Shoot It Again - Ed Lacy

     I introduced her to Parks and even clean-cut type from the U.S. consulate was on hand. Parks and I went to the boarding gate. I certainly looked a character, my wavy hair needing a haircut, sloppy clothes, holding the silly cat statue as if it was a loving cup I'd won... but I merely grinned at the other passengers: I could afford to look this way now—I was the richest joker in line.

     We were traveling first class: waving at Syd as I boarded the front of the jet, I wondered how many of 'them' were also watching me. Once we were seated, I insisted on holding the cat between my feet, which amused Parks. He looked absolutely normal, including his eyes, and while the plane taxied to the end of the runway and the cool babe in the chic hostess uniform gave us a practiced smile—made sure we fastened our safety belts... Parks again went into the routine of thanking me for coming, offered to pay me. In the grand manner of the newly rich, I told him to forget it.

     I always sweat out take-offs, and I suddenly had a hunch this was the outside event—the damn jet would crash and so would my last chance of leaving the rut which was strangling me! And how many other people were also sweating out my takeoff?

     But we left in a smooth rush, a brief glimpse of the lights on the Promenade before turning out to sea to gain altitude. We unlocked our seat belts and Parks lit a cigarette. The hostess came around with champagne which Parks refused, but I had a drink of the fizz, relaxed—a little. An hour later we had a compact, if lush, supper, including steak and lobster. Parks ate as if he hadn't seen food before, while I forced myself to put it away. Robert talked about his writing, the little literary magazine he'd hoped to start in Italy—probably to publish his own poems—finally talked himself asleep.

     Trying to be casual I studied the other passengers, wondering if one of 'them' was tailing me. All the first class cabin people looked exactly that—plump tourists, business types.

     I must have dozed off: I awoke suddenly—thighs cramped from hugging the hard head of the cat. Parks was breathing heavily, saliva bubbling at the corners of his thin mouth, which curved downward in pain. The silly face was very pale. We still had three hours flying time.

     Standing to stretch my legs, I sat down again quickly—afraid the plane might hit an air pocket, the cat would tumble to the floor and break. Staring at the cat's face sticking up between my knees —the bright eyes seeming to stare back at me—I thought of New York City. Would it be possible—and safe—to give whoever contacted me the wrong cat? He might break open the statue to be sure he had the right one before paying off—in which case my pay would be a bullet. Picking up the cat, I examined it carefully—again—couldn't find any mark or coloring which stamped it as different from the other one in my luggage.

     Of course what was worrying the hell out of me in the double-cross line, was the cute thought I might be paid off with a slug in any event. It would be a simple way of saving 'them' fifty big bills, plus making sure I never talked. Or if Stanley Collins was flung out of a hotel window, who would know or care whether it was suicide or not? Still, taking 'their' view, murder was messy and why screw three million bucks for a lousy fifty grand? But I couldn't dismiss the idea—the second cat might well be my guarantee I wouldn't be rooked or...

     Robert suddenly bent over as* if about to vomit, beads of sweat on his forehead, eyes glassy, hands pressed to his flat belly. Stupidly, I asked, “What's wrong?”

     “A fiery cramp... in my guts!” Parks gasped.

     Reaching into his pocket, I took out a box of the ersatz junk. Parks shook his head. “No, man... I'll never be able... get anything... down.”

     The stewardess came over to ask if she could help—did we want any airsick pills? I told her we could manage and Parks motioned he wanted to go to the john. We stood, and holding him with one hand, I reached for the cat with the other mitt. Robert snarled, “Goddamn it, man, can't you forget that dumb toy for a lousy moment!”

     I could have cracked that the 'toy' contained what he wanted most out of life at the moment. Those passengers still awake were watching us and I realized it would look odd if I made too much of a fuss over the cat.

     Leaving the statue against the back of my seat, I walked Parks into the head. For a long time he leaned over the commode, trying to throw up. Opening the door, I glanced down the aisle—saw the tips of the pointed glass ears sticking above my seat. Closing the door, I asked, “Sure you can't swallow these pills?”

     Shaking his head, he looked sicker than ever. “Parks, we have to get them inside you fast—suppose I crush a couple in a cup of water and you drink 'em down?”

     Making a retching sound, he frantically opened his collar and tie, eyes popping. All that happened was he began sweating more than ever, mouth open like a fish sucking air. Straightening up, he leaned against the wall, glaring at me wildly.

     I was feeling sick myself—three million bucks alone on my seat outside. I gave him a slight poke in his belly. Parks doubled up, vomited a horrible mess the color of yellow ochre. I put five of the pills in a paper cup of water and when he stood up again, panting, I told him, “Drink this and keep it down.”

     He shook his head.

     “Drink it!” Placing the paper cup to his lips, I pushed his teeth apart with my fingers and he drank. For a second Parks seemed okay, then started to throw up once more. Clamping a hand over his little mouth, I growled, “Damnit, keep it down!”

     Although he twisted as if choking, eyes strained to leave their sockets, I kept my palm over his mouth. Finally, he swallowed and I took my hand away. Parks fell against the wall as life returned to his chalk-pale skin. After a moment he smiled, said, “Thanks, old life-saver.” Then he rested for several minutes while I washed up, ran a comb through my hair.

     Parks washed his face. “Take a few more of them,” I said, making another goof-ball cocktail.

     He drank this slowly, fixed his tie and shirt, brushed his sandy hair with his fingers. It was amazing how quickly he'd recovered. “I'm fine now. Best I take a pill every half hour, or the monkey will bug me.”

     “Okay. Can you make it to our seats?”

     “Dryden had the junkie in mind when he wrote, “Ill habits gather by unseen degrees...”

     “You're pack to par—let's go.” Stepping out of the john my heart flipped—I didn't see the glass ears I Rushing down the aisle like a lumbering idiot —I found the figurine had slipped to one side of the seat. It occurred to me I'd been a dummy, 'somebody' could have easily substituted another cat—although this looked like the cat. When Parks lost himself in a magazine, I used my nail file to scratch a tiny # inside the cat's right ear.

     I started worrying again: how I'd handle the pay-off man... plus new thoughts—suppose Hank had crossed me? If the cat was empty it would be assumed I'd crossed 'them,' and 'they' would certainly kill me. Could I switch cats, claim Hank had done it? Although it's supposed to be as easy to steal a million as to swipe a dime, I didn't know enough about crime methods.

     My head began to ache. The main idea was to protect myself against any possibility of a double X on 'their' part. The best thing I could do now was rest—be able to think clearly when 'der tag' came.

     The balance of the flight was a snap—Robert took a pill every half hour and except for being nervous, seemed his usual stupid self. I managed to doze off for minutes at a time, the cat always in my hands.

     No sooner did we step off the plane at Idlewild— in the middle of the night—when a lawyer named Mac Wyckoff ran out to greet Parks. Wyckoff was a short man, with a distinguished face; in fact, somehow he looked like a lawyer. Parks introduced me and Wyckoff shook my hand abruptly, told Parks his mother was too upset to come to the airport. As his lawyer led him away, Robert called back I must look him up when he was released from the hospital.

     Since this was before the Customs and other officials reached us, I was impressed. I didn't see Parks when the rest of us went through Customs. I was amazed and proud I wasn't the least bit nervous as the Customs agent poked through my things. I showed him the bills of sale, and of course in my declaration, I'd listed both cats, plus the souvenirs Hank had given me. When he came to my paintings, the Customs man merely grunted, “You an artist?”

     I said yes, trying to figure if it was a form of negative criticism.

     Within an hour after I'd landed, I was in a Manhattan-bound cab, without the slightest idea where I was going to stay. On reaching 59th and 3rd Avenue, I paid the taxi off, looking like a real greenhorn with the Custom seals half falling from my shabby bundles. Hailing another cab, I had him drive me to an office building on West 26th Street, where I'd once worked as a summer office boy.

     The street was absolutely deserted at that hour of the night, as I expected it to be. Paying the hackie, I carried my stuff into a dark doorway and waited. If I was being tailed, 'they' would stick out like that famous sore thumb on this empty business street.

     A half hour passed with not a soul showing, not even a car went through the block. I tried to remember friends I could bunk with, but I'd been out of the country too long for that. Finally, moving my stuff from doorway to doorway, I reached 9th Avenue and took a cab to the old Hotel Talbert on East 10th Street. Registering under my right name, I rented a room without a bath, locked the door, and placing both cats carefully under the bed, fell off into a hell of a sound sleep without bothering to undress.

CHAPTER 7

     Awaking before eight a.m., feeling rested, clearheaded: I wondered if I should have gone directly to the Hotel Tran. I decided not to chance crossing 'them.' Only a fool is greedy... and I didn't know how to get rid of the stuff on my own.

     Leaving my hotel with both cats under my arms, New York City looked hot and dirty, as though I'd never been away. If I was paid off this morning, I'd be on a Nice plane by evening. Walking toward Third Avenue a passing guy asked, “How much you peddling them figurines for, buddy? They hot?”

     I realized in my shabby, wrinkled clothes I didn't look far above the winos floating around this area— which used to be the tail-end of the Bowery before Third Avenue became swank. In a pawn shop I bought an old suitcase strong enough to hold both cats, for eight bucks. Separating the statues with a couple of N. Y. Times so they wouldn't rattle and chip against each other, I stopped at a stool joint for breakfast. Paying the tab, I had $11.75 left, not counting my gallery check, and the boat ticket in my room.

     Riding a cab to the Hotel Tran I had this definite feeling of walking into a trap. Hank had picked this hotel, it probably was the hangout for 'them.' But there wasn't any way of finishing the deal without meeting my contact. I kept selling myself the pitch 'they' wouldn't risk a three million dollar deal with the minor matter of rooking and/or killing me.

     The Hotel Tran was a surprise—while one of Time Square's dowdy hotels, it seemed more of a family place with permanent-type guests instead of the ratty transients you find in midtown dives. The old lobby was well-kept, the desk clerk the conservative, mousey kind found in better hotels. But when I registered as Stanley Collins, the little bastard glanced at me coldly and despite my suitcase, demanded a night's rent in advance. I paid $8.50 as the middle-aged elevator-operator took me up to room 302, giving me an odd look when he picked up the heavy suitcase.

     The room was small and neat, hotel phone, wash basin, shower, but no toilet. The only window faced the brick side of an office building. Combing my hair, I unpacked the cats—placing the phony one on the dresser. I wanted to see the contact man before he saw me. Exactly what good that would do, I didn't know—except by sizing him up first, I'd know whether to show myself or not. I could sit in the lobby, see whomever asked for me—but hardly while holding the real cat.

     Taking the cat, I studied the empty hallway. The John was around a turn, out of sight of my room. Might do as a last resort—what I really needed was room 305, directly across the hall. Even if I had the money, no way I could rent the room, say, under another name or...

     The door of 305 opened. A short, over-dressed woman with dyed copper-colored hair, walked out, headed for the elevator. Blindfolded I knew her type: met too damn many here and abroad. Near forty, divorced from hubby number two or three, usually with modest alimony but never enough for raising real hell... and desperately on the make. When she stepped into the elevator I crossed to her door—didn't hear a thing: she lived alone. As copper-hair hadn't carried a purse or bag, she'd return soon.

     Things were breaking for me: I could stay in 305 without renting it.

     There was an ashtray, a box of wooden matches on my dresser, hotel stationery in the drawer. I burnt a couple of matches from end to end, waited inside my door. About ten minutes later I heard the elevator stop, the sound of high heels. Leaving the cat on my bed, I opened the door, started a fast sketch of copper hair's face. She had ordinary features, the slack lines of a lush around her over-painted eyes, the weak mouth.

     Carrying a newspaper, she paid no attention to me, but unlocking her door she turned, asked, “What the devil are you doing?” It was a dull voice, without anger.

     I put on a startled act. “Oh, excuse me. I was so enchanted with the delicate lines of your nose, simply had to get them down on paper.”

     “My nose?” She touched it, as if discovering she had one. “Never thought of that as my best feature.” She took a deep breath to show me her best features. She had a soggy bosom, large for her slim figure, obviously wore a good bra under the thin summer dress.

     “You have a marvelous nose line, in a classic face.”

     “You an artist?” she asked, coming over to look at the sketch. She used perfume by the quart.

     “I've been working abroad for several years, portrait commissions.” I held out the sketch. Even with the crumbling matchstick and glossy paper, I had a rough, photographic likeness of her.