1949 - You're Lonely When You Dead Page 6

  ‘I guess that’s right,’ I said, drifting towards the door.

  ‘And there are lots of ways of getting a Captain of Police shifted out of office, Brandon. Don’t forget that.’

  He looked suddenly as if he were going to rupture an artery. His face swelled up and turned a dusky crimson, and the pebbly eyes caught fire.

  ‘One step out of turn, Malloy, and in you come!’ he said in a strangled voice. ‘Just one step out of turn!’

  ‘Aw, go polish your badge!’ I said and went out, slamming the door behind me.

  chapter three

  I

  Olaf’s gymnasium was in the basement of a block of offices on Princes Street, the East Side district of Orchid City. To get to it you went down a flight of well-worn stone steps, along a narrow, dimly lit passage, at the far end of which was a large wooden sign that read: Boxing Academy. Prop: Olaf Kruger.

  The smell of perspiration and resin, the rhythmic sound of leather-covered fists thudding on punch-bags, the shuffling of feet on the canvas floor, and the peculiar snorting boxers make when exercising greeted me as I pushed open the double swing doors.

  Beyond the doors was a vast room equipped with every conceivable athletic apparatus, dozens of light and heavy punch-bags, two full-sized rings, lit by powerful overhead lights, and all the other paraphernalia needed by professional fighters.

  A thick fog of tobacco-smoke hung in the hot, sweaty atmosphere, and a big crowd of men stood around one of the rings watching a negro pounding the regular sparring partner who had been with Olaf as long as I could remember. A number of other boxers were dotted around the outer edges of the room, either slamming away at a punch-bag or skipping or shadow boxing; getting themselves into shape for the end-of-the-week fights Olaf staged at the Athletic Club.

  I made my way across the room towards Olaf’s office.

  ‘Hello there, Vic.’

  Hughson, the Herald sports writer, pushed his way out of the crowd around the ring and caught hold of my arm.

  ‘Hello there, yourself,’ I said.

  Hughson was a tall, lean, cynical-looking bird, going bald, with liverish bags under his eyes and tobacco ash spread over his coat front. His sweat-stained hat rested on the back of his head, and a damp, dead cigar grew out of his big mouth.

  ‘You want to get a load of this, Vic,’ he said, waving towards the ring. ‘This nigger’s going to de-gut Hunter. You’d better get on to him before the odds shorten.’ His sharp little eyes dwelt on the bruise on my neck and he was sufficiently interested to remove his cigar and point with it.

  ‘Say, who’s been kicking you in the crop?’

  ‘Look, pal, go back to your nigger and leave me alone,’ I said. ‘Is Olaf around?’

  ‘In his office.’ He continued to eye the bruise wistfully.

  ‘Any new dope on the killing, Vic?’ he went on: ‘It’s my bet that crum Leadbetter did the job. He’s always crawling around those dunes like a goddamn snake, spying on couples.’ His yellowish face lengthened. ‘He once spied on me. Jay-sus! What a scare he gave me! I thought he was her husband.’

  ‘It could be anyone,’ I said, moving off. ‘Brandon’s handling it. You’d better ask him.’

  ‘Hey! Don’t run away,’ he said, catching hold of my arm again. ‘Talking about criminal assault reminds me: there’s a doll over there you want to take a look at. She has a chassis that’s got a lot of authority. I’ve been trying to find out who she is, but no one knows, or else they ain’t talking.’

  I followed the jerk of his thumb. On the far side of the ring where there were several rows of wooden forms sat a girl. The first thing you noticed about her was her shock of flaming red hair, then her thin face with its high cheekbones and her large, heavily lashed eyes that slanted upwards and gave her an oriental look that made you think of intrigue and secret papers and the night train to Budapest. She wore a bottle green suede windbreaker with a zipper down the front, black, high-waisted slacks and Bata shoes. She was watching the negro with critical intentness as he slid about the ring, and every time he landed a rib bender her mouth tightened, and she edged a little closer as if she were scared of missing anything.

  ‘Yeah, some doll,’ I said, and she was. ‘Why not ask her?’

  ‘It’d be safer to open an artery,’ Hughson said. ‘Hank tried to make her, but she laid him among the sweet peas. That baby’s tough. I guess she must have plenty of protection to be alone in this joint.’

  Someone shouted for Hughson, and winking at me he went back into the crowd. I took one more lingering look at the redhead, then continued on my way to Olaf’s quarters.

  The office was a small, shabby room, the walls papered with the glossy prints of prizefighters and old billposters advertising the hundreds of fights Olaf had promoted since coming to Ocean City. Olaf Kruger sat behind a big desk that was covered with papers and a dozen telephones that never rang singly. At another smaller desk a chemical blonde hammered a typewriter and chewed gum and filled the room with a perfume that would have come expensive at a dime a gallon.

  ‘Got a minute, or are you busy?’ I asked, kicking the door shut.

  Olaf waved me to a chair. He was not much bigger than a jockey, bald as an egg and as smart as they come. He was in shirtsleeves, his thin gold watch-chain held his open vest together and his tie hung loose below his open collar.

  ‘How are you, Vic? I’m not busy. Nothing ever happens in this lousy joint. I’ve got all the time in the world.’

  To prove him a liar three telephones started jangling and the door burst open and two guys came in and began yelling about dressing-gowns they wanted for their next fight - two guys as big and as ugly and as tough as a couple of bull rhinos, but Olaf brushed them off as if they’d been midgets.

  He shouted, ‘Get the hell out of here, you bums!’

  And they went.

  Then he grabbed up two of the telephones, shouted into them he was busy, hung up, took the third, listened for a moment, said, ‘Tear up his contract and give him the gate!’ and hung that one up too.

  ‘Have a cigar, Vic?’ he went on, pushing the box across the desk. ‘What’s biting you? Heard about the murder. I don’t know the girl, but if you’re sorry I am too.’

  ‘She was a good kid, Olaf,’ I said, pushing the cigar-box back. ‘But never mind that. Know a guy named Mills?’

  He ran a hand that lacked a thumb over his baldhead, looked at the chemical blonde and grimaced.

  ‘That’s a common name in our racket. What’s his other name?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s handsome; around twenty-three or four. Useful with his fists. Moves like lightning and handles himself like a pro; but he’s not marked up any.’

  Olaf sat up.

  ‘Sure, I know him. Caesar Mills. Yeah, that’s the guy. If he could have left women alone he’d have been the cruiserweight champ of the world. There wasn’t a fighter who could lay a glove on him at one time. He started here. I thought I’d picked a real winner, but the punk wouldn’t train. He won three fights in a row, then when I started matching him with boys who knew their business he couldn’t stay the course. He quit about six months ago.’

  ‘He and I had a little argument,’ I said, and turned so he could see the bruise on my neck. ‘He’s taken to using his feet.’

  Olaf s eyes opened.

  ‘The louse!’ he said. ‘But leave him alone, Vic. He’s poison. If you think you can flatten him you’ve another think coming. Even now I guess he’d be hard to stop. I wouldn’t put anyone against him except a damn good heavy, and even then I wouldn’t be sure of my money. How did you run into him?’

  ‘He’s acting as a guard to the Santa Rosa Estate. I went up there on business and we got into an argument.’

  ‘A guard?’ Olaf said, staring. ‘Why, he’s got bags of dough. It doesn’t sound like the same guy.’

  ‘Must be. What makes you think he has money?’

  ‘Well, hell! By h
is style. He looks in here from time to time. Dresses like a million dollars, runs a blue-and-cream Rolls, has a house out at Fairview that makes my mouth water.’

  I remembered the gold combined cigarette case and lighter Mills had produced from his pocket, but I didn’t mention it.

  ‘No one knows how he got his dough,’ Olaf went on.

  ‘When he first came to me he was out-at-elbows and glad to have a free meal. A guard, eh? Maybe he’s hit bad times again. I haven’t seen him for a month or so.’

  ‘He’s smooth with women, you said?’

  Olaf threw up his hands.

  ‘Smooth? You’ve never seen anything like it. He has only to tip his hat for them to fall over backwards.’

  I thought for a moment, then pushed back my chair.

  ‘Well, thanks, Olaf.’ I touched my neck tenderly. ‘That punch the Battler taught me was as useless on Mills as if I’d hit him with a handful of birdseed.’

  ‘It would be,’ Olaf said seriously. ‘That guy’s fast. But if you can land one on him he’ll turn yellow. Just one good solid punch and he’d flip his lid. The trouble is to hang it on him.’

  ‘And Olaf,’ I said, pausing at the door, ‘who’s the redhead outside? The one with the chinky eyes and fancy pants?’

  Olaf’s face creased into a grin.

  ‘Gail? Gail Bolus? Is she out there? Now, that’s the damnedest thing. Haven’t seen Gail for weeks. She’ll tell you about Caesar. Used to be his girl. She’s crazy about fighting, but when Caesar wouldn’t train she threw him up. She used to come here night after night about six months ago. Then she suddenly quit. I heard she left town. A tough baby, Vic. They don’t come tougher than she is.’

  ‘Come on out and break the ice for me,’ I said. ‘I want to meet her.’

  II

  Lunchtime at Finnegan’s was always a noisy, crowded free-for-all, with the centre part of the room packed with extra tables to cope with the rush. But on the outer ring of the room alcove tables offered sanctuary from the crush and were jealously reserved for Finnegan’s special customers.

  From my secluded table near the bar, I spotted Kerman and Benny as they came in and waved to them. They waved back and moved towards me, threading their way through the packed-in crowd; Kerman pausing to apologize with old-world courtesy when he happened to jog an elbow or brush against a girl’s hat, while Benny followed on behind, readjusting the girls’ hats by tipping them over their noses and smiling blandly when they turned to remonstrate. Both seemed a little drunk, but that was a good sign. They did their best work after a bout with the bottle.

  As they neared the alcove where I was sitting they spotted Miss Bolus. Both of them came to an abrupt halt and clutched at each other, then surged forward madly, struggling to get to the table before the other.

  ‘All right, all right,’ I said, pushing them back. ‘You don’t have to get so excited. Sit down and try to behave like you were house trained. There’s nothing in this for you.’

  ‘Isn’t this rat cute?’ Benny said, appealing to Kerman. ‘He sends us out all day walking our feet to the bone while all he does is to leech around with women. Then he has the crust to say there’s nothing in it for us.’

  Kerman adjusted his necktie with a finicky little movement and eyed Miss Bolus with unconcealed admiration.

  ‘Madam,’ he said, with a formal bow, ‘I would be shirking my duty if I did not warn you against this man. His reputation is notorious. Ever since he gained access to Ebbing he’s been a menace to young and unprotected girls. All over the country hundreds of revengeful fathers are hunting for him with shotguns. Every time he passes the local orphanage toddlers stretch out their little arms and lisp “Daddy!” The beautiful girls you see lying in the gutters of this fair city have been thrown there by this fiend. Women are his playthings; here today, the gutter tomorrow. May I take you home to your mother?’

  ‘And if she’s anything like you, baby,’ Benny said with a leer, ‘I’ll come along too.’

  Miss Bolus looked at me inquiringly.

  ‘Are they always as drunk as this?’ she asked without a great show of interest.

  ‘It’s about their usual form,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I’d better introduce you. You’ll be seeing a lot of them I’m afraid. The dapper drunk is Jack Kerman. The other one who looks as if he’s slept in his clothes is Ed Benny. They’re harmless enough in straitjackets. Boys, meet Miss Bolus.’

  Kerman and Benny sat down. They folded their arms on the table and studied Miss Bolus with an admiration that would have been embarrassing if she was the type to be embarrassed, but she wasn’t.

  ‘I like her eyes, Jack,’ Benny said, bunching his fingers to his lips and blowing a kiss to the ceiling, ‘and the delicate curve of her ears, and the line of her neck - particularly the line of her neck.’

  Kerman declaimed with exaggerated gestures:

  ‘She was a phantom of delight

  When first she gleamed upon my sight;

  A lovely Apparition sent

  To be a moment’s ornament.’

  Benny and I stared at him goggle-eyed.

  ‘Where did you get that?’ I asked. ‘I didn’t know you could read.’

  Benny hurriedly found a pencil and wrote down the quotation on his shirt cuff.

  ‘Would you mind if I used that, Jack?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘It’s a very beautiful compliment, and I haven’t said anything nice to my girl for weeks.’

  Kerman waved a deprecatory hand.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘That’s nothing. I got culture. That’s what a girl likes - culture.’

  ‘There are other things,’ Miss Bolus said suavely.

  The waiter arrived at this moment with the special lunch, and for a few minutes while he set the plates and dishes before us there was a lull.

  ‘And bring a bottle of Irish,’ Kerman ordered. He leaned forward to ask Miss Bolus, ‘Can I press you to a little wine, madam?’

  She laughed.

  ‘He’s crazy,’ she said to me. ‘Do they always act like this?’

  ‘Most of the time,’ I told her. ‘So long as you don’t take them seriously they’re all right. But if they want to guess your weight and ask you to let them run their hands over you, then’s the time to holla “Fire!” ‘

  Kerman spotted my bruise.

  ‘Look!’ he said excitedly to Benny. ‘Someone hates him worse than we do.’

  Benny gaped at my neck, got up, came around the table and peered at the bruise closely.

  “Did she do that?’ he asked, his voice hushed in awe.

  ‘No, you big dope,’ I said. ‘Sit down and I’ll tell you.’

  While we were eating I told them about Mills.

  ‘And you mean to tell me you let some punk kick you in the neck and he’s still alive to tell the tale?’ Benny asked, shocked. ‘I don’t believe it!’

  ‘If you think you can do better I’ll fix it so you can meet him,’ I said a little heatedly. ‘You ask her. She knows him He’s way out of our class.’

  Miss Bolus shrugged her elegant shoulders.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. He’s good, but not all that good,’ she said indifferently. ‘He’s wide open to a left counter to the jaw. When he hits you with his right you want to move in with a left jab.’

  ‘Theories,’ I said and sneered. ‘When he hits you with his right you stay hit. The next time I talk to him I’ll take a gun along.’ I turned to the others. ‘Miss Bolus is going to help us solve the case. She’s interested in criminology.’

  ‘She must be if she’s chummed up with you,’ Benny said bitterly. He said to Miss Bolus with an ingratiating smile, ‘You and me can work the night shift. I’ll read your bumps.’

  ‘Mister Benny!’ Kerman exclaimed shocked.

  ‘I mean the bumps on her head, you dope!’ Benny said, annoyed. ‘Phrenology is an exact science.’

  ‘Can we cut out this frolicking and get down to b
usiness?’ I asked the waiter to put a bottle of Irish whisky on the table.

  I offered Miss Bolus a drink, but she said she didn’t touch hard liquor until seven o’clock.

  Kerman said he didn’t either, that is if she meant seven in the morning.

  ‘Now, Jack, how about Leadbetter?’ I asked, pouring myself a drink and passing the bottle to Benny.

  ‘Well, I’ve seen him,’ Kerman said, wrinkling up his eyes and frowning. ‘I didn’t get much out of him. He’s an odd customer. He has a little shack on the edge of the dunes, and there’s a big telescope on the roof. He spends a lot of his time up there peeping at anything that happens along, and by the way he smacked his lips when he told me I guess it wouldn’t be a bad way of spending an afternoon at that.’

  ‘Never mind the asides,’ I said. ‘Did you get anything out of him?’

  ‘It struck me he did know more than he says. His story is he was out looking for a fish hawk’s nest - why he had to look for it at that time of night he didn’t say - and he came upon Dana’s handbag, saw the bloodstains and went straight off to the police. He said he didn’t see anyone out there, but when I hinted I’d pay for information he said he wasn’t sure he hadn’t seen anyone, and his memory was bad, and he’d like a little time to think about it.’

  ‘I bet he didn’t say that to Mifflin,’ I said.

  Kerman shook his head.

  ‘He’s scared of the police. I have a feeling he knows something, but he’s hoping to collect on his information.’

  ‘Maybe he’s thinking of tapping the killer,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘If he knows who he is he might try blackmail.’

  ‘Yeah, I thought of that. He’s the type.’

  ‘I think I’ll call on him, Jack. He might react to a little tough persuasion. I’d make him more scared of me than of the police.’

  ‘Well, you try, but watch out. You know what Brandon’s like. If he thinks you’re interfering with his witness...’