Shakedown for Murder - Ed Lacy

     “Matty isn't for any outdoors stuff. Doubt if he'll ever leave the house. And he might get ticks. I'll take care of his box. Just leave him alone for awhile, he has to get used to the place. Will I have time to take a hot bath?”

     Danny burst out laughing. “Bath? All we have is a shower. Bess, have we time for a fast swim?”

     “If you make it real quick.” She patted my face. “Special for you I'm making rice pilaf and that wine pudding you love, moustalevrai.”

     “That settles it, well take a swim,” Danny said. When I hesitated, he poked me on the arm—and my head rang —and asked, “What the devil kind of a Norseman are you?”

     “Yes, Grandpa,” the kid chimed in, “We have the blood of Leif Ericson in our veins. That's what you told me.”'

     “Did I say that? And I bet old Leif never took a dip if he could help it. Okay, I'll change.”

     As I got into my old woolen trunks the room seemed quiet and my headache eased up. I unpacked my suitcase into a drawer, carefully hid my empty service gun. I didn't want to leave it around the flat, in case the place was robbed or something. I could smell Bessie's cooking and I was real hungry, so I decided to get the damn swim over with. Swimming! I sure missed the peace and quiet of my flat!

     Everybody remarked about the whiteness of my skin as I gave Andy a boat kit I'd brought for him. He let out a whoop of joy that split my eardrums. Then Danny rushed us out to his new Ford and we drove the two blocks to the beach. I felt dizzy. As they used to say during the war, was this entire trip necessary?

     The water was smooth and the tide low. I splashed around in the damn chilly water, then banged my toe on a rock, while the boy showed off his underwater swimming. He pointed out a rowboat in which we would go fishing tomorrow. Dan had to swim under my legs, come up arid throw me over. I spit out a mouthful of salt water and tried to hold my temper.

     As we stood on the sandy beach and toweled ourselves dry, Danny started working on me. First he made some crack about my wool trunks with the white belt being the only pair in existence and why didn't I live it up a little and buy a new pair? Then, driving back to the cottage, he told me, “Dad, I'm a sure thing to be made head of the accounting department next month. It means a big raise and... well, if you want to retire I could easily give you fifty or sixty dollars a month.”

     “Who wants to retire? I like being a cell block attendant, hanging around the precinct house all day. No walking a post or worrying about the weather, no carrying a belt full of junk.”

     “But Dad, you're practically a janitor there!”

     “He's not a janitor, he's a cop,” Andy said quickly.

     I stared at Dan with surprise; being a phony had never been one of his faults. “What's wrong, son? Are you getting that snob executive outlook, too, along with your big desk? Sure, I sometimes sweep up and put out the ashes, depending on the tour I'm working, but there's nothing wrong with that. No work is degrading—as long as you always have a choice of work. And you know how simple my wants are—anytime I feel like retiring my pension will do me fine.”

     “Okay,” Dan said, “It was just an idea.”

     When we reached the cottage Bessie gave me a small hug—and she smelled fine—asked, “Matt, don't you feel invigorated?”

     “You bet,” I said, slapping her plump behind, and going to my room to dress—and sneak a nip of brandy to ward off a cold. Matty was sitting on my bed, switching his tail nervously, his eyes seemed to be asking me, “What the devil are we doing out here?” Andy came in to put on a sweatshirt and poked at the cat. Matty got up on his hind feet to box and I told the boy, “Take it easy, he's hungry.”

     “Mama put down a saucer of milk for him but he wouldn't drink it. Gosh, Grandpa, I go for that boat kit you gave me. After we go fishing tomorrow, I'll start on it.”

     “Do we have to go fishing?” I was thinking of spending tomorrow sleeping.

     “Sure, porgies are biting. I want to try out my spinning reel. Pops wanted to give it to me but I insisted on paying for it Two dollars. Pops is some fisherman, can catch any....”

     Bessie called us in to eat I added a little beer and sugar to Matty's milk before I sat down and the cat licked it up like a pig. Dan said, “I'll be damned!” While Bessie said, “Really, Matt, you and that fat cat. You need a wife.”

     “Figure out a way of doing away with Danny and I'm your man,” I cornballed. Bessie blushed with pleasure. Her good breasts seemed ready to pop over the top of her skimpy bathing suit. I glanced at Dan. His eyes met mine and they were full of pride—like when he was a kid and Martha would be telling me about some smart thing he'd done. Martha would have liked Bessie.

     The rice pilaf was a dish of steaming spiced rice packed with livers and other meats served like an upside-down cake. I tried not to stuff myself only I couldn't resist the wine pudding and I was barely able to get up from the table. I gave Matty some scraps which he picked over. Bessie said, “Don't leave the scraps around, they'll bring bugs.”

     “Don't worry, he'll eat it. But he likes to take his time,” I said. I got my pipe working and sat on the couch, knowing I was in for a rough night my guts drum-tight. Andy and Dan washed the dishes while Matty sat by the screen door, gazing cautiously out at the country night.

     Andy went to bed after warning me, “You hit the sack soon, too, Grandpops, we have to be full of pep for fishing tomorrow.”

     Bessie brought out a bottle of Irish whisky and we sat around, had a few belts, she and Dan going over some local gossip. When Matty curled up on the couch beside me we had a mild argument as to whether cats were cleaner than human animals. My stomach eased up a bit and I asked, “What's with your friend Jerry? One minute he talks like a bad comedian, and then all the dialect vanishes.”

     “Oh, he's a character,” Bessie said. “Waged a one-man war with End Harbor for years. When he first came here he really had an accent and they gave him the cold shoulder. You know the jive: most people in town can trace their ancestors back to 1776, as if that means a thing. Then it seems Jerry wrote a letter to the local paper against the execution of Sacco and Vanzetti, making him the village radical. So he said the hell with them and purposely kept on talking with his horrible accent. Why, he even refused to buy a brick for the Legion building here, but he always marches at the head of the July Fourth parade and they can't leave him out—he won the Distinguished Service Cross in World War I, highest medal anybody in the Harbor has. Whole thing is pretty silly: on both sides.”

     “Yeah. Still, a man has to have plenty of moxie to thumb his nose all his life at his neighbors,” I said.

     “And a stubborn capacity for loneliness,” Dan added, yawning. “I have to catch the seven a.m. train back to the job, I'd better turn in.”

     “Me, too. I can't let a week-end husband sleep alone,” Bessie said. She rubbed her knee. “My leg aches, bet it will rain.”

     “Dad, don't you bother getting up early tomorrow,” Dan said, coming over to take a mock punch at my head. “I'll see you Friday night—all tanned and rested.”

     And with a nervous breakdown, I told myself. I feinted a left and jabbed his belly with my right. We used to box a lot, until he reached sixteen and got too big for me.

     They washed up and went to their bedroom. I listened to the radio, and the noises in my stomach, read through the local paper. The radio had a lot of static. So did my belly. If I'd been home, I would have soaked in a hot tub, read a book. I could hear Bessie and Dan whispering and laughing behind their door. Finally at ten, as it began to rain hard, I went to bed, Matty following me.

     The bed was soft as mush and I kept twisting and turning like a live pretzel. After years of working round-the-clock tours sleep either comes easily, or it's work. It's always a battle for me. I kept sinking in various parts of the mattress, for a time I fanned at a buzzing mosquito, then I listened to the rain and tried to think about Jerry's one-man fight, and if it was all worth it. I got up and took a swig of brandy, sat in the John for a time reading a woman's fashion mag that was all ads. Then I made myself some tea.

     As I was puttering around in the kitchen, Bessie came out wearing hip length baby-doll pajamas, and my God, she looked like a walking barbershop calendar. “Anything the matter, Matt? Told you it would rain.”

     “Be my luck, a rainy week. I couldn't sleep so I'm making some tea. Want a cup?”

     “Nope. Heard you padding around.” She pointed to my flannel pajamas and shook her head. “You're a goner if an antique shop spots that outfit. Right out of Esquire— 1910 issue.”

     “You ought to be more careful how you walk around.”

     “Why, does it excite you?”

     “Okay, okay, it's too late for the super-sophisticated chatter.”

     She reached up and batted a finger against my long nose. “I've thought about you, father-in-law. You worry me. We're going to have a talk during the week. Now go to sleep.”

     As Bessie walked across the room I couldn't keep my eyes from the sway of her hips. “I worry you? A talk about what?”

     “Sex,” she called over her shoulder, closing their bedroom door.

     For a second I was completely confused. I had my tea and wondered why young folks think it's smart to make conversation about four-letter words. Or was my generation any brighter in keeping them hidden, making them words of fear?

     When I got to bed Matty fixed himself around my big feet and I closed my eyes, waited for sleep to come. It turned cold and I had to get up to adjust the blanket Suddenly I hated summers: Things were so simple the rest of the year, weekly suppers with Danny and Signe, then coming back to the comforts of my own place. No soft beds or mosquitoes, no... or was I getting cranky in my old age?

     I fell off into a deep sleep and the next thing I knew Andy was shaking me. I opened my eyes to see a cloudy dawn outside the screened window. The boy said cheerfully, “Six o'clock. We're going fishing today.”

     “Damn it, can't you let me get some rest!” I snapped.

     He backed away. “Dad and Mom are up and I... I thought you'd want to ride to the station with them. Then we'd go fishing. That's all.”

     The uncertain look in his eyes made me ashamed. I reached out and rubbed his plump shoulders. “Sure. I always wake up... eh... cranky. You got the bone structure, now it's time you started making muscles, young man. Maybe I'll get you a barbell for Christmas. Rowing is good, too.”

     The boy left and I lay in bed for a moment, wishing I could go back to sleep, knowing I couldn't. I still felt bloated and a little tired. I finally got up; a soak in a hot tub would cure me. Matty gave a sleepy whine in protest as I pulled my feet away from his back.

     Dan and Bessie were moving around in the kitchen-living room, Bessie in a robe, Dan wearing shorts. As I waved and headed for the bathroom, Dan asked, “What are you up so early for, Dad? Want to take a quick dip?”

     “Keep up that kind of talk and I'll spank you—with a baseball bat,” I said, closing the bathroom door. I cursed, forgetting they didn't have a bath. But I took a hot shower, and things came out all right, and I felt better as I dressed, my clothes slightly damp.

     Dan was now wearing a tropical suit, coconut straw, shirt and tie, and we had a big breakfast. Andy talked about fishing and Bessie kept reminding Dan of things she wanted brought out the following week end. The milkman drove up and Bessie said, “I'd better pay him for last week's milk.”

     She left the screen door open and I was surprised to see Matty up and stretching. The cat went outside and sniffed around with disdain, then followed Bessie back into the cottage, shaking the dew from his paws. Bessie sat down to finish her coffee, said, “The milkman told me Dr. Barnes was killed last night in an auto accident.”

     “It's six-twenty, we haven't much time,” Dan said. “Who's Barnes?”

     “You know, that old doctor who has the big house just past the shopping district on Main Street. A fat man with a ring of gray hair around his head like a monk. Only doctor in End Harbor. Seems he ran his car into a tree, not far from here, was thrown out on the road, and run over by another car.”

     “Can we see where it happened?” Andy asked.

     “You certainly can't,” Dan told him. “Everybody drives too sloppy-fast around here.”

     “They can't take much of a driving test,” I put in, enjoying my first cup of coffee for the day. “Take your friend Jerry, he can barely see the road.”

     “Imagine, the poor man out on the road, dead all night in the rain,” Bessie said, crossing herself.

     “You mean he was killed by a hit-and-run driver?” I asked.

     “I don't know. A post office truck found the body two hours ago. Perhaps whoever ran over the doctor thought he'd hit an animal or something.”

     “Nuts. When you hit 'something' weighing one hundred fifty or two hundred pounds, you certainly know it isn't a squirrel,” I said.

     Dan got up and locked his briefcase. “Lots of dogs killed by cars. Sometimes even a deer.”

     “Sounds odd. If I hit a dog or a deer, I'd damn well get out to see what I hit.”

     “Well,” Bessie said, stacking the dishes in the sink, “now you understand, Andy, why I wouldn't bring your bike out here. This means we'll have to go to Hampton if we need a doc.”

     I wanted to stay home, sit on the porch for awhile, but Bessie insisted I drive to the station with them. Andy argued all the way about how careful he'd be if they let him have his bike. There was a small crowd at the station, mostly wives giving their husbands last minute advice, or vice versa.