Sin In Their Blood - Ed Lacy

     “Dopey,” Bill said to his whiskey.

     “I was just an amateur,” I said.

     “Another crazy racket, fighting for medals,” Tops said. He lit a fresh cigar, handed me one. I shook my head and he dug in his pocket, came out with a pack of cigarettes. I shook my head again and his eyes got a little bright. “You don't want to smoke my cigars?”

     “I don't smoke much, any more.”

     “Yeah?” Tops squinted at me. “I might of been a great boxer myself, if I had the chance,” Tops said, his voice getting nasty. “It's a fact, Matt's the only guy ever flattened me, and I been in some rough brawls. Do any fighting in the army?”

     “Not that kind.” I started to get up. Tops reached across the table and pushed me down with one hand— didn't push me hard, but still a push.

     “What's the hurry?”

     “Got an appointment.”

     “I want to talk over old times.”

     “Some other time,” I said, reaching into my pocket for change.

     Tops said, “Your money's no good here, on me.”

     “That's okay,” I said, leaving a dime and a nickel for a tip.

     Bill said, “What a spendthrift!”

     Tops roared with laughter, swept the change off the table. “Leave that for the busboy. Hey, Bill, know something, this Wop don't like our company.”

     “Don't call me a Wop,” I said, and immediately wished I'd shut up.

     Tops said in a mocking voice, “Sorry. See, he don't like us, don't like me calling him a Wop. Fancy Dago, ain't he?” His voice was loud and people were staring at us. The waiter was whispering nervously to the manager.

     I said, “Forget it, Tops, you're drunk and I've places to go.”

     “So I'm drunk! Know what I want to talk to you about, what I been thinking about sitting here, looking at your ugly kisser? I never liked you socking me around. Nobody ever done that to me, you got me with a Sunday punch. Know what, let's you and me see who's the roughest chum right now?”

     “Some other time, I just ate,” I said, getting up. Tops got to his feet fast, for a guy in his condition. The punk got up quickly too, glanced around, said something to Tops who growled, “Naw, he ain't a copper no more. Hit the wrong slob and got hisself busted.” His eyes didn't leave me as he talked and now he asked, “We settle this right here, or should we go into the alley?”

     I had the ball—was stuck with it! Tops was too stupid drunk to argue with. I knew the alley. I shrugged. “Let's go into the alley, I don't want to break any tables and property, knocking you around. Remember, you're starting this... and better take your plates out, no sense my busting them... again.”

     The tough talk didn't work. “Damn right I'm starting it, going to kick the living slop out of you,” Tops said as we started for the kitchen door. This Bill pretended to brush against me and I shoved him aside, said, “Relax, punk, I'm clean.”

     We walked through the kitchen, which was empty except for a short-order cook in dirty shirtsleeves, who stared at us with surprise. We stepped out into the alley and as Tops took off his coat and handed it to the punk... I ran like mad. Tops was too drunk to run and I knew the kid wouldn't be any trouble.

     Nothing followed me—except Tops' astonished and deep laughter. The alley came out on a busy side street, as I knew it would, and I slowed down. I told the nearest cabbie to drive me to the park. I'd never run from anybody before, but I didn't feel bad, in fact I didn't feel anything. I was breathing hard and when I took my pulse it seemed too fast. I leaned back against the seat, shut my eyes, and waited for my heart to stop pounding.

     I sat on a park bench for awhile, wondering what that short sprint had done to my left lung... the one they had once talked of collapsing. It was the first time I'd run, or even walked fast, in almost a year, and my throat felt a little raw from breathing too fast. I'd have to see Max, get a gun permit. Coming back to town was a mistake—there were too many characters like Tops around, waiting to take a poke at me. You return to your “home town” not because it's a good or bad town, but for no reason except it's “home town.” Well, that was for the birds, if I wanted to stay alive I'd have to get out of town—but fast. The next time there might not be an alley and a beating would kill me.

     I sat in the park till one, then took a bus to the Grace Building, which was a swank office building not far from the bar I'd been in. Suite 2111 had AMERICA! AMERICA! Inc. printed on the door in small silver letters and the office was a lush affair—the walls of knotted blond pine, fancy leather chairs, thick rug, and pictures of Washington, Truman, and MacArthur on the walls in modern copper frames. The receptionist was a dull-looking, thin woman who told me, “Mr. Loughlin is busy. Take a seat, please.”

     I sat down and in a few minutes a creep came out of an office and told the woman, “I'll be back by two, Miss O'Brien.” This frantic looked to be about thirty, was small and slight, and had thick glasses on a pimply face that seemed too big for the rest of his head. He wore a dark blue suit, a white shirt with a starched collar, and a dark black tie. His hair was a violent orange-red, and the only thing missing on him was a strait jacket.

     Miss O'Brien said, “Yes, sir, Mr. Austin,” and Mr. Austin actually backed out of the office, his eyes, distorted by the powerful glasses, giving me a clumsy once-over. He sure looked like a nut or a hophead who needed a shot in a big hurry.

     I glanced through several magazines I'd never heard of before, all of them full of super-patriotic junk, eager to explain what had gone wrong in Korea, and all of them had an article either called, “What MUST Be Done,” or, “Wake Up, America!” I tossed the magazines back on the end tables next to the smart brown leather couch I was sitting on. I knew damn well Harry was alone, giving me the waiting treatment to show his importance. I was about to ask the receptionist if she had the daily paper, so I could start looking for a room, when the door opened and I smelled the perfume before I heard, “Matt!” and she threw herself on my lap, her red mouth over mine. I pushed Flo aside, and jumped up, said, “Damn it, don't kiss me!”

     The months hadn't hurt Flo. She still had the fluffy blond hair, the sensuous mouth, and her chic dress proved beyond any doubt she had a full figure and wasn't wearing a bra. Her firm full breasts seemed to be held at the nipples, like two jack-in-the-boxes, waiting to spring over the low-cut dress. But I really wasn't looking at her fleshy bosom or the long shapely legs and the bit of round thigh that showed as she sprawled on the couch—I was only watching that over-red mouth, afraid of it. I'd thought a lot about Flo... she'd been the logical candidate to give me the bug: Flo and her sloppy soul kisses, ramming her sharp darting tongue down my throat.

     Flo bounded to her feet as Miss O'Brien watched with respect and disapproval, hugged me, and fortunately her mouth only reached my shoulder, smearing my shirt. She was wearing high platforms—her lips used to come about halfway up my chest, she got her kicks biting the hair there. She said, in the gushy way she had of talking, “Ah, Matt, Matt, it's so damn good to see you! How you, honey?” She pushed me away, looked me over with delight. “You still look so... oh... rough and big. Matt, I've missed you so goddamn much.”

     “I can see that,” I said, glancing at the silver fox scarf, the rings and bracelets—all real stones. Flo spent a lot of time dressing herself, and if her taste was a little on the loud side, she never wore cheap stuff. It used to amaze me how she spent hours dressing—to be able to undress in seconds.

     She giggled. “Hell, Matt, I had to do something, or go to work—for peanuts. It don't mean a thing, you're the only stud for me. You know that. Why the very sight of you sent a hot...”

     There was a cough from Miss O'Brien and Flo muttered a female word under her breath—which was the last thing you'd think about the faded Miss O'Brien. Flo whispered, “Hon, I'll wait downstairs. Be in the yellow Packard roadster—it's mine. And don't pay no mind to whatever Harry tells you, you know where you really stand with me—and any time.”

     “Well... I don't know how long I'll be with Harry....”

     “Hon, I'll wait.”

     Miss O'Brien said crisply, “Mr. Loughlin will see you now.”

     Flo winked, said, “Don't forget, I'll be waiting.”

     The receptionist began, “Mr. Loughlin is waiting...

     I pushed Flo away, my hand touching a lot of soft cool skin and Flo looked at Miss O'Brien and repeated the four-letter word—loudly—and the woman blushed a deep red as she buzzed the door for me.

     I went through a small room, a kind of foyer, lined with big metal filing cabinets, the fireproof expensive ones, with a thick lock on each cabinet. There was also a desk with a bronze nameplate: Thatcher Austin, Jr.

     The creep came complete. On the wall behind the desk there was a small American flag with a scale model sub-machine gun hung under it. It was a good model and I was about to stop and examine it, when Harry opened the door of his office.

     He hadn't changed: wiry, dapper, the thin-featured face all clean-shaven and with a trace of powder and nice smelling after-shave lotion. He had the same small hands, soft and well manicured, as always. Sometimes when he was on a real good binge, he'd paint his nails a mild pink.

     “You big thug, you look fine!”

     I said, “That's what everybody has been trying to sell me.”

     He sat down behind his big metal and dark mahogany desk and I sat on one of these ultra-modern chairs that's supposedly molded to the shape of your behind. After the first few seconds, it was comfortable.

     Harry said, “That wound and the hospital didn't do you any harm, you look fit. Those nurses as tail-happy as the jokes go?”

     “Stop it.” Harry, knew more dirty jokes than any man alive, or maybe dead. And all of them funny—to a high-school kid.

     “But you do look fine. I don't know, expected you to limp in with half an arm. Never did get that wound business straight—where were you hit?”

     “In the head. Forget the wound and the war. What did you want to see me about?”

     Harry gave me a small grin, examined his nails. “Same thing you wanted to see me about—get us both straight. Thought we might start off by getting things settled. Righto?”

     “You're talking.” The “righto” was a new word for Harry.

     He pressed a button and the bottom drawer of his desk gently slid open. He fumbled around with some papers—a few of our old letterheads—tossed them on the desk. “That's all that remains of our old agency.”

     He waited for me to say something, then added, “Got a hundred and twenty bucks for the office furniture, but we owed that much in back rent, phone. Have it all itemized if you care to see it.”

     “Take your word.”

     Harry filled a straight-grained pipe and lit it. He puffed on the pipe greedily, watching me. He was smoking something that smelled like a mixture of sugar and Under The Arm No. 5. The whole pipe idea must have been part of Harry's new “executive” look. Finally he said, “What I'm saying, Matt, is, you're not a partner in this new set-up I have. But that doesn't mean you're not in. Want to work for me? Hundred a week to start.”

     “No dice.”

     “You mean you expect to get a slice of this deal? It's all mine, you want a job, okay, but no partnership.” His voice grew shrill like it always did when he was angry.

     “You can have it—all of it.”

     He looked at me like I was bulling him, then leaned back in his red leather chair, sent out a big cloud of smoke that stunk up the room. I thought how odd it was that a weak character like Harry, a bag of bones, knowing almost the same people I did, going the same places, never got the bug. And with all my muscles, I had to get it.

     “Matt, you're not sore about anything?”

     “No.”

     “This job is a snap and...”

     “I'm not going to work—for a while.”

     “Loaded?”

     “Just my pension. Rising prices are cutting it to hell, but I'll manage.”

     Harry sucked on his pipe again, studied me. “There's one more thing—Flo. I took over while you...”

     “You can have her too, along with the letterheads.”

     “Matt, you've changed.”

     “That's right.”

     “Flo fits in with my plans. I like a stupid girl, just a plain stupid one, not one of these educated stupid broads that drive you nuts with their complexes. Flo is...”

     I stood up. “So long, Harry. I got to get some sleep.”

     “Wait a minute. Sit down. I canceled two appointments so we could chat. Matt, I'll level with you, I have a gold mine here, but I need somebody I can trust to work with me. Give you a hundred and fifty a week, and it's no work. Sit down, let me show you something.” He took a four-page printed newsletter from the top of his desk, handed it to me. I read the first paragraph which had some hooey about “inside trends in America.” Across the top in big red letters was printed, CONFIDENTIAL! Destroy This After Reading!

     Harry said, “I write that. Got a guy at the printers who goes over it for mistakes, does a polish job.”

     “What is it?”

     “Costs fifty bucks a year to subscribe to my newsletter, and I got over 1,800 suckers. Send it to them registered mail—big deal. Was going to charge them thirty dollars, then I thought of the registered-mail angle, added twenty to pay the postage. Impresses the hell out of 'em.”

     “Out of who?”

     “Businessmen. And if they don't subscribe, or let us screen their employees—for from five hundred to a grand, depending upon the number of workers—why then I smear them in the newsletter. It's surefire.... I can put a small concern out of business within three issues of my newsletter.”