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Authors: Stuart M. Kaminsky
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reminded him.
“What do you want?”
“Hotel dick at the Alhambra, Straight-Ahead Beason,” I said.
“Used to be a cop,” Phil said, touching his forehead to see if he had a fever.
“Used to be a cop,” I agreed. “Got himself shot yesterday. I just saw him at the hospital. He thinks the guy who did it is out there and looking for John Wayne.”
“Looking for John Wayne,” said Phil, looking up from his troubles for the first time and actually listening to me. “Why the hell would someone who shot a hotel dick be looking for John Wayne?”
“Straight-Ahead heard something when he got shot,” I explained.
“And what part aren’t you telling me?” Phil said, knuckles turning white on the desk.
“Nothing,” I said, which was the truth—with the exception of the fact that my gun was gone, Vance was dead and missing, and Teddy Longretti was involved.
“Bullshit,” he said. “What do you want?”
“Someone to keep an eye on Wayne till we find the guy with the gun,” I answered.
“Didn’t you hear what I said when you came in? Everyone wants a cop. I don’t have a cop for you. The young cops are in the Army. I’ve got officers who are too few and too old. If it weren’t for the damn war I’d be one of them. I never would have been promoted.”
“Well—” I tried, but, once again, was interrupted.
“No protection,” he said. “Wayne will have to get his own protection unless you come up with something stronger than the maybe of a stiff-necked house detective who was passing out with a bullet wound in his pride. Cawelti took the Alhambra call. Go see him.”
Sergeant John Cawelti and I were not friends. We had not been friends since our first meeting. I had that effect on people, from hospital desk clerks to cops. Cawelti had the same effect on people. We were not a good pair to co-star in The New Moon.
“Phil,” I said, playing with the idea of telling him about the gun and body.
“Out,” he said.
I knew better than to argue with Phil, especially when his eyes were turned down and his outstretched hand was pointing at the door. I knew better but I never acted on that knowledge. Bile ran too deep between us. I couldn’t slink out that door, even though I knew that the next step might be a violent chapter in the tale of two brothers.
“Would it make a difference if I said please?” I asked.
“O-U-T. Even Lucy knows what that spells,” he said between clenched teeth.
Lucy was his year-old daughter and my niece. Phil tended to equate our emotional development.
“Okay,” I said, getting up. “Okay. But this attitude of yours seriously jeopardizes the possibility of my getting you a birthday present next month. I was seriously considering a Fred Waring album.”
Phil’s head was down. This was the moment of truth. I could get to the door before him. I was sure of that. He had too much weight on him and had picked up more since his promotion. I wasn’t sure I could make it down the stairs in the dim light before he caught me, however.
I saw the smile. He kept his head down and hid it, but I saw it. Instead of speaking, he simply waved his hand and shook his head as the phone rang. I left as he said on the phone, “Of course, Mrs. Borrows, I haven’t forgotten the neighborhood bond drive.”
I closed the door and walked the long mile to the door of the squadroom. Like Wyatt Earp in Frontier Marshall , I took a deep breath and stepped in to meet the equivalent of Ike Clanton.
4
T he smell of food hit me when I pushed the doors open and entered the squad room. It was the familiar smell of a room where men work around the clock and sometimes the people and food they bring in are a bit ripe. The room, cluttered with desks and files, was cleaner than usual. It wasn’t clean, but on Sunday an old colored guy named Nero Suggs had peeled away the top layer of filth and found someplace to dump the waste baskets.
There were four or five cops around beside
“What do you want?”
“Hotel dick at the Alhambra, Straight-Ahead Beason,” I said.
“Used to be a cop,” Phil said, touching his forehead to see if he had a fever.
“Used to be a cop,” I agreed. “Got himself shot yesterday. I just saw him at the hospital. He thinks the guy who did it is out there and looking for John Wayne.”
“Looking for John Wayne,” said Phil, looking up from his troubles for the first time and actually listening to me. “Why the hell would someone who shot a hotel dick be looking for John Wayne?”
“Straight-Ahead heard something when he got shot,” I explained.
“And what part aren’t you telling me?” Phil said, knuckles turning white on the desk.
“Nothing,” I said, which was the truth—with the exception of the fact that my gun was gone, Vance was dead and missing, and Teddy Longretti was involved.
“Bullshit,” he said. “What do you want?”
“Someone to keep an eye on Wayne till we find the guy with the gun,” I answered.
“Didn’t you hear what I said when you came in? Everyone wants a cop. I don’t have a cop for you. The young cops are in the Army. I’ve got officers who are too few and too old. If it weren’t for the damn war I’d be one of them. I never would have been promoted.”
“Well—” I tried, but, once again, was interrupted.
“No protection,” he said. “Wayne will have to get his own protection unless you come up with something stronger than the maybe of a stiff-necked house detective who was passing out with a bullet wound in his pride. Cawelti took the Alhambra call. Go see him.”
Sergeant John Cawelti and I were not friends. We had not been friends since our first meeting. I had that effect on people, from hospital desk clerks to cops. Cawelti had the same effect on people. We were not a good pair to co-star in The New Moon.
“Phil,” I said, playing with the idea of telling him about the gun and body.
“Out,” he said.
I knew better than to argue with Phil, especially when his eyes were turned down and his outstretched hand was pointing at the door. I knew better but I never acted on that knowledge. Bile ran too deep between us. I couldn’t slink out that door, even though I knew that the next step might be a violent chapter in the tale of two brothers.
“Would it make a difference if I said please?” I asked.
“O-U-T. Even Lucy knows what that spells,” he said between clenched teeth.
Lucy was his year-old daughter and my niece. Phil tended to equate our emotional development.
“Okay,” I said, getting up. “Okay. But this attitude of yours seriously jeopardizes the possibility of my getting you a birthday present next month. I was seriously considering a Fred Waring album.”
Phil’s head was down. This was the moment of truth. I could get to the door before him. I was sure of that. He had too much weight on him and had picked up more since his promotion. I wasn’t sure I could make it down the stairs in the dim light before he caught me, however.
I saw the smile. He kept his head down and hid it, but I saw it. Instead of speaking, he simply waved his hand and shook his head as the phone rang. I left as he said on the phone, “Of course, Mrs. Borrows, I haven’t forgotten the neighborhood bond drive.”
I closed the door and walked the long mile to the door of the squadroom. Like Wyatt Earp in Frontier Marshall , I took a deep breath and stepped in to meet the equivalent of Ike Clanton.
4
T he smell of food hit me when I pushed the doors open and entered the squad room. It was the familiar smell of a room where men work around the clock and sometimes the people and food they bring in are a bit ripe. The room, cluttered with desks and files, was cleaner than usual. It wasn’t clean, but on Sunday an old colored guy named Nero Suggs had peeled away the top layer of filth and found someplace to dump the waste baskets.
There were four or five cops around beside
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