Streeter spread his fingers flat against the table top, fighting back the anger that he knew would get him nowhere. For almost a full minute he stared at the broken, scarred knuckles of his hands. By God, he thought, if it’s the last thing I ever do I’ll knock about ten of that woman’s yellow teeth down into her belly.
Hell, he’d taught her the racket in the first place. He’d shown her how to scare hell out of those under-age chippies until they thought they were going to spend the rest of their lives in jail if they didn’t play ball. Why, he’d even had to educate Sally in the ways of keeping those girls away from the juvenile authorities until she’d had a chance to drain them.
He closed his right fist and clenched it until the knuckles stood up like serrated knobs of solid white bone. Damn that Sally, anyhow; she was getting too greedy. Fifty per cent!
He got up slowly and moved toward the door.
Twenty minutes later, after he had checked in at the precinct and been assigned a cruiser, he pulled up in a No Parking zone and took out the list Sally had given him. His anger had subsided a little now. Actually, he realized, no cop had ever been in a better spot. His first real break with the Department had been when they had organized the Morals Squad and assigned him to it as a roving detective. The second break had occurred when Sally Creighton was transferred to the Eighteenth. He hadn’t talked to her more than ten minutes that first day before he’d realized that he had found the right person to work into his ideas.
In three years, working alone every night as he did, he had loaded his safe deposit boxes with almost fifty thousand dollars.
He lit a cigarette and glanced at the list. Of the two names Sally had marked, the man who owned the bar and grill was the best bet. The other, the dentist, lived on the far side of town; and besides, Streeter had found it was always best to brace a man at his place of business. There was a tremendous psychological factor working on his side when he did that, and especially if the guy happened to be a professional man. He memorized the address of the bar and grill and eased the cruiser away from the curb.
It was too late for the short-order dinner crowd and too early for the beer drinkers, and Streeter had the long bar entirely to himself.
The bartender came up, a thin, blond man in his middle thirties.
Streeter ordered beer, and when the blond man brought it to him he said, “I’m looking for Johnny Cabe.”
The bartender smiled. “That’s me. What can I do for you?”
“Quite a bit, maybe,” Streeter said. “It all depends.”
Some of the bartender’s smile went away. “I don’t follow you.”
“You will,” Streeter said. He took out his wallet and showed the other man his gold badge.
“What’s the trouble?” Cabe asked.
“Well, now,” Streeter said, “there really doesn’t have to be any.” He took a swallow of beer and leaned a little closer to Cabe. “You had quite a time for yourself last night, they tell me.”
Cabe’s eyes grew thoughtful. “Last night? You kidding? All I did was have a few beers over at Ed Riley’s place, and—”
“Yeah,” Streeter said. “And then you picked up somebody.”
“What if I did?”
“Then you took her over to your room.”
“So what? They don’t put guys in jail for—”
“The hell they don’t,” Streeter said. “Raping a girl can put you away damned near forever, boy.”
“Rape? You’re crazy! Hell, she wanted to go. She suggested it.”
“Next you’re going to tell me she charged you for it.”
“Sure, she did. Twenty bucks.”
“That’s a damn shame,” Streeter said. “Because it’s still rape, and you’re in one hell of a jam.”
Cabe moved his lips as if to speak, but there was no sound.
“That girl you took home with you was only fifteen years old,” Streeter said. “She—”
“Fifteen! She told me she was nineteen! She looked, nineteen!”
“You should have looked twice. She’s fifteen. That makes it statutory rape, and it doesn’t make one damn bit of difference what you thought, or whether she was willing, or if she charged you for it, or anything else.” He smiled. “It’s statutory rape, brother, and that means you’ve had it.”
Cabe moistened his lips. “I can’t believe it.”
“Get your hat,” Streeter said.
“You’re arresting me?”
“I didn’t come in here just for the beer. Hurry it up.”
“God,” the blond man said. “God, officer, I—”
“Kind of hard to get used to the idea, isn’t it?” Streeter asked softly.
Cabe’s forehead glistened with sweat. “Listen, officer, I got a wife. Best kid on earth, see. I don’t know what came over me last night. I just got tight, I guess, and... God, I—”
Streeter shook his head slowly. “Good thing you haven’t got any children,” he said.
“But I have! Two of them. Seven and nine. And my wife, she’s — she’s going to have another baby pretty soon. That’s why — I mean that’s how come I was kind of anxious for a woman last night. I—” He broke off, biting at his lower lip.
“Tough,” Streeter said. “Real tough. But it’s that kind of world, friend. I’ve got a kid myself, so I know how it is. But—” he shrugged — “there isn’t a hell of a lot I can do about it.” He shook his head sadly. “When little guys — guys like you and me — get in a jam, it’s just plain tough. But guys with dough... well, sometimes they can buy their way out.”
Cabe looked at him a long moment. “How much dough?”
“Quite a bit,” Streeter said. “More than you’ve got, Johnny. Better get your hat.”
“Let’s cut out this crap,” Cabe said. “I asked you how much dough?”
“We got to think of your wife and kids,” Streeter said. “So we’ll have to go easy. Let’s say a grand.”
“I ain’t got it.”
“You can get it. A little at a time, maybe, but you can get it.” He took another swallow of his beer. “How much you got in the cash register?”
“About three hundred. I got to pay the help tonight, or there wouldn’t be that much.”
“Too bad about the help,” Streeter said. “Let’s have the three hundred. In a couple weeks I’ll be back. By that time you’ll have the other seven hundred, eh, Johnny-boy?”
Cabe went to the cash register, took out the money, and came back. “Here,” he said. Then, softly beneath his breath he added: “You bastard!”
Streeter put the money in his pocket and stood up. “Thanks, Johnny,” he said. “Thanks a lot. You reckon I ought to give you a receipt? A little reminder to get up that other seven hundred bucks?”
“I’ll remember,” Cabe said.
“I’m afraid you might not,” Streeter said, smiling. “So here’s your receipt.” He leaned across the bar and slammed his fist flush against the blond man’s mouth.
Johnny Cabe crashed into the back-bar, blood trickling from the corners of his mouth.
“Thanks again, Johnny,” Streeter said. “You serve a good glass of beer.” He turned and went outside to the cruiser.
He spent the next four hours making routine check-ups and trying to think of improvements in the system he had worked out with Sally Creighton. The system had been working nicely, but it was a long way from foolproof. Most of the cops on the force were honest, and for them Streeter had nothing but contempt. But there were a few like himself, and those were the ones who worried him. He’d had reason lately to suspect that a couple of them were getting on to him. If they did, then his racket was over. They could politic around until they got him busted off the Morals Squad. Then they’d take over themselves. And, he reflected, they wouldn’t even have to go that far. They could simply cut themselves in on a good thing.