The Ace of Spades - Dell Shannon (15 page)

Leaving the phone, he realized what a scorcher of a
day it was: must be up around a hundred and ten. And these squalid
streets, these old buildings, airless and fetid. There was a fan
turning above the door, but it only stirred the stale air. However,
hotter out on the corner in the sun. He was out of cigarettes, and
bought a pack from the rat-faced druggist, opened it and lit one,
drifted over to join a couple of women looking at the magazines. But
he didn't see them very clearly; his mind was working furiously at
this new, curious feature of what he wasn't too sure he could call a
case .... He looked up automatically when the door opened, though it
was too soon to expect Hackett—

Green Shirt and Bushy Hair came in together, spotted
him and looked pleased. Gray Slacks and Brown Slacks, behind them,
collected the two women and trundled them out to the street. “This
store's closed, ladies, come back some other time."

"Hey," said the druggist weakly, “I ain't
either closed— "

"You are now," said Green Shirt, and
slammed the door, locked it, and pulled down the shade. "Get in
the back room, buster, and you didn't see or hear nothin' or nobody."

The druggist looked at him, licked his lips and
backed away. "That's right, I didn't," he said. "I
sure as hell didn't." He vanished into the rear of the store.

"Castro must be feelin' his oats, friend,"
said Bushy Hair to Mendoza, "send his errand boys round in broad
daylight. Anyways, he sure looks like one o' Castro's boys, don't
he?— cute li'l moustache an' all. This ain't healthy territory for
you, friend. Castro oughta know that. Castro ain't took over from
Pretty yet, or leastways he hadn't when we all went to bed las'
night, an' I don't guess it'd happen without us knowing, hah, boys?
He oughta send a bodyguard along with you anyways, if he wants you
back any shape to do business for a while. Maybe he wants t' get ride
of you, though, sendin' you out alone over here, askin' for Pretty's
best boy to offer him another job? Kinda a shame, you so innocent 'n'
all— nice li'l gennbelman like you— and ain't he a fancy-dressed
one, boys?"

"Real sharp," said Green Shirt, grinning.

"Pore fella," said Bushy Hair, poking a
bony finger into Mendoza's chest.

Mendoza had the depressing suspicion that this was
one of the occasions when he would wish he habitually carried a gun.
Entre la espada y la pared
,
he thought in exasperation, between the sword and the wall! — haul
out his I.D. card, fine— they didn't like cops any better than who
they thought he was, but more important, he had no intention of
letting it be known that a cop was asking around for Angie— whoever
Angie was. ("Pretty's best boy"— well, well. In that
case, Piggott and every one of the rest of Mendoza's men could go on
looking from now till Christmas: no Angie.

He smiled at Green Shirt and said, "Castro?
Afraid I don't know him, you must have me mixed up with someody
else." There was, of course, Hackett— and Rhodes— on the
way, and not very far to come, a matter of blocks.

"Oh, boy, he's a fancy talker too," said
Gray Slacks admiringly.

"He sure don't belong in this crummy
neighborhood," agreed Brown Slacks.

"But we don't want to send him back to his
boss," said Green Shirt,
"without a
little something to show what we think of him— do we, boys?"
He produced a short weighted sap from an inside pocket and tested it
thoughtfully on his palm.

“
Oh, we sure as hell wouldn't want to do that,"
said Bushy Hair, and by legerdemain there was a flat black thing in
his hand: a little click, and the switchblade shot out long and
wicked.

Mendoza was alarmed by the thought that he must be
getting old, to slip up on a thing like this. That phone call at the
Elite bar had been the hairy fellow at Anselmo's, of course— or
just possibly Amy. He'd been thinking too hard about Angie and Denny,
and all the rest of this thing— too damned single-minded, that was
always his trouble. He also remembered bitterly that he was wearing a
new suit. But these things happened. He dropped his cigarette, gave
Green Shirt a very nervous smile, and backed away; he said, "Now
listen, mister, I haven't done anything— "

They were pleased, as this kind always was, to find
the victim timid and fearful. They began to close in on him and he
backed another few steps, brought up against a counter, and with his
hands behind him felt around cautiously: cards of something, combs,
and— ah— a large bottle. "You got me all wrong," he
said.

"We got him all wrong, boys," said Brown
Slacks. "Ain't that a shame!" He reached out, clicking open
another blade, and took hold of Mendoza's tie. "I seem to
remember I forgot to sharpen this, and me, I'm fussy about that, I
don't like no dull knives— let's just see," and he sliced off
a clean strip of the tie halfway up.

Brown Slacks didn't know it, but the tie was a Paris
import and had cost twelve dollars two months ago. Mendoza was
considerably annoyed: so annoyed that he forgot all about using
delaying tactics until he should see Hackett's black sedan slide past
the window, or Hackett's shadow on the shade, trying the door.

He said gently to Brown Slacks, "Now that you
shouldn't have done, you bastard," and just on the chance,
before beginning operations, he fired the bottle in his hand
accurately at the big front window. It went through with a
satisfactorily loud crash, but by then he was too busy to notice.

Brown Slacks, closest to him, was taken sufficiently
by surprise to leave himself open, and Mendoza made a little room by
a solid right to his mouth, staggering him back into a glass case.
Bushy Hair came up in a hurry, knife straight out and low, but he
came at such a convenient angle— possibly he had a higher-class
background than Daggett Street  and didn't expect it— that he
walked smack into a nicely— timed kick in the groin, and went down
flat on his back and dropped the knife. Mendoza dived after it and
was helped on his way by Green Shirt falling on him from behind; he
twisted away from the sap, heard it thud on the floor, missed the
knife, rolled over and took the second blow of the sap glancingly on
the temple. He heaved off Green Shirt desperately, staggered up on
his feet again, and dodged as Gray Slacks swung at him. He had no
illusions about taking all four; all he wanted was to clear them out
of the way to the door. There was a saying very apropos—
Más
vale qué digan, Aqui corrió, y na, aqui murió
—
Better they say, he ran here, and not, he died here.

He took a nasty slash on the arm from Gray Slacks'
knife; Brown Slacks was picking himself up from the shattered case,
swearing, and Mendoza kicked him down again, simultaneously dodging
Green Shirt's vicious swing of the sap. Bushy Hair, groaning steadily
and clutching his stomach, sat up obligingly just in time to trip
Green Shirt, who fell into Mendoza's left hard enough to make him
think something was broken, and sprawled flat— but he was up again,
and coming back for more. Mendoza heard the door rattle and Hackett's
voice outside— the Marines had landed. He shouted, "In, Art!"
and saw Gray Slacks' knife slashing up for his stomach with a
practised wrist-motion. He lunged for the wrist and got the blade
hrst; it sliced deep across the ball of his thumb and palm, but a
second later he had the arm in both hands, brought his knee up for
leverage, leaned on it and heard the arm-bone snap.

As the man yelled, the door-panel smashed open and
Hackett came in like a big bull, head down. He took in the situation
as he came, and fell on top of Green Shirt, who was coming up behind
Mendoza, and put him out of commission with the butt of his gun.
Rhodes followed in time to collide with a blind swing from Brown
Slacks, just up again; he let out a bellow of surprise and knocked
Brown Slacks into the third glass case and unconsciousness.

Mendoza sat down on the end fountain-stool and
wrapped his handkerchief round his left hand. "Very nice timing,
Art," he said rather breathlessly.

Hackett put his gun away, looked at the havoc, and
asked, "Is that an artery?"

"No, but it might as well be, the damage it's—
I couldn't get to it right away.
¡Válgame
Dios!
look at this suit! Three hundred bucks
a month ago!"

"What the hell goes on here?" asked Rhodes,
bewildered. "What— sit? Lieutenant— " But training
held; he didn't wait for an answer, went back to the door to stand
off the crowd collecting, while Hackett found the phone and put in a
call for a patrol car and an ambulance. While they waited, he came
and added his handkerchief to Mendoza's. "One of these days, my
latter-day conquistador, you're goin' to do this just once too often—
tackle a gang armed with switchblades and knuckle-dusters without so
much as a cap pistol on you. And why I should do any worrying about
it, the good God above knows, because it's probably the only way I'll
ever get to be a lieutenant."

"
¡Quid, imbécil!
You don't think this was my idea, do you? You think I took on four at
once so everybody can say, That Mendoza,
¡qué
hombre!
— a lion-eater! All I wanted was
out, boy, but they were between me and the door, so it was
por
malas o por buenas
— no choice." He
struggled out of his jacket and cursed, feeling the slash in the
sleeve. Most of that sleeve and a good deal of the front panel was
generously bloodstained, and the other sleeve half out of the
shoulder seam. "Three hundred bucks," he said bitterly,
"and twelve for the tie!"

"My God in heaven," said Hackett, and went
to meet the precinct men arriving.
 

TWELVE

The druggist sidled out of the back room and gazed
mournfully at the wreckage, and Mendoza, who'd followed Hackett to
the door, said in an urgent undertone, "Arrest me, Art— take
me out all official-looking, nobody here must know who I am."

"Games, yet," said Hackett, grabbed him by
one arm, and shoved him out. Mendoza sat in the ambulance while the
interns bandaged him temporarily, refusing to go along to the General
for stitches in his hand immediately; he'd have it seen to sometime
today. He was publicly pushed into the back of Hackett's car.

"Tell the precinct sergeant somebody'll be down
to give him details on this. Don't be a fool, I'm not much damaged,
I'll see a doctor after lunch, and lunch I've earned." He looked
at Rhodes, peering at him from the front seat still wearing a faintly
astonished expression, and added, "And we've things to talk
over. Let's be on our way, Arturo. Though how the hell I can go into
a— oh, well, they know me at Federico's, and it's a hot day."

The head waiter, however, looked very surprised to
see him with no jacket, no necktie, collar unbuttoned; and still more
surprised when Mendoza demanded a drink before lunch. "I'm going
to wash, I'm filthy— don't sit down, Art, go and call Pat Callaghan
and brief him on this. Those four, I think, are more his business
than mine, and he'll want to see them. He's the one sent me down
there in the first place."

"That I want to hear about. I thought Callaghan
was a friend of yours."

"He didn't know I'm getting senile," said
Mendoza, "to walk into a thing like that— like a fool I had my
mind on something else. And probably nothing to show for it but the
wear and tear— And get me an aspirin somewhere, that sap connected
once and I've got a headache."

"What were you doing down there without a gun,
Lieutenant?" asked Rhodes. "I mean, I'd think— "

"Oh, his tailor won't let him pack a gun,"
explained Hackett. "It spoils that nice shoulder-line, you
know."

"That little joke I'm tired of.
¡Zape!
Go and call Pat!"

"I'm going, I'm going."

"You mean you never— why, that's asking for
trouble, Lieutenant," said Rhodes earnestly. "Why, anyway?"

"Oh, I don't like loud bangs, they make me
nervous," said Mendoza irritably, and vanished to seek soap and
water.

Hackett joined Rhodes at a table before Mendoza
reappeared. Rhodes, who was a big fair farmery-looking young man,
still wore a bewildered expression. "I never heard that one,"
he said to Hackett.

"About his not packing a gun. I mean, Landers—
"

"You know Landers'?"

"Yes, sure, and he— you know, talks about
Lieutenant Mendoza sometimes, but he never mentioned that. Why
doesn't he, anyway?"

"I'll tell you," said Hackett, and broke
off to demand coffee and offer Rhodes a cigarette, "he's got
this crazy idea, police exist to prevent violence and we ought to set
an example. He says sure, out on patrol, anywhere you're apt to be in
danger unarmed, 0.K., but anything you got handy you're going to use
when maybe it isn't strictly necessary. And a lot of perfectly good
honest cops are still a little too quick on the trigger, if they've
got it there six inches from their hand. He liked Wes Rich, thought
he was a smart boy, but he got him broke from sergeant last year
after Rich shot that Prince kid— remember the one killed his uncle
because the uncle used to get drunk and beat up his wife and the kid?
Prince tried to run on the way to the station, and Rich shot him.
Sure, he didn't aim to kill, but it isn't exactly like
target-shooting for a score, is it? Luis said he needed another
little spell as an errand boy to think it over."