'What I said. I'll keep the kid with me... for now anyway. He'll only sit down there at headquarters until morning waiting for those agency people to show up.'
Maybe it's getting so I can't keep my face a blank any more, or maybe Pat had seen that same expression too often. His teeth clamped together and I knew his shoulders were bunching up under the coat. 'Mike,' he told me, 'if you got ideas about going on a kill-hunt, just get rid of them right now. I'm not going to risk my neck and position because of a lot of wild ideas you dream up.'
I said it low and slow so he had to listen hard to catch it. 'I don't like what happened to the kid, Pat. Murder doesn't just happen. It's thought about and planned out all nice and neat, and any reason that involves murder and big fat Buicks has to be a damn good one. I don't know who the kid is, but he's going to grow up knowing that the guy who killed his old man died with a nice hot slug in the middle of his intestines. If it means anything to you, consider that I'm on a case. I have me a legal right to do a lot of things including shooting a goddamn killer if I can sucker him into drawing first so it'll look like self-defense.
'So go ahead and rave. Tell me how it won't do me any good. Tell me that I'm interfering in police work and I'll tell you how sick I am of what goes on in this town. I live here, see? I got a damn good right to keep it clean even if I have to kill a few bastards to do it. There's plenty who need killing bad and if I'm electing myself to do the job you shouldn't kick. Just take a look at the papers every day and see how hot the police are when politics can make or break a cop. Take a look at your open cases like who killed Scottoriggio... or Binnaggio and his pal in Kansas City... then look at me straight and say that this town isn't wide open and I'll call you a liar.'
I had to stop and take a breath. The air in my lungs was so hot it choked me.
'It isn't nice to see guys cry, Pat. Not grown men. It's worse to see a little kid holding the bag. Somebody's going to get shot for it.'
Pat knew better than to argue about it. He looked at me steadily a long minute, then down at the kid. He nodded and his face went tight. 'There's not much I can do to stop you, Mike. Not now, anyway.'
'Not ever. Think it's okay to keep the kid?'
'Guess so. I'll call you in the morning. As long as you're involved the D.A. is probably going to want a statement from you anyway. This time keep your mouth shut and you'll keep your license. He's got enough trouble on his hands trying to nail the big boys in the gambling racket and he's just as liable to take it out on you.'
My laugh sounded like trees rubbing together. 'He can go to hell for all I care. He got rough with me once and I bet it still hurts when he thinks about it. What's the matter with him now... can't he even close up a bookie joint?'
'It isn't funny, Mike.'
'It's a scream. Even the papers are laughing.'
A slow burn crept into his face. 'They should. The same guys who do the laughing are probably some of the ones who keep the books open. It's the big shots like Ed Teen who laugh the loudest and they're not laughing at the D.A. or the cops... they're laughing at Joe Citizen, guys like you, who take the bouncing for it. It isn't a bit funny when Teen and Lou Grindle and Fallon can go on enjoying a life of luxury until the day they die while you pay for it.'
He got it out of his system and remembered to hand me a good night before he left. I stared at the door swinging shut, my arms tight around the kid, hearing his words come back slowly with one of them getting louder every time it repeated itself.
Lou Grindle. The arm. Lou Grindle who was a flashy holdover from the old days and sold his services where they were needed. Lou Grindle, tough boy de luxe who was as much at home in the hot spots along the Stem as in a cellar club in Harlem.
Lou Grindle who was on his hands and knees in the back of Lake's joint a week ago shooting crap with the help while two of his own boys stood by holding his coat and his dough and the one who held his coat was the dead guy back in the gutter who looked like an hourglass.
I wrapped the coat around the kid and went out in the doorway where I whistled at cabs until one stopped and picked me up. The driver must have had kids of his own at home because he gave me a nasty sneer when he saw the boy in my arms.
I told him where to make his first stop and he waited until I came back. Then I had him make seven others before I got any results. A bartender with a half a bag on mistook me for one of the boys and told me I might find Lou Grindle on Fifty-seventh Street in a place called the Hop Scotch where a room was available for some heavy sugar card games once a week. I threw him a buck and went back to the cab.
I said, 'Know where the Hop Scotch is on Fifty-seventh?'
'Yeah. You goin' there now?'
'Looks that way, doesn't it?'
'Don't you think you better take that kid home, buddy? It ain't no good fer kids to be up so late.'
'Chum, there's nothing I'd like to do better, but first I got business to take care of.'
If I was drunk the cabbie might have tossed me out. As it was, he turned around in his seat to make sure I wasn't, then rolled across to Fifty-seventh.
I left the kid in the cab with a fin to keep the driver quiet and got out. The Hop Scotch was a downstairs gin mill that catered to crowds who liked dirty floor shows and a lot of noise and didn't mind footing the bill. It was hopping with drunks and half drunks who ganged up around the dance floor where a stripper was being persuaded not to stay within the limits prescribed by New York law and when they started throwing rolled-up bills out she said to hell with the law, let go her snaps and braces and gave the customers a treat when she did a two-handed pickup of all the green persuaders.
A waiter was watching the show with a grin on his fat face and I grabbed him while he was still gone over the sight of flesh. I said, 'Where's Lou?' just like we were real pals.
'Inside. Him and the others're playin'.' His thumb made a vague motion toward the back.
I squeezed through the crowd to where a bus boy was clearing off an empty table and pulled out a chair. The boy looked at the five in my fingers and waited. 'Lou Grindle's inside. Go tell him to come out.'
