Runaway (5 page)

“I already had the peroxide treatment,” he said bitterly.

“Little more won't hurt.” She led him to the basin, took off his jacket, and then rolled up the sleeve of his shirt. “Besides,” she said, “don't kick about the service. You'd never get this on the Market.”

“Don't I know it,” he said.

She studied the cut more closely. “You run into a buzz saw?”

“No, a hophead.”

“Same thing,” she said, pouring the peroxide onto the wound. He winced, holding back the scream that bubbled onto his lips.

“You got glass in there.”

“Pull it out, if you can.”

She looked at him curiously. “Sure,” she said. She wrapped absorbent cotton around a toothpick, and then began fishing for the glass splinters. Each time she got one, he clamped his teeth down hard, and finally it was all over. She drenched the arm in peroxide again, and then wrapped the gauze around it, so tight that he could feel the veins throbbing against the thin material.

“That rates a swallow,” she said. She broke the seal on the fifth, poured whisky for them both into water glasses, and handed him one. “Here's to the hophead,” she said.

“May he drop dead,” Johnny answered, tossing off the drink. It burned a hole clear down to his stomach, and he remembered abruptly that he hadn't eaten for a good long while.

The girl took another drink, and then put the glass and the bottle on the dresser top again. “Well, now,” she said. “Let's try to forget that arm, shall we?”

She moved closer to him, and he thought of Cindy and of his real reasons for coming up here. “Look …” he started.

The sweater moved in on him, warm and high, soft, beating with the soft muted beat of her heart beneath the wool and the flesh. He tried to move away, but she took the back of his head and pressed his face tight against the wool. He sat on the edge of the bed, and she stood in front of him, and he thought, Cindy, Cindy, and then he thought, I'm tired, I'm goddamn tired, and then he thought, The hell with Cindy, the hell with the cops, the hell with Luis, the hell with everyone. His hands dropped behind her, seizing the thin silk of her skirt, tightening there fiercely.

“Say, easy now, man,” she said, chiding, smiling. “Easy now. Slow and easy.”

She stepped back from him, dipped her head, and reached her arms up suddenly. The white sweater slid up over smooth brown skin. She pulled it over her head, and then threw her shoulders back, proud of what she'd uncovered, watching his face and watching him wet his lips and suck in a deep breath, and smiling all the while because this was her trade and she knew she was good at her trade.

She took a step closer to him, a sad, wise, happy, unhappy smile on her face. “Now, don't break me, man,” she said. “Nice and easy now, you promise?”

She took the back of his head again, and her fingers toyed with his hair. She kissed his nose, and his mouth, and his ears, and when his hands tightened on her again, she caught his wrists and held them away from her.

“You promised, now,” she scolded, enjoying his anxiety. “Besides, you have a bad arm.”

And then she kissed him soundly, with her body molded firmly to his, and she let his hands go wild this time, and the knock sounded on the door.

She broke away from him, and he leaped to his feet.

“Who …” he whispered.

“Shut up. Get in the closet. Quick.”

He went to the closet, feeling foolish as hell, feeling like the jackass in some low comedy of errors. The closet door closed on him, leaving him in darkness, leaving him with trailing silk dresses flapping around his face, high-heeled shoes crushed under his big feet. The smell of the cheap perfume was strong in the closet, and he could not stop feeling foolish. He heard the outside door open, and then the man's voice.

“What took you so long, Ada?”

“Oh, hello, Tony. I was—taking a nap.”

Why did she say that? Why didn't she say, “I've got someone with me, Tony. Come back later, come back in the morning?” Why the song and dance?

“Taking a nap, huh?” The voice was a big voice. It belonged to a big man. It belonged to a suspicious man. Johnny did not like that voice, and the voice was in the room now, moving in from the outside door.

“What's this?” the voice asked.

“What's what, Tony?”

“This jacket. You wearing Army jackets now, Ada? That what you doing?”

“Tony …”

“Shut up! Just shut up! Where is he?”

“Where's who? Tony, I was just taking a nap. The jacket belongs to a fellow came fix the plumbing. He must have left it here. The plumbing leaked. He—”

“Did the plumbing leak blood? Did it leak blood in that basin there? I'm going to break that sonovabitch's head in two! Where is he?”

“I told you, Tony. There's no one.”

“And I told you! I told you what would happen if I caught you up to your old tricks again. Where is he?”

The footsteps were advancing across the room now, and it was a cinch Tony would look in the closet first. His voice was the voice of a man who couldn't be talked to, and whereas Johnny couldn't understand all this concern over a common whore, he didn't stop to ponder it too deeply. He dropped to his knees quickly, rooting around on the closet floor for a shoe. He found a sturdy-feeling job with a spike heel, and he got to his feet again and waited, clutching the shoe tightly around its instep.

“You got him in the closet?” the voice asked, close now. And then the door opened on Johnny, and the shaft of light spilled onto his face. He didn't hesitate an instant. He brought the shoe up and then down in a fast motion, catching Tony on the bridge of his nose.

Tony was big, all right, big and bearded, wearing a leather jacket and corduroy slacks. A from-nowhere joe, but he was big, and the bigness counted right now. The shoe caught him on his nose, and the line of blood appeared magically, and then he stumbled backward. Johnny swung out with his left hand, catching Tony in the gut. He hit him again with the shoe, and as Tony went down, he heard the girl screaming, screaming, her voice like a busted air-raid siren.

“You bastard!” she shrieked. “You filthy bastard! He's my brother! He's my brother!”

He ran down the steps and out into the street, a little sorry Tony had arrived when he had, and a little sorry he'd left an almost full fifth of good whisky in the room.

The fifth had cost him close to four bucks. Well, he'd got a bandage for his arm out of it, if nothing else.

It didn't seem to matter, at the moment, that blood was already beginning to seep through that bandage.

Five

Detective Sergeant Leo Palazzo lived on 218th Street between Bronxwood and Paulding Avenues. He had always liked that Olinville section of the Bronx until recently, and he had only begun to dislike it when Negroes started drifting into the neighborhood. He was now considering a house out in Babylon, where $2,400 down would give him something he could call his own—provided he could get out of the city system and establish himself on the Island.

He had been a cop for a long time, and he was, by certain standards, a good cop. He would not think of leaving the force, and unless the Suffolk County police had an open detective's chair for him, he would stay right where he was. Palazzo worked in Harlem.

He was holding in his hands now a telephone message that had been clocked in at 7:33. The message told him that a liquor store on Lenox and 129th had been held up by two masked men driving a Chevrolet sedan. The message had already been broadcast to the RMP cars in the vicinity, and Car 21 had been dispatched to the scene of the crime, awaiting Detectives Donnelly and O'Brien, who were on their way. Palazzo looked at the message briefly, not because it concerned him, but because he liked to know a little bit of everything that went on in the precinct. He had long since reached the conclusion that the Skipper was an incompetent old man who'd been tossed the precinct as a political plum. In Palazzo's mind, there was one cop who rightfully deserved to command here, and that cop was Detective Sergeant Leo Palazzo. So he kept his thumb in every pie, watching, waiting, consoling himself with the thought that the Suffolk County police would know what to do with a man of his caliber.

He threw the message on the desk and said, “That's all they know how to do. Steal and screw.”

Dave Trachetti looked up from his third cup of coffee since supper. In contrast to Palazzo, he was a thin man, with receding hair and a long, hawklike nose. Palazzo's bigness sometimes annoyed Trachetti. No man had a right to be that big. It made anyone around him feel ill at ease.

“You're maladjusted, Leo,” Trachetti said.

“Don't I know it, friend,” Palazzo answered. “I should have been a personal bodyguard to some rich society broad.”

“You should have been something, that's for sure.”

Palazzo grinned, allowing himself the luxury of a moment of humor. He turned all business then. “Who's this punk you've got?”

“His name is Brown,” Trachetti said. “We had him in here twice before on holding charges, second time with intent to sell. He used to run a small-potatoes shooting gallery, but we busted that up last May.”

“Is he still pushing?”

“I don't think so, Leo. Leastwise, not according to the rumble. He's on C, though. Had a bindle on him when we picked him up, and he's about ready to claw down the walls now.”

“Let him claw,” Palazzo said. “These goddamn junkies …”

“Sure, but that's not why I wanted you to talk to him, Leo.”

“Why, then?”

“He was heeled when we picked him up. A zip gun, Leo.”

“Yeah?” Palazzo said, showing his first sign of interest.

“He started a fight in one of the bars, and Klein hauled him in. He was hopped and didn't know what the hell was going on until just a little while ago. He wants to see a lawyer.”

“A lawyer,” Palazzo said disgustedly. “These punks all act as if they're top men in the rackets. A lawyer!” He shook his head, and his face looked as if he were ready to spit. “Where is he?”

“I got him in Interrogation. I mean, Leo, we should dump him if all it amounts to is a bar brawl. But I thought the zip gun might interest you. Seeing how you're working on the Ortega kill.”

“That's all cut and dried,” Palazzo said. “But I'll talk to this punk, anyway. You want to come along?”

“Mary ought to be calling in soon,” Trachetti said.

“Boy, she's really got you wrapped, hasn't she?” Palazzo paused. “Tell me, Dave, haven't you ever been tempted by any of this high yellow stuff we get in here?”

“Nope,” Trachetti said lightly.

“I figured. You've got no blood, that's all. Don't you know it's good for a change of luck, Dave?”

“My luck's been all right so far,” Trachetti answered.

“Yeah.” Palazzo shrugged. “I'll be in Interrogation if anybody wants me.” He left the squad room and walked down the corridor to Interrogation. He stopped to talk to the uniformed patrolman outside the door, and then walked into the room. Brown was sitting in a straight-backed chair near the desk. He did not look up.

“Your name Brown?” Palazzo asked from the door.

“Yeah,” Brown answered.

Palazzo closed the door and walked over to the desk. “What's your first name, punk?” he asked.

“Charles,” Brown said. He was a small Negro with the sunken, hollow eyes of an addict. His hands twisted nervously in his lap now, and he could not control the tic at the corner of his thin mouth.

“All right, Charlie, what's it all about?”

“Man gets in a little scrap, ain't no reason to make it a federal case,” Brown said.

“I understand you're on C,” Palazzo said.

“Who told you that? Man, the dreams you coppers can build!”

“Look, Charlie, let's cut the crap. We had you in here twice before, both times on narcotics offenses. We also cracked the private shooting gallery you were running on Park Avenue. So don't give me any horse manure, Charlie. I'm not the guy to play games with.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Brown said. “Maybe I used to shoot up a little, but I don't no more. Man, C is for the birds.”

“You selling the stuff, Charlie?”

“What stuff, man?”

“Charlie,” Palazzo said tightly, “I don't go for smart guys. The sooner we get that straight, the better off you'll be. Answer my questions and answer them straight. Are you selling the stuff?”

“What stuff?” Brown asked.

Palazzo brought back his hand suddenly, and then lashed out at Brown with an open palm. He caught Brown just below the left eye, and Brown's head twisted to one side, and then his eyes narrowed in hate. “I want a lawyer,” he said.

“You'll get one if you need one. Are you selling the stuff?”

“No,” Brown said.

“But you are a user.”

“I don't know what you mean,” Brown said.

Palazzo slapped him again, harder this time. He leaned over Brown and said, “This can get as rough as you want it, pal. Are you a user?”

“Yes.”

“Cocaine?”

“Yes.”

“Who supplies you?”

“Different people. Hell, you know all the pushers. What're you hoppin' on me for?”

“Why'd you start that fight in the bar?”

“Some guy said something I didn't like.”

“What'd he say?”

“I don't remember. I was stoned.” Brown sucked in a deep breath of air. “Look, that bindle you guys lifted from me. I mean, how about it? You don't want a man to get sick all over the floor, do you?”

“You get sick, and you'll wipe it up, Charlie.”

“Look,” Brown said, “I been meanin' to go to Lexington, no foolin'. I know guys who been there, and they shake the monkey one-two-six. You let me have that bindle, and I fly for Kentucky first thing. Whattaya say?”