Bannion returned his smile. “I need help tonight,” he said.
Lagana studied Bannion, frowning slightly. He seemed to be making an effort to memorize every line in the detective’s face. Then he said: “Okay, so you’re stubborn. What’s on your mind?”
“A girl named Lucy Carroway was murdered,” Bannion said. “I think she was killed by a man working for Max Stone. A man from Detroit named Biggie Burrows. To start with, I want him. And I intend to get him. I said before it was an old-style liquidation, brazen and brutal. You don’t want that sort of thing in town any more than I do. It might interfere with the nice, quiet way things are running. That’s why I’m hoping you’ll help me.”
“Is that all?”
“No, there’s one other thing. I got a call this afternoon — from one of your boys, I think. He told me to keep my mouth shut about this deal. That annoyed me, Lagana. That’s why I came out here, which as we both know, is a foolish place for me to come. But I want action. I’m stymied at the office, so I’m trying you. How about it? Do I get some help?”
“What makes you think this man Burrows killed the girl?”
“Several things.”
“You’re not saying, eh? Well, you’re a fool,” Lagana said. “I told you twice I’d forget this but I won’t say it again. You won’t get another chance, friend.” He paced the floor, staring at Bannion, a bright, angry touch of color in his gray cheeks. “I’ll see that you don’t make this mistake again, bright boy. I’ve met some prize dummies in my life, but you’re in a class by yourself, Bannion. What’s your trouble? You act like you’re on the junk.”
“You mean I must be crazy to violate your chaste, immaculate home,” Bannion said slowly. “Is that it, Lagana?”
“Shut up, shut up, you hear,” Lagana said. “I got nothing to say to you. Now get rolling.”
“You think I must be taking dope, eh?” Bannion said, and his voice was deceptively soft. “Because I’m concerned about a girl’s murder. She was no prize, perhaps, but she didn’t deserve twenty-four hours of refined hell, and then a boot out of a speeding car. That bothers me and I want some help on it, and you assume I must be a dope.” Bannion’s voice grew louder, harder. “We don’t talk about things like that in your home, eh? It’s too elegant, too respectable, too clean. Cute little daughter, pictures of Mama on the wall. No place for murder, no place for a stinking cop. Just the place for a hoodlum who made his money and built this house out of twenty-five years of murder, extortion and corruption. That’s what it is to me, Lagana. A thieve’s temple. You couldn’t plant enough flowers around here to kill the stench.”
“Bannion, you—”
“Shut up,” Bannion said. “You’re interested in homes, eh? Well, I’ll tell you about some homes. Cops have homes. No places like this, but three and four-room apartments that run on a skin-tight budget. Sometimes those homes are empty as hell after the cop gets shot up, and sometimes there’s no money at all if he gets hounded off the force by your men for trying to do a decent job. I’ve got a home myself, Lagana. Does that surprise you? Did you think I lived under a brick? Your creeps feel no compunction about phoning there, giving me orders, talking to my wife as if she were God’s greatest slut. Cops have families, too, and even mothers. Decent people, most of them, living in a city with inferior schools, filthy parks, and rotten government, screwed by your handbooks, clipped by your numbers writers, and sickened by the kind of justice and order you’ve brought into their lives. Keep those people in mind, Lagana, when you’re popping off about your own serene little corner of Heaven.”
Lagana stared at Bannion, breathing hard. “Okay, okay,” he said. “You’ve made your speech. I hope you’ll think it was worth it, Bannion.” He walked to his desk and punched a button beside a brass inkstand.
A man in a chauffeur’s uniform appeared in the doorway, his eyes finding Lagana’s alertly, questioningly. He was a big man with a pale, wide face, and the ridged forehead of a fighter. He moved easily, smoothly, his calf muscles bulging against black leather puttees, his shoulders straining the seams of his gray, whipcord uniform. “Yes, sir?” he said, in a gentle, incurious voice.
“George, take this character out of here,” Lagana said. “Put him in his car.”
The man turned easily, his big hand coming down on Bannion’s forearm. “Let’s go,” he said, his wide, pale face impassive.
“Take it easy,” Bannion said. “I don’t need any help.”
“I said, let’s go, friend,” the chauffeur said. He pulled Bannion toward him with a powerful jerk, trying for a hammer-lock on the arm he was holding.
Bannion’s temper gave, his control snapped. He straightened his arm, breaking the hammer-lock, and slammed George up against the wall. A framed picture of Lagana’s daughter dropped to the floor at the impact.
“George!” Lagana shouted.
“Yes, sir,” George said, in his gentle, incurious voice. He came out from the wall, watching Bannion carefully, thoughtfully. “All right, big boy,” he said.
He feinted for Bannion’s stomach with his left, then dropped his shoulder and brought his right over to the jaw. Bannion picked the punch off with his left hand, stepped in and slapped the man with all his strength across the face. It was a terrible blow; it sounded like a pistol shot in the room and George went down to his knees under it, shaking his head, his jaw hanging queerly.
“George, get him!” Lagana yelled.
George moved under the prod of that voice. He was bleeding now from the nose and mouth, but he crouched, got his feet under him, and looked up at Bannion. He stared into the detective’s eyes, and a funny expression came over his face.
“Don’t get up,” Bannion said.
George wet his lips. “I’m not getting up,” he said, his jaw wagging unnaturally with the words.
Bannion turned back to Lagana, and frowned. Lagana was sinking into the chair beside his desk, his mouth hanging open. He was breathing in slow, ragged gasps. His arm rose, his fingers fluttered at a table beside the fireplace. “The bottle,” he said, rolling his head slowly, his shiny, expressionless eyes never leaving Bannion’s face.
There was a tray on the fireplace table, and on it a small, unstoppered bottle and a glass of water.
“The bottle,” Lagana said, in a low, pain-squeezed voice.
Bannion picked up the tray and put it on the desk within Lagana’s reach. He watched Lagana pour a few drops from the bottle into the glass and then raise the glass slowly, jerkily to his lips.
“It’s his heart,” George said in the silence.
Bannion looked down at the man, who still crouched on the floor, the lower half of his face dark with blood. He felt an acute disgust for himself for causing that damage. “Well, that should be news to the people who say he hasn’t got one,” he said. He looked at Lagana again, and then left the house and walked up the dark gravelled path to his car.
The next night, about eleven o’clock, Bannion sat at home, an untouched drink beside him, smoking and staring at the ceiling. He was at a crossroads, and he knew it; either he went along and took orders, or he changed jobs. He had to keep his hands off Lucy Carroway’s murder, or risk a head-on collision with Wilks, and the men behind him. That was the problem, all right. But did he have a free choice? Could he turn his back on Lucy’s murder, smile and go on about something else? Or was he already committed? Bannion wasn’t sure. He frowned, turning the question around in his mind, and sipped his drink.
The day had been uneventful; there had been no repercussions on his visit to Lagana. But the rumble in the department, in the city, was growing louder. The morning paper, the Call-Bulletin, had followed up the Express’s story with an editorial that asked a few pointed and critical questions.