Of course that's a general description. I asked the Newark police to let me see the bodies—they refused. Oh, yes, the gas-station owner has a record, did time for assault many years ago. But he has a permit to carry a gun and he...”
“You'd better cut this, kid, before you hook up every crime in the country with a robbery that never happened to your batty butcher. I suppose you saw the butcher, asked him to identify the bodies?”
The boy actually blushed. “Why, yes, I did suggest it. I dropped in late in the afternoon, after I read about the killings. You recall I said he was so nervous yesterday? Well, today he was all corny jokes and full of good cheer. Wanted to give me a thick steak. But when I asked him, as a citizen helping the cause of justice, to go over to Newark and look at the bodies, he blew a gasket. Shouted I was trying to make a sick man have another stroke, told me to get out.”
“'... a citizen helping the cause of justice'... Goddamn! I— Lawrence, you're one for the books, the joke books!”
“What's the joke? If he was really interested in helping ...?”
“Lawrence, first off, nobody likes to look at a couple of stiffs, much less ride all the way over to Newark to do it. Secondly, since the butcher denied there ever was a holdup, why should he agree to look at a couple of dead punks?”
“There're two sides to every coin and the reverse side of this one is that Lande is scared, that he knows the two dead men are the same ones who robbed him. Okay, laugh if you wish, but that's my opinion of the case. I think there's something in all this. Tomorrow I'm going to have a talk with Lande's driver.”
“I hope you're not giving this cock-and-bull story to Bill Ash.”
“He's too busy on the Anderson killing to see me.” He stood up. “Dot was glad I talked to you yesterday.”
“Was she? Has she changed much?”
“No. At least not that I've noticed or...” He saw my gun on the dresser. I'd forgotten all about the lousy thing. “What are you doing with this—planning to kill somebody?”
“If I say yes, will you tie me up with your liverwurst tycoon? That's what guns are for, mostly to bluff and sometimes to kill—if you can.”
He went over and hefted the gun, balanced it with one finger under the trigger guard. I said, “Forget that and tell me more about Dot.”
“She's the same. We don't have guns. Marty, is this your old gun?”
“Aha.”
“Sure seen plenty of action. Where are your citations, Marty?”
“I don't know, probably around someplace. You medal-happy?”
He opened the top drawer, put the gun in. “Marty, please stop treating me like the village idiot. I want to be a good cop—if I can—and a live one. If I find anything new from Lande's driver, I'll drop in tomorrow night, if you don't mind.”
“Lawrence, I told you I don't mind. And keep away from your butcher—mind your own business.”
“We differ on what is my business. But I'll be careful.”
I shrugged. “All right, and if the joker offers you a steak again, bring it here if you don't want it.”
“Petty bribes, the curse of law enforcement,” he said, mocking me.
“You ain't kidding—hold out for the big ones,” I told him, going over to my desk to make sure the note I'd written Flo wasn't in sight. “Like a drink?”
“No thanks. I have to get home, early class tomorrow.”
I walked him to the door and as we shook hands he said, “Leave the bottle alone, Marty. Get some sleep.”
“Think you're big enough to be giving me advice, kid?”
“I don't have to be big to see you look tired. So long, Marty.”
When he left I felt lousy. Lawrence was a jerk, but a nice jerk, one of these serious kids, and not as silly as he sounded. Only that kind gets hurt as bad as the wild ones. Damn, my own son comes in and all we can talk about is killings and stick-ups. I should have talked to him more—but about what? He was a stranger to me. That was the damn trouble —I'd lived all my life among strangers.
I was hungry and my gut hurt. The quiet of the room gave me the spooks. I was lonely. I turned on my table radio and listened to some jazz, but that didn't help. I phoned Dewey, told him to send Barbara in.
“Now? It's early—can't you wait?”
“Send her in and shut up!” I unlocked my closet and took out another pint. I had four cases stacked there—late at night when a guy wanted a bottle real bad, a pint brought five to ten bucks. I never made much on liquor though, because I was always my own best customer.
I opened the bottle, washed out two glasses, lit a cigarette.
After a few puffs the smoke tasted sour and I threw the cigarette away, chewed some mints.
When Barbara knocked on the door I told her to come in, and she asked, “What's up?”
“Nothing.”
“Is that so?” she said, giving me a wise look.
“It's so. Want a shot?”
“Small one. Hear you ain't feeling so chipper.”
“I can't sleep,” I said, pouring her a shot.
“It's the lousy heat.” She put the drink down with one fast gulp, sat on the bed. “Come on, schoolboy, I'll relax you.”
“Cut it. Let's talk. What do you plan to do? I mean, hell you know you only have another few years left in this racket, then what?”
She jumped to her feet. “What kind of talk is that?”
“Friendly talk. You and me, we don't have to kid each other. Let's talk about something else. Where do you come from—a farm?”
“Are you nuts? This is the best time of the night. I can't sit here and bull with you while the other girls are turning all the tricks. I have to make...”
“Let your pimp buy his new Caddy a day later!” I said, reaching over and slapping her. I didn't hit Barbara hard, but her left cheek went dead white, then a flaming red as she fell on the bed and began to sob.
I sat beside her, held her in my arms. “I'm sorry, honey. Sorry as hell.”
“What's got into you, Marty?” she asked, crying into the gray hairs on my chest. “What the hell's the matter with you?”
“I'm on edge, can't sleep. I... Look, I'm real sorry. You know how things is with you and me. I got no use for those other whores, but you...”
“Don't call me that!”
“Why not? You are a whore and I'm an ex-cop turned pimp and... Stop bawling. Told you I'm sorry. I lost my head.” It felt pretty swell holding her, feeling her crying. Somehow it made me feel alive.
She pushed out of my arms, dried her face with a sheet “I can't stand a guy hitting me. And you...”
I put my hand over her mouth. Her face looked tired and drawn, played out. “Barbara, how many times must I tell you I didn't mean to hit you?” I put my hand in my pants pocket, took out a bill. Happily it was only a five spot. “If I give you this will you buy yourself some perfume, stockings, or something—keep it out of Harold's mitts?”
“I can't hold out any dough on him. You know how funny he is about that. And you don't have to pay me...”
“I'm not paying you. This is a present.”
“Then buy me some perfume—give me the bottle not the dough.”
“All right.”
She got off the bed, looked at herself in the mirror. “I got to go now, fix my face up.”
I walked her to the door and then took a stiff drink—had a hard time keeping it down. The news came on the radio, all about the Anderson killing. I shut it off and walked around the room for a while, trying to think. I opened the drawer and stared at my gun—knew I couldn't do it. It was crazy—there were plenty of mugs around who would be hysterical to plug me if I told them to, only how do you tell a slob you want him to kill you? How do you look? What do you say? What...?
The door opened and I slammed the drawer shut. Barbara came in. “I got some sleeping pills here. Two—enough to knock you out.”
“I never fooled with goof balls.”
“Won't do you no harm and will make you sleep like a baby,” she said, filling a glass with water.
I washed the pills down. “How long before they work?”
“Few minutes, if you don't fight them. Lie down and relax.”
I sat on the bed and wondered if this might be it. Take a box of the junk and slip out of this world. Only somebody would be sure to wake me, or find me, in the Grover. I could get a box and go to another hotel where...
“Feel sleepy?”
“Not yet. And stop watching me like you thought I was getting ready to explode or disappear.”
“You got to stretch out, meet the pills halfway.” She gave me an odd little smile. “You're a crazy guy, Marty. Are you afraid to kiss me?”
“Hell, no,” I said.
I gave her a big hug and kiss, glad I had the mint taste in my mouth. She flicked her tongue at the tip of my nose, said coyly, “That was sweet, Marty,” then she kissed me hard, threw her tongue halfway down my throat. When she pulled away she gave me a smart grin, said, “We're alike. I'm in a lonely business, dealing with lonely people who want to get rid of me fast as they can. A cop's the same way— nobody wants him except when they need him. For a time your being even an ex-cop made me uneasy.”
“What are you, the wise old bird tonight?”
“Sometimes I like you, like you a lot. Now hit the sack.”
I stretched out on the bed and Barbara waved from the door. I told her, “Fix the door so it will lock.”
She did that, waved again, closed the door. I loosened my belt, reached over and turned off the light. And waited, wondering if I was going to dream of Mrs. DeCosta again. I started thinking about Lawrence.
I could have talked to the boy about fishing. Once I took him surf casting with me, and he loved it but he caught a bad cold being up all night on the beach. I even let him take a slug of whiskey. What I remember most is the big bass I got, about sixteen pounds. Had a fight pulling him in
