Authors: Daniel Boyd
I took it from him as he was bringing it around, just jerked it out of his hand and went through it fast. Come up with his driver’s license.
“You still live over on Quincy?” I asked him.
“Uh—” he couldn’t get the question at first. Then, “Yes. I live overtop Jake’s place.” He said it fast, but not too fast, and I was glad of that because it showed me he wasn’t lying. Probably.
“Kind of noisy there, ain’t it?” I asked.
“Well—I guess.” He couldn’t figure out where any of this was headed to, and the look on his face it was a little like a picture I saw once of Alice in Wonderland, all wide-eyed and what-the-hell. “But it’s, um, convenient.”
“Good,” I said, “I like that you live someplace convenient. It’s real good for you.” I squeezed the license back in his wallet and stuck it back in his pocket. “Just remember I know where it’s at.”
He figured it out. And it woke him up.
“Now this man,” I pointed down to Walter, “he’s an important witness and he’s your patient, and you got to get him ready to travel. Understand?”
“Perfectly,” he said, “this man is my patient and—”
“And he’s got to be ready to move out. And soon.” I stood close and spoke soft, and I put my hand back on Robbins’ shoulder, just to kind of remind him. “So you’re going to get him ready to go. He’s going to need bandages, those thick kind, on his hands and feet. Put his coat back on him first. And maybe slip him some more of those pills for the pain. And find some rubbers, some galoshes or something, to go on over his feet after you bandage them up. You listening?”
“Absolutely. I’m to bandage him and—”
“You put his coat on him first, that way you don’t get trouble from the hand bandages. Then once you get his feet wrapped—what do you do then?”
“Then I find a pair of overshoes big enough to put on over the bandages.”
“Right as sunshine.” I gave him a smile, sort of. “Then you put him in that wheelchair and you take him out back to where that glass door is by the parking lot where all the cop cars are parked. And you wait there with him—wait inside there where it’s nice and warm, understand—and I’ll be there right along. You still with me?”
“Completely.” And he was, he was really with me now. Something about the situation it struck him funny and exciting, like he’d got past trying to make sense of things and now he was just kind of going along for the nice ride and kind of tickled to think of his boss getting clocked out by a black man.
Made me glad I hadn’t hit him.
“This man is my patient,” he said it again, like he meant it, “and I shall have him ready for travel in ten minutes or less. Is there anything further, Officer?”
Yeah
, I thought
, go through the phone book and find me a cheap lawyer for when this whole thing falls apart
. But I just said, “I’ll see you around back.”
I headed out. One more stop to make before I met up with Drapp and collected the money.
December 20, 1951
7:35 PM
Brother Sweetie and Mort
“Boxer kept playing?” Sweeney was trying to get the story straight. “He played cards some more after you won the fifty? Didn’t act mad and kick you out?”
“Played cards and lost. And then he robbed me. Just took it all, took everything I won.” Like with Helen, Mort couldn’t get it across to Sweeney. He couldn’t put it into words, about being treated like nothing, and how Boxer never even used his fists. “I got to kill him,” he said simply, raising the .38 for emphasis. “And you better not try to stop me.”
Sweeney thought for a moment about reaching over, taking the gun from Mort’s sweaty hand and clouting him over the head with it. Then changed his mind as an idea began to form. “Wouldn’t think of stopping you,” he said. “Wouldn’t even think of trying. You kill Boxer or he kills you, it ain’t no skin off my ass either way.”
“Okay then.”
“But I got a better idea.”
“Don’t try to stop me.”
“Hell, go ahead. I was just thinking it might be a good thing to get your money back off him first before you go killing anybody. Might be a good thing for the wife and kids to have some spending dough, what with you getting your butt thrown in the clink for murder and all.”
Another voice came from the doorway behind Mort. “Don’t go dragging me and the kids into it, you lousy mick.”
Mort spun around. Helen was in the doorway, sagging, out of breath and mad like he’d never seen her before: quiet-mad, not yelling or hitting, just real quiet. And real mad. Mort spun back to cover Sweeney again, but Sweeney was nowhere near him, just standing easy on the other side of the room.
“Well howdy, ma’am,” he said, and smiled at Helen, “I hope you’ll pardon my crude language. Didn’t realize a lady was present here.”
“Put it in a can,” she said. “Just put that kind of sweet talk in a can and set it on the shelf. I told Mort he shouldn’t go and get himself mixed up with a cheap crook like you, and now look what—”
“Helen I never—” Mort started.
“Yeah, this morning you said you wasn’t going to do anything against the law, you said. Just going to do a little job for Brother Sweetie here and get fifty bucks. And I told you not to get mixed up with a lousy crook like him and now look: he’s got you getting yourself robbed and ready to go kill somebody.”
Mort started to answer but Sweeney jumped in.
“And I was just telling Mort I’d give him his money back and get Boxer to apologize, without killing nobody. No need to go killing anyone at Christmas is there?”
“Apology ain’t enough,” Mort insisted, “and money ain’t enough, either. Not after how he treated me.”
“Wait a minute,” Helen said. She brushed past her husband and up to Sweeney, ignoring the gun, her eyes still hard, but now starting to soften with interest. “You’ll get our money back?”
“Hell, I’ll give it to you now. Out of my own pocket.”
“Watch that language in front of Helen.” Mort waved the gun that was beginning to seem increasingly irrelevant, even to him.
“I do beg your pardon, ma’am, but a man like me consorts sometimes with low company, and I grow careless in my speech.” He turned back to Mort. “You want to go kill Boxer, that’s your business. Understand it? Go ahead, blow his black head off, and while you’re there tell him I wish him Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. All I’m saying is I can get you that four hundred back—double it if you say so—and I’ll get Boxer Healey to go down on his knees and apologize to you in front of everybody. And he’ll do it sincere, too. And when he sees you in the street from now on, he’ll tip his hat. And call you Mister.”
“He will?”
“I’ll see he does. And I’ll give you your money right now tonight.”
“Well….” Mort lowered the gun.
“All I need is for you to do one little job for me—”
“That’s it,” Helen interrupted. “Mort you take that gun and walk downtown and kill Boxer. Whatever happens, it’ll be less grief for all of us than you getting mixed up any more with this crooked mick.”
Mort looked at Helen to see if she was joking.
“Helen, you wound me deeply.” Sweeney tried smiling at her. “All I have in mind is about an hour’s work, easy done and strictly legal.” He turned back to Mort, deciding honesty was the best policy, or at least the only choice since he hadn’t had time to come up with a good enough lie. “I need it done right quick and you’re the only one can do it for me. You’re important to me now, Mort. You’re probably the only man I could find tonight who ain’t wanted someplace, ain’t got a record and can stand still if a cop walks right up to him. I need you. Understand it?”
“Need him to do what exactly?”
“Just take that ice truck back there and drive up to Dell’s. You know Dell’s, don’t you, Mort?”
“Up by the Piketon bypass?”
“Sure. Just take that ice truck up there and wait for Eddie.”
“That’s all?” Helen asked, knowing it wasn’t, not even anything close to it.
“That’s all there is to it. Eddie’s going to drive up and load something into the truck and then you can either ride back here with him or—” He almost said “or go to hell” but caught himself in time. “—or whatever you want.”
“Sounds simple,” Mort said. “Now what makes it worth so much to you?”
“And why can only Mort do it?” Helen put in.
“Well now, Eddie may be driving a police car. Or something like it, that’s what he told me.” Sweeney looked straight at Mort, like a general looks at his troops when he wants to impress them with their own guts. “And you’re the only guy I know right this minute who can stand there and look innocent if a cop walks up and asks him his business.”
“He
is
innocent, you cheap crook.”
“Just what I meant to say,” Sweeney put in quickly. “Now what do
you
say, Mort? You want that eight hundred, or you want to go kill Boxer?”
“Make it a thousand,” Mort said.
“Eight hundred,” Sweeney said firmly, “and I’ll give it to you now this minute.”
“No.” Mort shook his head, winced from the pain and squeezed his eyes shut to clear his vision. “You give it to Helen.” He turned to his wife. “Honey you take that money and get back to the kids. And hurry. I never did like that Gomez girl.”
“She’s okay.”
“She smokes cigarettes. I saw her doing it once out back of the fire escape.”
“Maria?” Helen’s eyebrows shot up. “Smoking cigarettes?”
“Yep. Back of the fire escape.”
“And you never told me?”
“Well I didn’t—”
“I’ll leave you two to settle this.” Sweeney walked to a corner of his office, moved a table aside with his hip, kicked a rug out of the way, and lifted a plywood panel that covered a hole in the floor. Down inside the hole a safe sat, too heavy and awkward to move from that spot, which was why Sweeney put it there when he went into business in the first place. Sweeney dropped to his knees, dialed the combination quickly and opened the door. Looked down at the neat stacks of money within.
He quickly counted out forty twenties and went through the process of locking and hiding the safe again. Got his bulky body up with remarkable speed and even a touch of grace.
“Here you are, Helen,” he said, handing her the stack of bills, beaming like a jovial department-store Santa trying to get a messy kid off his lap. “And be careful going home.”
“This whole thing stinks on ice, ya crooked mick.” She took the money, though, and turned back to Mort. “
You
be careful, hon. And come back to us quick.”
There was something new in her eyes: growing respect, or maybe just the warm glow of holding all that money in her hands. Whatever it was, Mort drank it down like a hot, nourishing soup.
“See you soon, hon,” he said. And, feeling a little embarrassed there in front of Brother Sweetie, he kissed his wife, picked up the keys and started through the door to the garage, weaving a little.
“Mort.” Sweeney used his I’m-being-real-patient voice.
Mort stopped right where he was and turned to Sweeney.
“Leave the gun here, Mort.”
Sheepishly, hoping he didn’t look real dumb in front of Helen, Mort shuffled quickly to the desk and carefully, like a man does when he’s not used to handling weapons, set down the snub-nose .38. Then he shuffled even more quickly back out to the garage.
“I hope he’s up to it,” Sweeney muttered.
“You listen to me.” Helen started out the other door, to the parking lot, the street, her home and children. “That man can do anything he sets his mind to!” And then she was gone.
* * *
Less than a minute later, Sweeney lowered the garage door, watching Mort drive off in the ice truck. He was thoughtful as he returned to his office.
Let’s see: got to pick out the right car for this next part. Something good in the snow, with a big trunk, that they can’t trace back to me when they find it burned-out with the bodies inside. Maybe the ’46 Chrysler. No, wait a minute; Boxer’s got his own car and it’s plenty big enough. Just use that….
He put on his overcoat, picked up the .38 from his desk and casually dropped it in his right-hand pocket.
Might as well do it quick and simple. Simple’s always easy and quick is always quick. If this works out like I think it’s going to…
He rifled quickly through the middle drawer and pulled out a blackjack, supple and worn from use. Stuck it up his right sleeve.
Hate to arrive at a party empty-handed.
Let’s see now. So I go out and I find Boxer first. Over to Lola’s or close by there. Ask him if he’s seen Mort, then kill him while he’s trying to think up a lie. Nothing fancy. Get him in the trunk of his own car, then go out and collect Slimmy. He’ll fit in the trunk too, fit just fine. But I better take the Chrysler just in case Boxer’s won’t start.
Outside of the garage, in the lot, he started up the ’46 Chrysler that couldn’t be traced back to him and sat inside thinking things over while it was warming up.
Find a good spot to leave Boxer’s car once I get it all loaded up. Someplace where it won’t get found quick but I can get back here easy, maybe the train station or—Hell, I got to be back here when Mort shows up with Walter and Eddie and all my money….
He settled himself behind the wheel of the now-warm Chrysler, adjusted the mirror and headed downtown, reflecting that there was never enough time to get everything done around the holidays.
December 20, 1951
7:35 PM
Eddie
It wasn’t easy finding my way around a strange hospital, but I tried to look for the places with the most lights and the most folks running around wearing white. Anyone tried to stop me, I flashed my badge and looked busy. And I finally found what I was after.
Callie was in a room by herself, and someone had turned the lights low so she could rest better. A nurse was tapping a bottle that hung over her head with a tube dripping something into a vein in her arm. And there was a rubber breathing mask strapped over her face while a machine pumped air in. Kept her quiet, too, that mask did.