Peter Reed

Redheads Won’t Wait

I stomped into the office, brushing the early snow off my shoulders. Meg glanced up at me and then looked back at the work in her typewriter. I paused and looked at the part in her black hair. I usually get a grin, and sometimes a kick in the shins. I knew that there was something wrong.

“The boss in?” I asked her.

“Uh huh,” she answered — a quiet answer. She didn’t look at me. I began to wonder if George had sacked me again. I took a quick mental trip through the last few cases I’d handled. Outside of getting too tough with a certain Mrs. Foster, the record was clean as a lumberjack’s pockets on Sunday morning.

I pushed the door open. George had his chair turned. He was looking out his big window. He glanced at me and then continued his window gazing, tapping a pencil against his front teeth, changing the shape of his mouth so that he changed the pitch of the little tock, tock sounds. I noticed that chin number two was growing nicely, and the fuzzy blond hairline was back another half millimeter.

“Look, George! What’s this freeze play? What’s the matter with you and Meg?”

He let me stew for several long seconds, and then said softly, “I’ve had you working for me for four years now, Rich. I know you pretty well. You’re smart and quick and tough. But you’re hotheaded. You’ll never be a top flight private eye until you learn that you got to be cold all the time.”

“This the introduction to a mouth’s pay in lieu of notice?”

He spun around and glanced at me. I couldn’t read his eyes. “Sit down,” he murmured.

I shucked off my coat, parked in the visitors’ chair and lit a cigarette. I couldn’t figure it.

“Early this morning, at five o’clock in fact, there was trouble at the Mill House on Route 81, five miles from the city limits.”

“I know the place. Clip joint. Gambling in a building out in back. Run by Red Wandowski. Calls himself Red Warren.”

“That’s the one.”

Suddenly I realized what might be the matter with the two of them. “Hey! Nobody killed Harris?”

“No,” he replied. I sighed in relief. The stuff we get seldom call for more than one operative. When a job needs two. I like to work with Harris.

“But somebody did get it. A fellow lost all his cash. It included some company money. About two thousand five hundred of company money. Then he drank himself to sleep. He woke up about four-thirty this morning, vaguely remembered that he’d lost his money, and decided to get it back. His date was still with him. She had stuck by him when she couldn’t wake him up. He slept it off in his car. She couldn’t drive, or she would have taken him home. She tried to get him to go home, but he insisted on seeing Warren. The lights were still on in the gambling shed. He walked off through the night toward it.”

I yawned, a fake one, and said, “Come on, George. Get to the meat.”

“This is the girl’s story I’m telling. A few minutes later a man stepped up to the door of the car, startling the girl. He told her that her friend was in trouble up in the gambling shed. She walked up there. All the other customers had left. Men were spreading sheets over the dice tables and the roulette layout. They looked at her in surprise and said they didn’t know about any trouble. When she got back out the car was gone. She was worried. She knew her friend wouldn’t have left her.”

“Sounds like a rub-out from here.”

“She walked down the road. She was afraid to ask for a ride. Several cars passed her. About a mile from the Mill House she saw cars parked ahead, their lights on. She found her friend’s car wrapped around a big elm. He was dead. She’s hired the agency to find out what really happened.”

I picked it up from there, grinning as I said, “And Wandowski and his boys claim there was no trouble. A customer gets tight. There was ice on the road. He fights with his gal and piles up on the way home. But why the long faces?”

“We’re afraid of you.”

“Me!” I exploded.

“Yes, you, Kirk. We are afraid of what you’ll do. I’m not giving you the case. The man killed was your kid brother, Bob Kirk.”

Everything in the world seemed to stop. I hauled out another cigarette, lit it and walked over to the window. A dead fly lay on his back on the dusty window sill. Snowflakes hit the pane and melted. Little drops of water faltered, and rushed in crooked paths down the glass. I had to look at little things. I had to think of little things.

Bob with his wry grin and round, happy face. The businessman of the family. Good job as sales manager for a wholesale jewelry outfit. Dependable and funny as hell. Always laughing. Engaged to Sharon.

“The girl was Sharon Wester?” I asked. My voice sounded hoarse.

“That’s right.”

“Good girl.”

“Seems to be. Nice looking, too.”

“Yeah.”

I stood at the window and thought about Wandowski, his cheap layout, his crooked games and the slimy muscle-men he kept around him. I felt my neck swell and my nails bite into the hard palms of my hands. I caught a small piece of the skin inside my lower lip between my teeth. I shut my teeth on it and tasted the flat saltiness of blood. Then all the wild fury in my heart seemed to chill — and settle into a cold hard block — deep in my guts.

I turned to George and said quietly, “You better let me handle it.”

“I can’t trust you, Kirk. She doesn’t want Warren killed. She wants to know what happened. She’s a client. Clients get what they pay for — we hope.”

I bent over him and thumped my fist gently on the desk with each word, “I’ve blown my top. I know that. This time I won’t. I won’t.”

He sighed, shrugged, and said, “And if I say no, you’ll do it on your own. Go ahead.”

His hand was hard and warm in mine. I spun and headed out. Kirk, the hard boy, was going home. Home to weep like a lovelorn girl. Tears for the long-lost afternoons of summer, for the Saturdays when school was out. The tears were to be for what I had lost as well as Bob. But when I shut the apartment door behind me, they weren’t there... Maybe they would be — afterward.

Bob had been taken at Sharon’s instructions, to an undertaker on West Center. I identified myself, and the little man tried to tell me to come back later.

I grabbed the front of his coat and shook him gently, saying, “Maybe you didn’t hear me. I said I’m Richard Kirk and I want to see my brother’s body; now, not later!”

He pulled away and adjusted his coat. He glared like an offended fox terrier. I followed him through the place. They had Bob on a white porcelain table. I ordered the terrier and his dolt of an assistant out of the workroom. A little shove helped them along.

I had to force myself to forget who it was. I set my teeth and went over him. Skull crushed over the eyebrows. I measured what I could feel of the fracture. Roughly four inches long — an inch wide over the left eye and narrower over the right eye. Numerous cuts. I railed them back in and wrote out a description of the fracture. They signed it after I made clear that I was anxious to have their signatures. I tucked it away in my pocket and said, “And if I ever hear that you’ve opened your fat mouths about this, you better move your business to North Dakota. You won’t be happy here.”

Sharon’s apartment was in one of those big old houses which dewy-eyed decorators like to turn into apartments. I figured she wouldn’t be working. I had to wait nearly a full minute after leaning on her buzzer before the latch clicked. I had been to a party in her gay little place. I remembered its location on the second floor rear.

I knocked on her door and heard her call, “Who is it?”

“Rich, Sharon.”

The door opened and I walked in. The shades were drawn. The apartment smelled of tears and ammonia. She wore a faded blue corduroy robe. I could see her unmade bed through the open door to her room. She had a towel wrapped around her vivid auburn hair. Her eyes were puffy in her small white face. Her strangely heavy lips were pale.

She sat down and I gave her a cigarette and lit it. She inhaled with a small sob mixed in it somewhere. We looked into each other’s eyes, knowing how thoroughly we would forever be bound to each other by our memories of Bob.

“It’s stupid to tell you I’m sorry, Sharon.”

“I know. It’s all so... so...”

“Unnecessary is the word. But I can’t take time out for emotional analysis. I’m working on it.”

She looked surprised. “They let you?”

“Not a case of letting me, baby. I’m in it, no matter what. They’re just making it official.”

“Don’t be careless, Rich. Don’t get into trouble.”

“Then you think there’s more to it than the papers, the cops, and Warren say?”

“I know it. Bob would never have left me there.” She went through the same story George had given me. She had roused him out of bed to tell him, as soon as she found out the police would only give her polite smiles and pat her shoulder.

When she was through I started looking for the little things. “Why did you go there in the first place?”

“I don’t know. Bob wanted to go. We both thought it was an awful place. But he wouldn’t tell me why he wanted to go. He just acted mysterious.”

“What did you do when you got there?”

“We had had dinner. We sat in the restaurant bar and talked. We had a drink together and then he ordered me one. He got up and said, ‘Nurse your drink, honey. I got to go try my luck.’ He didn’t give me a chance to ask questions.”

“How long was he gone?”

“Maybe forty minutes. He came back with a man holding his arm. Bob could hardly walk. The man was a short, fat fellow wearing about three diamond rings. He said, ‘I’m afraid your boy friend’s had one over the limit. Want me to get him out to the car for you?’ Bob didn’t speak. He just swayed. I nodded and paid the check and helped him with Bob. People laughed at us.” She lowered her head and bit her lower lip.

“How did he act in the car?”

“He mumbled and tried to get his billfold out of his inside coat-pocket I helped him. He pawed at it and said, ‘Empty! All gone. Company money. Two five ought ought...’ Then his head fell over against my shoulder. I didn’t know what to do. I just sat and waited for hours. I kept trying to wake him up.”

“What did he say before he went back in?”

“Nothing. He looked at his billfold again and he took some kind of a gun out of the glove compartment. I tried to stop him. All he said was, ‘I’ll get that back in a hurry.’ ”

“What did the man look like who told you that Bob needed you?”

“I couldn’t see him. He stood in the shadows about six feet from the car.”

“Big or little?”

“I don’t know.”

“Voice?”

“Just a voice. A man’s voice.”

I waited a moment before I asked her the next one. It was a tough one to ask, “You saw the car... afterwards?”

“Yes,” she said softly.

“Describe it.”

“The front end all mashed in. Motor pushed back. Standing upright.”

“And Bob?”

“Laying over in the seat His face... and all those people around... and the sirens coming... It was cold...” And she dropped her face into her hands.

I walked over to her and put my hand on her shoulder. I could feel the rhythmic shudder of her quiet sobbing. I could feel the warmth of her through the robe. I bent and took her elbows in my hands and lifted her to her feet. I held her against me and stood for a long time while her crying grew more violent and then began to die away. When the great convulsive sobs were long seconds apart, I lifted her chin and looked down into her eyes. She was so small and so defeated. I kissed her gently, tasting the salt tears on her soft lips. As the kiss was prolonged, I felt her arms go around my neck.

Then suddenly I came out of it I walked over to the window. Bob’s girl. I wondered what had happened to us. I fumbled for a cigarette and sucked smoke deep into my lungs.

I turned and she had flung herself on the sofa. I sat on the edge. She wasn’t sobbing, wasn’t moving. Then she said, flatly in a dull tone, “How cheap! What a horrible thing to do. I don’t know what we...”

“Look, Sharon.” I interrupted. “It’s a common psychological symptom. We’ve both had a shock. Our defenses were gone. It’s a way we could escape from ourselves for a while. Don’t analyze it emotionally. Thousands of people react that way after shock.”

It was silent in the room. Then she stirred and sat up. She said, “I’m ashamed. Rich. No matter what you say, it was cheap.” But she accompanied it with a small, wan smile. Probably the first smile since it had happened.

I held her hand tightly at the door and indulged in some pure corn. I said, “Sharon, believe me. Somebody killed Bob, and I’m going to get him.” I hurried out, knowing somehow that back in the room of soft colors there were fresh tears on the small, white face.

I ran the gamut of secretaries and got into Tilburg’s office. He held my card delicately and looked at me as though I were some new species of cholera germ. I react favorably to disfavor. I’m used to it. He was a swarthy thin-faced man who looked as though he were trying to raise a pair of John L. Lewis eyebrows. He wasn’t doing so well. Most of the black hair was growing in tufts out of his ears.

“I’m working on the death of Robert Kirk, employed by you.”

“A great shock. A very great shock. I might say that it shocked us all.”

“How much company money did he have with him?”

“Didn’t you read that in the papers?”

“I never read newspapers.”

“The papers said he had twenty-five hundred.”

“I asked you.”

“So you did. So you did.”

“Well?”

“I’m afraid that any statement I may have will he retained for the police.”

“Suppose they’re not interested?”

“Then your interest is relatively unimportant, isn’t it?”

I took my .38 automatic out of my shoulder holster. His hand whipped toward a row of buttons, but I looked at him a little intently, and it fluttered back into his lap. I pushed the clip ejector and the full clip clattered onto his desk. I picked it tip and thumbed the shells out. I reached over and took a bright metal letter-opener off a pile of correspondence. I carefully made a deep X notch in the nose of each slug, whistling gently through my teeth. I didn’t look up at him.

I shoved the shells back into the clip and snapped the clip into the gun. I grabbed the slide and jacked a shell into the chamber.

Then I asked him, “Know what a notched slug does, Tilburg?”

He stared at the gun, a mist of sweat on his upper lip.

“It makes a hole in your gut the size of a dime, but when it comes out the back, you got a hole the size of your fist. It kind of spreads. Now, you probably thought that my name being Kirk was sort of a coincidence. It isn’t. Bob was my brother.”

“I’m... I’m so sorry,” he stammered, and I slid the thirty-eight back into my shoulder holster.

I purposely made my eyes too wide, and I made my mouth twitch as I said, “Nobody in God’s world is going to hold out on me, Tilburg. Everybody is going to talk to me like crazy. And they’re going to talk straight. Is that clear?”

He nodded jerkily, so I said, “Now suppose you tell me how much money Bob had on him.”

Tilburg leaned forward and spoke almost in a whisper. “I couldn’t tell you before. We are incorporating. We want to expand. We have to sell stock in the open market. We found out from a Mr. Red Warren two days ago that one of our clerks who has access to funds has gone into debt to Warren for twenty thousand. Somehow Warren found out that we couldn’t stand the publicity. Suppose the papers carried an account of a large sum of cash being embezzled from us?”

“Your stock wouldn’t sell so good.”

“That’s quite right, Mr. Kirk. The accountants figured out that this clerk has taken about eighteen thousand. That’s not enough to hurt us — not enough to lower the market value of the stock — but the publicity would hurt.”

“So you wanted to buy Warren off?”

“Don’t put it that way. We wanted to pay our man’s losses, and protect our situation until after the stock sale.”

“Is that honest?”

“Our lawyers claim it is. We have the right to prosecute or not as we see fit. I sent your brother out on a night we were certain the clerk would be there. That was last night. He carried twenty-five thousand. He was to pay Warren off and bring back the I.O.U. Total expense to the company around forty thousand.”

“You sent an amateur like Bob into that den of wolves with twenty-five thousand cash?”

“Why... uh... yes. What else could we do?”

I sighed. I always wonder how some of our business men ever managed to cleave their way through that rugged eighth grade. Probably influence. “Where’s the happy clerk?”

“He didn’t come in this morning.”

“So you’re out forty G’s plus a clerk, plus a good employee. But you got Warren off your tail”

“Have we?” he asked so eagerly that I wanted to cuff him.

“Certainly. Warren won’t put the bee on you now. It might backfire right in his face. It might cost him heavy money to keep the police from adding two and two if you told why Bob was sent out there.”

“What’s the clerk’s name?”

“Morris Nolan. He lives on Western Avenue. A rooming house. Number eight sixteen.”

I got up and almost thanked him automatically. Then I remembered that it was his planning that fixed Bob. I walked around the desk. He spun as far away from me as his swivel chair would permit. I spat heartily into his wastebasket and walked out. At the door I turned and said, “We better keep all this to ourselves, Tilburg.” He nodded agreement and I left.

The eight hundred block of Western is where one of the truck routes converges into the tourist and local traffic. It is wide, busy and dirty. The front hall of eight sixteen smelled like elderly cabbage and defective plumbing. A beetle-shaped landlady told me that Nolan was in his room. First door to the left of the stairs on number three.

I pounded on the door, looking at my watch. Eleven o’clock. I heard springs creak and then the door opened a crack. I opened it the rest of the way — firmly. I stepped in just as the seat of Nolan’s pants hit the floor.

He stared up at me, a dusty-looking blond with sideburns a half inch too long, and said, “That’s a hell of a way to come into a room.”

The room stank of cheap liquor. He fumbled to his feet and wavered over to the bed. His bottle was on the bedside table. I picked it up, sniffed of it and took a healthy swig. It burnt my throat. Nolan’s eyes were shut. I sat him up on the edge of the bed. I held his shirt with my left hand and slapped his face with my right. At the fourth slap he wiggled and said, “Hey! Cut it out,” feebly.

I found a battered sink and a glass. I tossed two glasses of water in his face. He sputtered and waved his arms. I stood him up and slapped him onto the bed, yanked him up and did it again. The third time he stayed on his feet and took a wild looping swing at me. I caught his fist and forced him into a straight chair. He began to look almost intelligent.

“You were at the Mill House last night?”

“Who are you?”

I reached over and slapped him out of the chair. When he stood up I shoved him into the chair and asked again, “Were you at the Mill House last night?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see Bob Kirk?”

He shook his head hard, to clear it, and looked at me with exaggerated cunning.

“Yeah. He was there.”

“What did he say to you?”

“Nothing.”

“What did he do?”

“He brought out a big wad of dough and lost it on the crap table. Then he went out.”

“Get your hat and coat on.”

“Why?”

“We’re going out to the Mill House.”

“The hell you say! Who are you?”

He put up a bitter battle. He bit me on the leg once before I could convince him to trot along with me like a little man. His face was all swollen on the left side where I had whacked him.

The noon traffic was heavy. I stood holding him by the arm, waiting for a cruising cab. Suddenly he yanked himself loose and headed out into the street. The truck got him before he went twenty feet. I heard a woman scream behind me. The truck stopped and traffic piled up.

I ran out. Nolan was in good shape except that the rear duals had gone over his head. It was about a quarter-inch thick, a foot wide and two or three feet long. It was grey and red. A pert matron ran up, took one look and was suddenly and spectacularly ill. I pushed my way out of the crowd and went back up to his room. Ten minutes convinced me that there was nothing there for me. I left in a hurry. The ambulance was clanging away in the distance. Traffic had started again. Two cops were talking to people on the sidewalk. A bunch of kids were lined up on the curb staring bug-eyed at the stain on the asphalt...

There is a citizen in town called Second-shot Peroni. His visible means of support is a meat market. Somehow he has kept it stocked with triple-A beef and butter in spite of the talk about shortages. Consequently he has made a good piece of change. His expenses are nil because he lives over his own market. But he hasn’t got a dime. He is the inventor of a roulette system which he believes in with all the fervor that an Indian medicine man believes in bat wings. He claims his system is perfect and will win for him. But he can’t think fast enough to place his bets between spins of the wheel. His favorite scream of rage is, “I woulda been on that number if you give me another second!” This has been going on for years. Hence, Second-shot Peroni. I had to take a chance on his being out at the Mill House the night before. I went to see him.

He’s a big man with a thick mat of black curly hair, and enough hair on his heavy arms to make him a fire hazard.

The market was empty. He saw me and boomed. “Hallo, Rich! How’s it goin’?”

“Not so good, Peroni. Not so good. I’m handling a bad one. How did you do last night?”

His face sagged and he said, “I did tine out at the Mill House, but I run out of money. Didn’t have enough with me to give the system a chance to work.”

“That’s tough. Did you hang around after you ran out?”

“For a while. Watch those dopes that don’t use no system.”

“Remember a smallish guy, name of Nolan? Blond. Wears his hair too long?”

He fingered his thick chin and said, “Yeah. I think so. He plays the table. Big loser. No system.”

“You knew Bob, didn’t you? My brother.”

“Sure. Sorry about that, Rich. Slippery road. I seen him out there before it happened.”

I was excited but I didn’t want to show it. Peroni is the type of person who tries to tell you what you want to hear. It’s a common enough trait. He wouldn’t mean any harm by it, but he would let imagination take over from fact and I wouldn’t know where I stood. It was more luck than I had any right to expert.

“The cops say he was tight and gambled all his bucks away.”

“I didn’t see him do any gambling but I wasn’t look at him all the time.”

“But he was tight.”

“He was okay when I saw him come in. Then he stood by that little bar in the corner with Red and this fellow Nolan. I see them drinking and talking, real close together.”

“Then what?”

“Next time I look one of the crap-table operators is helping him leave the room. He can’t hardly walk. Must have been drunker than I figured.”

“What did Nolan do?”

“He stayed at the little bar. He was there when I left.”

“You leave early?”

“Maybe two o’clock.”

“Any others left besides Nolan?”

“Couple others. All the help yawning in their faces. Everybody tired. Slow evening.”

I thanked him and left. The cold lump in my gut that had settled there when George had told me the story, felt colder and heavier than ever. I began to figure the details from the rough outline. It was a dirty business.

The head of the service department act Townsend’s garage was a white-headed banty rooster of a man, with grey eyes like chilled rivets. My card impressed him not at all.

“The police looked at that car, fella. Don’t know as it’s any of your business.”

“Does it make it my business if I tell you that that car belongs to me, Pop?”

“Don’t call me Pop. Your car, you say?”

“Yeah. The driver was my brother. I’m his heir.”

“You kidding me, fella?”

“When I waste my time kidding a beat-up old citizen like you, I’m unemployed! Now where the hell is the car?”

He looked for a minute as though he would make something of it. A burly mechanic drifted up behind me and I stepped to the side. But the old guy turned and said, “Come on, then.”

The car, a forty-six Buick, was a mess. I could tell at a glance that it would never roll on a highway again. Maybe a few of the parts would but that was all.

There were dark stains on the dash. I looked in where the door had been. I looked carefully at the rounded front of the dash, at the top of the wheel and at the door handles. I slipped the old guy a buck for no good reason. I felt better about what to do next and how to handle it.

I checked my watch. Two-thirty. I grabbed coffee and doughnuts and then found a taxi willing to haul me out to the Mill House. I had him wait a minute while I phoned Wandowski in a drug-store booth. I started to leave the booth, then turned back and phoned George. It took me ten minutes to make it clear to him what he had to do. He agreed but tried to tell me I was nuts. I slammed the receiver on the hook while he was still talking.

When I came out the taxi driver said, “That was a long minute, Bud.”

“It’s a long day,” I answered. He let that pass and in a few minutes we were humming out the route toward the Mill House. I was staking it all on a long shot, but I figured that my assumptions were safe. And they made me ill when I thought of them.

The Mill House looked shabby by daylight, a squarish stone building with a battered water-wheel turning slowly under a muddy waterfall. The bright neon wasn’t turned on. There were two cars in the lot, one a garish convertible which I guessed belonged to Red, and one heavy old Packard sedan. As the taxi turned into the lot, I could see around the corner of the building the long, low gambling shed in the back.

I told the driver to wait. Told him that if I didn’t come out in twenty minutes to highball back to town and bring a platoon of cops. He turned startled eyes toward me and said, “Hey! Maybe I hadn’t better wait.”

I counted out two fives and handed them to him. “Five for waiting and five for worrying. Head it toward the road, keep your motor running and don’t let anybody get too close to the cab.”

I walked up to the front door and shoved it open. Two of Red’s employees stood there. They had apparently been unstacking the tables. The small dark one walked up to me and held his hand out, palm up. “Let’s have the arsenal, Kirk.”

I bowed and laid it on his palm. “You people go to too many movies, chum. Who are you today — Alan Ladd?”

He smirked and slid my gun into his side pocket. His partner, a beefy citizen with a brush cut, stepped up and patted me lightly in the proper places.

Just then a door behind the bar swung open and Red Wandowski walked out. He had an open grin on his good-looking face. With his snub nose, Hollywood tan and crisp blond hair, he looked like the polo expert without his horse.

He increased his stride and walked over to me, hand outstretched, a look of sympathetic concern on his face. “I thought you’d be around, Rich. I’m damn sorry about your brother.”

I took his hand and hoped mine wouldn’t feel too cold. I wanted him on my side, at least for the moment. “Thanks, Red. It was a bad deal. Rob was a good kid. I’ve got to ask some questions.” I looked around uncertainly at the dull faces of his two boys.

“Sure thing, boy. Come on up to the office.”

“How about my gun. Your boys took it.”

He grinned and said, “You’ll get it back when you leave. House rule. Sorry I can’t make you an exception.”

I shrugged and followed him back through the door behind the bar and up a flight of narrow stairs. He turned to the right and we walked into a sunny spacious office, furnished in maple, with the upholstery and drapes in soft pastels. The windows overlooked long rolling fields with heavy woods in the far background. His desk was a high colonial job set against the wall. The hunting prints on the walls looked authentic.

I sat on a comfortable couch. He flipped a cigarette case open and offered me one. We lit up and he sank with a sigh into an arm chair near the windows.

“I don’t want to bother you for long, Red, but...”

“Take your time, boy. I won’t be busy until about five. Only three-thirty now.”

“Okay, thanks. You see, the thing that bothers us about this is that it was out of character for Bob. He never loaded up on liquor and he seldom gambled. It doesn’t make sense somehow. How did lie act?”

Warren examined the end of his cigarette and said, “Hard to tell about people. He acted nervous and upset. I have to look for those things. We can’t stand trouble out here. You know that. He came back and had a couple of quick ones at the bar. Then he slid up beside the guy handling the crap table near the bar. He bet quietly and pretty heavy, with his hands shaking. When he was down about fifteen hundred he went back and had a couple of double scotches. He shot another thousand on one pass, lost, had some more drinks and acted like he was going to pass out. I had one of the boys get him out to the car.”

“Did he come back in after a couple of hours?”

“No. I figure he left the car, then sneaked back and got the babe out of the car somehow, then drove off. He wasn’t in shape to drive.”

“Sounds like the kid had been in some kind of trouble.”

“Sure, short in his accounts or something. Too bad.”

A half-grown cat strolled through the open door and jumped up into Warren’s lap. It settled down, purring, as he rubbed it gently behind the ears. The phone rang and he reached behind his chair and took the receiver. I tried not to look tense. I listened to his casual, “Warren speaking,” and then saw him sit bolt upright. The cat stood up and he punched it off his lap with a big fist. It yowled and streaked out the door.

I listened as he said, “Yeah... I understand... but why call me, you fool?... No... I’ll hang it on you, sure as hell... Who did?... Kirk... That’s dandy.”

He slapped the phone back and yanked a small automatic out of a belly holster. He held it on me and his eyes were small and dangerous.

“Nice work, Kirk. You know who that was?”

“No.”

“You made a mistake. That was Nolan. They let him call me from the station. They’ve been working on him.”

I had a peculiar mental picture of how much talking Nolan could do in his present condition. I imagined his articulation would be a little indistinct. Apparently my pal George had done a job good enough to land him in summer stock.

“What’s that to you, Red?”

“He’s got no guts. You found out about him somehow. He’ll spill. But take a look at this.”

He kept the gun on me and fumbled in his desk. He pulled out a sheet of paper and held it where I could read it.

It was a confession. My eyes jumped down to Nolan’s signature and then up to the paragraph which said, “Robert Kirk found out I was taking the firm’s money. He followed me to the Mill House. I got him out in the dark and hit him with a piece of pipe. I got his girl to leave the car. I dragged him into the front seat and drove down the road. I waited until I found a stretch with big trees on either side and no cars coming. I slowed down and opened the door. I stood on the running board and pulled Kirk’s body behind the wheel. Then I pulled out the dash throttle as I jumped off. The car went down the road for a hundred yards before it turned over and crashed into the tree. I went back through the lots, found my own car and drove home.”

Red grinned at me and said, “And how do you like that?”

“It’s very pretty, but not good enough. No witnesses to the statement. I have a guy who can prove you were into Nolan for twenty thousand. I got another one who cracked up a little and... shall we say got trapped in a statement? A lawyer will make hash out of the whole thing at Nolan’s trial.”

“Who else knows all this?”

“Just me,” I said, and then looked alarmed. I made it good. My cigarette shook as I lifted it up to my mouth.

The blue eyes glazed with thought and there were wrinkles in the tan forehead. He leaned over and punched a buzzer. In a few seconds the little dark one came in. Warren called him over and whispered in his ear, without taking his eyes off me. We sat in silence after the little one left. I heard the distant grind of gears and a roar as a car sped off. I prayed that it was the taxi and that my driver was in it — alone.

The little man came back and said, “He run off before I could get to him, Red.”

“Get out! — No, wait. Stand here and keep an eye on junior.” I kept silting while Warren dashed out. The little citizen covered me with a .38 police positive.

I sat quietly until Warren was out of earshot. Then I said, “This whole set-up is due to blow sky high.”

He grinned and said, “Sure it is. Sure it is. The boss don’t know the angles.”

“He can probably figure a new angle on the Kirk killing. There’s a thousand cops coming out here and snag you all in. They got a good story from Nolan.”

His eyes widened and he gasped, “No kiddin’! Did they get onto that little stinker?”

“Sure they did. I don’t envy you guys.”

“What’s Warren going to do?”

“Try to knock me off. He may do it. That taxi guy is wise. That’ll make two killings. Maybe you chumps can go in for fifteen years when they burn Warren. And all for a lousy fifty grand.”

“Fifty! Hey, it was only twenty-five.”

“Is that what Red says?”

The muzzle wavered and he turned out to be one of those people who look at ceilings when they have to think — as though the ideas were written out up there. My toe caught him right under the chin as he was bringing his head back down. His feel left the floor and the back of his head smacked into the plaster wall. I scooped up the gun as it rolled out of his hand. There was a shell under the hammer.

I hauled the little guy’s limp frame away from the open door. I didn’t want Red to see it when he stepped in. I stood by the door and wailed. Two sets of footsteps were coming up the stairs. That made it rougher. I didn’t want Red to be the first one in.

I swung the revolver back and held it poised like a pitcher wondering whether to throw to third. I gauged the footsteps, and swung just as somebody stepped into the room. The full blow crunched into the lower part of the man’s face. As he fell in a heap, I saw that it was the brush-cut. I shifted the gun in my hand and stepped quickly over him.

Red, his eyes wild, had the little gun out of the belly holster. We stood for a second or two, both guns leveled.

“Go ahead, Red. Try a shot,” I murmured. I watched his finger whiten on the trigger and I dropped the barrel toward the lower part of his stomach. He paled and his finger regained normal color as he let off the pressure.

“Drop it and step in here,” I ordered. It thumped onto the hall rug. I backed into the room, remembering just in time to step over brush-cut. I knew from the heft of the blow that he would dream for a long time.

Red came in warily, his fingers held stiff and tense.

“Back up against that wall,” he did as he was told. I stood eight feet from him, feeling the red haze of blood lust well up inside of me. I saw his handsome tense face as through a pinkish mist. I thought of Bob and I wanted to see Warren on the floor, roughing his life into the bright rug. He whimpered as he read in my eyes what I was going to do.

Then I remembered George’s advice. “Stay cold.” The mist cleared. I stepped forward and slapped his pockets and armpits. He had only been carrying one gun. I stepped over to the door. Brush-cut’s breath was burbling through a froth of blood. Fragments of teeth dotted the rug near his head. I booted him aside and swung the door shut. I turned the key in the lock and stuffed it in my pants pocket. I flipped the gun crashing through the window.

Red grinned and said, “So now we play hero, hey, sucker?” He started to inch toward me, his fists swinging low and ready. I love to counter-punch. I backed away, feeling cold and efficient, seeing every movement he made, gauging his height and weight.

He rushed me and swung. I stepped inside the punch and smashed my right up into his mouth, a short heavy chop.

He backed off, wiping the blood off his lips with the back of his hand.

“So you’re that good, Rich! Then we do it this way.” He rushed me again, his long left smacking me under the eye. He jabbed again and again, backing me into the wall. I covered high, but he hooked a right deep into my gut. He tried to kick, but I spun sideways. I couldn’t get my breath. My arms felt heavy from the numbing blow in the solar plexus. But I dropped my chin and we slugged it out, swinging heavily, all thoughts of technique or defense gone. Dimly I could hear the meaty smacks of fists on flesh and knew that he was tagging me hard and often. I swung in a blind haze at his smeared face, thinking of nothing but the importance of keeping my fists moving.

Then I was staggering forward and the deadening blows were no longer clouding my sight. Slowly I began to see more clearly. He was staggering, his eyes puffy and glazed. I backed him into the opposite wall ignoring his feeble blows. I held him up against the wall with my left hand on his throat.

Then, with heavy monotony I hooked blow after blow into his middle, twisting hard with each one to get my shoulder and back into it. His arms dropped, and as he began to slide down the wall, I shifted to his face. It was like a strange game. I was swinging automatically, watching with almost detached objectiveness, as one by one his features matted together in a pulped, unrecognizable mass.

I stepped back and heard the sirens in the distance. I sat and forced a cigarette between my battered lips. I looked at Warren. He didn’t look back.

When the sirens screamed into the yard, it was only a matter of seconds before someone started hammering on the door. I found the key and opened it. A large man in grey stepped into the room, took one slow look at the three quiet ones and caught me as I fell against him. As the darkness welled over me I heard his muted whistle of awe...

I sat in George’s office. The clock on the wall said five-thirty.

“You can’t be right, Rich. You can’t be!” he was saying.

I fingered the adhesive tape on my face and tried to give him a confident grin. “If I’m not right, George, I’m in trouble.”

Just then Meg came in and said, “She’s here.”

Sharon walked in, hesitant, dressed in black, bluish circles under her eyes. She looked at my battered face and came over to me. Her fingertips felt cool on my cheek.

“What happened, Rich?”

George answered for me, saying, “He found out about Bob today. Had some trouble.”

She paused, and looked at me, her eyes wide. While she was looking I reached my hand up to her face. When it was close enough I slapped her. It knocked her down, and she scrambled to her feet, her eyes blazing, red marks beginning to glow on her white cheek.

“Just what the hell was that...”

“Skip it, Sharon,” I interrupted. “That was just a final present before they take you out of here. We sewed up Red and Nolan. The cops cracked Nolan when they showed him the confession Red made him write. The money was marked. We found some at Red’s place, and cracked him too. They’ve both signed statements that you were the one that slugged him. It’s a murder rap, baby.”

She stood, her face blank, her small hat on crooked. She looked like a puzzled child.

Then she began to talk, the words tumbling out faster and faster. “So that’s it! So that’s the way they want to do it! Listen, I saw Red kill Bob. The fat one held him. I told Red he had the money on him. They doped him and lifted it and put him in the car with me. One of the boys drove us back to my place. I was dating Red when Bob was out of town. When Bob came to, knowing I couldn’t drive, he got suspicious of me. He forced me to go back out there. Red was there. The fat man kicked the gun out of Bob’s hand. Nolan saw it. Red hit him with a leather thing. It was awful. I didn’t want it to happen. Red scared Nolan into writing out a confession to get his I.O.U.’s back. Red gave me two thousand. I wouldn’t take it. The fat one took Bob off in the car. Red made me walk back toward town. That’s where I saw the car smashed against the tree.” She faltered and stopped, probably wondering why she had told so much.

The door opened and the man in grey came in. “Thanks, boys. I guess we got it all. Come on, lady. We got to talk some more.” They left, Sharon looking more than ever like a bewildered, frightened child.

We sat for a time, and finally George said, “How did you figure it out, Rich? I can see that she hired us to take suspicion off her.”

“Little things,” I answered. “Things that didn’t fit. The hole in his head was the wrong shape. Nothing inside the car to make it. Nolan was too scared. Red-headed women don’t wait for hours for their dates to come to. Warren is a type who tries to have his cake and eat it too. The rest was guesswork and luck. Plus your help.”

I got up and walked out. He didn’t say anything more. First I had to arrange for the funeral. Then there would be time for the tears — for the mourning for what both of us had lost.

Content

Peter Reed
Redheads Won’t Wait