Night Squad (3 page)

      “Say it, Nellie,” a skinny white-haired crone sang out. “Say it like it is, girl.”

      “There ain't nothin' meaner or rottener than a shakedown,” Nellie said it with white-hot rage. “And get this ticket—he was always so nice and sweet about it. Knocks so softly on the door and then comes on with that greasy smile. One hand pats you on the shoulder and the other hand is out, palm open. The miserable creep; he even had them thinkin' he was doin' them a favor—”

      “Disgraceful,” a whiskey-thick voice commented.

      “Believe it,” Nellie nodded in agreement. She looked sideways at Corey and kept tightening her grip on his arm. Her face twisted in a grimace of disgust as she said to the assemblage, “You know how this makes me feel? It makes me feel like I need soap and water.”

      “Then why don't you let go of him?” someone inquired quietly, calmly. “What are you holdin' onto him for?”

      It was the little man, Carp. He stood in the side entrance, his arms folded, his head inclined, his manner that of an official observer.

      “You here again?” Nellie roared at him.

      “I guess we could put it that way,” Carp said. He sent a thirsty glance toward the bar, then unfolded his arms and pointed stiffly at Nellie and said to all the drinkers, “You see what's happening there? You get the drift? She won't let go of him because she can't let go. It's what we call a dynamic situation, the outward manifestations are utterly superficial.”

      “Talk English,” someone hollered.

      “I'll be glad to,” Carp said politely. “In plain English, my friends, she's hot for the man.”

      Nellie let out an animal growl, let go of Corey and made a beeline for Carp. The little man played it with fox-like strategy. He waited until Nellie was just a few feet away, her hands reaching out to grab him. Then with neatness and precision he used his foot to tip over a chair. As Nellie collided with the falling chair, Carp started a circular route that took him swiftly in the direction of the bar. Knowing what was coming, the regulars at the bar reached quickly for their shot glasses and grimly held on. Others weren't quick enough. As Carp flashed past the bar, his arm functioned with the speed of a piston. Before he reached the far end of the bar, he'd snatched and downed a double rye and a single of California brandy. Then he headed for the front door and scampered out.

      Corey strolled to the bar. His hand was in his trousers pocket, cupping the combined weight of paper and metal, the three sixty-five. He took out a quarter, put it on the bar. It bought him a single shot of gin. He drank the gin, immediately wanted another, but decided it could wait. As he turned away from the bar, the thirst gave way to what was more important at the moment, the hunger for the poker-table, for delicious aces coming his way.

      He moved toward the door that led to the back room. Passing the crowded tables, he was ignored like any casual table passer. They'd forgotten Nellie's tirade and were concentrating on their drinks. But as he neared the door, he had the feeling that a certain pair of eyes were aiming at him. He stopped for a moment, wincing slightly, then continued toward the door. As he reached for the doorknob, something forced him to turn his head.

      He saw her.

      She was sitting alone at the table near the wall. On the table there was a half-full quart-size bottle of beer. There was an empty glass. Now she reached slowly for the bottle and poured some beer into the glass. While she did it, she looked directly at him.

      “Hello, Lil,” he said.

      Not saying anything, she lifted the glass to her mouth and sipped at the beer. She went on looking at him.

      He blinked a few times. He said, “How's it going?”

      She didn't answer. She just sat there and sipped more beer and kept looking at him.

      “I ain't seen you around,” he mumbled. “It's been months now—almost a year, I guess. Or maybe longer than that, I don't know. Where you been?”

      She lowered the glass, leaned back in the chair and didn't say anything.

      “What's the matter?” he said. “Can't you talk?”

      “Not to you.” Her voice was toneless. There was no particular expression on her face. “I have nothing to say to you.”

      He blinked again. Then he started to turn away but for some reason his legs wouldn't move.

      “You don't have to stand there,” she said. “You said hello and that's it. That's all it calls for, just a hello.”

      He stood and gazed at her. This ain't easy, he thought. It's like playing checkers with someone who knows all your moves before you make them. She won't give you no openings at all.

      And what makes it tougher, he told himself, she's still got it, all of it. That face. That body. She's something, all right. But there's nothing you can do about it. All you can do is stand here like a goddam idiot and give yourself a bad time.

      Lillian had dark brown hair, medium brown eyes. Somewhat heavy in the breasts and hips, her body was nonetheless enticing, wasp-waisted and solidly put together. She was an exceptionally good-looking woman.

      Lil was twenty-six. Some five years ago she was married to Corey Bradford. They hadn't stayed married long. It lasted a little over a year. The split-up was caused by his drinking. At that time he'd been wearing the blue of a beat-walking policeman, and for some reason that he couldn't understand he was drinking very heavily. She begged him to stop, then she warned him to stop. And finally one night when he went over the edge with the rams, she chased him down Addison as he dashed toward the river, intending to jump in. He didn't jump in. What stopped him was the sound behind him, the thud as she hit the ground. She suffered a bruised knee, a severely twisted ankle, and a miscarriage. It was a serious miscarriage. There was considerable pain and some complications and it almost did her in. On his knees beside the bed he held her hand and made a sacred vow that he'd stop the drinking. A month later he was crazy drunk again. That ended it.

      He watched her now as she poured more beer into the glass. He frowned slightly, at first not knowing why. Then gradually it came to him. There was something out of kilter in this picture.

      He said to her, “What's this with beer?”

      She didn't reply. She sipped at the foam, then took a long drink.

      “I never saw you drinkin' beer before,” he said.

      Lillian put the glass down. She gave him a look that said,
So what?

      “All I ever seen you drink was a lemon pop or a milk shake or just plain water,” he said. “How come you've switched to alcohol?”

      She shrugged, looking away from him. As if he wasn't there, and as though she was talking aloud to herself, she said, “It gets to a point where it just don't matter.”

      His frown deepened. “What kind of an answer is that?”

      “I don't know,” she said, and then she looked at him. “I honestly don't know.”

      He gave her a side glance. “Come on, Lil. Tell me—”

      “Tell you what?”

      “What's happening? What's wrong?”

      She opened her mouth to say something, then shut her lips tightly. Again she looked away from him.

      He leaned toward her. “Tell me, Lil. Let it out. It's better when you let it out.”

      “Is it?” And then her eyes aimed directly at him. “How would you know?”

      He winced slightly. He had no idea what she meant by that, but whatever she meant, it went in deep. It cut like a blade.

      He backed away, and mumbled clumsily, “Is that all you're gonna tell me?”

      “That's all,” Lillian said.

      There was a heaviness in his throat. He tried to swallow it. He said, “I hate to see you sitting here alone.”

      “I'm sitting here alone because I want some privacy,” she said. She shifted in the chair, turning away from him. For a moment her hands rested limply on the tabletop. In that moment he noticed something. It glimmered bright yellow on her finger. It was a wedding ring.

      “Is that for real?” he asked, pointing at the ring.

      She took her hands off the tabletop, folded them in her lap and didn't say anything.

      Corey stared at her. “Well, whaddya know,” he murmured. “I guess it calls for congratulations.”

      “Don't bother,” Lillian said tightly.

      He smiled thinly, lazily. He was about to say something but just then he sensed that someone stood directly behind him. Turning slowly, he faced a tall man who had thick, curly black hair, rugged features on the wholesome and pleasant side, and the physique of a discus thrower. The man appeared to be in his middle thirties. He wore working clothes. He said quietly to Corey, “Take a walk.”

      “Who are you?” Corey said.

      “I'm her husband.”

      Corey looked off to one side. He murmured, “Says he's her husband. That's what he says.”

      “That's the way it is,” the man said. He moved closer to Corey but then Lillian was on her feet and she moved in between them. She said to the man, “It's all right, Del. He knows me.”

      The man looked at her. “He does?”

      She said quickly, “Yes, I told you about him. I was married to him.”

      “Oh,” the man said. And then, to Corey, “Sorry, bud. I didn't know.” He smiled pleasantly and held out his hand and Corey took it. They introduced themselves. The man's name was Delbert Kingsley.

      He was very pleasant. He invited Corey to sit down at the table. Corey thanked him and refused; then smiled at the two of them and turned away, walking toward the door that led into the back room.

2

      It was a fairly large room, a combination of business office and playroom. On a small table set near the wall there were an adding machine, some stacked ledgers and various papers scattered about. Adjacent to the table an ancient slot machine stood on rusty legs. It showed the three black bells of the jackpot, just to let all viewers know it was on the level. Set slantwise, near the one-armed bandit, an age-darkened, rolltop desk leaned wearily on one shortened leg. At a respectable distance from the outdated desk, there was a brand-new filing cabinet, glimmering green, its edges reinforced with brightly shining nickel. On the wall above the filing cabinet were several neatly framed photographs that showed racing rowers in double-oared sculls.
      In the center of the room there was a big round table, and seven men were seated at it. They were playing stud poker. Some of them were in undershirts; others were bare to the waist. Despite the breeze from an electric fan, they were all dripping with perspiration. Very intent on the cards, none of them looked up as Corey entered.
      He moved toward the table to get a closer look at the action. It wasn't big money, there were less than thirty dollars in the kitty; but even so the action was tense. Some of them were chewing hard on cigar stubs and others were biting the corners of their mouths. While the winner was raking in the money, a loser got up and walked out of the room. Corey glided toward the empty chair. As he lowered himself into it, someone's heavy hand reached out and pushed him away.
      “What goes?” Corey asked mildly. He smiled amiably at the big man who'd pushed him away from the empty chair.
      “You weren't invited,” the big man said. He was very big around the middle, of average height, and weighed around two-sixty. He looked solid, his bulk mainly in the chest and shoulders. The man's name was Rafer.
      Corey continued smiling at him, saying, “You kidding me, Rafer?”
      “No,” Rafer said. “No, I ain't kidding you.”
      “I don't get it,” Corey said. He mixed the smile with a slight frown. “It's a Friday night game and it's open. It's always open on Friday night.”
      “Not for you,” Rafer said. His face was hard with authority; and then as he looked across the table his expression changed to the putty softness of a well-trained lackey. “Ain't that right, Walt?”
      The man named Walt was sipping from a glass of cold buttermilk. He was concentrating on the buttermilk, his mouth moving in little circles as he tested its flavor. He didn't look up.
      Rafer tried again. “He don't believe me, Walt. You say the word and I'll get it across to him. I'll toss him outta here on his head.”
      The buttermilk drinker glanced up and saw Corey. He grimaced wearily and said to Rafer, “Why do you bother me with these things?”
      “I'm just checkin' to get it straight,” Rafer said. “You want him bounced?”
      “Leave him alone,” Walter Grogan said. He drank some buttermilk. “Let him stand there if he wants to.”
      “Can I sit down?” Corey asked.
      Walter Grogan didn't answer.
      “Can't I get in the game?” Corey asked.
      “No,” Grogan said.
      “Why?” Corey asked. “Why, Walt?”
      Grogan looked at him. That was all, just a look. It caused Corey to take a step backward, as though he was shoved in the face.
So this is what it comes to
, he thought.
And it ain't the treatment; it's worse than the treatment. What it amounts to, is you've been listed minus zero, strictly useless, absolutely worthless. The tip off came when he didn't even bother to have you thrown out. I guess that puts you right at the bottom, even lower than Carp and the other mischief-makers. At least they get some attention, they rate high enough to get bounced. All you're getting is the look; the look that says in no uncertain terms that you've been junked.
      Corey took another step backward. Then very slowly he backed across the room until he reached the wall. He leaned back against the wall and stared at the floor. His hand drifted toward his pocket and he fingered the money, the three dollars and forty cents.
Let's put it to work
, he told himself.
Let's drink it up.
      But he didn't move. He went on staring at the floor, his head lowered. Then gradually he raised his head and his mouth tightened just a trifle. He focused on Walter Grogan.
      Walter Grogan was the owner of the Hangout. He also owned a pawnshop, a poolroom, a dry-cleaning establishment and most of the real estate in the Swamp. All his business activities were centered in the Swamp and the same applied to his social life. He seldom was away from the Swamp. Although he had considerable cash—(estimates of his wealth ranging anywhere from one hundred thousand to more than a quarter of a million) it seemed that everything he wanted or needed was in this neighborhood of wooden shacks, tarpaper hovels and narrow alleys. His only recreation outside the Swamp was his membership in the Southeast Boat Club. It was a rather exclusive club and its list included some very important names. But Grogan hadn't joined it for that reason. It was just that he liked to row on the river. He was better than the average rower. Took it very seriously; and he needed the facilities of a good boating club.
      He was fifty-six, lean and hard and red-brown from the rowing. His hair was silver, still fairly thick, combed straight across his head so that it glistened. He had a habit of smoothing it with his hand, as though he wanted it to retain the luster. But there was no luster in his eyes. His eyes were a very pale yellow-gray, dull and lifeless, more like lenses.
     
Lenses that could see through a wall , Corey was thinking. Or inside someone's brain. If they thought he was really out to win, they wouldn't be sitting at that table with him. The way it is, they know he's only fooling around. It's a cinch he ain't interested in their singles and fives or even their sawbucks. If he actually felt like trying, he'd have them all flat busted inside a fast ninety minutes. You can't help but admire him, I mean the machinery in his head. That's what it is, machinery; and it's strictly precision tooled. You can't remember when it ever made a mistake. A typical front runner, no two ways about it. But do you envy him? Do you envy him with his hand-stitched suits and sixty-dollar shoes? With the limousine from Spain and the brand new Olds? And while we're at it, we might as well include that other fancy job he rides, that slinky platinum blonde he sleeps with every night. So I'm askin' you, do you envy him?
      You're goddam right you envy him. And—
      At that moment Rafer was dealing. Grogan was sipping the buttermilk. It all happened very fast, the back door opening and two men coming in, showing guns.
      The men wore horror masks that covered their entire heads. One was a werewolf and the other was a stomach-turning combination of hyena and horned Satan. The werewolf stood near the door and the hyena-devil moved slowly toward the table.
      There was no sound in the room. A few of the poker players put their arms above their heads. Rafer still held the card he'd been about to deal, his hand suspended stiffly in midair.
      Grogan was gazing calmly at the masked men. He seemed to appraise the masks, as though they were competing for first prize at a costume party and he was one of the judges. He continued studying them for a few moments, sipped some buttermilk, lowered the glass to the table and said, “All right, what do you want?”
      “You,” the hyena-Satan said. His voice was muffled behind the mask. He had the pistol aimed at Grogan's head. “Just you, Grogan.”
      Grogan reached for his wallet.
      “Don't do that,” the hyena-Satan said.
      “Then take what's on the table,” Grogan told him. “Take it and get outta here.”
      “We didn't come for that.” The pistol gestured toward the money on the table. “I told you what we want. We want you.”
      Grogan rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
      “Get up on your feet,” the hyena-Satan said.
      Grogan didn't move.
      “Get up.” The pistol aimed at Grogan again. “Get up or I'll put one in your head.”
      “No you won't,” Grogan said.
      “You don't think so?”
      “It figures,” Grogan said. “You do me in; you'll be slopping up the job. If they wanted me bumped, you coulda shot through the window.”
      “They?” the hyena-Satan was just a trifle on the defensive. “Whaddya mean? Who's
they?
”
      “Whoever sent you,” Grogan said. He leaned back in the chair. His tone was mild, conversational. “Tell me something, buddy boy. How much you getting paid?”
      The hyena-Satan made a hissing sound, breathing hard through the mask. He moved a step closer to Grogan, raised the pistol a few inches so that it pointed at Grogan's forehead, just below the hairline.
      “Fifty?” Grogan murmured. “A hundred? Let's say it's a hundred and fifty. So what I'll do, I'll double that.”
      There was another hissing sound from behind the hyena-Satan mask. This time there was a laugh in it.
      “Tell you what,” Grogan said. He leaned back further in the chair, crossed his legs and folded his arms. “We'll make it five hundred. Good enough?”
      The hissing laughter came louder. Then abruptly the laugh was cut off and the mask-muffled voice said, “All right, now we'll time it. I'm givin' you the warning buzzer. You either get up from that chair and come with us or you go to the cemetery.”
      “Seven hundred,” Grogan said. “Seven.”
      “You like that number?”
      “It always pays off,” Grogan said. “Well, whaddya say? Make it seven?”
      “Sure,” the gunman said. “Seven seconds.”
      He started to count. Grogan didn't move. The count reached three and then the gunman stopped counting and said to his partner, “Lock the front one.”
      The werewolf-masked man moved quickly to the front door leading to the taproom. Above the doorknob there was a slide lock and he set the lock into place. Then he moved sideways, parallel to the wall, his gun pointed in the general direction of the men sitting at the table. As he moved, he turned away from Corey, who remained leaning against the wall.
      “We pick it up at three,” the hyena-Satan said. “And now it's four seconds—five—”
      “All right,” Grogan said. “All right. I'll go with you.”
      Grogan was getting up from the chair and just then Corey lunged at the gunman wearing the werewolf mask. It was a combination move, his left hand going for the gun while his right hand, hard clenched, hit the werewolf mask high on the neck behind the ear. As the gunman sagged, the other gunman fired twice, missed and then delayed for an instant to steady his aim. In that instant the gun was in Corey's hand, spitting flame.
      The bullet went into the mouth of the hyena-Satan. Some pieces of rubber sprayed out, mixed with pieces of bone and bloody flesh. From the back of the gunman's skull a thin stream of brains trickled down. He was dead before he hit the floor. The other gunman was trying for the window, at first crawling on hands and knees and then sobbing frenziedly as he fought to get to his feet. He was groggy from the blow that Corey had delivered and as he came to his feet he fell sideways and collided with the wall. Then he was down again, on his knees.
      Corey didn't see Rafer coming. Rafer snatched the gun from Corey's hand, and Grogan shouted, “No, don't—don't do that.”
      But Rafer was pulling the trigger. He shot the gunman in the spine. Then he shot him in the neck, and sent a third bullet into his head. The corpse was sitting against the wall. Rafer leaned very close and fired twice, the bullets going in through the eye slits of the werewolf mask.
      “That fixes it,” Rafer said. He turned away from the seated corpse, expanding his chest importantly. He faced Grogan, who'd walked slowly across the room.
      “You imbecile,” Grogan said quietly. With the back of his hand he hit Rafer across the mouth. Rafer tried to say something and Grogan hit him again. “You imbecile, you,” Grogan said.
      Excited shouts came from the taproom and people were knocking on the door. Then there was the sound of shoulders thudding against the door as they tried to push it off its hinges.
      Grogan moved toward the door and told them to stop. The noise subsided. He went back to Rafer and said, “Tell me something. What's the matter with you?”
      Rafer swallowed hard. “I thought—”
      “You thought,” Grogan said. “With what? Your ass?”
      “I figured—”
      “No you didn't,” Grogan said. “You can't even add one and one.” He gestured toward the masked corpse. “Even the dumbest punk would know I wanted him alive.”
      Rafer blinked several times. “He was makin' for the window. All I done was stop him.”
      “You stopped him, all right,” Grogan said. “You stopped him from talking, that's what you did.”
      Rafer sighed heavily. He stood there deflated, making a helpless gesture. Grogan turned away, bent over the sitting corpse and ripped off the werewolf mask. The poker players moved closer to get a look at the face.
      “Anyone know him?” Grogan asked. They said no. Grogan crossed over to the other corpse and removed the mask and again it was no.
      Grogan frowned, confused. He said aloud to himself, “I don't get this. Just don't get it, that's all.”
      “It's a cinch they ain't from this neighborhood,” someone said.
      “Then what's the answer?” another asked, puzzled. “There's gotta be an answer.”
      “I got it,” Rafer said loudly, hitting his fist against his palm. He paused significantly, his chest expanded again. They all looked at him, all except Grogan. The fist hit the palm again and Rafer said, “They were hired by someone who knows about—”
      But just then Grogan looked at Rafer. And Corey thought, That look—it's like pressing a button that shuts off the noise!
      Rafer stood there stiffly, blinking hard and swallowing air. Grogan went on looking at him. Some moments passed and then Grogan turned away and moved toward the table, sat down and muttered aloud to himself, “I swear I don't know how I manage. What I have to put up with. The people I have around me.”
      “I didn't say nothin',” Rafer tried to make repairs. “All I said was—”
      Grogan looked at him. Some of the men squirmed uneasily. Rafer had his mouth clamped tightly, his features twisted in a straining grimace as he made the effort to remain quiet.
      “You want me to really do it?” Grogan said very quietly to Rafer. “You want me to pull your tongue out with pliers?”