“Well, he said the smart detective told him I could use the fifty bucks.” Myers laughed shortly. “That’s you he meant. The smart detective.”
“What’re you getting at?”
“Yeah, you’re the smart detective,” Myers said, the words tumbling angrily from him. “And your brother’s in trouble with Ackerman’s bums and you want me to help you pull him out. Why don’t you go to the hoodlums? They’re your buddies, aren’t they?”
“Forget it,” Carmody said slowly. “I didn’t know you felt this way.”
“You wouldn’t know how I feel,” Myers said. “That would mean noticing me, asking me. But you’re too much a big shot for that. What the hell was that address?”
“I said forget it.”
“Give me that address. I’ll get it from the book if you don’t. I’m doing this for your brother. Because he’s a cop, a dumb honest slob like me. Not for you, Mike.”
“It’s two-eighty.” Carmody wet his lips. “Thanks, Myers.”
“Go to hell.”
The phone clicked. Carmody got to his feet, rubbing his forehead. What the devil had got into Myers? Had he been keeping this bottled up all these years? And what about the other men on his shift, and in the department? Did they feel the same way?
So what if they do, he thought, frowning and disturbed. It’s there to take. If they had the brains they’d take it, too.
There was nothing to do but wait. He tried all the bars, and Eddie’s home and district half-an-hour later but drew blanks. He left messages for Eddie everywhere to call him but that was all he could do.
The night deepened beyond his windows, moving slowly in wide black columns to the pink-gray streaks on the horizon. Lights came on in the tall buildings in the business district and the city spread out before him, a powerful exciting mass, cut through and through with white lines of traffic. Eddie was out there somewhere. Standing on a dark corner lighting a cigarette, swinging down a black alley on a short-cut to the district, stopping before a movie to look at the posters. And somewhere out there Ackerman’s killer might be starting slowly and carefully to work, asking questions, making calls, closing in on his brother’s trail. And all I can do is wait, Carmody thought.
When the phone rang the sound of it went through him like an electric shock. He crossed the room in three strides and jerked the receiver to his ear. “Yes? Hello?”
“Hello, slugger,” Beaumonte said with a laugh. “You pack quite a punch, or didn’t anyone ever tell you?”
Carmody was caught off balance by Beaumonte’s obvious good-humor. “Is that what you called to tell me?”
“No, this is business, Mike. I don’t like being knocked around but I’m going to forget it. There’s more at stake just now than a row between friends.”
“Tell me about it,” Carmody said.
“Ackerman and I had a talk after you left. He wants you to keep working on your brother. You said you could make him listen to reason. Does that still go?”
“Sure I can,” Carmody said. The tension dissolved in him and he let out his breath slowly. With time he could work something out. “I’ll need a few days,” he said.
“Two days is the limit. That’s Ackerman’s final word.”
“Okay, two days then,” Carmody said. He was trembling with relief; Eddie wouldn’t die tonight. “I can handle it in two days, I think.”
“Good. And if you want to pound somebody, well, pound some sense into your brother.”
“I’m sorry about tonight, Dan,” Carmody said slowly.
“Don’t worry about that. Let me know when you’ve made progress.”
“Okay, Dan.”
Carmody put the phone down and saw that his hands were trembling. Relief did that to you, just like fear. Eddie was safe for two days. Would it narrow down to hours? And then minutes?
Carmody turned on the record player and walked deliberately to the liquor cabinet. He took out a fresh bottle and put it on the table beside his chair. What had he told Nancy? That he didn’t drink because he didn’t want to be anyone else. Did that still hold? He sat down slowly, heavily, and let his big hands fall limply on either side of the chair. Not any more. I’d love to be someone else right now, he thought.
Carmody reached for the bottle the way a desperate man would turn on the gas...
He was awakened by a sound that seemed to be pounding at the inside of his head. Pushing himself to a sitting position, he stared blankly around the dark room. He checked his watch; the illuminated hands stood at one-forty-five. He had been out for hours. His coat lay beside him on the floor and his collar was open. There was a dull pain stretching across his forehead, and his stomach was cold and hollow.
The knocking sounded again, more insistently this time. Carmody snapped on a lamp, pushed the hair back from his forehead and went to the door.
Nancy stood in the corridor, swaying slightly; the night elevator man held her arms to keep her from falling. “She insisted I bring her up, Mr. Carmody,” the man said. “I rang you but didn’t get no answer.”
“It’s alright,” Carmody said. “Come in, Nancy. What’s the matter?”
She swayed toward him and he caught her shoulders. “Take it easy,” he said.
“Beaumonte kicked me out,” she said, grinning brightly at him; the smile was all wrong, it was as meaningless as an idiot’s. “Got a drink for a cast-off basket case?”
“We can find one.” Carmody led her to the sofa, put a pillow behind her head and stretched out her legs. Turning on the lights, he made a drink and pulled a footstool over beside the couch.
“Take this,” he said. She looked ghastly in the overhead light; her face was like a crushed flower, lipstick smeared, make-up streaked with tears. “What happened?”
“He kicked me out, Mike. He gave me to some friends of his first. People he owed a favor to. Or maybe I’m flattering myself. Maybe they’re people he doesn’t like. They took me to a private house near Shoreline.” She shook her head quickly. “They were real gents, Mike. They gave me cab fare home.”
Carmody squeezed her hand tightly. “Take the drink,” he said.
“I don’t know why I came here. I shouldn’t have. I guess it was seeing you in the fight. You’re the only thing they’re afraid of.”
“Did you hear any talk about me after I left? From Ackerman, I mean? About me or my brother?”
She stared at him, her mouth opening, and then she shook her head from side to side. “Oh God, oh God,” she whispered. “You don’t know?”
“What?” Carmody said, as the shock that anticipates fear went through him coldly.
Clinging to his hands, she began to weep hysterically. “It’s all over town. I heard it from Fanzo’s men, and on the radio in the cab. Your brother was shot and killed a couple of hours ago.”
7
She was crying so hard that it took Carmody several minutes to get any details. When he learned where it had happened he stood up, his breathing loud and harsh in the silence. “You stay here,” he said in a soft, thick voice. He picked up his coat and left the room.
The shooting had occurred a block from Karen’s hotel. Carmody got there in twenty minutes by pushing his car at seventy through the quiet streets. The scene was one he knew by heart; squad cars with red beacon lights swinging in the darkness, groups of excited people on the sidewalks whispering to each other and women and children peering out from lighted windows on either side of the street. He parked and walked toward the place his brother had died, a cold frozen expression on his face. A cop in the police line recognized him and stepped quickly out of his way, giving him a small jerky salute.
Lieutenant Wilson was standing in a group of lab men and detectives from Klipperman’s shift. One of them saw Carmody coming and tapped his arm. Wilson turned, his tough, belligerent features shadowed by the flashing red lights. He said quietly, “We’ve been trying to get you for a couple of hours, Mike. I’m sorry about this, sorry as hell.”