Sin In Their Blood - Ed Lacy

     I went back down the hill, drove to the gas station, called Max. He said he'd be right out. It was a little after one and I drove back to the cabin, walked up the hill slowly, watching my breathing—I didn't puff much —remembered it was time for my pill. I went to the sink and found the water off. There was a small valve under the sink, but I didn't turn it on, swallowed the pill dry. I'd had a lot of experience lately swallowing pills—wet or dry.

     I sat on the doorstep and it hardly seemed any time at all before I heard the lonely wail of sirens and Max and Saxton and half the police department were charging up the slope. They all were puffing.

     A doc cut Wilson down and said he'd died sometime Sunday morning, and Saxton looked thoroughly upset. Max actually shook my hand, gave me a line about a job well done and Saxton thanked me, gave me another check for a hundred for “excellent work.” I protested—lightly—that he'd already paid me for the two days I'd put in, but he shook his head and sat down and stared at the floor.

     While everybody was gassing about the suicide and the case being closed, and being busy-busy, I said goodbye, or maybe I didn't bother, and got a ride back to town in a radio car. I didn't blame Max too much, he had a solution, an answer that fitted, why should he look for more work? Of course actually Saxton had killed his sister and brother-in-law; the only reason he hired me was to make damn sure the cops found the body.

     Maybe I should have told Max about the water being off—not that it was conclusive proof of anything, still it could be enough for a starter, a real investigation. But what would that get me? I didn't give a damn about the case, who killed who, didn't want to get on it in the first place. Max was happy, so was Saxton, and I had two hundred bucks and was tired.

     I slept most of my way back to town and it was only 3 p.m. and I decided I'd had my afternoon nap. I took a bus out to White Beach to look for a room. There weren't many VACANCY signs out, and what rooms were for rent were either about the size of a phone booth or must have been built of uranium and priced accordingly. But it was sunny and it felt good to walk along the beach, near the ocean.

     By five I was ready to give up and go back to town when I passed a cottage and the number stuck in my mind. I got it after a moment—this was the house of Saxton's girlfriend, his alibi, Madeline Moore. I dug through my pockets, found the address Max had given me, and my memory was right. More out of curiosity to see what a clown like Saxton went for, I rang the bell.

     I was surprised. A tall girl with a strong figure opened the door. Her face was good-natured rather than pretty, with large, frank eyes, a big heavy mouth, and a lot of dark hair that reached her shoulders. She was wearing short woolen socks, sandals, and a skirt and a blouse she must have put on in the dark. There wasn't a trace of make-up on her face—not that it would have helped things much, yet it was a face I liked.

     For a moment we didn't speak, while I quickly ran my eyes over her body—as a guy does to every girl, and she did the same to me... but slower. Then she said, “Oh damn, another dick! I spent all day yesterday telling you guys all I know. And then it was the reporters. Why don't you leave me alone?” Her voice was throaty and for some reason excited me.

     “I'm looking for a room. Do you...?”

     “Bullshit, you've got detective written all over your pan, and those big shoulders.”

     “I used to be a cop, but I'm not now. Honestly, I'm looking for a room.”

     “My, isn't it simply a ginger-dandy coincidence you just happened to stop at my place! You see a VACANCY sign around here?”

     “On the level—I was on the case as a sort of private eye, hired by Saxton but now that...”

     “What's he doing, checking up on me?” she asked, her eyes still roaming over my body, measuring my shoulders—embarrassing me.

     “Look, the case is over, they found Wilson's body and I...”

     Her eyes looked shocked. “His body? Mr. Wilson dead?”

     “Suicide—they say. Now...”

     “Gee, he was a nice guy. Well, I guess he must have done it, but you'd never think it, looking at him. Never raised his voice or...”

     “Anyway, I was down here looking for a room and... your address stuck in my mind.”

     “This isn't a rooming house. Mr. Wilson dead...?”

     “You know of any rooms? Cheap ones? I'm on a pension, and not very well. Have to rest. I was hurt in Korea and...”

     Something in her face changed, I don't know exactly what, but she almost seemed as if she was going to weep. “Come in, Mr....”

     “Matt Ranzino, Miss Moore.”

     “Mrs. Moore. You see... my... my husband was killed at Taegu. Here...” We were in a small living room furnished with the kind of stuff you pay a few bucks down and another couple of bucks a week for. She opened a thick leather-bound book and showed me a small black-bordered picture of a cocky corporal. The book was one of these regimental history things. I was surprised they had them out so fast—usually takes a few years before they're issued. But a quick buck will always find an eager-beaver. The guy was wearing a tank helmet, looked handsome and big—about twenty-two. Madeline's head was near mine and I realized she couldn't be much more than that herself—a big kid.

     A big kid with the faint odor of whiskey on her big breath.

     Staring at the picture for a long moment, she said, “We were jobbed. Hardly had more than a few months of marriage. Then... Tell me about Korea, if you want to talk about it.”

     “I don't.”

     “Those yellow savages! What did they do to you boys?”

     “They gave us a rough time, when I was there. But let's forget the war,” I added, afraid she was getting ready to cry on my shoulder. “Let's get back to now— do you know of a room?”

     “I've an extra bedroom here. Been thinking of renting it out but... I... eh... never got around to it. I wanted a girl, but the hell with it.”

     She never got around to it because Saxton didn't want anybody else in the house. If she would take me in, she must be washed up with Saxton. But if she wasn't.... I didn't want to get into any messy deal. I said, “That's right, would look odd having a male roomer in this small cottage. Best I...”

     “Forget that. I gave up worrying what the neighbors thought a long, long time ago. You want a room—take a look at this.”

     We went through the kitchen and into a fairly large bedroom with a big double bed, a chest of drawers, and a small table-bookcase beside the bed. The sun was streaming in past the red polka-dot curtains and the whole room had a sort of homy atmosphere—something my hotel room lacked. I said, “How much you asking for...?”

     “Whatever you want to pay. I'm so far behind on my mortgage payments, it won't make much difference.”

     “Well...” I wanted to say six bucks, but I knew that was too cheap. “Eight a week be okay?”

     “You have a room, Matt. And call me Madeline, using last names is silly. You can use the kitchen any time you feel like cooking. Guess the bed will be big enough for you. You've got some pair of shoulders up there.”

     “Worked in a warehouse when I was a kid, got the shoulders juggling trunks.”

     “Biggest I ever saw,” she said, and ran her hands over my shoulders, felt of the muscles in my arm, poked her finger against my stomach. It was the first time I'd let a girl so... so brazenly feel me up, and I felt like blushing, and then like laughing.

     “I like a man to be a man. A...”

     “And a woman to be a woman?” I asked. This kid was really something—or she was drunk.

     “All right, stop making like clever. Sure, a woman to be a woman. But a man should be big and hard. Billy— my husband—he used to hang around muscle beach, did acrobatics. Gee, hard to think a lousy little hunk of lead could kill all that man. Want a drink?”

     “No, thanks.” I took out my wallet. “Here's two-weeks rent.”

     She took the sixteen bucks, and I said I'd be back in an hour or so with my suitcase, and she went into her bedroom—which was furnished about the same as mine, didn't even have a dressing table, and took a key out of her pocketbook, said, “Most times I forget to lock the door, but here's your key. And if the front door is locked, back door is always open.”

     I said thanks and tried not to laugh. I took the bus back to the hotel, checked out, and was looking around for Abe to see if he could get the desk to cash my check, but he was out to supper. On second thought I figured it would be a mistake to let him know too much of my business. I had a light supper and two glasses of milk, and got to the cottage at about seven. There was a burly joker sitting in a battered car parked near the house and he gave me the eye, but I couldn't recall ever having seen him before, told myself I'd have to get over the jittery feeling every time some big ape looked at me.

     Madeline wasn't home and I hung up my few things, wrote the Finance Office and told them where to send my checks. I'd had a big day and was pretty tired, but figured I should mail the letter at once.

     The stars were just coming out and the air was clean and cool and I left the mailbox and walked along the beach, kicking up the sand with my big feet. It reminded me of machine-gun bullets ripping up the ground. Tomorrow, I thought, I'll get a lot of sun, and some swimming wouldn't hurt.

     I was watching the Pacific, thinking of Korea on the other end of the water, when I heard footsteps in back of me and as I turned I was tackled from behind and went sprawling on the sand. I felt like I'd been hit by a ton. My breath shot out of me with a terrifying ssssish! I tried to turn over and then I saw this burly guy jump in the air and land on my chest... and I could picture my lungs collapsing.

     I went limp, fighting for breath, afraid to move and this goon was half astride me, cursing and punching, working his knee toward my groin. His blows didn't hurt much, except for one I stopped with my eye, and I kept rolling my head from side to side, trying to escape the punches. But it didn't work, there wasn't enough space.

     There wasn't much point in lying there getting crushed to death while he found out he'd made a mistake, unless this was robbery—which I doubted—so I got my left hand over his mouth and nose and pushed. He went backwards a bit and I raised my shoulders and hips off the sand and slugged him in the belly.

     His grunt was loud in the quiet of the beach and he dropped his hands to his stomach and rolled off. I sat up and got a solid left cross on his big jaw and he fell on his side—out cold. I jumped up and looked around to see if anybody was with him, but the beach was empty, just the lights of the cottages across the road. The guy was still out and I felt of my chest, surprised it was still there, took a deep breath. I was puffing and sweating, but otherwise okay. I sat down in the sand again, watching him and resting. My right eye was swollen and there was a small taste of blood on my mouth. For a moment the blood gave me a hell of a fright—I was sure I'd hemorrhaged. I ran my tongue over my lips and felt the cut there and nearly cried with relief.

     “Bully-boy started to stir and I opened my coat and sat so the moonlight played on my shoulder holster. I got to my feet and when he started to sit up, I slapped him sharply across the forehead and he tried to kick me and fell over backwards. He was just a big fat soggy slob. He lay there, staring up at me with angry eyes and I knew that slap had left him dizzy. I asked, “What's your story, fat boy? Why the rough and tumble play? Got me mixed up with some other guy?”

     “I know who you are.” He rubbed his jaw, touched his stomach. “Jesus, you hit hard.”

     “Talk or I'll give you a real going-over. Who the hell are you?” I was sure rusty, I hadn't even frisked him.

     “Stay away from Madeline!”

     “What? Why, you dummy, I'm only rooming at her house. I'm not...”

     “Stay away from her!”

     “I never saw her till a few hours ago. I'm not cutting in on your time or...”

     “Ain't no time, I'm her brother.”

     I touched my holster. “Get up.”

     “I warn you....”

     “Get up!”

     He scrambled to his feet and I looked him over closely in the moonlight and could see the resemblance—the same careless features. I dropped my hand, “Listen Madeline's brother, you got something awful wrong. Told you I never saw her till this afternoon. I was looking for a room and she rented me one. That's all.”

     He sighed, worked his jaw, then said, “That's what she said. How come you picked her house?”

     “I was-working for Saxton—on the Wilson murders— remembered Madeline's address when I came down here for a room.”

     He spit out a glob of blood, straightened his suit and tie. “That lousy bastard, whatcha working for him for?”

     “For a hundred bucks. What's your angle in all this, blubber?”

     “Hell, let's sit down, I feel shaky, like there's a hole in my stomach. Never even saw that punch to the jaw,” he said, and I followed him across the sand, to a bench.

     “A licking; as though I haven't got enough troubles. Got plenty of my own troubles and I got to watch Mady too. She's a good kid, only people don't understand her. She's been hitting the bottle. Don't like that, but I can't blame her too much. She's had a rough time.”

     He lit a cigarette, offered me one. I shook my head. I didn't mind listening to his family troubles, I was curious about Madeline.

     He said, “I'm Joe, the oldest one, Joe Shelley. Then there's Pete—a few years older than Mady, and her. I was almost a man, about fifteen, when she was born, and I always been looking out for her... you know how it is with kid sisters.”

     “I never had none.”