Night Squad (14 page)

And you can tell from the noise they're all .38s. And just listen to them screams.
      Can you guess what's actually happening? Well, not hardly. But there's one thing you know for sure. You know that things don't look too cozy right now for Delbert Kingsley and company.
      But who's the opposition? Would it be the blue boys from the 37th Precinct? No, it wouldn't be them. They're busy with more important assignments. They're raiding penny-ante poker games and issuing tickets for parking violations. Them fearless law enforcers from the 37th, they're out taking all kinds of chances and putting the pinch on each and every harmless vag and painted-up fag and liquored-up hag. They got all that to do. They can't be bothered with a little fuss involving .38s.
      So the question remains, who's the opposition? You think it's Grogan's mob? Well, it could be. It very well could be. But on the other hand—
      His thoughts were cut off. The shooting had stopped and he sat up straighter and listened for any noise at all. There was complete silence. A minute passed. Another minute. And then he heard a voice calling his name.
      He got down behind the rock, crouching.
      The voice came closer, calling his name. It was an unfamiliar voice, and he crouched lower. The voice kept calling, coming closer to the other side of the quagmire.
      He breathed very slowly, telling himself not to move, not to make the slightest sound.
      “Bradford—Bradford—”
     
Go away
, he said to the voice.
      “Bradford—you there? Where are you?”
      Go away, mister. I don't know who you are and I'm not sure you're a friend.
      “Bradford.”
      Will you do me a favor and go away?
      The voice continued to call his name. Then the voice receded and finally stopped calling.
      He remained motionless behind the rock waiting several minutes, listening for the slightest sound; but there was no noise and he told himself to move.
      Maneuvering carefully, he lowered himself from the rock, going into the quagmire, holding onto the rock with his feet, searching for a foothold. Some minutes later he arrived on the other side of the bog. Far in the distance he could see the bright yellow face of the clock in the tower of city hall. The hands pointed to nine-ten.
     

      In the bathroom on the second floor of the rooming house there was a small clock on top of the medicine cabinet. The hands pointed to nine thirty-seven. Corey was sitting in a tub of warm water, soaping himself, scrubbing hard to get the slime off his body. It clung to him like axle grease and he wished the water was warmer. The rooming house lacked a hot-water heater, and he didn't feel like making a trip down to the kitchen to fill the kettle and put it on the stove. He stayed in the tub more than a quarter of an hour, changing the water several times until it finally drained out clear.

      He shaved, put on clean clothes. As he left the rooming house it occurred to him that he'd forgotten something. He went back to his room, opened the dresser drawer and took out the .38 that Grogan had given him. He put the gun under his belt, the polo shirt over the gun, the lower edge of the shirt flapping loose around his thighs. He went out of the room and was going down the stairs when he stopped and bit the corner of his mouth. He was wondering if he really needed the gun.

It ain't like you're gonna go lookin' for targets , he told himself. You'll just drift over to the Hangout and socialize awhile. But even so, you better hold on to the gun.

      He continued down the stairs. Just before he opened the door to walk out of the rooming house, he tapped his fingers against the fabric of the polo shirt where it covered the gun. As his fingers felt the hard metal under the fabric, he grimaced with annoyance. For some unaccountable reason, he was bothered about the gun. Not about the possibility that he might be forced to use it. The uncertainty went beyond that. He wished he knew the reason for it. His grimace tightened as he wondered about the gun for another instant. Then he shrugged, opened the door and walked out.

      They picked him up at Third and Addison.

      He was crossing Third when the noise of the car came close and the brakes squealed. He started a move, his right hand going under his polo shirt. Then he heard the voice, “Hold it—this is Squad.”

      His head turned and he looked at the squad car. It was Heeley and Donofrio. They just sat there looking at him for a long while.

      Donofrio opened the car door, got out and beckoned to Corey.

      “Me in the middle?” Corey murmured as Donofrio held the door open for him.

      “That's right,” Heeley said from behind the wheel. “You in the middle.”

      Corey got in. Donofrio climbed in and closed the car door and they started off. Heeley turned on the siren and went through a red light at First and Addison. The siren was humming low. Heeley raised it a few octaves as they moved faster on Addison going toward the bridge.

      “What's the rush?” Corey asked.

      They didn't answer. They didn't look at him. Now the car was on the bridge, doing sixty, and the siren was up another octave. Coming off the bridge the car was doing close to seventy and Heeley had the siren going full blast.

What gives here?
Corey wondered. He turned his head and looked at Donofrio. For a moment the Italian's face stayed in profile. “Hey you,” Corey said softly.

      Donofrio looked at him and muttered, “You talkin' to me?”

      Corey winced slightly, seeing something in the squadman's eyes that spoke in terms of claws and fangs, a big cat crouched and ready to leap.

      “Look, I wanna know what's happening,” Corey said.

      Donofrio looked past Corey, saying to Heeley, “So whaddya think? You think Fullmer?”

      “Sure,” Heeley said. “It won't go five rounds.”

      “I don't know,” Donofrio frowned and bit the corner of his mouth. “It looks like Fullmer and yet—”

      “He can't do nothing with Fullmer. He's made for Fullmer.”

      “But that left. If he connects with that left.”

      “He won't,” Heeley said. “He won't have a chance to get set.”

      “Well, you never can tell,” Donofrio said. He lurched against Corey as the car made a screeching turn, Heeley pulling hard at the wheel to evade a truck coming out of a side street. It was a one-way street. The Squad car sliced through, going against traffic and narrowly missing a top-down convertible filled with Saturday-night teenagers. The convertible was forced to go onto the pavement. As the siren kept blasting and the Squad car came close to colliding with other cars, swerving frantically and going onto the pavement, Donofrio and Heeley went on chatting about the middleweight champion Gene Fullmer. They agreed that Fullmer was a very cagey operator and his style, which appeared to be clumsy and sloppy, was actually a series of tricky maneuvers that put the opponent at a disadvantage. They continued to talk about Fullmer as the Squad car pulled to a stop in the city hall courtyard. Going up in the elevator, they were still talking about Fullmer. In the corridor, heading toward room 529, they walked on either side of Corey, staying close to him but not looking at him. They were talking about Gene Fullmer. Coming closer to the door of 529, it occurred to Corey that something weird was taking place. He had the creepy feeling that shadows walked beside him, that other shadows were closing in on him.

      They entered 529. The outer office was empty. From the inner office there was the hum of voices. The door of the inner office was opened. A squadman came out, looked Corey up and down, then stepped back into the inner office and closed the door.

      “What's with him?” Corey asked. Heeley and Donofrio didn't answer. They stood with Corey in the middle, their shoulders touching his shoulders.

      “You're crowding me,” he said, and started to move away. They pressed closer, holding him there. “This I don't get,” he said, and made another try to pull away. They pushed in more tightly. It was as though they had him in a vise. For an instant he thought of arguing the point. Then he tossed the idea away, reminding himself that this was Night Squad and there was no arguing with Night Squad.
Because they're screwballs
, he told himself.
Because they're the kind that oughta be in cages and if you get them upset, you're messing with homicidal maniacs.

      The door of the inner office was opened again and three squadmen came out. Heeley and Donofrio stepped away from Corey and moved toward the three, then turned and faced Corey so that five squadmen stood in a row near the door of the inner office. The door remained open and Corey started toward it; but the five of them didn't move, they were blocking his path.

      “Send him in,” a voice from the inner office said. The five squadmen moved, giving Corey a path to the doorway. He walked in and saw McDermott standing at the side of the desk. In McDermott's hand there was a rolled newspaper. The detective-sergeant was watching a fly that circled the desktop. The fly made a landing and McDermott swatted, mashing it. McDermott stood looking at the squashed fly and said to Corey, “Close the door.”

      Corey closed the door, leaned back against it and watched the detective-sergeant who bent over the desktop, arms folded, eyes peering clinically at the tiny dead thing. For several moments McDermott studied the remains of the fly, then slowly turned his head, looked at Corey and said, “So how ya doin'?”

Don't answer him , Corey told himself. Don't give him nothing.

      “Anything new?” McDermott asked, his voice mild.

      There was no answer. There was only the sound of the distorted humming from the faulty electric fan.

      McDermott smiled softly, pleasantly. He walked around the desk and sat down. He said, “Wanna buy a raffle ticket?” He opened a desk drawer and took out a book of tickets. “I got some tickets here, fifty cents a chance.” He tossed the book to Corey. The raffle was sponsored by some fraternal organization and the first prize was a Plymouth. Corey glanced at the top ticket and tore it off. He moved to the desk, picked up a pencil and wrote his name on the slip attached to the book. Then he put a dollar bill on the desktop. The detective-sergeant reached into his trousers pocket, took out two quarters and handed them to Corey, who turned and walked toward the door.

      “Where you going?” McDermott asked.

      Corey stopped. He stood with his back to the desk. He waited a few moments, then said, “Second and Addison. I got a date.”

      “With who?”

      “A double gin,” Corey said. “Is that all right with you?”

      “Sure,” McDermott said. He drew a circle around the fly. He gazed at the fly as he said, “Got anything else to report?”

      “No,” Corey said without thinking. And then he thought about it and wanted to change his answer, but of course it was too late.

      McDermott drew a second circle around the crushed corpse of the fly, inside the first circle. With the tip of the pencil he touched the two circles, then put down the pencil and took out a matchbook and struck a match. He applied the flame to the fly. In the blue-orange blaze the fly became a tiny heap of black debris. McDermott blew out the match, whisked the charred substance onto the floor and said to Corey, “I'm gonna letcha try it one more time.”

      “Try what?”

      “Reporting in.”

      “Ain't nothing to report,” Corey said.

      McDermott got up from the desk chair. He walked past Corey and opened the door leading to the outer office. He beckoned to the men out there and then went back to the desk. The five squadmen came in, the door closing behind Donofrio who was the last to enter.

      The five squadmen stood along the wall. Corey was standing near the middle of the room. Sitting at the desk, McDermott had his elbows on the desktop, his head leaning against the heels of his palms. Corey saw that McDermott's eyes were closed. For the better part of a minute the only noise in the room was the humming of the electric fan.

      Then McDermott lowered his hands to the desktop, resting them flat. He leaned back in the chair, gazed up at the ceiling and said, “Look at them, Bradford.”

      Corey turned and looked at the squadmen.

      “Count them,” McDermott said.

      You're gonna hafta do it , Corey told himself. You're just gonna hafta go along with it.

      “How many?” McDermott asked.

      “Five,” Corey said.

      “Five is correct.” McDermott spoke softly. “There's five here and you're the sixth and there's one missing.”

      Corey breathed in slowly and held it. Something poked hard at his lungs and he grunted and let out the air. He breathed in again very slowly.

      “One missing,” McDermott said. He looked at Corey. “You know where he is?”

      Corey shook his head.

      “I'll tell you where he is,” McDermott said. “He's in a casket.”

      “With bullets in him,” Donofrio said.

      “Four bullets,” from another squadman.

      “Four bullets,” McDermott echoed. “One in the kneecap, one in the pelvis and two in the belly. When they got him to the hospital, he was still alive. He lasted about forty-five minutes. When he checked out he looked worried.”

      “Now why would he be worried?” Heeley wanted to know. “That ain't no time to be worried. When that time comes, your worries are over.”