“Don't worry about my name. If this isn't official, what...?”
He grinned, showing neat teeth. “I'm here as a friend. You see, I think you're a big hero, too.”
“Look, I'm tired. I'm not feeling friendly. In fact, I'm feeling like tossing you out on your ass!” I stood up.
“Relax, son.” He walked over to the TV set and took a cigarette. “You don't have to impress me that you're a tough character. I believe it. I can see it. That's the reason for my visit. I need somebody tough and sharp. My partner died a few weeks ago. His whiskey finally got to his heart. I've been looking for a new partner, the right kind of man, your kind. Think you'd like to work with me?”
I glanced at his overcoat—it had to cost two hundred bucks. His shirt and shoes weren't anything you found in a bargain basement, either.
He said, “I usually get special assignments, Bucklin, and—”
“Call me Bucky.”
“And if you were my partner, so would you. Right now I'm assigned to the Commissioner's Squad—we go anyplace we wish. I like your record, Bucky. Take that suicide attempt you foiled. Fast thinking.”
The sarcasm was back in his voice. I took my eyes from his clothes. “I might go for it. Can you swing it?”
“I wouldn't be asking you if I couldn't. Is it a deal, partner?”
“Yeah.”
He put the cigarette in his thin mouth. “When is your vacation over?” The butt moved with his lips like a tiny baton.
“I can start right now.”
“Don't be dumb. Finish your vacation, son.” He glanced at the matches on top of the TV. “Get me some fire, Bucky.”
“The matches are over there,” I said, not moving.
For a second he stared at me; then he laughed and walked over and lit the cigarette, spit out a few tobacco crumbs. He came over and held out his hand. “You'll get your orders in the mail within a few days. I think we'll make out fine, Bucky.”
I shook his hand hard. “Sure. What do I call you—Al or Alex?”
“If you do I'll break your jaw. My first name is Harry but everybody calls me Doc.” He jerked his hand away, flexed the fingers. “We'll make a winning team—with your strength, Bucky boy.”
7—Judy
I guess the first week I worked with Doc I learned more about police work—the right and the wrong kind—than I did in the entire previous year or so I'd been working at it. Doc was very good, as a cop and as a crooked cop. He was smart, had an explanation for everything. In fact, he could talk you to death about anything.
He seemed to have solid connections behind him way up to City Hall. Most times we'd be assigned to the Commissioner's roving squad, and whenever there was a shake-up in sight, we would be sent to some precinct detective squad, for a while. I guess Doc could have got us both some office jobs, but we worked hard, put in long hours on the streets—where there was money to be made.
Right from the first day I made money. We never made a fortune, you understand (up till a few days ago, that is), but I managed to about double my salary. At first I was a little uneasy about the shakedowns, but as Doc told me, “Kid, you get what you pay for in this world. And a city only gets the police force it pays for. You weren't getting an extra dime for working on your vacation, risking your life by going after Johnson. We take chances every minute. Then it's up to us to increase our pay whenever we can.”
As I said, I soon realized Doc was not only an expert shake artist, he was a hell of a sharp cop—when he wanted to be. For one thing, he had a great memory for faces.
Take the first day we worked together. We checked in at headquarters by eight, then started driving around in a beat-up squad car. That's another thing, with Doc I was always on rubber. Doc usually stopped at the zoo or a modern art museum for lunch—they both had outdoor tables. Even if it was raw cold, he would have coffee out on the terrace. Doc said it reminded him of the outdoor cafes in Europe. When I asked if he'd been to Europe, he said, “Several times. I was an MP officer during World War II. When I was a young stud I studied philosophy at an English university. Trouble was, I was too young, kept running off to Paris. Some day I'm going to settle down in one of the little towns in the south of France. Perhaps in Juan les Pins or Antibes, and continue my studies of human nature. People know how to relax over there. That's the secret of longevity, Bucky.”
“You mean when you get your pension?” I asked, thinking I'd never heard that Europeans lived any longer than we did. “You can't be far from a pension now.”
“Oh, I could retire today,” he said, annoyed. He didn't like to be reminded he was old. “But I'm sticking around for the biggest pension I can get and then... Bucky, look at that stocky joker in the brown coat and cap buying a frankfurter at the counter.”
I turned to look and Doc kicked my leg, hissed, “Don't be a goddamn amateur! Wait a second, then look casually, slowly.”
“What about him?'
“That's Willie Smith. He's done a lot of time as a cat burglar. I thought he was still in the pen. Wonder what he's doing here. He usually works the suburbs.”
I took another look—casually. Smith was a lanky, middle-aged man. We tailed him when he left. He walked slowly across the park, met some burly guy at the skating pond. They talked quietly for a few minutes. Smith took out a paper and kept pointing out things on it to burly-boy. Finally burly pocketed the paper and they parted. Doc said, “Willie is selling that goon a job he's cased. You follow Smith, get his home address. I'll tail the other slob. Keep calling in: I'll leave a message for you at the squad room.”
Willie was an easy make; he had a rolling way of walking, like sailors are supposed to walk. He was living at a midtown flea-bag. I kept phoning Doc and around one there was a message to meet him at a Center Street bar. I found Doc eating steamed clams. He ordered some for me, said, “This place looks like a dump but the owner has a house on the inlet and digs his own clams. You don't have to worry about them being fresh. Where does Willie live?”
I told him and he said, “The big guy is set to knock over a ritzy house on the east side. Placed is closed up. The family has probably gone south for the winter.”
“Let's go.”
“Relax, kid. They won't try this until dark, about the time the rush hour dies down. Big boy lives in a tenement on Seventh Street. Around four we'll go down and wait for him to leave.”
“But suppose they try it sooner? Shouldn't we take a plant outside the house they're going to rob?”
“They won't attempt it before dark. Forced entries, like all crimes, follow a pattern. Nice bite to the air; let's take a drive.”
“But why wait? We can pick up Willie now, and with burly having the plans of the house on him...”
Doc dipped a clam in hot butter sauce, gave me one of his bored smiles. “Pick up Willie for what? And big boy has the plans of the house on him—maybe. So what does that prove?”
“Enough for a collar.”
“Bucky, any slob can make an arrest. It's a stand-up collar that counts, one that gets a conviction. Come on, let's go riding.”