Night Squad (7 page)

      You slimy worm, the badge said.
You zero you—
      Get outta my way, he said to the badge, and quickly slipped it into his pocket. But as he walked away he could feel its weight. He grimaced with discomfort and the weight of the badge was heavier. He tried to pull his thoughts away from it; but it continued talking to him.
      In his room the going was easier. He opened the small closet and found some loose boards in the wall. He took out the boards, arranging a place of concealment for the badge and the card and the police pistol. He put the boards back in position and then got undressed and climbed into bed.
      As he drifted into sleep, the only thought in his mind was the bonus money offered by Grogan—the fifteen thousand dollars.
       

6

      He slept until two in the afternoon. At 2:10 he was seated at the counter of a hash house on Addison. The counter girl had served him a cinnamon bun and coffee. He was biting into the bun when a voice beside him said, “The problem for today is nourishment.”
      Corey turned his head. It was the little man, Carp. His sparse black hair was slicked down sideways with cheap pomade. The high starched collar was ripped at the edges and the rummage-sale clothing showed several patches. The jacket was a thick woolen material, the wearer seemingly unmindful of the 90 degree weather. Corey muttered, “Don't know how you can stand it. You ain't even sweating.”
      “I'm too busy starving,” Carp said. “It's a state of affairs known as stark malnutrition.”
      “You really want food?” Corey muttered. “I thought you live on alcohol.”
      “The needs of the body are various,” Carp said. He looked down along the counter, his eyes aiming cravingly at the heaping plate of lamb stew that the counter girl was serving to a customer. He called to her, “How much is lamb stew, Terese?”
      “Thirty-five cents.”
      “Including the bread?”
      “That's right,” Terese said.
      “Excellent,” Carp said. “Excellent in all respects.” He looked at Corey. “Except I lack the necessary funds.”
      Corey sighed. He called to Terese, telling her to bring Carp a plate of lamb stew.
      “A truly noble gesture,” Carp said. “It calls for an expression of gratitude. Or let's say a favor in return.”
      “A favor?” Corey glanced sideways at the little man. “I don't need no favors.”
      “That's debatable,” Carp said. He called to Terese, “I'll have the beverage later, if you please. A demitasse.” And then, aloud to himself, “Let's hope and pray it's in the proper cup. The proper cup for a demitasse is pure white porcelain, paper-thin.”
      Corey frowned at him. “You got something you wanna tell me?”
      Carp didn't answer. He was gazing into a small mirror, stained and cracked, set against some cereal boxes behind the counter. Carefully appraising his appearance in the mirror, he smoothed his greasy hair and adjusted his scraggly necktie. Terese arrived with the lamb stew and bread. Carp picked up the fork, holding it delicately with his little finger curved daintily. Tasting the lamb stew, he nodded slowly and approvingly, then took another taste and frowned carefully like a gourmet. “Perhaps a dash of thyme, to give it nobility. And a mere suggestion of marjoram—”
      Terese shook her head hopelessly and turned away. Carp continued to eat the lamb stew; using a delicate gourmet style as he manipulated the fork from platter to mouth, then deftly broke bread. His etiquette was perfect as he paused now and then to apply the paper napkin to his lips. There was nothing affected in the performance, and it seemed to Corey that the little man was utterly oblivious of the impression he created.
It just comes natural to him
, Corey thought.
As if he was born and raised in a high-class setup. Come to think of it, them big words he sometimes uses, it gives you the notion he musta went to some fancy school, I mean it's the way he pronounces them words—
      Carp finished the lamb stew, called to Terese and gave her precise instructions for the preparation of the demitasse. At first she told him to come out of the clouds, then decided to go along with it and served him the black coffee in a small toothpick container. He sipped it very slowly, savoring the flavor and nodding appreciatively to Terese. She muttered, through her teeth, “It pleases you, sir?”
      “It's delightful,” Carp said.
      “Thank you, sir,” Terese said. “I'm so glad it meets with your approval, sir.”
      She went off to serve another customer. Carp took a few more sips of black coffee. And then, without looking at Corey, he murmured, “You understand the issues involved?”
      “What issues?” Corey frowned.
      Carp turned and looked at him and didn't say anything.
      “Come on, come on,” Corey said. “You got a point to make, make it.”
      “I intend to do that,” Carp said. “But first I must establish my position. I wish to cooperate in every way possible.”
      There was a long silence. Corey decided there was no use trying to guess what the little man had in mind. The little man was a walking question mark. No one knew Carp's age or anything at all about his background or what he did with his time when he wasn't snatching drinks off the bar at the Hangout. The only known facts concerning Carp were that he'd come to the Swamp about four years ago, drifting in with the fog from the river. Another lost soul with nothing in his eyes and nothing in his pockets. Until now Corey had never given a thought to the why and the wherefore of this particular Swampcat; but as he studied Carp's eyes he felt uneasy. He muttered with a touch of annoyance, “Don't gimme the buddy-buddy routine. Whatever it is, just state the terms.”
      “It calls for an agreement of mutual trust and confidence.”
      “Concerning—?”
      Carp leaned a little closer to Corey, his voice close to a whisper. “If you've heard the talk, you already know.”
      Corey stiffened. He said quietly, “I ain't heard no talk.”
      “According to talk, they shot each other,” Carp said. “They were found on a vacant lot near the river.”
      Corey gazed past the little man. His lips scarcely moved as he said, “Do I know the people?”
      “You know the people,” Carp said. “We both know the people. It was Mr. Macy and Mr. Lattimore.”
      Corey kept gazing off to one side. He said to himself, you're dealing with a manipulator. Whatever else he is, he's a slick manipulator and I have a feeling this is gonna cost you some U.S. currency.
      He heard Carp saying, “At present, my living quarters are on Marion Street.”
      Corey blinked a few times. Marion Street was where the taxi had come to a stop and he'd climbed out and the headlights of the other car had come closer and closer.
      “I'm a rather light sleeper,” Carp said. “The slightest noise and I'm awake. In this case it was the noise of an automobile. I came to the window and saw you getting out of the taxi. Then I saw the other car. Shall we have more coffee?”
      Corey nodded. Carp called to Terese. She served the refills and went away. Then Carp said, “I watched it from the window, from the second floor. At first they just stood there and asked you some questions. Then Mr. Lattimore grabbed you and forced you to your knees and held you there while Mr. Macy went through your pockets. I'm relating this in detail so you'll know I saw it as it happened.”
      Corey spooned some sugar into his coffee. He stirred it very slowly.
      The little man said, “What Mr. Macy took from your pockets was a pistol and some kind of identification card and a shiny metal object shaped something like a badge. I assume that's what it was, a badge, a police badge.”
      “You got good eyes,” Corey said. He was gazing down at the coffee cup. “You check them items from a second floor window, you got damn good eyes.”
      “Of course I couldn't read the printing on the card,” Carp said matter-of-factly. “You understand I'm only guessing it was an identification card. If I'm not mistaken, there were words stenciled diagonally across the card. Or maybe it wasn't stenciling. Maybe the words were applied to the card with a rubber stamp.”
      “That's right,” Corey said. “The words were stamped.”
      “I perceived two words,” Carp said. “Each word had five letters. From that distance I couldn't make out the lettering.”
      Corey kept looking down at the coffee cup.
      Carp leaned very close. “What were the two words?”
      “If I tell you, you're in hot water,” Corey said. Then he looked at the little man. “I think you're in hot water already.”
      But Carp looked dry and cool and his tone remained matter-of-fact. “What were the two words?”
      “Night Squad.”
      Carp showed no reaction. It was as though he hadn't heard it. He said, “I saw them putting you in the car. Then the car drove away. It occurred to me I wouldn't see you around anymore. Then today I heard some talk that Mr. Macy and Mr. Lattimore have dispensed with each other. At any rate, that's the accepted theory.”
      Corey smiled lazily. He aimed the smile at the coffee cup. He sighed sadly. You feel sorry for Carp? he asked himself. You feel sorry for this little man because he knows too much? Or maybe you feel sorry for yourself. Could be this deal winds up with you the loser.
      He heard Carp saying, “As to what actually happened, I have my own theory.”
      “Let's hear it,” Corey murmured, still smiling down at the coffee cup.
      Carp said, “I don't think Mr. Macy and Mr. Lattimore shot each other. I'm quite sure it didn't happen that way. It's my conclusion that you did the shooting.”
      Corey widened the smile just a trifle. He gave Carp a side glance, then looked again at the coffee cup.
      “I'm positive you did the shooting,” Carp said. “And yet, I must admit, I'm rather puzzled. It stands to reason you did it in self-defense, that's one factor. The other factor is, you're a policeman. It would seem that you'd report the matter. I'm wondering why you didn't report it.”
      “You wanna report it?”
      “I can't do that,” Carp said.
      “Yes you can.” Corey gestured idly toward the pay phone on the wall near the door. “All you hafta do is make a call. Just ask for the police. Then tell them what you saw last night.”
      “But I can't do that,” Carp said solemnly. “It's against my principles.”
      “What principles?” The smile faded from Corey's face. He turned and looked at the little man. “What are you giving me here?”
      “I'm not an informer.”
      “You're not an informer providing you get paid to keep your mouth closed.”
      Carp looked off to one side. “You embarrass me.”
      “Yeah, I know. You feel awful about it. So what's your price?”
      Carp sighed heavily. “What a world we live in.”
      “Come on. We're talking business. What's this gonna cost me?”
      “Nothing,” Carp said. “Nothing at all.”
      Corey winced. “Say what?”
      The little man shrugged and said, “I was offering friendship and trust and confidence. Such things are priceless commodities. I thought perhaps you'd understand.”
      “You gotta be kidding,” Corey frowned. “Or maybe I'm on another track. I just don't get this line of talk.”
      Carp sighed again. He turned away and started toward the door. Corey stood there frowning, then darted toward the little man and took hold of his arm and spoke in a whisper through tightened teeth, “Let's check this once, just to get it straight. You see anything last night? You hear any noise that gotcha outta bed and made you look out the window?”
      “Not that I can recall,” Carp said.
      “That's good,” Corey hissed softly. “Keep it that way.”
      “You needn't worry,” the little man said. His voice was toneless, yet a certain dignity was on the edge of it. The unspoken message came across:
it isn't because you scare me; nothing scares me, really. I can't even feel your grip on my arm. All I can feel is pity for your troubled soul. You must be very deeply troubled. You can't believe that anyone would extend a helping hand for no purpose other than trying to help. Well anyway, I tried.
      Corey released the little man's arm. For a moment they stood looking at each other. Then Carp said, “Thank you for the luncheon, it was most enjoyable,” turned away and walked out of the diner.
     

About fifteen minutes later, Corey entered the seething, sweating mass of Saturday afternoon drinkers at the Hangout. He looked for an empty spot at the bar, but knew there was no use looking. It was the same at the tables, and the standees were packed in close, jostling the sitters. He heard Nellie cursing. Then came a sound like a .38 as her open palm connected with the face of someone who talked long and talked wrong. Turning to look, Corey saw the man sailing away from the bar, leaving a space open at the bar rail. Corey moved fast, put a foot on the bar rail and an elbow on the bar, and ordered a double gin.

      The gin came; he put it away in one fast gulp and ordered another. There were times when he drank slowly and chased the gin with water.
But this ain't one of them times
, he told himself, downing the second gin and ordering a third.
This is a time for heavy thinking, which means, of course, heavy drinking. And I got the notion it's gonna take a lotta gin to set your mind straight.

      Or maybe that ain't what you want at all. What I mean is, if you really wanna concentrate, you wouldn't be needing the gin. Might as well say it like it is. It's actually the other way around; it's the gin that keeps you from thinking and that's the only reason you're drinking. What it all amounts to, things are piling up on you all of a sudden and you wanna get that load off your brain; wash it away; flood it out with alcohol.

      He pushed the empty shot glass toward the bartender. The refill came and he poured it down his throat. While he waited for the liquor to hit him, another hitter got there first, an invisible finger nudging him, gently urging him to turn his head. He turned slowly, not fully knowing why. For an instant he focused on an empty wall, and then gazed blankly at the door leading to the back room. The invisible finger kept nudging and his head kept turning. Finally he was looking at the table in the far corner near the door leading to the back room.

      She sat at the table, alone, drinking beer. Her head was lowered as she set the glass on the table and reached slowly for the quart-size bottle.
That ain't nothin'
, he told himself.
That's just another thirsty skirt who likes to sit alone and drink beer. Ain't a damn thing there for you to look at.

      But he went on looking at Lillian. The invisible finger was pointing at her and saying,
there she is, that's your wife.

      You better check the calendar, he said to the unseen pointer. That broad ain't been my wife for a long time. That broad and me, we're a long way off from each other.

      Then why you lookin' at her?

      He didn't try to answer that. He sat looking, as though there were no other faces in the room. The feeling in his chest hit harder than the gin hitting his head. He said to himself,
we get just one short life to live, and ain't it a wonder the way we louse it up? The deals we make, it adds up, I swear, to one big joke that gets no laughs at all. You come right down to it, there's some of us who oughta be wearin' dunce caps seven days a week. We're like them double-jointed clowns who got that special talent for twistin' themselves all around so they finally kick their own teeth. But this don't hurt in the teeth. This hurts in the blood, and it hurts real bad in the thing that pumps the blood.