Читать интересную книгу Shakedown for Murder - Ed Lacy

     “Did Miss Endin ever mention any friends in Hampton? Say, some place where she might go on her lunch hour, or after work?”

     “Naw. She didn't talk much. Even though I've worked beside her for over a year now, Jane ain't the buddy-buddy type. You see, she's old, and an Indian. Last....”

     “Old?”

     “For crying out tears, I bet she's thirty if she's a day. Last summer I suggested we might take in the pow-wow at the reservation. I figured her being Indian and all. Man, she near flipped, told me off. You can't figure a woman like—”

     “What reservation?”

     She brushed her hair again, with both hands this time, to give me the full view. It wasn't much of a view. “Mister, you don't know a little about this end of the Island. Guess you must be a big-time dick brought in special for the murder. I know that's what it's about.” She gave me a cute wink.

     “Where is the reservation?”

     “Outside Qotaque there's this Indian reservation. Every summer all the Indians living in Brooklyn and the other cities, they're supposed to return and hold dances, and all this old square stuff. I went once. It was from hunger, strictly tourist bait jive.” She glanced at the wall clock. “You know I'm losing time, this is a piece-work deal. Anything else?”

     “That's all. Thank you.”

     “What they want Jane for, witness against this old Greek?”

     “No, I'm merely checking.”

     She winked again. “You wouldn't tell me anyway. Yon know, you ain't what I pictured a dick looking like.”

     “Sorry, I left my muscles home,” I said, heading for the door.

     The rain was coming down harder and my back started to ache. Twenty minutes later I was in Qotaque, which was even smaller than the Harbor. A stiff wind was driving the rain and it was almost dark enough to be night. I stopped for coffee and a hamburger, got directions on finding the reservation. I followed the directions and when I reached the Shinnecock Canal I knew I'd passed the turn-off.

     I drove back slowly, the windshield wiper fighting a losing battle, and found it—not a road but a country lane with a faded wooden sign. The rain had made the dirt road into a mud rut. I inched along, not seeing any houses.

     If I'd been going faster I might have made it: the car slid into a hole, or some damn thing, and stuck. My right rear wheel raced like a runaway prop, sending up a shower of mud. The car skidded a few inches from side to side, sank back into the hole. I tried backing out; it was a waste of time.

     I sloshed over to the bushes on the side of the “road” to pull out a handful of branches; nothing gave except my skin. I took out my penknife and hacked away like a cub scout. By the time I was thoroughly soaked, the rain chilling the remains of yesterday's sunburn, I had an armful of small branches. I packed these in front of the rear wheels and the car went a big fat two feet, then slid back into the mud. Locking the ignition, I started walking in the rain, cursing myself for not having the sense to stay in my comfortable New York flat.

     After I walked a few hundred yards there was a turn in the mud and I came upon a couple of shacks and a store. I felt as if I'd stumbled on some forgotten Tobacco Road. There was a light in the store. I tracked in mud. The guy behind the counter looked more like a Negro than an Indian, although he had long white brushed hair reaching his shoulders. He was wearing a worn beaded vest over a faded shrimp-colored sport shirt. He was short and wide.

     “Come for souvenirs? Fall in the mud, mister?” His voice was a rough croak and his wide mouth toothless.

     “My car is stuck. Can you...?”

     “Ah, you need gas. I have a pump behind the store.”

     “I'm stuck in the mud. Can you help me?” The light was one small bulb and the few cans and boxes on the shadowy shelves seemed terribly stale-looking. In a separate showcase he had some dusty toy tom-toms, beaded belts and feathered hats, left over from the last tourist invasion.

     “Ah, the mud. Washington still robs the Indian, for years we have asked for a paved road. I'm Chief Tom. I have a truck if you want a tow. Ten bucks.”

     “Ten bucks! That mud ambush out there your work?”

     “You want tow or not?” There was an evil gleam in his bloodshot eyes. “You're blocking the road so I'll have to tow your car out of the way. Still cost you ten bucks.” He pulled back his vest with a proud movement to show me a large, highly polished gold badge. “I'm a deputy, in charge of traffic here.”

     “Thanks for going through the motions of asking if I wanted a tow.” I felt tired, no longer the super-detective. I dried my face with my handkerchief, pulled out my pipe. It was wet. “This the reservation?”

     He nodded. “Indians dumb. Government give them land and a house here for free, but the young bucks, they leave. Maybe go into army, never come back here. Live in lousy tenements in Brooklyn.”

     “Sure, they're crazy to leave this paradise. You know a Miss Jane Endin?”

     His eyes became cagey. “I know her. That's what I mean. She has house and land in End Harbor, but if she was smart she would sell it and come live here for nothing. She's not smart.”

     “I know, she isn't a customer of yours. Where can I find her?”

     “What you want to see her for?”

     I flashed my buzzer but he grabbed my hand and pulled back his vest—held my badge against his. He gave me a grin full of purple gums; his badge was bigger. “What she done?”

     I jerked my hand away, put my badge in my pocket. “Nothing. I want to ask about a friend of hers.”

     Chief Tom gave me a wise look. “You're a Federal man. Income tax trouble?”

     “No. When did you see Miss Endin last?”

     “Let me see... five, six years ago. Ain't she in the Harbor no more?”

     I suppose I should have asked more questions, visited the other shacks. But my back was aching, I had a chill, and was so damn tired all I could think of was soaking in a hot tub—if I could find one. I was too weary to even haggle with him about the price. I said, “Get your truck.”

     He pulled a fancy white trenchcoat from under the counter that made him look ridiculous, carefully brushed his long hair before putting on a battered fishing cap. Locking the door, he told me to wait. A moment later he came roaring around in an old six-wheeled army truck so high I had to pull myself up to the running board.

     Reaching my car, Tom said he would push me out. I asked if there was any way he could circle around, come up behind the car and pull me out. He told me there was another road but it meant driving miles out of the way, and he pushed cars out after every rain. I got behind the wheel and he inched the big truck forward. His bumper seemed to be on my headlights. When I shouted it was all wrong he yelled back, “Just keep her in neutral and don't worry. I push you to the main road.”

     I told him to be careful. He had the truck in low and I kept the door open, leaning out to see where I was backing. My car moved backwards as if it was a toy, the glare of his lights in my eyes. When the main road was in sight I signaled he could stop pushing me. At that second I went into another dam hole and his bumper came down on my lights with a sickening crash of metal.

     We both jumped out. Tom croaked, “What's the matter with you, you crazy!” and examined his bumper—which a tank couldn't have dented. Both my headlights were smashed, the fenders dented, and my bumper was hanging.

     He said, “What did you put her in gear for?”

     “Who put her in gear? Didn't you see me waving for you to stop?”

     “I thought you were waving me on. I said I'd push you out to the road.”

     “You dumb bastard!” I kicked the bumper. It fell off and I picked it up, tried to shake off the mud, then put it in the back of the car.

     Tom put his hand under my fenders. “They're not touching the tires, you can drive.” He held out his hand. “Ten bucks.”

     “I ought to sue you for....”

     “Mister, ten bucks. That's the rate.”

     “I'll give you the back of my hand ten times! I'll....”

     He suddenly grabbed my windbreaker and before I knew what the devil was happening, he actually picked me up and threw me into the mud. “Don't get yourself hurt, mister. You don't know how to drive, ain't money out of my pocket. Ten bucks, please.” He glanced down at his trenchcoat—it wasn't even muddy.

     I sat up in the mud. I had to tangle with a muscle man, and the long haired son-of-a-bitch probably was older than me, too! My behind was soaking wet. I stood up, wanted to slug him but decided he'd flatten me. Without a word I gave him two five-dollar bills, got in the car and backed out. I headed for End Harbor, expecting to b» collared any second for driving without lights.

     I'd never been this angry before in my life. The great Sherlock Lund—a mass of mud! One thing, I couldn't have Bessie and Andy see me like this.

     I cooled off as I drove, paying full attention to the rainy road. I could see fairly well, there were enough cars going the other way to light up the road. I didn't stop at Hampton but pulled into a garage on the outskirts of End Harbor. A young fellow eating his supper in the office came out wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “What happened to you? New car, too.”

     “I ran into Sitting Bull. Tell me how bad it is. Got a test room?”

     He nodded toward a small white door. Inside I washed most of the mud off, using a lot of paper towels. I looked pretty good, considering the damn oversize windbreaker, but I was still wet all over. When I came out the mechanic was back in the office, finishing his supper. I went in, tried drying out my pipe bowl with matches as he said, “Nothing wrong with your lights, just need new glass and bulbs. Where you heading for?”

     “I'm staying in the Harbor.”

     He finished his container of coffee, said, “Brooklyn license plates. Well, I know the summer has really started with you....”

     “Aw, cut it off. Can you fix the lights now? I want to get back to my cottage.”

     “Can't put the glass in, but I can give you bulbs,. Look, suppose you bring the car around in the morning and leave it. I'll straighten out the fenders, paint 'em, take care of the lights and the bumper. Do it in a day if I at busy. Cost you thirty-five dollars.”

     “Okay.”

     He went out to the car and put in bulbs, carried the bumper back into the shop. The lights weren't much good, but at least I wouldn't get a ticket. As I lit my pipe and started the car, he said, “That's seventy-five cents for the bulbs. Deductible from the thirty-five dollars but payable now.”

     “It's touching to see your faith in your fellow men,” I said, giving him three quarters.

     He smiled. “I'm a union man—E. Pluribus Unum. See you in the morning, mac.”

     He was so pleased with his corny wisecrack I didn't say a word, puffed harder on the pipe. I still had to kill time until Andy went to bed. There was one thing I'd overlooked—the scene of the crime. Not that I expected to find anything there now. I should have gone there yesterday. As a detective I was a good cell block attendant. I rolled down the window, asked, “Know where the killing of the doctor happened?”

     He came to the office door, a sugar doughnut in his dirty hand. “Crazy the way people are on the morbid kick. I went out there myself to have a look this morning. Instead of turning into Main Street, take the other fork— that's Montauk Road. Follow that for about a mile and you'll see another road crossing it, a wide road. That's Bay Street. Make a right turn on Bay, away from the water. Couple hundred yards down you'll see a busted tree—that's the spot.”

     “Bay Street?” I repeated. Jane Endin lived on Bay Street—Roberts was trying hard to overlook the obvious clues.

     “Can't miss it, jack. There's a new brick house on one corner, boarded up—some rich cat who's been in Europe for last two years. On the opposite corner, toward the bay, you'll see a picket fence and a house. Not much of a house but nice piece of land. Belongs to an Indian gal. Don't forget, make a right turn on Bay.”

     Ten minutes later I was on Bay Street, looking at the big tree with the splintered gash in the thick trunk. The tree was at an angle, its roots torn up. It would probably die soon. Keeping my faint lights on the scene I walked around in the rain, not knowing what I expected to find... and finding nothing.

     Turning around I drove back to the highway. I stared at the boarded-up bright ranch house. The way Roberts operated, it could have belonged to Mr. Nelson. Then I looked at the Endin house. It was a weather-beaten two-story affair with at least an acre of land behind the low picket fence. There was an old car in the driveway; no lights in the house. I pulled off the road, decided to snoop around the house.

     Of course there wasn't anything to see. A grape arbor in the back of the house, an unused chicken coop, a locked Shed. On the door there was a knocker shaped like an arrowhead, or maybe it was an arrowhead. I looked into one of the dark windows. As I turned away a porch light came on and the door opened.

     A woman stood there who made me forget all about Indians, being a detective, even about feeling tired. She wasn't any beauty. She was tall and straight, black hair with streaks of gray pulled severely away from her angular face. Her eyes were bright and tired, and her face came down to an over-long jaw. Her skin was creamy and she was wearing a man's gray shirt and dungarees. Perhaps she was far from a beauty, but there was such a bitter, sullen look about her—she looked sexy. In fact, she looked like she was ready to explode with sex. I mean, she seemed about thirty-five and... well, as if she'd been storing it up all those years.

     Her eyes took in my wet and dirty clothes before she asked, “What do you want?” It was a cold voice, proud and clear.