Corey said, “Knows what?”
Grogan took a deep breath, let it out. “Some lettuce. I got some lettuce put away.”
“In a vault?” Corey asked. “Safe deposit?”
“Safer than that.”
“Stashed?”
Grogan nodded. He kept rubbing his hand along the back of the ebony armchair. He said, “It's what they call unlisted assets. Or let's call it unreported income. From certain deals I've been in on. All paid off in cash.”
“It's warm money?”
“It's very warm,” Grogan said. “Piled up over a period of years. If the government ever gets wise, I'd pull ten to twenty or maybe even twenty to forty.”
“Just for tax evasion?”
“They get me for tax evasion, that's only the beginning. Then they really go to work. Them Federal agents, they get onto something, it's like white on rice. So one thing leads to another. Some joker gets scared and opens his mouth and that drags in some other joker and so on. And finally they wrap it up; they get all the money tabulated—who paid off and why.”
“It comes to a lotta money?”
“Plenty.”
“How much?”
“I'm not gonna tell you how much,” Grogan said. “You got a gleam in your eye already. Next thing you'll ask me where it's stashed.”
Corey ignored that. He thought aloud, “A bundle of money hidden somewhere—”
And then they looked at each other. Grogan said, “You thinkin' what I'm thinkin'?”
“Well, it's an angle.”
“You're damn right it's an angle,” Grogan said. “There's people who know my financial setup. People close to me and maybe others not so close to me. So let's say one of them latches on to an idea. Just plays around with it. Tells himself that Grogan don't live in a mansion and Grogan don't play the races and what it all comes down to, Grogan ain't a big spender. So what does Grogan do with all his money? Christ's sake, of all the money Grogan's been making, there's gotta be more than what's in the bank and what's in stocks and bonds. Sure, there's gotta be a lot more than that. But where?”
“And that's the question. And there's only one way to get the answer. Get it from Grogan. Get Grogan in some nice quiet place and sit him down and have a friendly conversation. Then maybe a little pressure, and sooner or later Grogan spills.”
Corey was gazing at the floor. “It's possible.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It adds, anyway. I mean, it checks with what them hoods did. The way they played it. They wanted to get you outta there alive.”
Corey kept gazing at the floor. Then he slowly got up from the chair, started walking around, not looking at Grogan. His forehead was creased and he was biting his lip.
“You're letting it show,” Grogan said.
Corey looked at him.
The silver-haired man was smiling thinly, knowingly. “You're wishing,” he said. “Wishing you had the badge.”
Correct
, Corey thought.
Grogan went on smiling. “With the badge it would be a breeze. You could go around knocking on doors and asking questions. In no time at all you get a lead. And then another lead. And then another lead. And still another—”
“
If
I had the badge,” Corey cut in dryly.
“If you had the badge,” Grogan said, not smiling now, “I wouldn't give you the job.”
“How come?”
Grogan's voice was toneless. “I don't trust anyone who carries a badge. Not even my good-time buddy Captain Tommy; and I been doing business with the captain for years. In his heart he's a thug and that's why we get along. Up to a point, that is. It comes to anything important, I remember his badge and that's the stoplight.”
“But why?”
“You oughta know why,” Grogan said. “You and the captain are in the same groove; both out for the extra dollar. But tell me,” his eyes were lenses probing deep, “weren't there times when you saw the badge lookin' at you? When you heard the badge talkin' to you?”
Corey blinked hard.
“Get what I mean?” Grogan murmured.
“Let's drop it.” He looked away from Grogan.
There was a soft chuckle. “It kinda tickles me,” Grogan said. “No matter what he does on the side, a cop is always a cop—until they take the badge away. Then he is what he is.”
“Look, whaddya say we drop it?”
“Sure, sure.” Grogan patted Corey's shoulder. “Sure,” and his tone was soft with understanding.
His hand stayed on Corey's shoulder. Then he was guiding Corey toward the front door. As they neared the door, Corey took out his wallet and inserted the seventy dollars. He pocketed the wallet, made a move to open the door, and heard Grogan saying. “There's one more thing.”
They looked at each other.
“This deal is you and me,” Grogan said. “Just you and me. That understood?”
Corey frowned thoughtfully. He muttered, “We better get our signals straight. So I'll know what to tell your people. They know you brought me here to offer me a job.”
“It ain't no problem,” Grogan said. “They start askin' questions, you can tell them you're on the payroll.”
“Collector?”
“Make it watchdog.”
“Watchdog? That's Rafer's job.”
“All right, let's say you're Rafer's assistant.”
“Will he go for that?”
“Don't worry about it,” Grogan said. He opened the door for Corey. But Corey closed the door and said, “There's another item. I'm gonna need a gun.”
“Wait here,” Grogan said, and went through the parlor and into the dining room. Corey heard him opening a drawer. He came back with a .38 and a box of cartridges. Corey loaded the pistol and slipped it under his belt and pocketed the cartridge box. And just as he was doing that, he heard something.
It wasn't loud, barely audible; but he heard it as clearly as the slamming of a door. It came from upstairs. It was just a tiny clicking noise and he knew it was the bedroom door. The door had been open and Lita had closed it.
Closed it very quietly
, he told himself.
Quietly and carefully. Which means that all this time she wasn't in the bedroom. Or in the bathroom. You're a former plainclothes man and you add it up in a jiffy. You know where she was all this time. She was in the hallway up there, listening in.
Grogan hadn't heard it. Or maybe he was pretending he hadn't heard it. His face showed no reaction. His tone was technical as he said, “Keep in touch. That means at least once a day. If I'm not at the Hangout, try me here.”
Corey nodded. He said good night and walked out of the house. He crossed the street diagonally, and when he was on the other side he turned his head quickly, just in time to catch a glimpse of her face in the bedroom window. She'd pulled at the side of the shade to have a look, and now the shade was in place again.
Is that important?
he wondered.
Well, it could be important. Then again, maybe it's nothing. Maybe she lives a very dull life in that house and this eavesdropping and peeking out of windows is just to break the monotony. But then, on the other hand, I mean if you wanna look into it deeper—
Cut it, he told himself. You start with the digging, you'll wind up way over your head. Better stick with what you know. And all you know is, her name is Lita and she's Grogan's woman.
And what do you know about Grogan?
Well, let's see. It goes back a long way. You were just a kid when Grogan started running things in this neighborhood. He was born and raised here in the Swamp and according to what you've heard from the talkers, he started his career as an ordinary hoodlum. So before he was twenty he'd done some time at the Industrial School For Boys. But that was the only stretch. He came out very educated, and even though they grabbed him time and time again, they couldn't get a thing on him. It was either lack of evidence or lack of witnesses, especially lack of witnesses. You look back through the records, it shows quite a few names that suddenly left town. At least it was said they left town. The fact that they were never seen again is something else. It sorta ties in with that old saying, that friendly suggestion—if you live in the Swamp and you wanna keep living, don't tangle with Grogan.
All right, that's one thing. And the other thing is the money. Where does all the money come from? Well, the list of properties shows the taproom and the poolroom, the dry-cleaning shop and the pawnshop. And the rent that comes in from damn near every rent payer in the Swamp. So put all that together and it mounts up. But it's only part of the money. A very small part.
The real money is the haul from the other activities—the transactions and manipulations that nobody talks about. Not when they're sober or in their right mind, that is. But there were times when some poor fool would have one drink too many, and then it would slip out. So you remember hearing talk about such matters as extortion and strong-arm protection. And some smuggling. And hijacking. All big-time operations ranging from truckload to carload to shipload. That's money, all right. That's heavy gold.
So come to think of it, he didn't hafta tell you that he's got a bundle stashed away. You coulda guessed that. Or decided that. And you're only one of many. It amounts to a long list, this list of people who can guess or decide that Grogan ain't been paying the income tax he ought to be paying. You can't start checkin' the names of that list. You wouldn't know where to start; there's too many names and this ain't like using an index. There's no way to classify or narrow it down to just a few. I think that fifteen grand is very far away. And I think—
But just then he stopped thinking. His brain became a measuring gauge as he heard the sound behind him. It was momentary, a very slight crunching sound, a sort of grinding, then nothing more. The measuring gauge indicated a distance of some thirty feet. It stated further that someone had accidentally stepped on broken glass. The someone had been tailing him, doing it very carefully and without any noise of footsteps, and then the broken glass had functioned like radar and he knew for sure he had company.
He didn't look behind him. He didn't change his pace. He was headed south on Second, moving at medium stride, going toward Addison. His arms swung loosely but his right hand was ready, each swing of the arm brought his fingers closer to the gun under his belt.
But there was no sound behind him, and he smiled dimly, seeing it clearly on the radar screen, knowing that the follower was slackening to increase the distance between them. Also, the follower was probably scanning the pavement for more broken glass, evading the noisemakers.
Very neat
, Corey thought.
Whoever he is, he's an expert.
Then again the measuring gauge was working. The intersection of Second and Addison was less than sixty feet away. About twenty feet away there was an alley entrance. Across the street from the alley entrance a lamppost gave off a fairly bright glow. Corey headed for the alley. He did it slowly, casually, as though this was the route he always took.
As he entered the alley he moved fast. The loose-boarded fence of a backyard was in front of him. He went up and over, then ducked low and waited. There was no sound. Through a gap in the boards he could see the glow coming in from the lamppost on the other side of Second Street.
That oughta do it
, he thought.
That light is just about bright enough.
A shadow ribboned through the glow. The shadow became larger. Corey's eyes narrowed and he peered through the slit in the fence. Then it wasn't a shadow; it was a man standing in the entrance to the alley.
The man was leaning forward, his jutting head moved slowly from side to side as he peered through the alley. The glow from the lamppost lit the man's face and it was the face of Delbert Kingsley.
4
Nothing happened. Kingsley just stood there, his face expressionless in the glow from the lamppost. For a moment his gaze rested on the loose-boarded fence; then again he peered through the darkness. He made no move to enter the alley. But gradually his features tightened and it seemed he was trying to make up his mind about something.
Corey breathed very slowly, crouching behind the fence. Through the slit in the boards he studied Kingsley's face and thought, It's sorta like stud poker; the man knows it's his bet and he's figuring the odds. He knows there ain't no hurry; he can take all the time he wants. It amounts to the fence. He's wondering if it's worth the chance to come over here and look behind the fence.
Sure, he's thinkin' maybe there's nothing behind the fence. And then he's thinkin', maybe there is, and if he makes the move he'll come out second-best. Well, we'll just let him sweat it out. But we hope he decides to play it safe. We don't want no showdowns now. It's a cinch he wouldn't spill anything, not even with the gun pointing at his belly. You read his face, you know he ain't the type to spill.
What makes you say that? I mean, what do you know for sure? So all right, he tailed you from Grogan's house. But what else do you know about him? Before tonight, you never saw him; you never even heard his name. As it stacks up now, all you know is he wears working clothes and he's married to Lillian. And that's it, that's all—no, wait. There's one more thing—
I mean Lillian. She's hitched to this big good-lookin' healthy-lookin' man; but she ain't exactly jumpin' for joy. He's got polite manners and a pleasant smile and all that, but you know Lillian; at least you can read her to an extent. And what you read tonight was something on the minus side, something downright dismal.
Does that tell you anything? Not hardly. You'll just hafta sleep on it. That is, if you get any sleep tonight. The way it looks, it's stalemate and it's gonna stay that way until one of us moves.
Another minute passed. Then Kingsley turned slowly and faced toward Addison. He moved away from the alley entrance, and Corey heard his footsteps going toward Addison. The sound of the footsteps receded and then faded altogether. Corey waited another few minutes, decided it was all right now and climbed over the fence and headed down the alley toward Third. Some five minutes later he was in his room.
It was on the second floor of a rooming house a few blocks north of Addison. It was four and a half a week. As he came in, he saw the note from the landlady; she'd slipped it under the door. It stated that he owed thirteen-fifty and she was sick and tired of waiting for it. If she didn't get it before the end of the week she'd toss him out. He reached for his wallet, took out three fives, and folded the note around them, like an envelope. Feeling kindly toward the landlady, he went from the room down to the first floor and put the envelope under her door.
In bed, wearing only his shorts, he yawned a few times, then felt the sweat dripping down from his brow and his chin, and wished that a breeze would get started somewhere and come through the window.
It's an oven in here
, he thought, then rolled over on his side and told himself to fall asleep. The damp sheet became damper and he kept changing his position and cursing without sound. Then gradually he drifted into sleep.
He slept for less than ten minutes. The noise of the knuckles hitting the door woke him.
He got out of bed and turned on the light. The gun was on the dresser and he picked it up, holding it loosely and looking at it as he heard the knocking again. He said, “Who is it?”
“Police.”
“Whaddya want?”
“Open the door.”
Corey opened the door, still holding the gun and stepping back as two men walked into the room. They wore plain clothes, both were rather tall, and one was semi-bald. The other was dark-haired and sad-faced, with heavy shadows under sunken eyes. He gazed gloomily at the pistol in Corey's hand. He said, “What's the gun for?”
“General welfare.”
“Put it away,” the balding one said.
Corey had the gun pointed at them. He lowered it just a little but it was still ready. “Let's see the credentials.”
They looked at each other. Then they took out their wallets and showed the badges clipped onto the leather. Corey leaned over and read the names on the identification cards. The semi-bald one was William Heeley. The other card read Louis Donofrio. Both names meant nothing to Corey, but he kept looking at the cards in the wallets. He was focusing on something stamped slantwise on the cards. His eyes burned and behind the burning there was freezing. The stamped lettering read “Night Squad.”
Night Squad
, he said to himself. And then, looking at the two men, “Night Squad?”
They didn't say anything. They stood waiting for him to put the gun away. Heeley showed his teeth and Donofrio looked very sad. Corey told himself not to mess with them; they were really Night Squad.
He put the gun in a dresser drawer and faced them and said, “You sure you got the right party?”
Heeley kept showing his teeth. “All right, let's check it. You Corey Bradford?”
He nodded slowly.
“Get dressed,” Heeley said. Corey opened his mouth to say something and Heeley spoke through his teeth. “Just get dressed and don't ask no questions.”
Corey started to put on his clothes. He was aching to ask them what they wanted him for, but again he reminded himself they were Night Squad and it didn't pay to tamper with them.
Just go along with it
, he told himself.
You get involved with the Night Squad, there's no telling what they might do, even though they work from city hall and are listed officially as policemen.
But you know damn well what they really are. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning over and tying his shoelaces. He was remembering editorials that referred to them as barbarians, and petitions circulated by various civic groups which had branded them butchers. On street corners and in various bars and poolrooms the local hustlers and hoodlums were always stiff with indignation as they talked about the Squad. “You get no breaks at all from them,” some two-bit thug would say. “You know what they amount to? They're gangsters.”
Now he was dressed and Donofrio opened the door and Heeley motioned him out. Again he wanted to ask what they wanted with him, and if it was any other branch of the police department he would have demanded to know what was happening. He grinned inside himself, genuinely amused at his own fright. He kept telling himself that this was the Night Squad.
Then they were outside and there was a car waiting. It wasn't a police car. Heeley got in behind the wheel. Then Donofrio climbed in and beckoned to Corey.
So this puts me next to the door
, Corey thought as he got in.
If they were taking me in, they'd have me sitting in the middle. What goes here? What do they want?
The car moved off, made a turn onto Addison, stayed on Addison and crossed the bridge. There was no talk. Corey lit a cigarette and kept looking out the window as the car headed south on Banker Street going toward city hall. In the city hall courtyard Heeley parked the car next to a row of police cars. They got out and went into the hall and took the elevator up to the fifth floor.
It was room 529. A few squadmen were questioning a woman and two men. The woman was gasping with fear. The men were trying to hide their fright, but their faces were pale and one of them was beginning to tremble. Donofrio lit a cigarette and sat down on a bench near the window. Heeley pointed to the door of a side room and said to Corey, “In there.”
Corey walked into the adjacent room. It was a small office with a single desk. An electric fan was whirring but it needed oiling. It didn't stir up much of a breeze and the man at the desk was perspiring. He was chunky, in his middle fifties. There was some white in his straw-colored hair and his face was seamed with deep lines. A few of the lines were scars. The right side of his face was a trifle out of line, and running down from the right eye almost to the lip there was a wide jagged scar. It wasn't a knife scar, Corey decided. It looked more on the cudgel side, as though some very heavy, blunt weapon had smashed into the man's face and split it wide open.
The man was wearing a short sleeve sport shirt and in places it was dark with sweat stains. He was rubbing his forearm across his sweat-dripping brow. “Close the door,” he said to Corey. “Bring a chair over.”
Corey closed the door, brought a chair near the desk and sat down. He saw that the man had mild gray eyes, and aside from the scars there was nothing hard about his face. He'd seen the man before, but he'd never been this close to him. It was surprising to see the mildness in the eyes, the softness in the lines of the mouth. The man had a reputation for brutality; it was said he was utterly merciless. He was Detective-Sergeant Henry McDermott, and he was head of the Night Squad.
Corey sat and waited. The only sound in the room was the slow whirring of the faulty electric fan.
McDermott sat slumped in his chair, looking off to the side as though Corey wasn't there. From the screenless window a fly came looping in, made tentative passes at the inkwell on the desk pad, then settled down on the desktop and rubbed its feelers contentedly. McDermott gazed at the fly; it stayed on the desktop. It seemed to be saying,
don't mess with me and I won't mess with you.
But the fly's presence was a challenge for the detective-sergeant and his eyes narrowed with strategy, his hand moving very slowly, closing in on the insect. Like any other fly, its policy was passive resistance. It didn't move. McDermott's cupped hand came down on it, scooped it up but didn't crush it, just held it in the space between bent fingers and palm. Then McDermott raised his closed hand, peeked through a gap between his fingers and said aloud to the fly, “That's the lesson for today. Class dismissed.”
He opened his hand and the fly took off. It was wised up now, educated to the ways of the world, understanding fully that if you stroll in where there's happenings, you're gonna get involved. It flew toward the ceiling, saw there was no exit in that direction, then circled down and found the window and flew out.
Corey stood up.
“Sit down,” McDermott said.
Corey remained standing. “Look, you wanna kill time, do it alone. It's half-past three in the morning and I wanna get some sleep.”
“Sit down,” McDermott said. “This is official.”
“Then get to it,” Corey said. “Don't play with me.”
He sat down. McDermott was leafing through a stack of reports, taking out one from the top of the stack, glancing at it for a moment, then saying, “It says here you were attached to the 37th Precinct—plainclothes man. Says you were fired from the force for accepting bribes. That right?”
“That's right,” Corey said.
McDermott put the paper back on the stack. “Tell me about it.”
“Why should I?”
McDermott grinned at him. “You getting tough?”
He grinned back. “Not yet.”
Again it was quiet for some moments. Then McDermott said, “What bothers you, Bradford?”
“Not a thing.” He went on grinning.
McDermott sighed and looked up at the ceiling. Then he frowned clinically and said, “I'm trying to connect with you, that's all.” He looked at Corey. “Come on, lemme see that hole card.”
“It ain't for inspection,” Corey said. He held onto the grin. “You wanna check on me, they got it all on paper at the Hall of Records. You can start with my birth certificate.”
“I've already done that,” McDermott said. And something in his tone caused Corey to stiffen inwardly. McDermott seemed to sense the stiffening and his eyes narrowed just a little and he said, “You're thirty-four years old. You were born here in this city.”
“So?”
But McDermott went on with it. “Your mother's name was Ethel. She died when you were seven.”
“So? So?”
“Your father's name was Matthew. He died before you were born. He was a policeman.”
Corey blinked a few times. He squirmed slightly. He felt a twinge very high on his thigh near his groin. It was only for an instant, it faded before he could wonder about it. But in that instant his eyes were shut tightly, his mouth tight and twisted with something close to pain.
But now he grinned again at McDermott. He said, “Go on, I'm listening.”
“He was a policeman.”
“You said that already.”
“I want you to hear it again. He was a policeman.”
Corey mixed the grin with a scowl. “Whatever hurts you, Sergeant, you really got it bad.”
McDermott smiled softly, almost tenderly. “I guess that makes two of us,” he murmured. And then abruptly the smile faded and his voice was crisp and technical. “All right, here it is. I heard the talk about that party tonight, with them two hoods barging in and showing guns and so forth. The talk is, you stopped the show and you did it very fancy. So that gets me to thinking—”
“Forget it,” Corey said.
McDermott didn't seem to hear him. “I'm working with six men, and I need a seventh.”
“Just forget it,” Corey said. He stood up and started toward the door. Then something stopped him. He was thinking in terms of fifteen thousand dollars. Specifically he was thinking that in order to maneuver toward the fifteen thousand, he needed a certain tool.
That certain tool was the badge.
He heard the detective-sergeant saying, “You wanna be reinstated?”
He nodded slowly.
There was the scraping sound of wood against wood as McDermott opened a desk drawer. Then there was the clinking sound of metal hitting wood. Corey turned his head and saw it shining on the desktop. Before he knew what he was doing he reached for the badge and when he had it in his hand he stared at it.
“And here's your card,” McDermott said.
Corey took the card. He saw his name typed under the printed designation, police department, and stamped slantwise across the card was the lettering. It read “Night Squad.”
Corey muttered, “You had me reinstated before you knew I'd say yes.” He looked at the detective-sergeant. “What made you so sure I'd say yes?”
“I wasn't sure,” McDermott said. “I was just hoping you would.”