Stop This Man! (7 page)

But they weren’t listening to his raving. One by one they took their hats and walked out of the door.

“We’ll be at Charlie’s if you want in,” said the last one. “See ya, Harry.”

The sheriff stood in the empty room. Panting, cursing under his breath, he kicked the door shut and walked around the empty chairs and boxes a few times. Then he sat down on the car seat. The sheriff’s hunched figure moved only with his breathing, and there was an expectant glint in Catell’s eyes as he watched him.

For a while nothing happened. In the silence the thudding of a moth against the bare light bulb made a noise like a wet rag. With an irritated motion the sheriff tore his hat off and flung it at the light. He missed. Catell snickered in his dark cell. The sheriff jumped around as if stung. He got up from the seat slowly and walked to a part of the room that Catell couldn’t see. When he came back, he carried a six-shooter and a long stick.

Standing by the cell, he peered into the darkness. “City feller, did you say something?”

Catell snickered again. When the sheriff came toward him, kicking the cell door aside with his foot, Catell knew this was the pay-off. He also knew that the man at the door was a coward, dangerous because he was afraid, but weak because he was unsure.

“You want something, Sheriff?”

“Come over here with your hands up!”

Catell did.

“Now walk thataway, down the hall. Stop.”

This suited Catell fine. They were alone and they could not be seen from the outside.

“And now, jailbird, turn around.”

Catell turned, watching the sheriff, who stood in a crouch. Catell noticed that the gun hung loosely, but the hand that held the stick was tense, with knuckles white. The sheriff wasn’t thinking of doing any killing; he was going to have some sport. Then later, maybe, if he could make it look like an escape…

“Just so we understand each other, jailbird, I’m about to make you over.”

“Don’t call me jailbird.”

“What!” The sheriff leaned forward, startled by Catell’s matter-of-fact tone. His face reddened and he sucked in his breath. “Are you telling me what to do? You talking back to me, jailbird?”

Catell didn’t answer. He just watched the man, who was starting to tremble with rage.

“Say something, jailbird! Open that filthy mouth once more!” The sheriff prodded his stick at Catell.

At that instant Catell whipped out his hand and yanked at the stick. The sheriff, stiff with hate and fear, stumbled forward and caught Catell’s foot under his jaw. The gun clattered against the wall. Catell reached for the man’s ears and jerked hard, and both men spun to the floor. Before the sheriff could start to struggle, Catell’s weight jammed the wind out of his chest and two thumbs dug painfully into his Adam’s apple.

“Now I’m going to do the talking, Harry, and listen
close. You called me a jailbird. Well, you’re right. I can bust out of better jails than yours, but you aren’t getting a thing on me that you can prove. So I’m sticking around a short while longer, but you better learn how to behave yourself. I want you to lay off, hear? I want you to lay off or else you’re going to be the one that gets hurt. Because one day after I’m out of here, you’re going to get a visit the likes of which you’ve never seen, except maybe in the movies. I got connections, Harry boy. I won’t even come back here myself to make a cripple out of you for life. I know plenty of eager young boys who’d break your legs on my say-so, or dig your eyes out for a sawbuck. So lay off me, Harry boy, or haven’t I made myself clear?”

Catell gave a sudden sharp squeeze to the sheriff’s neck. Then he jumped up.

“Did I make myself clear?”

The sheriff, face blue, gasping for air, got up on one arm.

“Did I make myself clear?”

Catell kicked his foot at the man’s arm, digging his toe painfully into a muscle.

“What’s your answer, Harry?”

With an effort that made the tears shoot into his eyes, the sheriff gagged out a word: “Yes.”

“That’s fine, Harry. Now, I’m going back to my cell. I’m expecting a good night’s sleep, so keep your voice down and step lightly. But lightly, Harry boy.”

Then Catell walked to the toilet. He washed his hands, dried them, and threw the towel on the floor. The nail on which the towel had been hanging was big and loose. Catell pulled it out and stuck it in his pocket. Then he went to his cell, clanked the door shut, and stretched out on his cot.

After a little while the sheriff came by. There still was a heavy wheezing in his throat and he didn’t look right or left. He sat down heavily on Catell’s car seat, arms folded, looking like a man in deep thought. When the front door opened, he hardly turned his head.

“Say, Harry, you comin’ over to the game? We’re movin’ to Rodney’s place.”

“Beat it.”

The man hesitated, then put his hand on the doorknob.

“Just thought I’d let you know. Rodney’s place, case you change your mind.” He went out.

In the middle of the night Catell woke from the throbbing in his hand. Sitting up, he saw that the light in the room up front was still burning. The sheriff, head sunk on his chest, sat asleep on the car seat. Catell saw it and laughed to himself.

The next morning Catell woke early, uncomfortable and stiff. The sheriff was still asleep on the seat, and Catell laughed again.

During the next week nobody moved the car seat. It stood in the middle of the room, and ranchers dropped around and sat in the seat, and the sheriff sat there. The sheriff used the seat every day, sitting around brooding or looking out the door.

Catell was left alone. He busied himself with the nail he had taken from the toilet, bending it and flattening one end as best he could. Nobody paid much attention to the prisoner, least of all the sheriff, who acted dull and sickish. The day he threw up the first time, Catell finished with his nail. That same evening the sheriff had a sharp headache and bad cramps in his stomach. Catell laughed.

The next morning when the sheriff came to the jailhouse
feeling weak and nervous he found Catell’s cell empty and a crooked nail on the floor by the door. He saw that the car seat had been moved. Some stuffing was strewn around the floor and there was a big, empty hole in the seat.

By the time Catell hit Los Angeles he was broke. He got out of the Greyhound at the Sixth Street station, wearing a wrinkled suit, a dirty shirt, and a two-day growth of beard. He had lost his tan and a lot of weight. Catell didn’t look so good.

The station was full of bums and drifters trying to keep out of the cold night air. Catell got lost in the crowd easily. Once he was sure that nobody was looking for him, he went outside and turned toward Main. With his hands in his pocket he jingled some coins, counting them for the thousandth time. Ninety-eight cents. About eighty miles out of Los Angeles he had buried his gold where nobody would look for it. Catell thought about his gold, $20,160 worth. He jingled his coins again. He was broke.

Main Street was twice as windy as Sixth and Catell turned up the collar of his suit. When he came to a bar he went in. The narrow room was full of smoke, sour and thick. But it was warm. At the far end of the counter where they sold hamburgers and coffee, Catell sat down. The grill made a greasy warmth. Catell ordered coffee.

On one side of him a shrill-looking whore was eating a doughnut that left sugar grains sticking to her lipstick. On the other side two bums were making a coffee royal with gin. Behind him people were pushing by to go to the john or to get out of the draft from the door. Catell felt a slight pressure at his pocket. His hand reached back fast; his fingers closed around a wrist. An embarrassed face peered at him when Catell turned.

“Pardon me, mister. A natural mistake.”

“Your last, dippy.” Catell grabbed for the small man’s shirt front.

“Tony!”

“For chrissakes, if it isn’t the Turtle!”

“Well, Tony!”

“Not so loud, not so loud.”

They looked at each other, grinning, not knowing exactly what to do next.

“How about my wrist, Anthony feller? How about letting me recuperate my wrist?”

Catell let go and grinned. “You’re losing your touch, Turtle. You’re not doing so good.”

“You may have a message there, Anthony. Indeed, indeed.” And then in a serious tone: “Just rusty, Anthony. I’m in semi-retirement, you know.”

Catell grinned at the Turtle and looked him up and down. The small man had a tight suit on, pepper and salt, but it was a good one. His pointed shoes looked scuffed, but they were expensive. As always, the Turtle’s shirt was too large at the neck. Catell didn’t remember the time when the Turtle’s skinny neck had had a collar to fit it. But that wasn’t the only reason for his name. He had a face like a turtle’s: a nose and forehead shaped in a humpy curve, a thin long mouth with a chin that made a flat angle, and round eyes without lashes. The Turtle had a way of looking dreamy or astonished or dumb, and any one of these expressions was an asset in his trade.

“Semi-retirement, huh? That why you’re picking on a bum like me?”

“Now, Anthony. I was just practicing. Just practicing, you understand. Coming out of winter retirement, so to speak.”

“How about retiring your hand out of my pocket?”

The Turtle gave him his dumb expression, then the astonished one. He pulled his hand out of Catell’s pocket and looked at it. There was ninety-eight cents in it.

“You ain’t retiring, I notice.”

“Just a little short this minute.”

“Don’t kid your old friend, Tony. You look strapped.”

“Nothing to worry about. I got a deal on.”

“Like eight years ago?”

“No, not like eight years ago. Never again.”

“O.K., O.K., friend. I was just making merry.”

“So sit down, Turtle, talk to me.”

But the Turtle didn’t sit.

“What time is it?”

“Eleven.”

“Eleven. Recline here for a minute, Anthony. Don’t move I’ll be back in a shiver, so don’t move. Promise.”

“O.K., I’ll be here.”

The Turtle squeezed through the crowd and went out.

“I couldn’t help hearin’ you, friend,” said the whore one seat down. “You sure all you got is ninety-eight cents?” She smiled, licking the sugar from her lips.

“What’s it to you?”

“Just warmhearted interest. If you’re broke, I thought you may be needing a flop. If you’re not,” and she cocked a hip, “I got another idea.”

“Save it.”

Catell turned his back to the woman. He could feel her looking at him and he got uncomfortable. When he turned around she caught his eye and winked.

“Cut out the kid stuff. I’m not interested.”

“I wasn’t trying to give you any kid stuff.”

“Save it!”

“I’ve been!”

“Well, I don’t want it.”

Catell started to look for a cigarette, but before he could shake one from the pack the whore pulled one out of her purse and handed it to him. When she leaned over the V of her blouse opened up and Catell got a good look.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me for that, baby. I got something better to offer.”

“I ain’t buying.”

But the woman didn’t give up. She swiveled on the stool and swung her leg slowly against Catell.

“Who’s talkin’ of buying, baby?”

Catell got impatient, but before he had opened his mouth a voice said:

“Is this lady annoying you?”

They both turned and saw the Turtle. He was wearing the dumb expression. Then he said, “Blow, lady.”

“Now, listen here, runt—”

“Lady, blow. No lovers’ quarrels, puleeze.”

“Tell this creep to go away,” she said to Catell.

The Turtle put a hand on her shoulder and spoke in a confidential tone. “Sweet, you’re making too many mistakes. My friend and me are a couple of fairies, and very much in love. We’re gettin’ wedded tonight and no bridesmaids. So, puleeze, lady, drag outa here.”

The whore gasped at the Turtle and then looked at Catell. She made an offensive sound, got up, and strutted away.

The Turtle sat down next to Catell and waved to the short-order man. “Vegetable soup, two scrambled with ham, side of fries, apple pie a la mode, glass of milk, coffee. For my friend here. For me, a spot of tea.”

“Now, listen, Turtle—”

“Shut up. You’re broke, I ain’t.”

“Turtle, not the milk.”

“Shut it, Anthony. Milk’s good, and you look like hell.”

“You don’t kid me, Turtle. You don’t look so hot yourself.”

The Turtle didn’t answer. He pulled bills out of various pockets and folded them together. Then he stuck the money away.

“You were speaking to me, Anthony?”

“Where’d that come from, all of a sudden?”

“Where else?”

“You were only gone about fifteen minutes.”

“A master does not need time, only opportunity.”

“Opportunity on Main Street, L.A. Don’t tell me!”

“I did the movie crowd on Broadway. Deceived by the balmy breezes of our daytime weather, few citizens were wearing coats tonight. A true blessing to the likes of me and the likes of your empty stomach. Now stop crapping and eat.”

Catell ate and they didn’t talk for a while. The Turtle sipped his tea, trying to look elegant with one finger sticking out. He was very proud of his delicate hands, but when he sipped the tea, he made a loud, slurpy sound with his mouth. When Catell was on his coffee, he lit a cigarette and leaned his elbows on the counter.

“Well, Turtle, say something.”

“I can tell you feel better. You say something.”

“What?”

“What’s the big deal you got on?”

“The big deal. I need a little help, Turtle. You want in?”

“If it’s within my interests, count me in.”

“Is money?”

“Anthony, count me in.”

“Like I said, Turtle, I need some assist. The deal is all done with, except I got to unload the swag here in town and I don’t know my way around.”

“Nothing’s easier, Tony. Just name the name and I find. By the way, anybody looking for you?”

“Yeah, the Feds.”

“Oi! They know you’re here?”

“That’s one of the things you gotta find out for me.”

“Will do. What are they after?”

“Big-time stuff, Turtle.”

“A lot of cash in it, huh?”

“Not really. Not that much, but it’s big-time, Turtle, and I pulled it off neat. No hitch so far.”

“Dope?”

“Naw. Gold.”

“You mean—you mean a solid, pure block of it? Nothing but gold?

“Uh-huh.”

Turtle closed his eyes and hummed through his lips, low and long. “Now, that kind of merchandise, Anthony, you can sell
anywhere.
”

“No, that’s just it. It turns out the stuff is radioactive or something. Some kind of rays that get to you, because it was accidentally exposed to one of those atom piles. It makes you sick.”

“That sick I’d like to be.”

“Anyway, I don’t know the details. All I know is there may be a contact for the stuff in this town.”

“Who?”

“Smith. S. S. Smith, I think.”

“Oi! Contact, he says. Smith ain’t no contact, Tony boy. Smith is it!”

“All right, fine. Where is he?”

“Where is he? Where is he, he says.” Turtle clapped his hands around his throat. “Now listen, Tony. I want you to understand something. Nobody goes and sees Smith. Smith sends for the people he wants to see, and that ain’t many.”

“All right, stop with the courtesies. You sound like the Chamber of Commerce. Where is Smith?”

“Tony, to tell the truth, I ain’t sure. Who told ya, anyway?”

“Some guy back in Detroit. He was bragging about his big-shot contacts and out slipped the name. So from then on I didn’t need the guy back in Detroit, see?”

“Yeah, I see. You ever deal with the syndicate before, Tony?”

“No. Why?”

“I’m trying to tell ya. They are big, complicated, like a corporation. Like a government. You don’t just walk in, you see. They got red tape to go through.”

“Just how big is this Smith?”

“Locally, very big.”

“The biggest?”

“No—not for sure, anyway.”

“All right, Turtle, when do I find this big shot?”

“Lemme find out for sure, Tony, willya? Lemme listen around, get everything set up, and then we make our pitch.”

“Nuts to that. I gotta get this thing over with. Ninety-eight cents isn’t even life-size these days.”

“I’ll stake ya, Tony. You gotta play the angles a little in this town before you get anyplace. Like for instance, your suit looks like hell. You need new shoes.”

“You said you’d stake me.”

“Sure, sure, but give it time.”

“I’m going to find that guy tomorrow, Turtle, with you or without you.”

“All right, I give up. There’s a machine shop on Victory Boulevard in Burbank. The Quentin Machine Company. Try there. Smith’s got an office in the back there. Maybe you’re in luck. Does he know you’re coming?”

“Might be. I don’t know.”

“Whaddaya mean ya don’t know?”

“That guy in Detroit. He might or he might not have passed the word. I don’t know.”

“Anthony, you’re looking more stupid to me by the minute. Either—”

“Can it. I’m going tomorrow. What I need from you is a few bucks to get a shirt and a press job. Also, keep your ears open about those Feds. Also, I want to know everything you can get ahold of about my deal with Smith. If I can make a deal with Smith tomorrow, I want to know how they feel about it, who’s in on it, et cetera. The works, hear?”

“I hear.”

“Can you do it?”

“Anthony, you are looking at the original underground kid. I get to know everything.”

“You sound better already. From here on in, Turtle, you and me hit the big time. With this job out of the way, I got a career ahead of me. Shake?”

“Shake. And now, mine Anthony, how about the last cup of mud and we blow?”

“Let’s just blow. I gotta find a flop yet.”

“Flop? Anthony! Cart that thought outen your vocabulary. It so happens I got an extra corner in my room, and you’re staying with me. On second thought, you look too tacky for the likes of my accommodations. First I take you to a Turkish bath. Whilst you melt your tackiness
with steam and soap, I get your suit done over and fetch a new shirt. And underwear?”

“Yeah. Underwear. And socks.”

“And socks. Only then, Anthony, will we be off to my chamber and a good night’s rest. Ready?”

“Let’s go.”

They left the bar and walked a few blocks to the Turkish bath. As they went up the stairs, the flashy whore from the bar was coming down. She stopped swinging her hips and leaned against the wall to let them pass. The Turtle stopped next to her and chucked the woman under the chin.

“You work here too, honey?”

She made that nasty sound with her lips again.

“Whyn’t you go blow?” she said.

“Precisely,” and with a busy look on his face the Turtle ran up the stairs after Catell.

In the small lobby Catell took the Turtle aside. “What the hell is this place, coeducational?”

“Whassa matter, Anthony, you prejudiced or something?”

“I want a steam bath and a wash is all.”

“If that’s what you pay for, that’s all you get. Now stop worrying about the opposition sex and let’s have those raggedy garnishments you’re wearing.”

A little later the Turtle left with Catell’s suit and shoes. Catell took a steam bath, showered and shaved, and after his massage he went to the locker room. An attendant brought him his pressed suit, clean socks, underwear, and a new shirt. His shoes were polished.

“Your friend left ‘em, with a note.”

Catell read the note: “Dear Anthony. Got tired of waiting. When done come to my place,” and then there was an address. It was signed, “T.”

Catell got dressed and combed his hair. He was feeling good. In the mirror he noticed that his shirt collar was a little big. Either he had lost more weight than he’d realized or the Turtle was constitutionally incapable of buying a shirt that would fit anyone.

Outside, Catell walked fast to keep from shivering. After a few blocks he came to the address on the Turtle’s note and walked in. It was a narrow apartment house converted into a hotel, gloomy and crowded-looking. But it was warm inside. Catell went past the clerk, past a pimply bellhop who was sleeping in a swivel chair, and walked up to the second floor. He stopped before the door with the number 206. Then he heard the movement inside. There was a slight rustle and a low voice. Two voices. The mumbling stopped. Catell stood frozen in the still corridor, a curse twisting his face. What had gone wrong?