“You fool, the janitor will tell Lande you were asking about him and he'll complain downtown and they'll take away your tin badge, maybe even arrest you for impersonating a policeman!”
Lawrence gave me a wise smile. “Marty, I'm studying to be a lawyer, I'm aware of the law. I told him I was an insurance investigator making a routine check, and to keep it quiet. The point is, you see what all this proves.”
“I don't see nothing.”
“It proves he could have been robbed of the fifty grand.”
“And the two clowns who are supposed to have done it returned it a few hours later with a sorry-opened-by-mistake note!”
Lawrence looked at me like I was backward. “Once we establish that it is possible he had the money, it gives credibility to his original story—that he was robbed. By the way, did you read in the evening papers where two young hoodlums from the West Side were shot to death in a gas-station holdup outside Newark early this morning?”
“I didn't read that, Mr. Holmes. In fact I haven't read the evening papers. But what docs it prove?”
“I don't know that it proves anything yet. But struck me it was a coincidence they were both shot through the heart, one bullet each. Fellow has to be quite a marksman to do that in the heat of a stick-up. Another thing, no witnesses.”
“There'd hardly be any witnesses early in the morning. When would you expect them to hold up the joint—when it was crawling with customers?”
“Merely a thought,” Lawrence said in that precise way he had of talking. “Two young punks rob and return fifty grand, and a dozen hours later two young punks are shot dead. Seems to me the only reason they returned the money would be because they were frightened—frightened of somebody powerful enough to kill them. According to the papers, and I read them all, their description fits the one Lande first gave me of the holdup men. Of course that's a general description. I asked the Newark police to let me see the bodies—they refused. Oh, yes, the gas-station owner has a record, did time for assault many years ago. But he has a permit to carry a gun and he...”
“You'd better cut this, kid, before you hook up every crime in the country with a robbery that never happened to your batty butcher. I suppose you saw the butcher, asked him to identify the bodies?”
The boy actually blushed. “Why, yes, I did suggest it. I dropped in late in the afternoon, after I read about the killings. You recall I said he was so nervous yesterday? Well, today he was all corny jokes and full of good cheer. Wanted to give me a thick steak. But when I asked him, as a citizen helping the cause of justice, to go over to Newark and look at the bodies, he blew a gasket. Shouted I was trying to make a sick man have another stroke, told me to get out.”
“'... a citizen helping the cause of justice'... Goddamn! I— Lawrence, you're one for the books, the joke books!”
“What's the joke? If he was really interested in helping ...?”
“Lawrence, first off, nobody likes to look at a couple of stiffs, much less ride all the way over to Newark to do it. Secondly, since the butcher denied there ever was a holdup, why should he agree to look at a couple of dead punks?”
“There're two sides to every coin and the reverse side of this one is that Lande is scared, that he knows the two dead men are the same ones who robbed him. Okay, laugh if you wish, but that's my opinion of the case. I think there's something in all this. Tomorrow I'm going to have a talk with Lande's driver.”
“I hope you're not giving this cock-and-bull story to Bill Ash.”
“He's too busy on the Anderson killing to see me.” He stood up. “Dot was glad I talked to you yesterday.”
“Was she? Has she changed much?”
“No. At least not that I've noticed or...” He saw my gun on the dresser. I'd forgotten all about the lousy thing. “What are you doing with this—planning to kill somebody?”
“If I say yes, will you tie me up with your liverwurst tycoon? That's what guns are for, mostly to bluff and sometimes to kill—if you can.”
He went over and hefted the gun, balanced it with one finger under the trigger guard. I said, “Forget that and tell me more about Dot.”
“She's the same. We don't have guns. Marty, is this your old gun?”
“Aha.”
“Sure seen plenty of action. Where are your citations, Marty?”
“I don't know, probably around someplace. You medal-happy?”
He opened the top drawer, put the gun in. “Marty, please stop treating me like the village idiot. I want to be a good cop—if I can—and a live one. If I find anything new from Lande's driver, I'll drop in tomorrow night, if you don't mind.”
“Lawrence, I told you I don't mind. And keep away from your butcher—mind your own business.”
“We differ on what is my business. But I'll be careful.”
I shrugged. “All right, and if the joker offers you a steak again, bring it here if you don't want it.”
“Petty bribes, the curse of law enforcement,” he said, mocking me.
“You ain't kidding—hold out for the big ones,” I told him, going over to my desk to make sure the note I'd written Flo wasn't in sight. “Like a drink?”
“No thanks. I have to get home, early class tomorrow.”
I walked him to the door and as we shook hands he said, “Leave the bottle alone, Marty. Get some sleep.”
“Think you're big enough to be giving me advice, kid?”
“I don't have to be big to see you look tired. So long, Marty.”
When he left I felt lousy. Lawrence was a jerk, but a nice jerk, one of these serious kids, and not as silly as he sounded. Only that kind gets hurt as bad as the wild ones. Damn, my own son comes in and all we can talk about is killings and stick-ups. I should have talked to him more—but about what? He was a stranger to me. That was the damn trouble —I'd lived all my life among strangers.
I was hungry and my gut hurt. The quiet of the room gave me the spooks. I was lonely. I turned on my table radio and listened to some jazz, but that didn't help. I phoned Dewey, told him to send Barbara in.
“Now? It's early—can't you wait?”
“Send her in and shut up!” I unlocked my closet and took out another pint. I had four cases stacked there—late at night when a guy wanted a bottle real bad, a pint brought five to ten bucks. I never made much on liquor though, because I was always my own best customer.
I opened the bottle, washed out two glasses, lit a cigarette.
After a few puffs the smoke tasted sour and I threw the cigarette away, chewed some mints.
When Barbara knocked on the door I told her to come in, and she asked, “What's up?”
“Nothing.”
“Is that so?” she said, giving me a wise look.
“It's so. Want a shot?”
“Small one. Hear you ain't feeling so chipper.”
“I can't sleep,” I said, pouring her a shot.
“It's the lousy heat.” She put the drink down with one fast gulp, sat on the bed. “Come on, schoolboy, I'll relax you.”
“Cut it. Let's talk. What do you plan to do? I mean, hell you know you only have another few years left in this racket, then what?”
She jumped to her feet. “What kind of talk is that?”