“I don’t know any Dixon.”
“Says he drove up in a black Packard car.”
“I’ve got the only Packard around the place.”
“So I told him. But he’s still there. On the curb outside.”
“Is he pulling anything?”
“No, but he’s sitting.”
“Then do nothing.”
“Just leave him sit?”
“Isn’t it a free country?”
“Why sure. And if the cops don’t like it—?”
“Then he’s their bum.”
That night, when I got to Rodeo Drive in Beverly, believe me, I listened to the jokes and laughed at them. Next morning, instead of going to the Jergins Trust Building, I went direct to the refinery, and sure enough, there he was, still sitting and still waiting. He yelled at me as I went in the back way and I paid no attention but went and parked. But as I started for my office, Mulligan, the watchman, caught me, looking pretty uncomfortable. “Would you come talk to this guy, Mr. Dillon? I’ve just got the idea that in some kind of a cockeyed way he means you, and if you could just convince him he’s got his signals mixed, maybe we can get rid of him. To tell you the truth, he’s getting on everybody’s nerves.”
I went over to the gate, and when Hosey saw me he began to yell like some kind of a movie. “Jack! Don’t you know me? It’s Hosey! That hoboed all over Louisiana and Texas and Nevada with you and Buck? Jack! I’m ready to go to work. Remember that job we was going to give each other, whichever one hit the jackpot first?”
He meant it so hard he sounded phony. Even Mulligan turned his back. I blinked and said: “Well, Mulligan, he thinks he knows me, that’s a cinch.”
“Why, sir, that’s ridiculous.”
“No, he thinks I’m a pal.”
“Pal my eye. It’s just a racket—”
He went roaring on, while Hosey stared and listened. Then I said: “Anyway, get rid of him.”
“You bet I’ll get rid of him.”
He started for the gate with his shoulders up, but I stopped the rough stuff. “Look, he’s human too.”
“I wouldn’t be too sure about that, sir. But O.K. I let the cops do it.”
But I took out ten dollars, shoved it through the wire at Hosey, and said: “My friend, I don’t know who you think I am, but the times are bad, so buy yourself a meal and a bath and a flop, and keep the change. And if I ever run into somebody named Dixon, I’ll give him your—”
“But—
Jack!”
“Listen, goddam it, you want this ten or not?”
“Why sure, but—”
“Then take it and stop calling me Jack.”
“... And what would I call you, then?”
“Try mister, for a change.”
“Mister what?”
“Just mister, pal.”
He took the ten, turned away, and walked off. I started inside. Then something hit me on the head. It was a stone. We turned, and Hosey was standing there, in the middle of the street. “You dirty son of a bitch! I mean you, Jack. You heel! You yellow-bellied rat, that would do this to a friend! But I’ll get you for it. I’ll—”
Mulligan started for him, but I caught his arm. A drawstring was tightening around my belly, but I knew nothing could be done about it today, and the better I acted now, when the tote was made later, the better it would be for me. We stood there, and he threw more stones, and screamed and cussed and raved, and then when some kids gathered around, he went away.
It was a long twenty-four hours, a longer forty-eight, and a still longer seventy-two, but there was nothing I could do, so I did it. I shifted between the refinery, the Jergins Trust Building, and the apartment. Each night I’d stay in Beverly, and put on a black tie, and take her some place in the Strip. Because getting indicted for murder would be bad, and being claimed by some bum as a pal and college chum, that would be still worse. I meant, if I could possibly stack it up that way, that she’d never know anything about it. I drank champagne and called for more, but not enough more to get oiled and talk. Just enough more to have nothing on my mind at all, except what a swell party and what a swell girl. Everything swell, except by belly, which was getting slightly shriveled.
The third day, at the Jergins Trust Building, Lida came back around eleven and said there was a police officer out there that wanted to see me. I had her send him in. He was a young guy, and I saw him take a flash at my old football pictures, that Hannah had blown up and framed and hung there. He said nothing about them, though, but sat down and got out a blue paper. “Mr. Dillon, you got somebody here, working for you, by the name of Dixon?”
“No. Why?”
“You ever use that name? Yourself?”
“State your business.”
I made it quiet, courteous, and cold. He looked at me some seconds, which is something all cops make a specialty of doing, and I dialed a call. It was to Rohrer, and I told him to stand by for something important later, that under no circumstances should he leave. As he never did leave, except when quitting time came, he was all crossed up, but that didn’t bother me, and I hung up. I had given an order and somebody had taken it, that was the main thing, and Mr. Cop had to wait, and speak when I was ready to be spoken to. It wasn’t much, but it was something. “... I’m serving a warrant, Mr. Dillon. For the arrest of a party known as Jack Dixon. However, as our information is that he’s a pretty big shot in the Seven-Star organization, and in fact is believed to be the general manager of it, it looks like he might be you. It’s up to you whether you accept service or not, though I may as well tell you I have the power to take you in custody on this warrant, whatever you do about it.”
“Well—could I read it?”
“If you would, that might help.”
It was on complaint of the Las Vegas, Nevada, police, which meant that Hosey had spilled what he knew and some telegraphing had been going on. Beyond “suspected of felony” it told me nothing, but reading it gave me time to think. I knew dogging it with this guy wouldn’t do. His job was to bring me in, and if I got tough and he rode over me, I had lost the advantage I’d had, from the football pictures, and maybe his wanting to be friendly without my knowing it. And yet the last thing I should do was get myself booked, because that made it a public record, and led straight to the newspapers, Beverly, and her. I said: “Well—I guess I know about this. A bum showed up, called me by this name, and promoted a few bucks off me. Then he said we were buddies, and when I didn’t ask him in, he got sore and went off, calling me names and throwing rocks at me... Well, you’ve got nothing to do with that. I always say, if a guy says he’s the victim of a mistake, O.K., but he should do what he can to straighten things out. I’m not accepting service of this warrant in any way, shape, or form. I don’t know what the Las Vegas police want with me, I’ve never been to Las Vegas, and can’t imagine why they’ve filed this complaint. But, just in a friendly way, why don’t I go back with you, talk with whoever is in charge, and see if we can’t straighten it out?”
“I would suggest that.”
“Wait till I make a call.”
I dialed the refinery again, got Mulligan on the line, and told him to hop in a cab and get over to the police station, as the bum was making trouble. Getting Mulligan in it wasn’t from some angles the best judgment in the world, because my best play would be to go down there alone, with no lawyers, watchmen, or anybody else to help me. But Mulligan had been a cop and spoke their language, he thought Hosey was a phony, and he worked for me.
At the police station, which is in the city hall, we went in a room back of the main desk, and Mulligan was there ahead of us, sitting with Chief Lucas, that I’d met at the fire, a clerk, a heavy-set man in a blue suit, that looked like a detective, and a man in a blue blouse, that looked like a turnkey. Mulligan was roaring, pretty sore, and kept it up after I was brought in. There were two or three office chairs with hard seats, though Mulligan, the Chief, and the man in the blue suit were sitting on soft ones, upholstered in leather. I didn’t sit down until the Chief motioned me to. Then I took a hard chair. I took care not to be sore, indignant, or funny. I was just a guy the cops wanted to talk to, and that took it pretty serious. The cop who brought me explained that I hadn’t accepted service on the warrant, but had come on a voluntary basis, to give any help that I could. That seemed O.K. with the Chief, because he spoke to me then, by name. “You understand, though, Mr. Dillon, that if any evidence comes to light of a criminal kind, we may still have to put you under arrest while the Las Vegas police start extradition proceedings to send you back to Nevada?”
“Back
there? I haven’t left there yet.”
That got a laugh, but I played it straight and said: “Where this goddam fool got the idea I’m named Dixon or have been to Nevada I don’t know, but wherever it is I’ll face it, and I’ve got no fear how it’ll come out. I never robbed any banks that I know of, but if I did walk in my sleep and they can prove it on me—then O.K.”
That seemed all right, so far, though cops are a twenty-minute lot, and you can’t always tell how you’re doing with them. However, he nodded, and said: “I think the simplest way would be to get this guy in and let him chirp.”
“What’s your name?”
“Hosey Brown.”
“Where you from?”
“Chillicothe, Ohio.”
“What you do?”
“Structural iron.”
“When you work last?”
“That was in Spokane, sir. In Spokane, Washington, before the depression hit. I haven’t been able to get work since. I applied, but couldn’t hit no jobs.”
“You done time?”
“... I don’t just recollect.”
“What you mean, you don’t just recollect?”
“Chief, I was in an accident when I was twenty-two years old. I got hit when a I-beam fell on me. I don’t know what I done for two years after that, or where I was.”
“You don’t remember Lewisburg?”
“No, sir, not good.”
“But a little bit?”
“I hear tell of it, yes.”
“You know this man here.”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“Who is he?”
“His name is Jack Dixon.”
“Where was this you knew him?”
“I met him first just outside of Chattanooga. Him and me, we got a fellow up that was fixing to die, name of Buck Mitchell. Then him and me and Buck, we traveled together for must of been nigh on to a year maybe, maybe two years. We was buddies, and we went all over the South and Southwest together.”
“You pull any jobs? You and him?”
“Him and Buck, not me.”
“What was you doing while they was pulling jobs?”
“Just waiting, sir.”
“Where?”
“Up the street, generally.”
“Not looking?”
“Of course I could see what was going on. But I never helped on no jobs, no, sir. I was up the street.”
“Anybody bother them?”
“I don’t just recollect. Some time, maybe.”
“And what did you do, then?”
“Well, sir, what could I do?”
“You could holler, couldn’t you?”
“Well, I guess I could, yes, I could holler.”
“Did you?”
“... I don’t just recollect.”
“Then you were lookout man?”
“No, sir, not me.”
“And where was it you pulled these jobs?”
“He
pulled them. Him and Buck.”
“Where was this?”
“That was Phoenix, Yuma, Indio, Banning, I don’t know where-all. The last place, where Buck got killed, was Las Vegas.”
“You see that?”
“I was up the street waiting.”
“And hollering?”
“I tell you I never done nothing.”
“What happened on this hold-up?”
“Well, I was up the street, waiting, and Buck and Jack, they were to steal a car, first. Then here they come, in a little green coupe, and blowed the horn at me, and turned around and went up the street near this here filling station where they hoped to get the money. Then here they come back to the filling station in the car and went in to get gas. Then Buck and Jack got out and went in the men’s room. Then they come out. Then Jack got in. Then Buck reached for the gun. Then a fellow stepped out from behind a car that was parked on the other side of the grease jack, leveled a gun, and then there was a shot. And Buck dropped. And then Jack come by in the car hell to split. I run out and yelled at him, but he drove off.”
“That car—was it a Chevvie, 1933 coupe?”
“I don’t know. It was green.”
“You didn’t see it later?”
“Not after that.”
“You’re sure you’re not the one that ripped the seat cushions where it was abandoned out there by the grade crossing?”
“Not me, no, sir.”
“When was all this?”
“Couple of years ago.”
“Two years ago, in Las Vegas?”
“Could a been two, three years ago.”
“Well listen, make up your mind.”
“Maybe four year.”
“Which is it?”
“Two, three, four year.”
The Chief thought while the clerk wound up some notes on what was said, then motioned to the turnkey, who went out. Two or three guys came in that were cops, by their brick color, but they were in plain clothes. They sat down near me. The turnkey came back with two or three guys that, by their looks, were from the cells, then went out again. One had no coat on, the others had shabby clothes, and none had a shave. And then it came to me what this was: It was an identification. Through that door in a minute somebody would come to pick me out of the line. I don’t know if ever in my life my head worked faster than it did then. I went over it in a flash, what I had looked like in Las Vegas four years ago, when I was hard, weatherbeaten, and thin, and what I looked like now, with soft, hundred-fifty-dollar tweeds on, a dark coat of tan, thirty pounds more weight, and a little Hollywood mustache I had sprouted. And I caught it with my eye, what a bum looked like, from the set of these faces the turnkey had brought in, that hadn’t smiled in a month of Sundays, that had a dull heavy film on their eyes, and were covered with fuzz and grease and dirt. I knew I still had a chance, but something kept telling me—smile, smile,
smile!
Don’t look like these bums! Don’t be part of the line-up at all! Keep your head up, give out with it so anybody can see you, don’t turn away like these guys are going to do, and
SMILE
! Smile so it
COULDN’T BE YOU
!