Dead End - Ed Lacy

     “The whole thing is nuts.”

     Doc shrugged. “Okay, I'll play the good Samaritan solo. I'll lend her the money, and when she has a stake, I'll make her quit the racket and—”

     “It isn't the money, it's—”

     “The principle?” Doc cut in, laughing at me.

     “You want to get into this, I'll go along. But I still think it's cockeyed,” I said, confused. When Doc first started this helping-her angle, I thought he'd remembered her from someplace, figured she was a big collar or could put us on to somebody else. I mean, he was doing the “friend” routine. Often when two dicks are interrogating a suspect, one detective, to make him talk, pretends he's the jerk's friend. I thought that was what Doc was working on, that he never meant to actually go through with the dizzy deal.

     I took Betty to a crummy hotel for the night, and within a day we had her established. We only told three bartenders, all guys we had something on, and impressed upon them that if they sent up a drunk or a wrongo customer, we'd take it out on them. And Doc drilled Betty about forgetting our names in case things got out of line.

     While I couldn't understand Doc going for a deal like this, I had to admit he was right—as usual. For the few months she was in business, Betty did okay. She didn't try to make a fortune, played it slow, like we told her. And of course she didn't have the looks for the big time. Nor was it all smooth: We had to help her move twice, and once I had to run up to her place in the middle of the night and talk a vice-squad eager beaver out of running her in. And now and then I had to bounce the nuts and dubs.

     I kept a strict and honest account of her money, I only gave her a few dollars for spending money, warned her to stay off the expensive clothes jive, which can be as bad as dope or drink for some girls. Every extra penny I put in her savings account, which was in her name, but I kept the bank book. She had $985.52 when it was all over.

     (It's still in the bank. The money never did her any good.)

     Betty and I agreed that when she hit two grand she would quit the life and open a little beauty parlor with a perfume counter on the side. Betty was mad about perfumes, and many a night the two of us would go over some catalogue she had, arguing as to which brands she would carry, or maybe put out her own line—depending on the neighborhood where she opened shop. I even began saving a few dollars in a special account I opened under the name of Bucklin Laspiza, and was going into the business as a silent partner.

     We had some great times together. Like with Judy, it didn't seem to matter to me that she had other men. Except Doc. I don't know why but I didn't like Doc going with her. I think he sensed the way I felt, left her alone.

     Odd thing about Doc, he liked to shop for her clothes. He would visit bargain basements or luck up on some hot stuff, and took a delight in dressing her simply but smartly. He enjoyed it so much I began to wonder if he was a suppressed queer.

     I was very happy with Betty. Whenever I had my days off, she would close shop and spend them with me. If it was hot, we'd go to the beach, stuff ourselves with hot dogs. I never asked about her past, although I had an idea she'd had a lousy marriage a few months before I met her.

     She was a simple kid, but not stupid. She wasn't greedy like Judy nor a nag like Elma. She didn't drink much, although when I was in the mood, she would dutifully get crocked with me. She would do anything I felt like. Her one passion was movies and we took in a lot of them. Whenever I'd remark about the beauty of an actress, Betty would act jealous and start whispering about how the babe on the screen couldn't love me the way she did. It made me feel great. Another funny thing, she wanted me to see comedies, said I didn't laugh enough. Whenever I took her out, I paid, and she liked that. I promised her in the fall I'd fly her to Miami for a week. And I meant it.

     Weeks would pass without my seeing Elma, going “home.” And when I did see her, her grossness left me disgusted. She seemed to believe my yarns about working day and night. I was giving her fifty a week and all she did was lay around the house, stuffing her fat head with candy, TV, and her crime magazines.

     At times—not often—I felt guilty about Elma, I'd remember how she'd stuck by me when everybody else on the block was sneering at my being a bastard; the way she'd saved our money when I was in the Army. Sometimes I'd suggest we take in a movie, or a bar, but she had grown into such a lard monster we were both embarrassed by her size. Elma's idea of a big time was for us to watch TV, eating candy and popcorn. She had a special game: Whenever she saw a crime story on TV she would ask me during a commercial, “You're a hot-shot detective—who did the murder, Bucky?” Or, “How would you go about capturing the guy?”

     The trouble was, most times I would guess wrong and it would send Elma rocking with laughter, as if she had pulled a fast one on me. Once we were watching an old whodunit movie and I said it was obvious the gal had done it. Elma bet me a dollar the mother was the killer, then got hysterical when I paid off and told me she had seen the picture a couple times before. Although I couldn't stand her, I still had this sense of shame, as if in my own little way I was doing to Elma what Nate had done to Daisy. I mean, I had this feeling that somehow I must be responsible for Elma being so dull, so fat. I knew it wasn't my fault, but then Nate had said he hadn't made a slavey out of Daisy, too.

     The few times I was with Elma—usually to change my clothes—I could hardly wait to see Betty. Sometimes I'd leave the apartment at six in the morning and get Betty up, have breakfast with her before I reported for duty. It was like getting the taste of Elma out of my system. Poor Betty never complained about my breaking into her sleep. She was as happy as a pet dog to see me.

     When was .it—six or seven days ago?—when all this really started? Doc and I had just finished our tour and were off on a two-day swing. Usually when we were off, Doc would want to go to some off-beat restaurant and talk, but he said he was tired and went to his hotel. I got Betty up and took her out for Chinese food. She phoned the bartenders not to send up any customers for a few days. We were sleeping late the next morning when the phone rang. I wanted to let it ring, but Betty couldn't stand a ringing phone. I answered it and Doc asked, “What are you two doing? I wore out my hand ringing the bell.”

     “I disconnected the bell.”

     “I'm at the corner drugstore. Coming right up.”

     “What's cooking, Doc?”

     “Cut the corn and get dressed, be ready to go. Big case.”

     I took a shave, thinking that Doc could only get this worked up over a big gravy deal, and I might show Betty the Miami palm trees sooner than I expected. As I was showering, I heard Doc come in. Betty said she'd make us coffee, but Doc, who had busted right into the bathroom, told her, “No time, honey. We're in a big hurry. Here.” He yanked a thin box of stockings out of his inside pocket. “Picked these up for you yesterday. A gift. Now, honey, take a walk. Try them on—in the next room. Bucky and I have some talk.”

     She left as I toweled myself down and Doc said, “We're in for a lot of work. All off-time has been canceled. I got the call an hour ago. We're on fly assignment to the Park Precinct, Lieutenant Bill Smith's squad. A good cop and a smart man.”

     “What's the large deal?”

     “You're about to witness, and take part in, one of our society's stupid circus acts. Somebody driven by need commits a crime. Society then rushes in about fifty thousand dollars' worth of time and money to collar him. One of the illogical bumps of our system. If they had given the guy—or girl—only a small part of that sum to start with, there would have been no reason to turn to crime and—”

     “Stop talking me to death. What's happened?”

     “A kid was snatched about three hours ago. Ever hear of a Leonard Wyckoff?”

     “No. Who he?” I was disappointed; this wasn't going to be any pocket money deal.

     Doc shook his head. “Stop going for cute, Bucky. We'll probably be working around the clock for the next couple of days. This—”

     “Then why all the rush in finding me? We could have reported in this afternoon. Let's have a decent breakfast first and then—”

     “No, we have to report immediately. It's an important case. This Wyckoff is a wealthy plastics manufacturer with a house on Park West. His wife died in a car accident last year and now his four-year-old daughter, Joan, has been snatched.”

     I slipped into my shorts. “Where?”

     “From her nursery school.”

     “You said it was done a few hours ago. What makes them go for the kidnapping angle? Three hours—the girl could have walked out of school, be lost, hiding, or—”

     “Wyckoff's already been contacted. They're asking for a million bucks.” Doc jammed a cigarette in his mouth, looked around. “Where's some fire?”

10—

     Lieutenant Bill Smith was one of these wiry, lean guys with an iron-gray crew-cut topping off a rugged puss. He always had a pipe stuck in his face, smoking a sweet mixture that made me slightly sick. I don't know, there was something both hard and quiet about his voice, his looks, that said this was a character who knew his stuff.

     It sure was big. There were at least thirty detectives on fly assignment to this ancient precinct house that must have been a police station in Washington's time. As we reported in we were briefed by Smith. If he had repeated the story a dozen times, his voice didn't seem bored. “We haven't much to work on, but we have to make it do, and do it fast. This is what we know: The kid went to a fancy nursery school facing the park, a few blocks from here. Wyckoff dropped her off every morning at ten, on the way to his factory. At ten twenty this morning the school received a call, supposedly from Mr. Wyckoff, saying he was sending his secretary, a Mr. Jackman, right over to pick up Joan—an aunt was in town and it was going to be a surprise for the kid. There wasn't any reason for the school to check the call and anyway, before they had a chance to, this tall man, about thirty-five, average face, dark brown hair, conservative clothes, and speaking with a mild twang, appeared. He said he was Jackman and took the girl. No one at the school knows if he came and left in a car or cab. Within a half hour Wyckoff received a call at his office telling him to get a million dollars ready, nothing higher than hundreds, and to wait for another call. There was the usual threat not to contact the police.

     “Mr. Wyckoff immediately called both the press and the police. Too bad he let the papers in, but it's done. His idea was to publicly broadcast that he will not work with the police, will carry out the kidnappers' instructions to the letter. Maybe that was a stupid way of working it; maybe it was very smart. He's a rich man and the girl is his only child. Of course, once we know about it, we have to take a hand. So does the F.B.I. Our job is to act fast and quietly. Everybody understand that?

     “Now, this is obviously an inside job. For example, a Howard Jackman is Mr. Wyckoff's secretary. Also, whoever phoned knew that Wyckoff had a gruff way of speaking. We're checking all the past and present household help Wyckoff ever had, his factory employees. I want the rest of you to mosey around, ask for a tall, thin stranger who talks with a Western twang. Of course, the twang could be a phony. From the description given by the school head, we've had an artist make up a picture of the man. It isn't too accurate—the school head is a hysterical biddy. One thing she's positive about: The man has long, slim fingers, like those of a concert pianist, she says. In cases like this, the guy is probably an out-of-towner brought in for the job. And we're almost certain the man hasn't left town with the girl; that's about the best bit we have going for us. Ask around. A job this size is impossible to keep quiet.”

     We were each given color photographs of a homely, pug-nosed little girl with bright eyes and red hair. And there was a sketch of a thin-faced man—a drawing that didn't mean a thing. It could have been a quick sketch of a thousand guys.

     “That's all. Except for two things: The child's life depends upon our acting quietly. Since the father's made it public, despite his hands-off plea, the kidnappers must know we're working on the case. There's little chance of the kid being returned alive, but we can't give up on even that small chance. Wyckoff has told the papers if we do stick our hand in, he'll hold us responsible for the child's life. That's bull, but unless we work quietly there could be a hell of an uproar. Finally, if you do come up with anything, notify me before you make a move. That's orders. Keep in touch with this squad room every two hours. That's all.”

     Doc and I managed to get a squad car—or rather Doc did—and as I drove off he said, “The first thing we do is have lunch at the zoo and read the papers.”

     “I thought you were so hot to get working?”

     “We've reported in. We're covered.”

     Over bacon and eggs on the zoo terrace I read the papers. I didn't learn anything new except the girl was adopted. You know the way a little thing can change all your ideas—well, her being adopted is what really got me interested in the case. “Imagine this, Doc, Joanie is an adopted child.”

     “So what?”

     “I don't know, a guy raising a kid alone, and willing to shell out a million, and the kid adopted—I mean, that's a hell of a good joker.”

     “According to the papers, he can afford the dough. He was a damn fool to tell the press, the cops.”

     “Why? It seems to me by being away aboveboard, he's assuring the kidnappers he's playing ball with them. How long could he have kept it quiet, anyway?”

     Doc shook his head. “There's going to be a tail on Wyckoff, on everybody in his household and factory. Don't you think the punks will know that? Just as they know we can't take a hands-off attitude, no matter what daddy wants.”

     “Yeah, but we'll be under wraps.”

     Doc took out a cigarette. “Give me some fire; my lighter is out of fuel. Look, Bucky, there's fifty men asking questions. How long is that going to be under wraps?”