It was Old McGlone who spoke the next time. “We’ll be going up the hill now to 60 Parkway.”
No lucky breaks tonight, Crestone thought. Tomorrow he would think of a dozen things he could have done, and every man out there in the cars would do the same. That was tomorrow. The gun was behind him now. She could reach him when he swung, and she could not miss if she shot.
There was a drawer in the desk full of stories of tough private-eyes who took bushels of guns away from dames clad in almost nothing, and then slapped them all over the joint or made love to them. Joe Crestone sighed. His head was aching brutally. He did not feel like taking any guns away from any dames.
Car 750 came back into service. Moore and Windoff had drunk their coffee. Then 752 went out of service temporarily at the Sunset Drive Inn. Crestone knew how Purcell was feeling now, the to-hell-with-it attitude. Old McGlone would be telling him, “There’s some things, Dewey boy, that you’ve got to learn about being a cop.” Old McGlone knew them all.
Car 751 signalled arrival at River and Pitt. A few minutes later Kurowski said, “10–98.” Assignment completed. There was no use to elaborate on nothing.
Judith Barrows said, “Send 751 to the Silver Moon on Oldtown Pike to look for a ‘49 green Ford sedan with front-end damage.”
Crestone obeyed. He studied the map. She wanted 751 north and east all the time. Then where in the southern or southeastern part of Midway was any heavy money? There was a brawl at the Riverview country club tonight, maybe a few thousand loose in pockets and a handful of jewelry, but—
The phone at Crestone’s elbow and the extension on the desk near the big filing cabinet spilled sound all over the room.
“Don’t touch it until I say so!” the woman said.
She went around the counter and backed into the chair at the other desk. She crossed her legs and steadied the .38 on her knee. She raised the phone and nodded.
“Police station, radio dispatcher,” Crestone said.
“Ten cents, please,” the operator said.
Crestone heard the pay phone clear. A man asked, “You got a report on State 312?”
“Just a minute.” Crestone had never heard of 312.
“Just tell him it’s all clear, Buster.” Judith Barrows was holding the mouthpiece against her thigh.
“All clear.” Crestone held on to hear a jukebox, the clatter of a cafe — anything to help position the call. The man hung up. A booth, Crestone thought. He put his phone down, staring at the woman’s legs. They were beautiful. He did not give a damn. She got up carefully, standing for a moment in a hip-out-of-joint posture. A model, he thought. It was in her walk too when she went around the counter again.
So they knew this end of it was set now. Where was the other end? Somewhere in the southern part of the district covered in normal patrol by Car 751. Anybody could read the red outlines on the map. It struck him then: the Wampum Club. Big business, cold and sure, with a fine patina of politeness, free drinks, free buffet and other incidentals for the regular suckers. The green-and-crackly on the line at Sonny Belmont’s Wampum Club. Let the cops take Jimmy Britton home and tuck him in, but Belmont never took his check, drunk or otherwise.
The job would take at least four fast, tough men. Making Sonny’s boys hold still for a deal like that was not for amateurs. There was a lot of dough around the Wampum; the income tax lads had been wondering how much for a long time.
So I think I’ve got it doped, and what good does it do? Belmont could stand the jolt. Why should men like Corky Gunselman and Sam Kurowski risk catching lead to protect money in a joint like the Wampum?
That was not the answer and Crestone knew it.
He looked at the last two stolen cars on the list. A ‘52 blue Mercury and a ‘53 green Hornet. That Hudson would go like hell and the Mercury was not so slow either. Both cars stolen around midnight in Bristol. He wondered which one was outside right now. He could be way off, but he had to figure he was right.
Since the Hornet and the Merc were already aired as hot, they would probably be used only to make the run to another car stashed close. East was the natural route. Old State 7 was narrow and twisting, but the farmers who used it would all be sleeping now. Say a half hour to reach the web of highways around Steel City, and then road blocks would be no more than something to annoy whiz kids on their way home with the old man’s crate. She had asked about State 7.
Car 751 came in. Kurowski said, “Nothing at the Silver Moon with front-end damage. What’s the dope on it?”
“Code 4,” Judith Barrows said. “The Ford was last seen going north on Pennsylvania at Third Avenue.”
Code 4, hit and run. Crestone obeyed the .38.
Kurowski said, “10-4. We’ll swing up that way.”
She was keeping 751 north, sure enough. The phone exploded. Judith Barrows went around the counter again to the extension. She nodded.
From the background of a noisy party a man said, “Somebody swiped my car.” A woman shouted. “Tell ’em it’s even paid for!”
Crestone wrote down the information. A ‘52 cream Cadillac sedan, R607, taken sometime between 12:30 A.M. and 1:30 A.M. “It was right in the damned driveway,” the owner complained. “We’re having a little party here and—”
“Keys in it?” Crestone asked.
“Sure! It was in my own driveway.”
“We’ll get on it right away.” Crestone hung up.
The woman said, “You won’t put that one out, Buster.”
So he was guessing right. They had a cream Cad waiting. If they planned to use State 7, the quick run for the crew at the Wampum was up the county road past the country club and then on out Canal to where it intersected across the river with State 7 near the old brick plant. Barrows could shoot straight north on Meredith to Glencoe, turn east— Why hell, she would strike State 7 just a hundred yards from the old brick works. The Cad was waiting out there now!
She was behind him once more. As if she had read his thoughts she asked, “What’s in your little round head now, Buster?”
“I’m wishing you’d beat it.”
She laughed but there were little knots of tension in the sound. The deal must be on at the Wampum now. Before she left she would have to level him. She would swing lower and harder then. The thought made Crestone’s headache worse. He hoped she knew the bones on the side of a man’s skull couldn’t take it like the thick sloping top. She might stretch him so he never got up. He could smell his own sweat.
Before the clincher came he would have to run a test on her. The next time she was in the chair.
One of the side doors made a whushing sound and then a voice boomed across the lobby. “Hey there, Bill, how’s the peace and dignity of the community?” It was old Fritz Hood on his way home from the power company’s sub station. He always stopped to bellow at Bill Walters.
“Hello, Fritz!”
“You, Joey! Where’s Bill tonight?”
“Sick.”
“The old bastard! I’ll go see him before he dies.” The door rocked back to center. Hood was gone.
Judith Barrows was in the chair, with her jacket across her lap and the code sheets on the desk. Crestone rose slowly. The fur jacket slid away and showed the .38. Something dropped out of one of the jacket sleeves. He made another step. She tilted the muzzle, resting the edge of her hand on her knee. She cocked the gun then. Her face was white.
Crestone tried to talk himself into it; but he knew she was too scared. An excited or scared dame with a gun. Murder. He backed up and sat down. His head was pounding. On the floor at her feet lay a piece of doubled wire, the raw ends covered with white tape.