Judge Me Not (17 page)

He stood up, facing her. “We have to wait and find out.”

She didn’t answer. He walked out into the living room, suddenly noticing that he still wore his topcoat. He took it off, threw it toward a chair. He stretched experimentally and found that most of the soreness was gone. The sleep had left him feeling fit, resilient.

Powell had long since completed the call. He sat in the dark hall. Marcia walked into the living room. She sat on the arm of Teed’s chair and he gave her a cigarette.

“You’ve changed, Teed,” she said softly.

“How?”

“I’ve always resented you. This work … it has been such an amusing jolly game for you, and so desperately serious to Daddy. I don’t mean that I thought you were some kind of wise guy, but I always thought you were laughing at us, somewhere inside. That you felt in some small way superior to Daddy just because he
could
be so … well, dedicated. I guess that’s the word. And it seemed to me that you liked the impression you made too well.”

“Have I improved?” he asked lightly.

“I think, for the first time, Teed, that you’ve really begun to fight. I think you’re involved now—that you’re committing more than just hours of work.”

“I didn’t know that I was being judged, Marcia.”

“Now don’t get defensive again. I think it is better if we can be friends, Teed.”

“We are.”

“Why doesn’t the person come? I’m babbling.”

A car motor stopped in front of the house. A tire yelped against the curb. An expensive car door chunked shut and steel-capped heels clacked toward the porch.

There was nothing sinister about his attitude. He had the aplomb of an invited guest. “I’m Weiss,” he said, smilingly. “Commonly known as Windy. I’ll leave the coat here on the chair if it’s O.K.”

“Of course,” Powell said.

Weiss was a trim-bodied man with the crisp balance of a boxer. His pale gray suit was cleverly cut to minimize the shortness of his neck. His round head sat squarely on his shoulders. Sparse blond hair was combed straight back. A thin blond mustache helped give him the look of a prosperous young real estate broker. The only remaining signs of his one-time trade were the white-line scars in his brows, thickness of lips, convexity of upper eyelids, hoarse faraway voice.

Weiss walked confidently into the living room. He extended cigarettes with an unspoken question, lit one for himself with a crisp click of his lighter, sat down and pulled a gray trouser leg up a bit as he crossed his legs.

He exhaled and smiled at them. His smile flashed quickly and disappeared at once, without ever changing the expression of the light blue eyes.

Marcia and Powell sat on the couch, facing him. Teed leaned against the mantel, hands in his pockets.

“Your daughter, Mr. Dennison, is a very gutty little lady.”

“Say what you came to say,” Powell said heavily.

“Now don’t go into the heavy act, folks. This is a little business conference. Your daughter came to have a talk with us. She’s pretty worried about Morrow, here. Seems he has himself in a jam. She’s anxious to have him cleared, you know. She thinks a lot of him.”

“You people won’t get away with this,” Powell said.

“Get away with what? I don’t understand you, Mr. Dennison. Your daughter isn’t being restrained. She can come home any time. She just doesn’t want to. Not until she gets a promise that Morrow here will be left alone. And we
can’t see our way clear to give that promise until you do us a little favor, Mr. Dennison.”

“Resign, I suppose,” Powell said.

“We don’t want you to resign. You’re doing good work for Deron, Mr. Dennison. We’re all in back of you. We just think you get a little too eager sometimes. You know. We think you ought to stick to getting the City Hall running efficiently.”

“What do you expect me to do?”

Weiss took two folded sheets of paper out of his pocket. He got up quickly and took them over and handed them to Powell, returned to his chair. He said, “We want you to copy those in your own handwriting and date them a month ago like it says, and sign them. That’s all. It’s very simple.”

Powell read them quickly. His face did not change expression. He handed them to Teed.

The first one was to Mayor Carboy.

The second letter was to Judge Kennelty, and was dated three days after the first letter.

Teed could easily see the diabolical cleverness of the scheme. Once the letters had been written, there was no longer anything to fear from Dennison. He would be permitted to continue in his job, but if, at any time, he attempted to clean out the Raval group, the letters would be made public. They would show clearly that Dennison had been receiving a rake-off, that Felice Carboy had been the courier, that Morrow, in meeting Felice, had received money and instructions, had sent back Dennison’s communications through Felice.

And, in implicating the woman who could not deny her part in it, it made an inference of motive.

Weiss said softly, “And don’t think that you can memorize the letters, write copies, and repudiate them. We’ve explained to your daughter, Dennison, that unless she denies any knowledge of all this, friend Morrow will still be clobbered.”

“We can tell her that you sold her a bill of goods,” Teed said. “There’s no case against me.”

The flashing smile came and went. Weiss dug in his pocket again and pulled out a three-by-five glossy print. “We showed her this, Morrow. She damn near passed out.”

Teed took the picture. It was like looking into nightmare. He sat propped against the wall by the bathroom door, chin on his chest, bottle beside him, the print so clear that he could read the label on the bottle. In the lower left corner of the print, inches from his naked foot, was the swollen horror of Felice’s dead face.

“Why didn’t you use it before?” he asked, and his voice did not sound like his own.

“A thing like that, it makes the court wonder who took the picture. Besides, you’re the small fry, Morrow. We were just fiddling around, trying to get a lever to use on Dennison here. You know what I figure? Everybody has a button. On some people it’s obvious, and it has got a sign on it that says money. But no matter what it says, the button is there if you can find it. It just took longer than usual, Mr. Dennison, to find out how to make you jump through the hoop.”

“And you had to kill Felice Carboy anyway,” Teed said.

Weiss gave him a quick look. “She was getting a little big for her panties. If that’s what you mean.”

“Why take this picture if Seward was already tipped off?”

Weiss shrugged. “Just in case he believed you and tried to cover for you. You did good, Morrow. Everybody got a hell of a shock when she turned up in the dump. You can keep that print if you want it. Keep it under your pillow at night.”

“You expect me to copy out those letters and sign them?” Powell asked.

Weiss’s eyebrows shot up. “What the hell else can you do?”

“And if I refuse?”

Weiss laughed. “Man, you can’t refuse. That kid of yours is nuts about Morrow. If we told her to lay down in front of a truck to help Morrow, she’d do it.” His voice hardened. “Anything we tell her to do, she’ll do. Get it?”

Teed glanced at Marcia. Her face was gray and there was a sheen on her forehead and her upper lip. She looked on the verge of being ill.

“He’ll do it,” Marcia whispered.

“I don’t want to have to draw pictures for you people,” Weiss said. “I don’t want to have to act like a hard guy. But if you don’t play, that kid may get pretty ashamed. So ashamed she won’t ever want to come home. We can slip a few studio prints of her into that high school. Kids go for that kind of art work, Mr. Dennison.” Weiss’ tongue flicked quickly across his lower lip.

Weiss leaned forward. “And we’ll give you a break. You get stubborn and we’ll bring you a few prints to show you what we mean. Understand, nobody will be forcing her. If you don’t break down then, we’ll bring you some action shots, and if you still got a stone head, we’ll send her on the road and by then she’ll be goddam glad to go and if you ever trace her she’ll tell you to go to hell because by then she won’t be any kid any more, and you can start wondering when we’ll find a way to make this other girl of yours volunteer.” He began to spit out the words, with a spray of spittle. “You stonehead Christers amuse the hell out of me. You think the law is God sitting on a big bench. Wake up. In this town, we’re the law. And we’re getting bigger and stronger and tougher and smarter every year. We’re expanding, Dennison. We’re buying into more legit stuff all the time. And no stonehead like you can stop us. If you want to, you can toss that pretty kid of yours to every hunky with two bucks in his pocket, but it won’t slow us down. Now make up your mind and make it up fast and stop acting
like this was a big tragedy. This is a business deal. Write those out and she’ll be home in half an hour.”

Weiss leaned back and took a handkerchief out of his pocket, wiped his lips.

Powell leaned forward. He stared at the floor between his feet and his clenched fists were on his knees. His head had a palsied tremble. He stood up, his face blank.

“Give me the letters, Teed,” he said. He took them and walked into the study. In the silence they heard the rustle of paper, and then the scuff of his pen as he began to write in his bold distinctive hand.

Weiss said, “Token resistance. Isn’t that what they call it?”

“You’re a filthy sonofabitch,” Teed said softly.

Weiss lit another cigarette. “There’s a lady present, Morrow. Are you a lady, sugar?”

Marcia said, “He’ll resign, you know. He won’t keep on with the job.”

“We got a guy to put in when he quits, sugar.”

Marcia stared at him, intensely curious. “What can turn a human being into a thing like you, Mr. Weiss?”

Surprisingly, Weiss flushed. “I’m no different than a million other guys. The only friend you got in this world, sugar, is money. No hard feelings. Your sister’ll be home safe and sound in a little bit. I’ll take the car over to the Ca … over to where she is and bring her right back. Give her a pill and put her to bed and she’ll be fine in the morning.”

Powell came out with the letters. He seemed remote. There was no more anger in him. Weiss glanced briefly at the letters, folded them and tucked them in his pocket.

“O.K., folks. Thanks, Mr. Dennison.”

“You’re welcome,” Powell said dully. Teed looked at Powell, and it seemed a hand closed suddenly on his heart. This was the shape of defeat. This was the smell of resignation. Powell even picked up Weiss’ coat and held it for him as the man shrugged into it, hitching the collar into place. Weiss grinned as he buttoned his coat.

“Don’t take it hard,” Weiss said. “We’ll all get together one of these days and figure out a program. No reason why we can’t all work together.”

“No reason at all,” Powell said.

“No reason why you should live on peanuts, Dennison. Lonnie is pretty generous when things go right.”

“I’ll be glad to talk with him,” Powell said.

They went into the hall with him, to the front door. Marcia stood back several feet, one hand reaching up to hold the railing.

Weiss went out onto the porch, turned and gave his flashing, meaningless smile. The big car at the curb, behind Teed’s, picked up high lights from the street lamps.

As Weiss turned back to go down the steps, a deep-throated, booming explosion smashed the night into fragments. The explosion had come from the end of the porch, to the right of the door.

Weiss reacted as though someone had caught him in the shoulder with the full-arm swing of a maul. He smashed sideway through the railing, turning in the air, diving out onto the narrow lawn. Teed turned and saw the bulky figure that clung to the railing at the right end of the porch. It dropped lightly to the grass below and ran silently across the yard.

It stood over Weiss and fired again. The impact made the body appear to leap up off the grass before it settled back. The dark figure turned and in the slant of a distant street lamp, Teed saw the long, heavy-boned face of Mayor Carboy. He turned and walked briskly off. Not fleeing. Not frightened. It was the firm tread of a man who has set himself a complicated mission and is anxious to complete it.

Powell put out a slow hand and supported himself against the doorframe. Marcia had not moved. Her expression was that of a person attempting to identify a distant, puzzling sound. Teed ran lightly down the steps, knelt beside the body.

A raw, plaintive, nasal female voice came through the darkness. “George! I say that was shots! Why don’t you call the police or something? George!”

The man’s irrritated mumble sounded in the background and a door shut.

Teed sat on his heels beside the body. He touched the arm tentatively and then wiped his hands on his thighs. Enough night vision came to him to make his stomach turn heavily, to bring a sour taste to his throat. The second shot, apparently, had caught Weiss at the nape of his stubby neck. The head was all but severed. This was the end, then, of the tight-moving body, the balanced precision, the husky-hoarse fighter’s voice.