“Cut the big talk, you're not a public hero yet. I'm going with you. Another thing, Anderson is shotgun happy, can you get a couple more of your men?” I nearly added, “If there are a couple more.”
He sort of pulled himself erect and threw out his wide shoulders—all in one motion. “I can handle Larry.”
He looked as if he could handle Floyd Patterson but looks don't stop bullets. “How about giving me some ammo, and I'll pack my gun?”
“No need, there won't be any gun play,” he said sharply. “I know Larry... why, I was trolling for blues with him only last week. And for all I know, you might be trigger-happy over that dumb cat of yours. You want to go, let's do it.”
I didn't say another word, he was working up his courage and a push might have spooked him. We all walked out to the polished squad car and he told Jane, “This won't be any place for you.”
“Yes, it is. Edward Barnes was my friend.”
She said it with such quiet dignity Roberts glanced at her to tell her something; I motioned for her to get in.
Larry's truck and station wagon were parked in the driveway but he wasn't in sight. We walked up onto the porch and Roberts rang the bell. Roberts was sweating a bit, but only over fear of losing his job—the jerk hadn't loosened his gun in its holster. After a moment Anderson opened the door. He had his shirt off, the thick muscles under this thin T-shirt, and a towel in his hand. He said, “Hello, Jane, Artie, Lund. I'm just washing up. What's this, a delegation? Something up for the Harbor Council?”
“Larry,” Roberts said, “I want to see Pops.”
Anderson was good, nothing changed on his face—but I saw the great muscles of his arms stiffen. “You know Pops is very sick, he can't see anybody or be disturbed. Doctor's orders.”
“What doctor?” I asked.
“The specialist in New York. Pops is sleeping right now. Everybody knows a person suffering from heart trouble needs absolute rest. What's this about?”
“I won't do a thing to harm Pops,” Roberts said. “Let me see him, I won't awaken him.”
“Pops couldn't have done anything, he's been in bed since.... Legally you have no right to bust into my house.”
“Larry, don't put this on a legal basis,” Roberts said softly. “I'm asking to see Pops, as a friend. You want me to ask as a police officer—I'll have to place you under arrest if you don't let me see Pops.”
“Arrest? Artie, are you crazy?”
“Let me see Pops and I'll explain all this.”
I smiled—Anderson hadn't bothered to even ask what the arrest would be for—he damn well knew! But he suddenly stepped back from the door, told us, “Come in, but don't make any noise.”
Roberts went pale, hesitated. I walked past Anderson followed by Jane... and then Roberts. We were in an old-type large living room, nicely furnished, everything neat and spotless, and impersonal. Larry started up the carpeted steps to the floor above. As we followed he turned, asked, “Is it necessary for all of you to come up? Any shock can mean Pops' life.”
“We'll be very quiet, won't make as much noise as a shotgun killing an Irish setter. Only Roberts will take a look into Pops' room. All he wants to see is his face.” I stressed the word “face.” Roberts was so jittery he might be satisfied seeing a couple of pillows under a blanket.
Anderson stared at me without showing any emotion. “Then keep your voices down,” he said, turning to walk up the steps again. “I'll let you see Pops and then I'll want a goddamn good—excuse me, Jane—a good explanation for this foolishness!”
I saw the back of Roberts' neck become a sickly pink. He stopped climbing the stairs until I goosed him with my knee. Although I was certain Anderson was bluffing, a very tiny clammy feeling was working in the pit of my guts. If I was wrong about things....
The upstairs hall was wide, several potted plants on small tables lining the flower-papered walls. There was another staircase, smaller and steeper, at the end of the hall, that probably went up to the widow's walk. We walked past several open bedrooms, stopped in front of a closed door. Anderson whispered, “This is Pops' room. Artie, the more I think of it, I can't risk his life by letting you see him. I don't know what this city snoop has filled you with but....”
“Open the door a crack,” Roberts said; almost pleaded.
“Suppose he's awake? The shock might....”
“Cut the production number, Anderson,” I said, trying to keep my voice both a whisper and tough. “Suppose he is awake? Roberts isn't a stranger, he's a friend of Pops.”
Anderson shrugged, turned toward the door. He dropped me towel as he spun back around and clipped Roberts on the chin with a wild right. As Roberts folded and I leaped at Larry. I thought with a sort of stupid satisfaction I'd always known Roberts looked too good, had some glass in his square jaw. I was diving for Anderson's waist and I stopped thinking as he straight-armed me.
I was sailing through the air and then I hit a wall as if going through it, slid down to the floor, shaken and dizzy. Vaguely I knew Anderson was heading for the stairs going down to the living room... and that I was crawling toward Roberts to get his gun. My eyes wouldn't focus and I wasn't sure if I was alive or dead.
I heard Larry yell, “Stay away, Jane, I don't want to hurt you!” and the picture turned real and clear. Jane was backed against a wall, letting him run past. Then she calmly picked up a potted plant and threw it like a bowling ball.
She was smart, didn't aim for his head but for his legs. The pot seemed to bounce once behind him, then break into a hundred pieces as it hit the back of his knees, sending him crashing down the stairs.
I yanked Roberts' Police Special from his shiny holster and staggered toward the steps. I expected to see Anderson out cold, but he was a rugged joker—he was standing on file landing below, blood on one side of his face. He shook himself like a floored pug. As he started down the stairs, I grabbed the railing to keep from falling, fired a shot into the ceiling. The staircase seemed full of thunder and over it—to my surprise—I heard a firm voice saying, “Don't move, Anderson, or I'll plug you! You've had it!” I wished I felt half as strong as my voice.
He stood stock-still for a split second, then turned and faced me, an open-mouthed, stunned look on his wide face. With the blood, the dumb look, his big muscles under the torn shirt, he looked like a brute, a human ape. I said, “Put your hands behind your head, keep 'em up there!”
My voice was like a whip and as he put his hands up, his bigness seemed to shrink. The great muscles began to tremble and his big face took on a puzzled expression for a second—until it went to pieces.
Anderson was standing with his hands behind his head, body shaking, crying softly. For a split second he reminded me of an overgrown kid being punished... but only for a very very short split second.
Chapter 8
Dan and I were on the Sunday night train to New York. He wanted to go back Monday morning but I insisted I needed a decent night's sleep in my own bed before taking off to visit Signe and her kids. I even considered postponing seeing her for a week, to rest up in my flat, or maybe recover would be a better word. But I figured it was best to get it over with, then hang around the flat for a straight two weeks' rest before returning to the old grind.