The Best That Ever Did It - Ed Lacy

“It's a waste of money to...”

“Are you working for me?”

“A murder case can run into a lot of days and...”

“Mr. Harris, I want to hire you.” A note of firmness crept into her voice.

“Okay, long as you know what you're buying.” I'd made my pitch and I certainly could use the money. “Only I'm telling you in front, I don't go in for shootings, or any rough stuff, all that movie slop.”

“Mr. Harris, this isn't a movie—it's very real to me. I have a special something I want you to look into, something the police refuse to pay any attention to.”

“Like what?” A job like this had to last at least ten days— three hundred bucks would knock off a lot of bills.

“Like—suicide,” she said in a whisper, her eyes on the verge of tears.

I must have registered astonishment for the second time. “Something was troubling your husband?” I asked like a real moron.

“I don't know. Edward and I were happy, very much in love,” she said quickly. “Ed was courageous and brave. He was cited twice by the department. He was an... well, an aggressive man. Certainly a man like that isn't shot in the back without—they say he never even went for his gun.”

“Maybe he never had a chance to get it out?”

“No, they say this other man, this Frank Andersun, was shot first, so Ed must have had a few seconds to get his gun. But somehow, I feel Ed didn't want to fight back, that he wanted to die. That's the only explanation for his being shot in the back. And that's why it's so important for me to learn if he was a suicide, and the only way to do that is to find the person who killed him.”

“As his wife, you'd certainly know any reason he had for killing himself, so...”

“I don't know of any reason. I suspect suicide because Ed wasn't the type to be caught with his gun bolstered.” Her voice was almost curt.

“The police, what do they think of the suicide theory?”

“They don't think anything of it. That's why I'm hiring you.”

I shook my head. “I don't know if I can deliver. All I can promise is to give it a try. Murder is over my head.”

“That's all I expect, an honest effort.” She stood up, taking a checkbook out of a dainty black leather bag. “I'll give you a retainer of $200.” She bent over the desk to write and I had a whiff of her perfume; it may not have been exactly subtle, but she smelled fine. “I live on Riverside Drive, and my address is on the check. I'll expect you at my apartment every night at eight.”

“At your apartment? Every night? Why?”

“To report what you have found out during the day. It will be more convenient than my coming here.”

“Want to be sure you get your money's worth every day.”

“Yes, I do,” she said quietly. “Anything wrong with that?”

“Mrs. Turner, I don't work from nine to five. I may be busy on the case in the evening. Also, as you probably know from your husband, detective work is mostly waiting around, plodding through a million blind alleys till you stumble—and I mean stumble—upon a lead, a stray clue, that untangles the whole puzzle. Why, I may work for days without coming up with a thing.”

“Long as you're working, that's all I ask. It isn't that I don't trust you, Mr. Harris, I can't stand the waiting. I want to feel that something—anything—is being done.”

“Suppose I report whenever I've some news?”

“I'm sorry, but for my own peace of mind, it must be every night, starting this evening. Is that understood?”

“It's your money.”

“I know. I'll see you at eight, tonight. Good day, Mr. Harris.” I stood up and she wasn't as short as she seemed—I'm six four and she came up to my shoulders. I walked her to the door, then lit a cigarette and came back to my desk, stared at the check. It was ten minutes to two, plenty of time to make the bank. I looked through the second mail—two ads and a phone bill. No answer from a character who had moved—with a TV set he still owed nine installments on. I looked up his last known address and phone number—he'd been sharing a room with another guy who was very close-mouthed. Locking my phone and desk, I went downstairs and into the coffeepot on the corner. Cy was plying his hobby, trying to make time with Alma the waitress. I told him, “Leaving for the day now. Be able to give you the rent tomorrow.”

“Any calls for me?”

I shook my head and Cy made some corny crack to Alma and took off. The place was empty, except for the cook. I laid a dollar on the counter, asked Alma, “Want to make one of those calls for me?”

“Easiest bucks I've ever made,” she said, a smile cracking her hard face. I wrote the name and number on the back of an envelope, gave her the pencil and a dime. “Same old routine.”

“I know. How's your kid?”

“Swell.”

“When you going to invite me over to make supper for her? I love kids.”

“One of these days, soon,” I lied.

We went over to the wall phone and she dialed, asked in a sexy voice, “Bobby in? This is a friend of his. Had a date with him a couple weeks ago, but I got sick. Oh you, no cracks... all right... all right, you guessed it. Thought I might keep the date tonight. I sound like what? (She winked at me and sneered at the phone.) Sound pretty hot yourself. Sure, I wouldn't mind going out with you, but I got to ask Bobby-boy if it's okay first. What? Oh, met him at a dance hall. Now don't give me a line, honey. How do I know he'll say it's okay? I never two-time my boy friends. A new Ford? That's real gone, honey. Sure I'm free this Saturday, free the whole week end, but got to ask Bobby first. Wouldn't want me to pull that on you, would you? No, no, never mind my number, I have yours and I'm mad about new Fords. Tell you, after I keep my date with Bobby, I'll give you a ring. Not stringing you... don't know what I'd do for a new car. What? (A real giggle.) Fresh thing! Hanging up this minute unless you let me speak to Bobby. What—where did he move to? Honest?”

She wrote a Long Island address on the envelope, handed it to me. There was some more corny talk, then her dime was up and she hung up, said, “What a creep.”

I phoned the TV company, told them the new address, added, “Nope, send your own men or the cops. I don't do strong-arm work. Never mind that I'm-built-for-it chatter. Put a ten-dollar check in the mail, please.”

As I turned away from the phone, Alma grabbed my arm, said, “Make a muscle for me, Barney.”

“Some other time, honey, have to make the bank now. Thanks.”

I went over to the garage and got my car. It was a prewar Buick roadmaster and looked shot, but the motor was spotless with a supercharger of my own design, an adult hot rod that would carry me 110 miles an hour any time I wanted. In the summer I took the kid out to Bridgehampton to watch the auto races; sometimes I thought about entering them.

From the bank I drove up St. Nicholas Avenue and parked directly in front of the police precinct, which was built in 1889, according to the date on the cornerstone of the ugly building, and looked every minute of it. I asked the balding desk sergeant if Lieutenant Swan was in, and he nodded. Al's office was painted a bile green and had a minimum of furniture—an old desk and two chairs.

In sharp contrast to his office, Al looked modern and sharp. He was built like a strong middleweight and wore a girdle to keep his stomach flat. His clothes were the kind that said they were expensive, without shouting it, and Al took up a lot of time with his “grooming.” He was the lieutenant in charge of the precinct detective squad, and he moved carefully behind his desk, as if afraid he might soil his manicured hands. But there wasn't anything foppish about Al; his fat face had the sullen cast of a fighter and he could be a mean bastard. I got my wide bottom down into the other chair, said, “See you're doing me favors again.”

He put down the report he was reading, sat back in his chair —first adjusting the shoulder holster that looked clean and neat against his white-on-white shirt. Al slipped me a tight smile. “Hello, you big slob, expecting you.” He had a rasping croak for a voice, claimed he had once stopped a baseball with his Adam's apple when he was a young cop trying to break up a street game. He asked, “Want a drink of ginger beer?”

I hesitated, not sure I wanted a shot so early in the day, or at all. My brother-in-law wasn't a man of imagination and had one practical joke he played over and over—for some reason he got a bang out of spiking everything from milk to water. When you asked for water in his house you usually got straight gin. Maybe it had something to do with the fact he never touched the stuff, not even beer, himself. Although practical jokers ran in his family, Violet would always tell anyone going to the bathroom in our place, “Just mention my name and you'll get a good seat,” then get hysterical with laughter, no matter how many times she said it. Bathroom jokes were her specialty, including such corn as toilet paper with gags on it, but otherwise Violet was a most intelligent woman.

“Got sodas in tin cans now,” Al said, taking one from a small picnic cooler he kept under his desk. Tossing the can at me, he pointed to an opener on his cluttered desk. I casually glanced at the cap—it didn't seem to have been tampered with.

“How's Ruthie?”

“Fine.” I opened the ginger beer, took a cautious sip. It was half rum but I drank it without showing any reaction and Al looked disappointed. I thought of the time the jerk had put in —carefully opening the can, spiking it, then recapping it with the skill of a precision mechanic.

“When you bringing her out to the house? May and the boy always asking for her. Ought to see my rumpus room now— over a thousand feet of electric track and...”

“We'll be out one of these days. What did you send this Turner woman to me for?” I finished the drink, bent the bottle cap between my thumb and forefinger. Al tried hard not to watch, but could not take his eyes away. I threw the bent cap on his desk.

“She wanted a private dick. You're one, so ...”

“Stop it.”

Al picked up the cap gently, looked at it, tried to straighten it, then tossed it into the wastebasket. He grinned at me, showing his neat even teeth. “What's the beef, Barney, throwing away business?”

“You know I don't go in for crime stuff, but...”

“But you took the case?” Al cut in.

I nodded. “But I don't feel right about it.”

“Barney, stop knocking yourself out. This Turner broad is a little buggy about her husband's death. She's got his funeral money from the city, some insurance green, and was hell bent on hiring herself a private dick. Honest, I told her she was throwing the dough away, but she insisted—kept getting in our hair—so I figured you'd be the cheapest tin badge she could get. And might as well be you picking up the easy coin.”

“Easy?”

“Not a damn thing you can do on this case except stop looking like a bum. Why the hell can't you press that suit, comb your hair?”

“Forget my hair. Al, I'm going to give her an honest day's work every...”

Al waved a manicured hand—his right—the one with the broken knuckle. “Don't. Don't do a thing but sit back and wait for us to crack it. And keep her off our necks. The entire police force is running into stone walls all over this mess, so what can a private jerk do? That's what I kept telling her but she became a pest... and I knew you wouldn't rook her too much on the expense account. Also Mrs. Turner is a sweet-looking number and you need a wife to look after Ruthie— Who knows what will happen?”

I stared at him for a quick moment. Al had this habit of laughing at you with his eyes, mocking you, while the rest of his mug was deadpan. Vi did that too, one of the few things about her that used to annoy me. “Since when did you join the Cupid Union? Trade in your rod for a bow and arrow? Forget my love life. Mrs. Turner thinks it's suicide.”

Al laughed loudly—a tearing sandpaper sound. “She gave me a headache with that phonograph record. Look, Ed Turner wasn't the lad to knock himself off. While he was still a probationary cop, a rookie, he made a good pinch—a lucky one— nabbed some clown the Feds wanted. He was made a third-grade detective and after that—gangway for eager-beaver Ed. He was one of these rough young studs who hadn't learned to quiet down—a punk with a badge. Always using his hands instead of his head.”

“That include holding his mitts out for dough?”

Al nodded. “Off the record, yes, and clumsy at it too. Transferred once because of his itchy palms. I had to talk to him—get rough a couple of times, before he smartened up. Hell, a little cushion money—that's expected, but this fool tried jazzing the numbers syndicate.”

“Maybe they paid him off with lead?”

Al snorted. “Don't be corny. Told you I wised the boy up, told him not to cut in on the big brass's gravy. This case is a weirdie; not an angle makes sense. Got the slug from Andersun —and that's spelled s-u-n. Shot by a Luger .38. Turner's went through his body and we can't find it.”

“Suppose you searched the streets?”

“'Suppose you searched the streets?' ” Al mimicked me. “What the hell you think we did, played games on the block! Damn slug probably stuck in a tire, or some other part of a car, was driven away and lost. All we know is Turner had his car, an old Chevvy, parked and he must have stepped out of the car when he saw Andersun get it. Stopped one himself.”

“Without reaching for his gun?”

Al waved his hand. “Yes, and that doesn't add up either. Told you, Turner was one of these ambitious shoot-first lads.”

“What about Andersun—with a u?”

“Nothing. Local boy, stock clerk, absolutely no record. Just won a slogan contest that day, won himself a grand, celebrating at the bar. Going to take a trip to Europe—it was in all the papers—a publicity plant about his winning. Didn't have the money on him, hadn't even got the check yet. Anyway, this wasn't a robbery. Turner had over a hundred in his wallet. Andersun kid is clean, a hard-working slob, not even a lover boy. Lot of people heard the shots, but nobody saw a damn thing.”

I thought for a moment. “Who got second prize in this contest?”

“Barney, take it easy. A sixty-three-year-old grandmother who lives in some hick town in Michigan came in second— never left town in her life,” Al said wearily. “Any more questions, Mr. Holmes?”