Runaway Page 4

  “You promised, now,” she scolded, enjoying his anxiety. “Besides, you have a bad arm.”

  And then she kissed him soundly, with her body molded firmly to his, and she let his hands go wild this time, and the knock sounded on the door.

  She broke away from him, and he leaped to his feet.

  “Who …” he whispered.

  “Shut up. Get in the closet. Quick.”

  He went to the closet, feeling foolish as hell, feeling like the jackass in some low comedy of errors. The closet door closed on him, leaving him in darkness, leaving him with trailing silk dresses flapping around his face, high-heeled shoes crushed under his big feet. The smell of the cheap perfume was strong in the closet, and he could not stop feeling foolish. He heard the outside door open, and then the man’s voice.

  “What took you so long, Ada?”

  “Oh, hello, Tony. I was—taking a nap.”

  Why did she say that? Why didn’t she say, “I’ve got someone with me, Tony. Come back later, come back in the morning?” Why the song and dance?

  “Taking a nap, huh?” The voice was a big voice. It belonged to a big man. It belonged to a suspicious man. Johnny did not like that voice, and the voice was in the room now, moving in from the outside door.

  “What’s this?” the voice asked.

  “What’s what, Tony?”

  “This jacket. You wearing Army jackets now, Ada? That what you doing?”

  “Tony …”

  “Shut up! Just shut up! Where is he?”

  “Where’s who? Tony, I was just taking a nap. The jacket belongs to a fellow came fix the plumbing. He must have left it here. The plumbing leaked. He—”

  “Did the plumbing leak blood? Did it leak blood in that basin there? I’m going to break that sonovabitch’s head in two! Where is he?”

  “I told you, Tony. There’s no one.”

  “And I told you! I told you what would happen if I caught you up to your old tricks again. Where is he?”

  The footsteps were advancing across the room now, and it was a cinch Tony would look in the closet first. His voice was the voice of a man who couldn’t be talked to, and whereas Johnny couldn’t understand all this concern over a common whore, he didn’t stop to ponder it too deeply. He dropped to his knees quickly, rooting around on the closet floor for a shoe. He found a sturdy-feeling job with a spike heel, and he got to his feet again and waited, clutching the shoe tightly around its instep.

  “You got him in the closet?” the voice asked, close now. And then the door opened on Johnny, and the shaft of light spilled onto his face. He didn’t hesitate an instant. He brought the shoe up and then down in a fast motion, catching Tony on the bridge of his nose.

  Tony was big, all right, big and bearded, wearing a leather jacket and corduroy slacks. A from-nowhere joe, but he was big, and the bigness counted right now. The shoe caught him on his nose, and the line of blood appeared magically, and then he stumbled backward. Johnny swung out with his left hand, catching Tony in the gut. He hit him again with the shoe, and as Tony went down, he heard the girl screaming, screaming, her voice like a busted air-raid siren.

  “You bastard!” she shrieked. “You filthy bastard! He’s my brother! He’s my brother!”

  He ran down the steps and out into the street, a little sorry Tony had arrived when he had, and a little sorry he’d left an almost full fifth of good whisky in the room.

  The fifth had cost him close to four bucks. Well, he’d got a bandage for his arm out of it, if nothing else.

  It didn’t seem to matter, at the moment, that blood was already beginning to seep through that bandage.

  Five

  Detective Sergeant Leo Palazzo lived on 218th Street between Bronxwood and Paulding Avenues. He had always liked that Olinville section of the Bronx until recently, and he had only begun to dislike it when Negroes started drifting into the neighborhood. He was now considering a house out in Babylon, where $2,400 down would give him something he could call his own—provided he could get out of the city system and establish himself on the Island.

  He had been a cop for a long time, and he was, by certain standards, a good cop. He would not think of leaving the force, and unless the Suffolk County police had an open detective’s chair for him, he would stay right where he was. Palazzo worked in Harlem.

  He was holding in his hands now a telephone message that had been clocked in at 7:33. The message told him that a liquor store on Lenox and 129th had been held up by two masked men driving a Chevrolet sedan. The message had already been broadcast to the RMP cars in the vicinity, and Car 21 had been dispatched to the scene of the crime, awaiting Detectives Donnelly and O’Brien, who were on their way. Palazzo looked at the message briefly, not because it concerned him, but because he liked to know a little bit of everything that went on in the precinct. He had long since reached the conclusion that the Skipper was an incompetent old man who’d been tossed the precinct as a political plum. In Palazzo’s mind, there was one cop who rightfully deserved to command here, and that cop was Detective Sergeant Leo Palazzo. So he kept his thumb in every pie, watching, waiting, consoling himself with the thought that the Suffolk County police would know what to do with a man of his caliber.

  He threw the message on the desk and said, “That’s all they know how to do. Steal and screw.”

  Dave Trachetti looked up from his third cup of coffee since supper. In contrast to Palazzo, he was a thin man, with receding hair and a long, hawklike nose. Palazzo’s bigness sometimes annoyed Trachetti. No man had a right to be that big. It made anyone around him feel ill at ease.

  “You’re maladjusted, Leo,” Trachetti said.

  “Don’t I know it, friend,” Palazzo answered. “I should have been a personal bodyguard to some rich society broad.”

  “You should have been something, that’s for sure.”

  Palazzo grinned, allowing himself the luxury of a moment of humor. He turned all business then. “Who’s this punk you’ve got?”

  “His name is Brown,” Trachetti said. “We had him in here twice before on holding charges, second time with intent to sell. He used to run a small-potatoes shooting gallery, but we busted that up last May.”

  “Is he still pushing?”

  “I don’t think so, Leo. Leastwise, not according to the rumble. He’s on C, though. Had a bindle on him when we picked him up, and he’s about ready to claw down the walls now.”

  “Let him claw,” Palazzo said. “These goddamn junkies …”

  “Sure, but that’s not why I wanted you to talk to him, Leo.”

  “Why, then?”

  “He was heeled when we picked him up. A zip gun, Leo.”

  “Yeah?” Palazzo said, showing his first sign of interest.

  “He started a fight in one of the bars, and Klein hauled him in. He was hopped and didn’t know what the hell was going on until just a little while ago. He wants to see a lawyer.”

  “A lawyer,” Palazzo said disgustedly. “These punks all act as if they’re top men in the rackets. A lawyer!” He shook his head, and his face looked as if he were ready to spit. “Where is he?”

  “I got him in Interrogation. I mean, Leo, we should dump him if all it amounts to is a bar brawl. But I thought the zip gun might interest you. Seeing how you’re working on the Ortega kill.”

  “That’s all cut and dried,” Palazzo said. “But I’ll talk to this punk, anyway. You want to come along?”

  “Mary ought to be calling in soon,” Trachetti said.

  “Boy, she’s really got you wrapped, hasn’t she?” Palazzo paused. “Tell me, Dave, haven’t you ever been tempted by any of this high yellow stuff we get in here?”

  “Nope,” Trachetti said lightly.

  “I figured. You’ve got no blood, that’s all. Don’t you know it’s good for a change of luck, Dave?”

  “My luck’s been all right so far,” Trachetti answered.

  “Yeah.” Palazzo shrugged. “I’ll be in Interrogation if any
body wants me.” He left the squad room and walked down the corridor to Interrogation. He stopped to talk to the uniformed patrolman outside the door, and then walked into the room. Brown was sitting in a straight-backed chair near the desk. He did not look up.

  “Your name Brown?” Palazzo asked from the door.

  “Yeah,” Brown answered.

  Palazzo closed the door and walked over to the desk. “What’s your first name, punk?” he asked.

  “Charles,” Brown said. He was a small Negro with the sunken, hollow eyes of an addict. His hands twisted nervously in his lap now, and he could not control the tic at the corner of his thin mouth.

  “All right, Charlie, what’s it all about?”

  “Man gets in a little scrap, ain’t no reason to make it a federal case,” Brown said.

  “I understand you’re on C,” Palazzo said.

  “Who told you that? Man, the dreams you coppers can build!”

  “Look, Charlie, let’s cut the crap. We had you in here twice before, both times on narcotics offenses. We also cracked the private shooting gallery you were running on Park Avenue. So don’t give me any horse manure, Charlie. I’m not the guy to play games with.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Brown said. “Maybe I used to shoot up a little, but I don’t no more. Man, C is for the birds.”

  “You selling the stuff, Charlie?”

  “What stuff, man?”

  “Charlie,” Palazzo said tightly, “I don’t go for smart guys. The sooner we get that straight, the better off you’ll be. Answer my questions and answer them straight. Are you selling the stuff?”

  “What stuff?” Brown asked.

  Palazzo brought back his hand suddenly, and then lashed out at Brown with an open palm. He caught Brown just below the left eye, and Brown’s head twisted to one side, and then his eyes narrowed in hate. “I want a lawyer,” he said.

  “You’ll get one if you need one. Are you selling the stuff?”

  “No,” Brown said.

  “But you are a user.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Brown said.

  Palazzo slapped him again, harder this time. He leaned over Brown and said, “This can get as rough as you want it, pal. Are you a user?”

  “Yes.”

  “Cocaine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who supplies you?”

  “Different people. Hell, you know all the pushers. What’re you hoppin’ on me for?”

  “Why’d you start that fight in the bar?”

  “Some guy said something I didn’t like.”

  “What’d he say?”

  “I don’t remember. I was stoned.” Brown sucked in a deep breath of air. “Look, that bindle you guys lifted from me. I mean, how about it? You don’t want a man to get sick all over the floor, do you?”

  “You get sick, and you’ll wipe it up, Charlie.”

  “Look,” Brown said, “I been meanin’ to go to Lexington, no foolin’. I know guys who been there, and they shake the monkey one-two-six. You let me have that bindle, and I fly for Kentucky first thing. Whattaya say?”

  “I say you’re full of crap, Charlie.”

  “No, no, I’m tellin’ the truth, Lieutenant. I—”

  “Sergeant,” Palazzo corrected.

  “Yeah, well, I’m tellin’ the truth. I been plannin’ on goin’ down there all along. But let me have the bindle now, and then I’ll get a little pile of stuff to hold me till I get down there, that’s all. Come on, Lieutenant, we can forget that fight in the bar, can’t we?”

  “Maybe. But maybe we can’t forget the zip gun.”

  “What … what zip gun?” Brown asked.

  “The zip gun,” Palazzo said, smiling. “You know, Charlie, a zip gun. A hunk of pipe with a homemade firing pin and a wooden handle. Zip gun, Charlie. Ring a bell, Charlie?”

  “I never owned a gun in my life,” Brown said, shaking his head. “You must be mistaken, Lieutenant.”

  “Knock off that ‘Lieutenant’ crap,” Palazzo said angrily. “We took the zip gun from you when we booked you. You were so blind you didn’t know what the hell was going on. What were you doing with a zip gun, Brown?”

  “This is all news to me, sir,” Brown said. “I’m tellin’ you—”

  “And I’m telling you we can play this as rough as you like. Don’t try denying things we already know. The zip gun was in your pocket, Brown.”

  “All right, maybe I had a gun.”

  “What were you doing with it?”

  “Well, you know Harlem, man. A fellow needs some kind of protection, don’t he?”

  “Who supplied you, Charlie?”

  “Suppl—Oh, you mean the junk.” He seemed relieved to be getting away from the topic of the zip gun. “Lots of guys.”

  “Andy Barron?”

  “Who’s he?”

  “You know who he is. Did you ever take from him?”

  “Sometimes, I think. Man, you get it where you can.”

  “What about Ortega?”

  “Who?”

  “Luis Ortega.”

  “I don’t think I know him,” Brown said.

  “Everybody in Harlem knows him, Charlie. Luis the Spic. Luis Ortega. Do you recall his name now?”

  “Oh, yes,” Brown said, “I think I do Luis the Spic. Yes, I seen him around now and then.”

  “You ever take from him?”

  “Man, I didn’t even know he was pushin’.”

  Palazzo brought back his hand and threw it at Brown’s head, balled this time. Brown’s head snapped backward, and then he blinked his eyes.

  “Don’t lie to me, Charlie. Whatever you do, don’t lie to me. You know damn well Luis was pushing.”

  “All right, I knew it,” Brown said sullenly.

  “You ever take from him?”

  “Once or twice.”

  “Recently?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just didn’t. Is there a law says where a man has to get his fix?”

  “No, but there’s a law against killing people,” Palazzo said.

  “Well, that don’t apply to me. I ain’t killed nobody.”

  “The Ballistics boys tell me your gun was fired recently, Charlie,” Palazzo lied. “How about that?”

  “They must be mistaken, man,” Brown said.

  “They don’t make mistakes, Charlie. Never. If they say it was fired, it was fired. Who’d you shoot it at?”

  “Me? Man, I ain’t shot that thing since I picked it up.”

  “Then who did fire it?”

  “Search me.” Brown shook his head. “Beats me, sir.”

  “When’s the last time you saw Luis?”

  “The Spic, you mean? Hell, I don’t know. Must be months now.”

  “Where were you this afternoon at about three-thirty?”

  “Three-thirty? Well, now, lemmee see.”

  “Come on, Charlie.”

  “I think I was home. Sleepin’.”

  “Anybody home with you?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Anyone see you between three and five, Charlie?”

  “Well, now, I don’t think so.”

  “Your gun was fired at about three-fifteen,” Palazzo lied again. “That’s what Ballistics says. What do you say, Charlie?”

  “They must be mistaken,” Brown answered.

  “I told you they don’t make mistakes. Where’d you shoot that gun?”

  “I didn’t shoo—”

  Palazzo grabbed Brown’s collar with one hand, and he brought his other fist forward with full force, colliding with Brown’s mouth. A splash of blood stained Brown’s teeth, and he spat onto the floor and said, “You won’t get away with this, you know. I know my rights.”

  “Where’d you shoot that gun?” Palazzo asked, holding on to Brown’s collar.

  “I told you—”

  Palazzo hit him again. Brown slumped in the chair, and Palazzo yanked him erect
again.

  “Where’d you shoot the gun?”

  “I didn’t—”

  Again Palazzo hit him, and a dull glaze came into Brown’s eyes. He almost fell off the chair, but Palazzo held him tightly.

  “We can use a hose, Brown,” he said. “Where’d you shoot the gun?”

  “From my window,” Brown said suddenly.

  “At who?”

  “At a cat. A cat out there was makin’ a racket. I shot at him.”

  “You’re a liar, Brown.”

  “I shot at a cat,” Brown insisted.

  “A cat named Luis.”

  “I don’t know the cat’s name,” Brown said. “I just shot ’cause he was meowin’.”

  “What happened, Brown? Wouldn’t he fix you? Was that it?”

  “Wouldn’t who fix me?”

  “All right, you bastard,” Palazzo said. “All right, Charlie, we play it your way.” He stepped back from Brown and took off his jacket, and then he began rolling up his shirt sleeves. His barrel chest heaved as he worked, and the butt of his .38 bobbed in its shoulder holster. He walked over to Brown then and lifted him from the chair, holding his jacket front in both big hands.

  “Tell me you shot Luis, Charlie. Tell me all about it.”

  “I shot at a cat,” Brown insisted.

  Palazzo shoved him away suddenly, and Brown whirled back across the room and collided with the wall. He got to his feet, and Palazzo was on him instantly.

  “You shot Luis, didn’t you?”

  “No.”

  Palazzo brought his knee up into Brown’s groin, and Brown screamed in pain and terror.

  “You shot him,” Palazzo said.

  “No! No!”

  Palazzo drove his big fist into Brown’s gut, and when Brown bent over he gave him the flat edge of his hand on the back of his neck. Brown fell forward on his face, and Palazzo kicked him in the ribs.

  “This is just the beginning, black boy,” he said, and maybe it was those words that changed Brown’s mind. Palazzo reached down for him and propped him up against the wall, bringing back his fist again.

  “All right,” Brown said wearily.

  “You shot him?”

  “I shot him.”

  “Stenographer!” Palazzo yelled. He waited until he heard footsteps in the corridor outside, and then he said, “All right, Charlie, now you can tell us all about it.”