The Long Wait (18 page)

Then she hung up. It happened so fast I turned the receiver around and stared at it before I put it back. On second thought I took out another nickel, dropped it in and dialed the operator. When she answered I said brusquely, “This is Tucker, city police. I want a numbed traced. 5492. Want me to wait?”

“Just a minute please.” I waited, then: “That number is a pay station on the corner of Grand and the boulevard.”

“Okay, thanks.”

I didn't get it at all. I went back to the bar and had my beer. Logan was curious without asking questions so I told him that it wasn't for me and he seemed satisfied.

We had another beer and halfway through it the door to the men's room on the other side of the bar opened and a little guy with a funny walk came out. He kept his head down and edged in to where he left his drink and started working it over.

Logan wanted another round, but I shook my head. The little guy over the way was collecting his change and I did the same thing. Across my back the muscles were lumping up into hard knots and my fingers wouldn't hold still. Not ten feet off was the son of a bitch who tailed me last night, the same boy who had gotten away from me up at the quarry.

I made it look casual as possible because I didn't want Logan in on it. I gave the guy about thirty seconds, got outside in time to see him stepping into a car and hustled over to Logan's Chevvy. I managed to mumble something about never having driven a late model like his and he told me to go ahead and try it.

That was nice because I was able to tail the guy all the way back to town without getting wise. And for a change I even got a break. There was a red light showing when we came to the Circus Bar and the guy had to stop for it. I had a chance to say good night to Logan, hop out and make my own heap before the light changed and picked the guy up as he drove past.

He swung down the main drag with me right behind him and he never got wise to the tail job for a minute. When he slowed up and started to crowd the curb I knew he was looking for a parking place, so I pulled ahead of him, found an empty slot before he did, and backed into it. About a half a block down he got a place too, parked the car and walked back toward me.

I let him pass. I gave him a hundred feet of space between us then took up the tail again. This was even easier than driving. The drizzle was steady now, blowing in from the west, but neither that nor the flashes of lightning in the sky were doing anything to hamper business.

Place after place was a madhouse of noise that overflowed to the sidewalk. People were changing spots constantly hoping for a change of luck. Most of them had a slight edge on and were in a hurry to get back to the bars and the tables. I had to weave through them to keep up with the guy and finally stayed on the outside near the curb where there was a narrow open lane.

He turned into the gaudiest spot on the street. It had a canopy extending from the doorway to the curb with an admiral in full dress uniform helping the patrons from the cabs. It had a fancy French name with tiny gilt letters on the windows that proclaimed, “Edward Packman, owner.”

And Eddie Packman was the guy Vera West had seen at the station just before she ran. Or so Jack said anyway.

The bar was fifty feet long with the crowd four deep behind the rail. A dozen bartenders tried to keep up with the orders, moving with short, jerky motions like comedians in old-fashioned movies. The rest of the room was just one big gambling casino jammed to the rafters with more people than the fire laws allowed trying their luck on anything that came along.

They even had mouse games. The women screamed, the men cheered and the live mice ran into holes that paid off at six to one. But there were about two hundred holes in the board and only three mice to each game so the house could not lose at all.

My little guy was half the bar away finishing a beer. When he set the empty back on the bar he backed through the mob and walked down the back. A flight of stairs went up and disappeared into a dimly lit alcove. I watched him until he was out of sight and took it easy with my drink.

A half hour later he was back. This time he didn't stop for a drink. His face had a peculiar set to it; pleased, but still showing the signs of recent anger. He went past me, out the door and started back to his car.

I was right there again when he pulled away. He turned right at the corner, right again on a street that was without much traffic and kept going until he intersected the highway. You could see that there wasn't a car in sight going either way and I didn't expect him to make a stop just because the sign said to. He jammed on the brakes and I had to yank the wheel to cut around him and for the first time he saw my face. His mouth dropped and he let the clutch out so fast the car hopped ahead like a jackrabbit.

I gave the Ford all it would take and screamed out on the highway. His taillight was a tiny red eye going like hell, but the Ford was up to it and closed the distance down fast. We were both up past the eighty mark, taking the turns with the tires whining and I was getting edgy enough to curse myself for not having taken him sooner. On the straightaways I could pick up on him, but the Ford was too light to make the turns and he was holding his own.

Then there was a nice long straightaway and I pushed the gas pedal all the way to the floor and crouched there trying to keep the Ford on the road. I would have had him if I hadn't seen the lights of a truck sweeping around a curve about a mile ahead. I knew damn well I wouldn't make it and eased on the brakes, but the guy in front of me tried to take it wide open.

He went into the turn skidding, started to recover, lost control for a second then all he was was a blur tumbling end over end through the fields in a horrible screeching noise of tearing metal and breaking glass. I overshot him by a half mile, turned around and pulled off the road where he went into the weeds.

Fifty yards away I found the wreck upside down with one crazily bent wheel still spinning foolishly. He was half out of the car because that was all that was left of him. The top half.

It was still alive, too.

It kept saying, “Doctor ... doctor.”

I bent down and said, “Who sent you after me? Listen to me ... who sent you?” I lit a match and held it up so I could see his face, cupping my fingers over it to keep off the rain. “Tell me, feller. It's too late for a doctor. Who sent you after me?”

The eyes got some recognition in them briefly. He mumbled, “... Doctor ... need ... doctor,” then the rain put the match out anyway, but it didn't matter because the guy was dead.

Tough. Ha.

I flipped open his jacket and lifted out his gun. I took the shoulder harness off too and tossed it as far as I could. The gun I dropped in my pocket. Then I found his wallet. There was one thousand bucks in hundred-dollar bills tucked behind two fives and a one. The grand went in with the gun and I put the rest back in his wallet and stuck it in his coat.

Now the cops and the papers could blame the accident on a guy who had too much of what was for sale in Lyncastle.

Now I could go back and ask Eddie Packman what the guy did to earn a grand and maybe squeeze him a little to make him talk.

So I went back to the joint with the fancy French name and made some discreet inquires concerning Mr. Packman's whereabouts. Only that man wasn't around. He had left twenty minutes before with a party and was someplace in town having himself a time. Nobody knew where.

I said to hell with it and had a drink. The lousy beer sat there in my stomach and growled at me because I had too much to drink and not enough to eat. That, at least, I could take care of. I got back in the car, drove out past the bus station to the highway and kept on going until I came to Louis Dinero's place. The gun made a bulge in my pocket so I slid it behind the cushions and went in.

Wendy was just coming on with her number and the patrons were letting out a long “Ahaaa” of satisfaction. I let out one myself and watched her step up to the mike. There was a baby spot behind her that shone right through the white dress she had on and the only thing you couldn't see was what was on the other side. She was real pretty to look at, especially with all that skin showing. I slid into a table, told a waiter to bring me a steak, rare, then had a butt while Wendy made with some gentle spasms here and there until the dress seemed to crawl right off her.

I looked around at all those jerks, watching the frozen expression of their faces, the too-plain lust in their eyes and all of a sudden I got mad—at Wendy. I didn't like for a babe to show off to a pack of stiffs what she showed me in private.

Then I felt like one of the jerks myself and dropped it. She was just another sugar cutie, a little better than most, but her hair came out of a bottle and up close her eyes were hard around the edges. So she liked to play games and who the hell was I to complain about it? The waiter brought my steak, I ate my way through it, paid my bill then caught Louie's eye and he waved me over.

The guy had a memory like an elephant and gave me a regular glad hand. When I asked him if it'd be okay for me to see Wendy backstage he told me sure and showed me where the entrance was to the dressing rooms. So I went back, found the door with W. M. lettered on it, turned the knob and shoved the door open.

I should have knocked first.

SHE WAS just slipping out of the dress, a tan velvet animated thing partially hidden by the swirl of the translucent fabric. The lights from the dressing table behind her brought out the strong surge of youth in her body, the firm, sweeping curves of her breasts underlined by a stomach so flat it looked almost sucked-in and held in place with a play of muscles that danced as she moved.

This is the way her act should have ended. I thought. It would have been pure art. She almost had the thing off when the band outside hit a chord and she knew the door was open. The second she saw me she looked like a frightened fawn ready to bolt, then she had the dress up in front of her and backed away from me with her eyes wide.

I grinned because she was worried about the inevitable and it had stayed hidden. I said, “You
do
remember me, don't you?”

She licked her lips and a frown worked its way into her eyes. “Okay, kid, don't drop dead from fright on me, will you? I've seen you like that before only it was better in the moonlight.”

“You... startled me, Johnny. You should've knocked.”

“It occurred to me too late.”

“Well, if you don't mind, play the gentleman for a second and turn your back. Moonlight and unshaded bulbs are two different things.”

She threw me one of those funny smiles and I turned around. Women can sure get some screwy ideas. I said, “Got any plans for tonight?”

I guess she took me wrong. The way she said no was as if I'd just slapped her across the jaw.

“Not those kind of plans, Wendy. I meant were you figuring on doing anything tonight.”

“Just go home to bed. I'm pretty tired.”

“Like to take in the town some?”

She didn't say anything. I turned around and she was bent over peering into the mirror with a lipstick in her hand. The harsh light of the naked bulbs made her hair look like it had been painted on, but not deep enough. It was showing dark down around the scalp. I said, “Well?”

“Not ... tonight, Johnny. I'm too tired.”

“It's pretty important.”

The lipstick poised an inch away from her mouth. “Go on.”

“The last of the unholy trio who tried to dump me in the quarry is out on the main highway in two pieces.”

Her face made a grimace of horror before she spoke. “Did you ...”

“I would've if I could'a caught him. He wrapped his car up.”

“But what's that got to do with tonight?”

I looked at her and grinned a little bit, then slid into a wicker chair and lit a butt. “He had a thousand bucks in his pocket. All nice, new bills. It was pay-off dough.” I blew a finger of smoke into the lights and watched it roll up toward the ceiling. “He got that dough from a guy named Eddie Packman. I want to find that boy. Tonight.”

“And you want me to go with you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“No.” She turned back to the mirror and drew the lipstick across her mouth slowly. Our eyes met in the mirror and held. “Johnny ... look, I know how you feel and all ... but I like to live. You're trouble, bad trouble. You haven't been here any time at all and already three people are dead.”

“It's only the beginning, kid.”

“I ... know.” She dropped her head, then turned away from me quickly. “Do you ... mind too much?”

I shrugged carelessly. “Not that much, sugar. A guy can do more when he's not solo, that's why I want company. Hell, half those fancy clip joints won't even let you on the floor when you haven't got a babe under your arm.”

She slipped the lipstick back in its case and stared at it. Her head came up in a slow arc and she let her eyes roam over my face. “Sometimes ...” she began.

“Yeah?”

“Maybe it would have been better if you had stayed away, Johnny.”

“Better for who, sugar? Better for a slob of a killer who's out enjoying himself?”

“I didn't mean that.”

Maybe it was the light that made her eyes look so misty. I couldn't be sure so I stepped up to her for a better look and it wasn't the light at all. They were misty and getting wetter until they swam in their own sadness. She smiled a little crookedly and reached for my hand.

“I'm a sad sack, aren't I?” she said. “I haven't got any shame ... any sense. I'm sorry I'm silly, Johnny.”

“You aren't silly.”