I got Franzino, I told him, “Got an idea. The...”
“I wish I could say to hell with your ideas, but so far yours have been better than mine. Hear about this jerk, Spear?”
“Just left him. I think he'll play ball with us.” I told him about Danny and myself guarding Irv, and Franzino said, “I don't know about you—some guys assume any big slob must be a cop. But the blind man is a sweet touch. What kind of gun do you carry?”
“Gun? I don't have one.”
“Sure be some guard. If I get you one, know how to use it?”
“Was checked out on .45 automatic in the army.”
“Better learn—fast. Never know which way these guys will pump lead.”
“Hadn't considered that,” I said, wondering what I'd got myself into. “But this is the idea I called about. How does this sound for Turner's death? There were two guns involved in this. Turner was taken by surprise.”
There was a moment of silence over the phone. The booth was hot and I kept opening and closing the door, trying to make the air move. Franzino said, “Okay, quiz kid, what's the answer? I'm not sharp this morning—what the hell you talking about?”
“Turner, the ambitious cop, was shot in the back—never even went for his gun. Up to now we've been figuring on one guy, and the same gun, killing both men. We know Turner was in his car, watching Louise's room. Now suppose he sees Brown shoot Andersun, steps out of his car—but Smith might have been standing a dozen feet behind Turner. Probably as Turner went for his gun, Smith shot him in the back.”
“Well... Yeah, we might try that for size,” Franzino said, his voice polite. “Because the slug that took Turner was missing we have assumed there was only one guy, one gun—although I don't know why. Harris, you're going to force me to go to the movies again—you private eyes aren't as stupid as you look. But that's as good a theory as any we've dreamed up. But see this blind man. We need action now, not theories.”
“Thanks, I'll let you write a commendation for me to my correspondence course,” I said, as we both hung up. I kidded with Alma for a moment, and she asked when I'd have some more calls for her “sexy voice.” As I left she called out, “Be careful, Barney—I may try it out on you some day.”
At five minutes after eleven I parked in front of the Grand Cafe. Jimmy, the bartender, wrinkled his nose as I entered, as though he smelled something bad. Danny Macci had a can of beer before him, while at the other end of
