Dewey stuttered through it and we went over it again. Then I told him, “Good. Finish the pint—you'll need that. Stay at the desk, and remember—start calling at ten sharp. Even if you have to go to the John—stay at the desk!”
Dewey stood up, put Bill's letter in his back pocket, Lande's phone number in his shirt pocket. He asked, “Marty, what are you in? Will I ...?”
“You'll be a lousy hero. One more thing, don't blab about this to Kenny, Barbara—nobody.”
“Listen, Many, you know hew I am—maybe I won't be able to ...”
He was shaking a little and I slapped him on the back. “Just do what I told you and everything will be okay. Hell, we're pals, you're the only one I can trust. Get going. Remember, you start phoning at ten sharp—about an hour and a half from now. 'Lawson is a fag.' If anybody says anything else, even if you think it's me, hang up and call the cops. Get going.”
When he left I put the carbon of the letter in an envelope, addressed it to the kid in the hospital, then put the rest of the torn money in another envelope addressed to Dewey. I dug up a couple of stamps, locked my door, and dropped the letters in the mail chute off the lobby. I took the self-service elevator to the eighth floor, opened the linen-closet window, stepped out on the adjoining fire escape—the weight of the .45 at my ankle making me clumsy.
I went up and over the roof, down into the alley, moving carefully. After last night they'd be wondering how I got out of the Grover. Dropping into the alley as softly as my two-hundred-odd pounds would allow, I stood very still in the darkness.
I had company—somebody in front of me was breathing heavily.
I stood there for a long moment, fingering the gun in my pocket, retasting the sea food, trying not to belch.
Whoever was sharing the alley with me was making a lot of noise with his breathing. I waited, but my buddy was playing it cool. I got my flash out, knelt and placed it on the cement alleyway, pointing it in the general direction of the breathing.
I got my gun out and leaning way over to the right, I reached out with my left foot, pressed the button. I spotlighted an old bum huddled in one corner. I grinned as he blinked his bleary eyes to get me in focus.
I pocketed the gun and picking up my flash I started toward him. He said, “Put that light out, you big sonofabitch.”
“They making you winos braver these days?” I asked.
I was on top of him and he sort of grinned and his teeth were too good for a wino and his eyes were too bright—he wasn't drunk—he was on junk. He was sitting with both hands on the cement and he raised himself off the floor a few inches as his legs struck out, scissored around mine.
I fell on top of him, kicking, swinging with my flash... and thought I heard the swish of a sap behind me before my head exploded in a burning white flame.
Six
I came to on my side, part of my head and neck feeling big as a ton—a numb ton. There was light near me and after blinking a few times, I managed to sit up and look around. The wino decoy was lying a couple of feet from me, blood streaming from his head: I must have followed through with my swing before I conked out.
Turning made my head spin, but I finally faced the light. The face above the small flashlight was Hilly Smith's, all the sharp, overneat features. His eyes were as cold and impersonal as dry ice. For a moment I couldn't see any hands, then I realized he was wearing dark gloves. He must have been holding my Police Special in his right hand—it seemed suspended in the dim light—the business end pointing at me.
I belched and my head hurt. But I moved my legs a little. Bob wasn't any ball of fire; he hadn't found the .45.
We stared at each other for a while. I'd seen him once or twice over the years, but never this close. He was a handsome punk, tall and lean, with wide sloping shoulders. His face was hard and without an ounce of fat, or maybe it was the shadows that made him look so hard.
I put my elbows on the cement ground and relaxed, wondering what the next move was. I'd walked into a trap, but it didn't make any difference to me. Dewey would call Bill at ten when I didn't answer. Even if the wine got to Dewey, Lawrence would have the carbon copy of the letter in the morning and then they'd pick up Bochio, maybe Smith. All I had to do was see to it I didn't leave the alley alive. And if Bob made a mistake, I'd like to knock him off. Sort of a going-away present to somebody... maybe myself. A kind of...
He said, “What's ya story, ya bastid?” There was something wrong with his lips, like they were too big for his mouth— they didn't stop at his face, went inside his mouth. Or maybe that was the shadows too.
“I was going to tell it to you—in Willie's shop. But this is just as good a spot.” My voice sounded strong in the stillness.
“Figured that. But didn't want to knock ya off in the store, too much explaining.”
“What explaining?” I said, mocking him. “You could do me like you did Cocky, knock me off in the freezer, then dump the body any time you felt like it. Bochio must have thought he was real clever; shoots him, then goes down to Miami and establishes his alibi. Couple of weeks later you dump the body in the Bronx, it lays in the heat all day and no medical examiner can say it was frozen, that Anderson wasn't shot the night before. That's old stuff—he wasn't so smart.”
“A knife in the back is old—but it still works.”
The “bum” near me groaned and then was silent again.
Bob stared at him for a moment, then turned to me, asked, “What was ya doing, giving a public lecture?” He moved fast, jumped to my side and kicked me before I knew what was happening. As I doubled up he split the side of my face with my own gun.
I didn't black out, but for a long time I couldn't move, could hardly breathe. Blood was flowing into my shirt collar, down my side like syrupy sweat. I began to doubt Bob was going to make a mistake.... Then I had a frightening thought: Maybe he wasn't going to kill me, only work me over to scare me off?
I waited till I could sit up again, sure I could move my legs. My only play was a corny one; the decoy had used it on me.
Smith said, “I know all about ya, big hero copper now a two-bit lush, a lousy hotel dick. Who ya working for on this?”
When I opened my mouth, blood ran in and damn near choked me.
“What ya trying to do, make a name for yourself, get back on the force?”
“I want in,” I said, and it sounded like I was talking through a mouthful of mud.
“In—a shakedown?” He laughed, but no sound came out.
I tried to nod and my head seemed to be coming off. “Killing me won't do no good,” I said, and my voice came back strong and clear the more I talked. “I sent a letter to myself care of general delivery, with a cop as the return address. If I don't call for it... tomorrow... it goes back, will be opened.... You and Bochio will fry.” It wasn't much of a story, but it would do.
“Ya think ya're playing with kids, ya bastid!”
“No, I think it's time to separate the men from the boys, Bob.”
He didn't say anything for a moment, those ice-eyes watching me. I was in a sudden panic he might walk away, leave me. I said, “I never would have got onto this if you had learned to talk straight. You talk like a backward...”
He kicked me in the ear. For a second my head seemed to balloon up, then everything became clear again. “Every kick only jacks up the price. You and Bochio made a lot of mistakes by shooting Cocky in the freezer—don't make no more. Why did Bochio have to become a hood again after all these years? Start messing around with a perfect crime, no less?”