Читать интересную книгу Shakedown for Murder - Ed Lacy

     “Suit yourself, friend. But don't let me trip over you.”

     “Thanks.” I zipped up the floppy windbreaker on the way out.

     I didn't feel like rushing back to more of Bessie's needling. There was a dreary-looking bar across the street. I went in and ordered a beer. The bartender was a tall man with the kind of shoulder and arm development that came from doing something a darn sight harder than mixing drinks. He had weak eyes and his thick glasses gave his fleshy face an unreal look. There were a couple of young kids, about eighteen or nineteen, hanging around a pin-ball machine. They were drinking straight gin, or maybe it was vodka.

     I bought a bag of potato chips and sipped my brew slowly. Bessie said Jerry used his mumbling dialect on everybody in town—did that include the doc? If so, how could a woman across the road understand what he was yelling? And Barnes—now, why would a doctor be shouting at a patient? The whole dumb village was acting screwy: first they didn't want to call it murder, pass it off as an accident. Then they tagged Jerry and from the way Roberts acted, he couldn't care less if it held up in court. He seemed to want an acquittal.

     “.... I hear he's a big-time private eye.” This was followed by a nervous giggle from the pinball crowd. I looked into the dirty mirror behind the bar; the three punks were leaning against the machine, staring at me with crocked eyes. One of them said, loudly, “I heard he's FBI. Sent down here to root up trouble. I ain't hit an FBI yet, but there's always a first time.”

     I felt a chill, which had nothing to do with my sunburn. These were tall husky young fellows, with SOP crewcuts and loud sport shirts. But they were wearing work shoes and looked accustomed to hard work—and in shape. There was more mumbling and I finished my beer as quickly as I could—without making it look fast, nodded at the barkeep and headed for the door.

     I'd reached the sidewalk when they came out, all of them swinging. I blocked a wild right and punched one of them in the eye. A smack on the chin dropped me. I sat on the walk, dizzy, and trying to think of a lot of things— like curling up to protect myself from kicks. And if the bastards had busted my bridgework.

     My head was spinning but I saw the bartender come out and give one of the kids a swift kick in the can, tell him, “I warned you about starting any roughhouse in my place, Tommy. Try this again and I'll droplock you through the wall. And I ain't kidding.”

     A pair of long legs in black puttees passed me. Roberts moved nicely. He grabbed the nearest kid and slapped him across the face. A hell of a slap, the mouth went out of shape for a moment and his hair shook. When he let go, the punk went reeling down the street. The others started to run but Roberts took two steps and backhanded another across the nose, making it bleed. He was damn good, always had his right fist cocked for real trouble. He reached down and lifted me to my feet. “You okay, Lund?”

     I put a finger in my numb mouth; my bridgework was still in one piece. I said, “Yeah.”

     The bartender said, “Sorry, mister. I thought they were only fooling. Come in and get a shot on the house, fix you up.”

     “I'm okay.” I started toward Bessie's car. Roberts walked along with me. “They thought you were here to look into a hot-rod accident. A kid was killed in a race, in a car stolen out of state from New Jersey. Was some talk about the Feds coming into the case. They were just scared.”

     “They weren't scared enough.” Feeling returned to my jaw.

     “Kids used to do a lot of cop-fighting down here, their form of juvenile delinquency, I guess. Matter of fact, that's why I was first taken on, as a special, to handle the kids. Sure you're okay, Mr. Lund?”

     I got in the car and said I was fine. Hell of it was, Roberts really sounded sincere.

     “It won't happen again, Lund. You understand, one of those things. I'll drop in on the kids, at their homes, in an hour or so, put the fear of the law in them. I don't stand for cops being slugged here.”

     “Sure, they were liquored up. Thanks.”

     “Anyway, I'm glad you socked one of the clowns. Handle yourself good for a guy your age.”

     I waved and drove off, wondering if he was kidding me; not sure. I couldn't make this hick burg, couldn't figure it even a little.

Chapter 3

     If there's one thing I can't take, it's to be awakened suddenly. Bessie shook me awake and said, “It's seven o'clock, Matt.”

     I sat up in bed and thought maybe I was lucky: she could have started at five a.m. She began talking about Jerry and I told her to hold it—she didn't want to mention murder in front of the kid. Maybe she knew I was sore; when I came out of the bathroom she had some of this thick Turkish coffee waiting and a few cups of that put me back in a normal mood. Andy took the boat kit I'd brought him to a friend's house and by eight, Bessie was driving me to Riverside. Her pretty face looked tired. I asked, “Didn't you sleep last night?”

     “How could I, worrying about Jerry?”

     “Honey, don't carry this landsman stuff too far. Frankly, I don't get the play here, but even Roberts doesn't seem to think a court will find the old boy guilty so....”

     “No, Matt, that won't be good enough.”

     “What won't?”

     “He's an old man, we can't even have him stand trial. Don't you see, it would kill him, be the final victory for End Harbor. We have to prove he's innocent before trial. Another thing, nobody can be positive of an acquittal.”

     “Bessie, come back to earth. You say we 'can't let him stand trial'; like it was up to us. There's only so much we can do.”

     “Matt, I got to know Jerry because he is of Greek descent, like I am, but I'd go to bat for him anyway. I mean, his being Greek has nothing to do with it. You know how damn biased the Harbor is toward him.”

     “Aren't you just as biased, in his favor? At this point we don't know he didn't kill the doc—we merely think so. Now let's get some facts, find out exactly where we stand, before we do any more gum-beating.”

     “Of course. And I'm very proud of you, father-in-law, for helping poor Jerry.”

     “What the hell, looks like a rainy day anyway,” I said, not entirely kidding.

     “You louse!” she cried, hitting me with her knee. “For that I won't buy Matty any liver for supper. What enjoyment do you get from that fat-assed cat? All he does is sleep.”

     “At least he doesn't talk much.”

     “Very funny! Matt, ever think of getting married again?”

     “As the joke goes, marriage is nice to think about—if you only think and don't....”

     She cut me off with a four-letter word and drove the rest of the way in silence.

     At the Riverside Police Headquarters they flatly refused to let us see Jerry, since we weren't relatives. I got the sergeant-in-charge aside and showed him my badge. He said, “You must be the joker who started all this. I worked out of the 130th Precinct in New York for a couple years myself—harness bull. Then I moved out here for the summer and got on this force. Slower life, and better for the heart. This is a screwy case, they got nothing against this Greek that will wash in court.”

     “Think he'll be indicted?”

     “Are you kidding? You know these grand juries, do anything the D.A. asks. We told Roberts he had a watery case but he seems happy.”

     “I know, but why?”

     “Tell ya, in these villages, what the hell, the chief is lucky to be taking home fifty bucks a week, and no civil service standing or pension. Not much cushion money around, either. Roberts is a glamour boy and beside showing off that fancy uniform all he does is chase a speeder now and then, maybe lock up a drunk. So he's puffed up about 'solving' this murder. Hey, how come you're interested in all this?”

     “He's a friend of my daughter-in-law. You know how it is, she expects me to act like Dick Tracy because I have a badge. I just wanted to be sure Jerry has a lawyer, cigarettes.”

     “Well, I don't see no harm in your seeing him. We can't even understand what he says—when he talks. I hear he won't have either of the two lawyers in End Harbor. Guess the court will have to appoint somebody. I'll give you fifteen minutes with him. As for the babe, your daughter-in-law, that's out.”

     Bessie was sore as a boil when I told her she couldn't go in, but finally agreed to do her shopping and meet me outside the station house in a half hour.

     The cells were pretty good, modern and heated, with a sink and toilet in each one. The cell block attendant was a sleepy-looking fat character. When he started to recite the rules, I told him I had the same job in New York, and he said in a bored voice, “Then you know the score. Don't cause me no trouble, pops.”

     “Pops” yet, and the fat slob looked less than a dozen years younger than me.

     Jerry seemed to have doubled his age overnight, his body was shrunken, face more wrinkled, his color splotchy. He didn't get up and I sat on the clean bunk beside him, explained about Bessie wanting to see him.

     He muttered, “Mista, whata you want with me?” We were back to the dialect.

     “Jerry, we only have a few minutes, so cut the crap and talk straight. Have you money to hire a lawyer?”

     “Money? What gooda is money? Whatta good any lawyerman do me? This all one frame.”

     I shook him. “Damn it, talk straight! What do you mean, a frame?”

     He stared at the floor a moment, started to cry. I shook him again, whispered fiercely, “What's the matter with you? Bessie and I are your friends. Look, you can still lick the bastards. You fought them all these years, why give up the last round?” As usual tears had me spooked.

     Rubbing his hand across his face he asked quietly, “What do you want to know, Mr. Lund?”

     “Did you do it? Now, wait; understand, I have to know that for sure.”

     He shook his head slowly, as if it took a great effort. “The doc and me, we never rubbed together well, especially when I first came to the Harbor, but I always admired him. Town never had much use for him either. No, of course I didn't do it. Do you believe that?”

     “I wouldn't be sitting here if I didn't believe you. Exactly what happened the night before last? What were you fighting with Barnes about?”

     He straightened up. “What fight?”

     “A Mrs. Bond, who lives across the street from you, claims you shouted at the doc, something about you wouldn't be responsible for his life. And the doc was yelling at you. Did you say that to Barnes?”

     “Well, yes. Because my garden has always been better than hers, all the time this Bond woman must spy on me. I said that to the doc, but only as a joke.”

     “If it was such a joke, why were you shouting it at the top of your lungs?”

     “Ed—Doc Barnes—used a hearing aid but it wasn't working so good. Maybe the batteries were weak. So we were talking loud. Now you talk as if you don't believe me, Mr. Lund.”

     “Look, I have to ask questions because I need the complete picture if I'm going to be of any help to you. Now what happened that night?”

     Jerry shrugged. “Nothing happened. I keep telling you that.”

     “Damn it, Jerry, wake up! Can't you understand this isn't a game or a... look, tell me everything you did from the time you dropped me off at Bessie's cottage.”

     “That was the last train for the night, so I went home for my supper. I had a couple bottles of beer. After I eat I'm listening to the radio—music—and I begin to feel sick, real dizzy. I know an attack is coming on so I phoned the doc. I'm feeling miserable until he comes over and he raises sand because I'm off my diet. The doc was sore at me. I told him, like I always do, to fix me up, that I'm too old to worry about a diet, eating is one of the few joys left in life for me. He said that if I didn't stick to the diet he wouldn't be responsible for my life. So making a wisecrack, I tell him nobody but God is responsible for life. He didn't hear and I yelled I wouldn't be responsible for his life either. He gave me an insulin shot, and a pill to make me sleep. Edward said he had to see the old goat, then he could get some sleep himself. Then he left.”

     “What's this 'old goat' mean?”

     Jerry shrugged. “That he had another call to make. I didn't ask him.”

     “What time did he leave?”

     “Maybe nine thirty, maybe ten. The pill made me sleepy and I went to bed at once. In the morning I took some ladies to the train, you saw me at the station, and there I hear about Edward being killed in an accident. It upset me, like I said, I admired him. In the afternoon they come and arrest me. You see it's a frame. They kept asking can anyone prove I was at home all night That's silly—they right well know I live alone.”

     “Did you tell Roberts about the 'old goat'?”

     “Sure. I told him exactly what I told you.”

     “Where's the medicine bottle the doc gave you, the stuff that put you to sleep?”

     “What bottle? He gave me one pill.”

     I tried to think of something else to ask but my mind was going in circles. “I don't believe they have anything on you that will stand up in court, a jury will find you not guilty and....”

     “But in the eyes of the Harbor I will always be a murderer! Bad enough for me in town up to now.... Even if I'm free, I will have to leave the Harbor.”

     “Jerry, you either have to fight this or give up. First step is to get a lawyer, a young kid just starting out, if you can. A Riverside lawyer. A kid will act like a legal-eagle because an acquittal means good publicity for him. You want Bessie to find a lawyer for you?”

     “All right, I'll get one.”