then motioned me to bring Lee back to one of the benches. He folded up in one like a limp sack and buried his face in his hands. What the hell could I say? So the guy was a loony, but he was still his brother. While Pat went back to talk to the trainmen I stood there and listened to him sob.
We put Lee in a cab outside before I had a chance to say anything. The street was mobbed now, the people crowding around the ambulance waiting to see what was going in on the stretcher. They were disappointed when a wicker basket came up and was shoved into a morgue wagon instead. A kid pointed to the blood dripping from one corner and a woman fainted. Nice.
I watched the wagon pull away and reached for a butt. I needed one bad. 'It was an easy way out,' I said. 'What did the driver say?'
Pat took a cigarette from my pack. 'He didn't see him. He thinks the guy must have been hiding behind a pillar then jumped out in front of the car. He sure was messed up.'
'I don't know whether to be relieved or not.'
'It's a relief to me, Mike. He's dead and his name will get published but who will connect him with Lee? The trouble's over.'
'He have anything on him?'
Pat stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out some stuff. Under the light it looked as if it had been stained with ink. Sticky ink. 'Here's a train ticket from Chicago. It's in a bus envelope so he must have taken a bus as far as Chi then switched to rail.' It was dated the 15th, a Friday.
I turned the envelope over and saw 'Deamer' printed across the back with a couple of schedule notations in pencil. There was another envelope with the stuff. It had been torn in half and used for a memo sheet, but the name Deamer, part of an address in Nebraska and a Nebraska postage mark were still visible. It was dated over a month ago. The rest of the stuff was some small change, two crumpled bills and a skeleton key for a door lock.
It was as nice an answer as we could have hoped for and I didn't like it. 'What's the matter now?' Pat queried.
'I don't know. It stinks.'
'You're teed off because you were done out of a kill.'
'Aw, shaddup, will you?'
'Then what's so lousy about it?'
'How the hell do I know? Can't I not like something without having to explain about it?'
'Not with me you can't, pal. I stuck my neck out when I invited you in.'
I sucked in on the cigarette. It was cold standing there and I turned my collar up. 'Get a complete identification on that corpse, Pat. Then maybe I can tell you why I think it stinks.'
'Don't worry, I intend to. I'm not taking any chances of having him laughing at us from somewhere. It would be like the crazy bastard to push someone else under that train to sidetrack us.'
'Would he have time to jam that stuff in his pockets too?' I flipped my thumb at the papers Pat was holding.
'He could have. Just the same, we'll be sure. Lee has both their birth certificates and a medical certificate on Oscar that has his full description. It won't take long to find out if that's him or not.'
'Let me know what you find.'
'I'll call you tomorrow. I wish I knew how the devil he spotted us. I nearly killed myself in that damn alley. I thought I heard somebody yelling for you, too.'
'Couldn't have been.'
'Guess not. Well, I'll see you tomorrow?'
'Uh-huh.' I took a last pull on the butt and tossed it at the curb. Pat went back into the station and I could hear his heels clicking on the steps.
The street was more deserted now than ever. All that was left was the one yellow light. It seemed to wink at me. I walked toward it and went up the three steps into the building. The door was still standing open, enough light from the front room seeping into the hall so I could find my way.
It wasn't much of a place, just a room. There was a chair, a closet, a single bed and a washstand. The suitcase on the bed was half filled with well-worn clothes, but I couldn't tell whether it was being packed or unpacked. I poked through the stuff and found another dollar bill stuffed in the cloth lining. Twenty pages of a mail- order catalog were under everything. Part of them showed sporting goods including all sorts of guns. The others pictured automobile accessories. Which part was used? Did he buy a gun or a tire? Why? Where?
I pulled out the shirts and shook them open, looking for any identifying marks. One had 'DEA' for a laundry tag next to the label, the others had nothing so he must have done his own wash.
That was all there was to it.
Nothing.
I could breathe a little easier and tell Marty Kooperman that his boy was okay and nothing could hurt him now. Pat would be satisfied, the cops would be satisfied and everything was hunky-dory. I was the only one who still had a bug up my tail. It was a great big bug and it was kicking up a fuss. I was a hell of a way from being satisfied.
This wasn't what I was after, that's why. This didn't have to do with three green cards except that the dead man had killed a guy who carried one. What was his name . . . Moffit, Charlie Moffit. Was he dead because of a fluke or was there more to it?
I kicked at the edge of the bed in disgust and took one last look around. Pat would be here next. He'd find prints and check them against the corpse in his usual methodical way. If there was anything to be found, he'd find it and I could get it from him.
It had only been a few hours since I climbed out of the sack, but for some reason I was more tired than ever. Too much of a letdown, I guessed. You can't prime yourself for something to happen and feel right when it doesn't come off. The skin of my face felt tight and drawn, pulling away from my eyes. My back still crawled when I thought of the alley and that thing under the train.
I went into a shabby drugstore and called Velda's home. She wasn't there. I tried the office and she was. I told her to meet me in the bar downstairs and walked outside again, looking for a cab. The one that came along had a driver who had all the information about the accident in the subway secondhand and insisted on giving me a detailed account of all the gruesome details. I was glad to pay him off and get out of there.
Velda was sitting in a back booth with a Manhattan in front of her. Two guys at the bar had swung halfway around on their stools and were trying out their best leers. One said something dirty and the other laughed. Tony walked down behind the bar, but he saw me come in and stopped. The guy with the dirty mouth said something else, slid off his stool and walked over to Velda.
He set his drink down and leaned on her table, mouthing a few obscenities. Velda moved too fast for him. I saw her arm fly out, knock away the support of his hand and his face went into the table. She gave him the drink right in the eyes, glass and all.
The guy screamed, 'You dirty little . . .' then she laid the heavy glass ash tray across his temple and he had it. He went down on his knees, his head almost on the floor. The other guy almost choked. He slammed his drink down and came off his stool with a rush. I let him go about two feet before I snagged the back of his coat collar with a jerk that put him right on his skinny behind.
Tony laughed and leaned on the bar.
I wasn't laughing. The one on the floor turned his head and I saw a pinched weasel face with eyes that had quick death in them. Those eyes crawled over me from top to bottom, over to Velda and back again. 'A big tough guy,' he said. 'A big wise guy.'
As if a spring exploded inside him, he came up off the floor with a knife in his hand, blade up.
A .45 can make an awful nasty sound in a quiet room when you pull the hammer back. It's just a little tiny click, but it can stop a dozen guys when they hear it. Weasel Face couldn't take his eyes off it. I let him have a good look and smashed it across his nose.
The knife hit the floor and broke when I stepped on it. Tony laughed again. I grabbed the guy by the neck and hauled him to his feet so I could drag the cold sharp metal of the rod across his face until he was a bright red mask mumbling for me to stop.
Tony helped me throw them in the street outside. He said, 'They never learn, do they, Mike? Because there's
