I was in the middle of another letter checking on a character who had skipped town with a partly paid for TV set, when the door opened and a mailman came in—a big lumbering fatso with thick graying hair. He asked, “You the dick?”
“What's wrong, a due letter?” I asked, noticing he didn't have his bag on his wide shoulders.
He shook his head, giving Anita a fast going over, which she enjoyed. “Naw, I'm here on business.” His voice went with his bulk, a deep, rumbling voice.
“Grab a chair and tell me about it.”
He glanced at Anita, then back at me. I said, “Miss Rogers is one of my most trusted ops, in on all my good cases.” Anita slipped me an amused look, told him in a hammy slinky voice, “Rest your load, big boy.”
He slid into a chair opposite me, and from the hesitant look on his face I knew he was having wife trouble. After a while you can spot things like that I was absolutely wrong.
He said, “Johnson is my name, Will Johnson, see? Want to see you about this.” He dug into a pocket of his blue-gray uniform and carefully took out a small envelope, out of this came tissue paper wrapped around a sliver of cloudy dirty-looking stone. It was less than half an inch long, almost paper thin, wide as a match stick. As I picked it up he said, “Careful, don't break it, see?”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Rock of some kind. Get this, Mr. Darling, there's no mystery or crime involved here, just curiosity. Want to find out where this rock came from.”
“What makes you so curious?” I asked as Anita took the sliver from my hand, fingered it, smelt it. He sighed. “It's a silly story. About a month ago I come home and was sitting in my living-room, reading. Was about four in the afternoon, see? I hear a sharp noise at the window, then over my head. I go over and there's a small, clean hole in the window pane, another in the metal Venetian blinds. Back of where I was sitting we got one of them imitation fireplaces and a copper vase on top of it There's a dent in the vase and on the floor I find this little hunk of rock. See, at first I didn't think nothing of it, was sore about the hole in the window. Then I start thinking this sure had a hell of a force.... Excuse me Miss....”
“Sure,” Anita said sweetly, “you mean it had a goddamn hell of a lot of force.”
Johnson blinked and I told him, “Miss Rogers takes shots —in the head—to make her sound rugged. The rock had plenty of force, so what?”
“So what? It went through glass, a metal blind, made a dent in the copper vase over my head—see, it might have killed me!”
“You think somebody is trying to murder you?” I asked as Anita became bug-eyed.
Johnson shook his big head. “No, no, only telling you why I got so interested in the rock. Nobody hates a postman. Like I say, it's been on my mind so much. Thelma, that's my wife, she says 'Willie, stop thinking so much about it, see a detective before you get a nervous breakdown.' See, that's it.”
“And you picked me—just like that?”
“No sir, not just like anything,” Will said. “Figured you're a small agency, wouldn't charge much, see?”
“Yeah I see. Of course you realize this may all turn out to be as simple as a kid playing with a slingshot and...”
“It ain't simple, Mr. Darling. I live five flights up, nothing higher than two-story private houses around me. Have to be some slingshot, wouldn't it?”
“I'm not turning down the case, Mr. Johnson, only don't expect any fantastic solution, like this coming from Mars or...”
“How do you know it didn't come from Mars?” he snapped.
Anita giggled and I wondered if the postman was nuts or just a plain liar. Anyway, I wasn't dropping cases—even the stupid ones. I said, “You know I charge thirty dollars a day, and expenses.”
“That much? We mailmen don't make much and with the high cost of living —”
“And we dicks aren't exempt from the high cost of living.”
He sucked on his fat upper lip. “How many days you think it will take? And expenses, what will they amount to?”
“Hard to say. Let's turn our cards face up, Johnson. What were you planning to spend?”
“Well...” he coughed and swallowed. “See, I'll make a deal with you. I'm a poor sucker and...” he waved a hand at my office ”... so are you. Suppose I give you all I can afford—a hundred and fifty bucks—and let's say you put in a week on it, full seven days, and forget the expenses? That a deal?”
He clinched the deal by taking out an old wallet and decorating my desk with fifteen tens. “I'm buying it, only remember, I can't guarantee a solution in a week. But I'll give it a good try.”
“That'll all I want, just try hard for a week—seven days.”
“Where do you live and when can I see your apartment?”
“I live at 22 Staymore Avenue, that's Marble Hill, up past Spuyten Duyvil. I'm off today, it's my comp day. See, any time you want to....”
“Have a lunch appointment Suppose I get up there around two?”
The mailman said fine and we stood up and shook hands-at the door he turned, said, “Don't lose that stone, or break it. It's... well... a memo to me.” He sounded worried.
“I'll take good care of it.”
When he left, I gave Anita four of the tens, told her “Might as well pay your salary for the week. This is a weirdie.”
“He's lying,” she sad, looking at the stone. “Odd dark color.”
“You'll probably find there's some construction work near by and this came off while blasting.”
“I'll...?”
“Sure, I'll look the apartment over and then you can make like Dick Powell.”
“Oh no, not on this crummy stone?”
“If you'd rather pound out form letters....”
Anita thumbed her nose at me. “Giving me a big choice, but I'll take the stone deal, Hal... Darling.” The way she said it left no doubt as to her meaning.
7
I phoned a couple of fellows working for the electric and phone companies whom I sent some good rye to every Christmas, asked if they had a Marion Lodge as a customer... and drew a blank. At eleven Bobo dropped in, got the address of the construction job he was to guard, signed out for a night stick. Curly Cox who'd been a fair lightweight when I was an amateur flyweight, came in to put the bite on me for work. I promised him something over the week-end, slipped him two bucks, then drove down to the 5th Street Casino.
Thirty or forty years ago this had been a club for wealthy sports, now it was a seedy-looking place, badly in need of a coat of paint and about everything else. It had a capacity of 250 people, and a sagging balcony with a few dozen tables and a dirty bar. Boscom looked like a walking caricature of an old-time saloonkeeper: short and fat, beady eyes, pink nose, thick little mouth—even an ancient pearl stickpin in his loud tie. He had a bullet-headed punk with him, local tough written all over his nasty puss. Evidently this was my competition.
“When I introduced myself, they both looked astonished and bully-boy, whose name I never did get, asked Boscom, “Hey boss, you kidding? This little blond nance is a guard?” I let the “nance” crack go by, although the punk's short thick neck was interesting. Boscom was sitting at an old desk, puffing on a cheap rope, and he squeaked, “He's been keeping order at my dances... Ain't had no trouble and...”
“And you pay him off with a few bucks and leftover bottles,” I cut in. “You're a businessman, Mr. Boscom, and policing your dances should be done on a strict business level that...”
“Look, anybody starts anything, I give them the business all right—with this!” The punk held up a beefy fist.
It was a warm day, I had on one of my good suits and the carpet was dirty as hell, so I didn't want to take this joker. I tried to keep calm as I told Boscom, “Bet this clown hasn't a license—that means if there's a real rumble, you not only could be sued, and lose your liquor license but...”
“Who you calling a clown?” tough-boy growled. Boscom seemed to be amused by it all.