Dick Tracy (22 page)

Big Boy’s lip curled. “Don’t threaten me, old man . . .”

“You said you had a way of taking care of Tracy,” Pruneface said in his hoarse, hollow voice. “You told me you’d either buy him, or take him out and make it look like an accident. But instead you screwed up royal.”

Big Boy glared at Flattop and Itchy; Flattop remained impassive, but Itchy began scratching over his ear, like he was digging out a tick.

Pruneface sneered with disgust. “I wanted to just bump him off, plain and simple—but no. You had to outsmart yourself.”

“I
am
gonna take care of Tracy,” Big Boy said, almost pleading. “But you gotta leave it to me.”

“No,” Pruneface said, standing suddenly. “I’m takin’ this bum out of the headlines myself.”

Flattop and Itchy rose a fraction of a second thereafter, as did Pruneface’s bodyguard Influence. The men glowered at each other like the Earps and Clantons trying to decide who was going to draw first.

“Not so fast,” Big Boy said, holding up a fat palm in a stop motion. “You rub Tracy out, the finger’s gonna point at me.”

“My finger’s pointing at you now,” Pruneface said, and it was. It was as gnarled as the branch of a tree; an old, ugly tree. “I’m rubbin’ him out! And you can’t stop me.”

“Pruneface,” Big Boy said, “we got to keep our heads . . .”

And as he extended his hand in a gesture of reasonableness, Big Boy felt something damp.

A drop of something.

Something brown and warm.

He looked up, saw nothing. Pruneface was looking at him like he was crazy; Flattop, Itchy, and Influence were similarly transfixed by Big Boy’s sudden distraction.

Then Big Boy glanced down, where one of the newspapers on the table was getting damp. A picture of Tracy, in fact, was pearled with brown moisture.

Bug Bailey was, as Tracy had described, a brave little man. Little in life fazed him, and he had pulled hazardous surveillance duty more times than the rest of the department put together. But he had one, ironic phobia.

He was afraid of bugs.

Not the electronic kind, obviously. Ever since he was a little kid, whose bug-eyed physiognomy had earned him his nickname, he’d been good with all things mechanical and electrical. He had an affinity for science that had led to his involvement in helping Chief Brandon initiate a city-wide system of radio patrol cars, well ahead of much of the country; and with the encouragement of Tracy, Bug had connected with billionaire Diet Smith and, together with Smith’s inventor son Brilliant, they had come up with the two-way wrist radio.

But if science was his friend, biology was not. At least not entomology.

Perhaps it was inevitable that a four-eyed, goofy kid nicknamed Bug would have some bully put insects down his shirt. One nightmare after-school encounter with a sadistic lout and his rat pack of equally brutish chums had moved Bug’s aversion to things creepy and crawly into a full-blown phobia. A spider had been put down his shirt, and a cockroach dropped into his mouth.

A cockroach not unlike the one that was, at this moment, moving inexorably toward his ham-and-cheese sandwich.

Bug spotted it, and, though gripped with horror, looked for something to swat it with. His fingers found his notebook and he tried to flick the cockroach away from his sandwich, but to his dismay and terror, Bug determined the bug was only millimeters from slithering between the white slices, apparently planning to nestle between the ham and the cheese.

This was not the first meal the Bug had taken here. On both days at this listening post, he’d brought sandwiches and a full thermos of coffee to help him through the night. His surveillance stint was a long haul, albeit not a twenty-four hour one. Big Boy’s business was, after all, primarily conducted in the evenings—it had been Tracy’s primary intent to track and interrupt Big Boy’s various bagmen as they made their payoffs and collections. So Catchem would return before dawn each day, collect the Bug, and bring him back again, to be lowered into the attic via the skylight, well after dark.

Bug had enjoyed himself; he didn’t mind the dark, and there was plenty of entertainment. He sat crosslegged, looking very buglike, heavy headphones over his ears, in his black-and-yellow striped sportcoat with black-and-yellow tie. Listening to Big Boy blusteringly ordering people around was like listening to a radio melodrama. Though he was only one floor above, Bug felt detached, removed, entirely safe.

He sat like a mischievous elf, eavesdropping, then tattling, via two-way. He’d been especially amused, a few moments ago, when Big Boy began raving about “Tracy, Tracy, Tracy,” and that it was as if Tracy could “read his mind.” That made Bug smile. It had been fun duty, and the danger hadn’t bothered him a bit. Hadn’t even occurred to him.

He didn’t like the sound of Pruneface wanting to “rub Tracy out,” but Big Boy, oddly, seemed to have talked the older gangster out of it.

But now, as he frantically swatted the dreaded cockroach, he lost composure. He didn’t notice that his thermos-cap cup of coffee had spilled.

The bug banished, Bug returned to his listening post, scribbling notes as he monitored Big Boy’s fulminations.

He was shivering, the thought of that insect crawling into his sandwich a frightening image that he couldn’t dispel. Intent on his work, shaken by his phobia, Bug did not notice the coffee silently dripping info the microphone hole, and down.

The white light fixture, with its deco concentric circles, had hidden the microphone and its hole well. So Big Boy observed, having climbed up on the red table to get a peek. He could see from whence the brown rain had fallen. He began to reach for his gun, but something, somebody, tugged his pantleg. Flattop.

“Boss,” Flattop said, and made a shushing gesture with the forefinger of a black-gloved hand. Then the gunman curled the finger and nodded to the door.

Big Boy’s eyes narrowed, then he nodded back, and climbed down off the table.

“What . . . ?” Pruneface began.

But Big Boy raised a hand. He pointed upward, and Pruneface nodded, too.

“Be with you in a second,” Big Boy told him. “Gotta sign for some meat.”

In the hall, Big Boy said, “Tracy’s got somebody up there listening!”

Flattop, ever composed, nodded sagely. “That’s right, boss.”

“The attic, right over us! The nerve of the bum! Let’s get up there and smash the son of a . . .”

“No, boss!” Flattop touched Big Boy’s arm, gently. “The cops don’t know we’re onto ’em. We should use it
against
’em, before we put a stop to it. Feed ’em some wrong info or something.”

Big Boy’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. Then he said, “Go get that wrinkled lunatic for me.”

“Sure, boss.”

In a moment, Pruneface had joined the hallway confab.

“You want to rub Tracy out?” Big Boy asked the older gangster. “With my blessing?”

“I’d like nothing better.” He shook his head. “But finding him’s going to be the trick. He’s moving so fast, we’re getting hit everyplace in town . . .”

“So why don’t we send him an invitation?”

Big Boy walked Pruneface back into the office. Flattop, pulling his black gloves tight, smiled smugly, following them in, as Big Boy went to the phone. Pruneface stood and smiled up at the light fixture. Influence gazed upward, as well, though his was a face that never smiled.

“Okay, Freddie,” Big Boy said into the receiver, his thumb holding the cradle button down, keeping the line dead. “Get down to the Southside warehouse. Time for the
big
pay off . . .”

“W
e have to talk,” Tess said.

“I know,” Tracy said, and dipped his spoon into a bowl of Mike’s chili.

Outside the night was a dark hand gripping the city; not a good night to wish upon a star, because there wasn’t a star in the sky. Within the electric radiance of the diner—its chrome trim glistening, enamel countertop and tables gleaming, booths and stools covered in ersatz leather as red as a circus clown’s nose—the world seemed brighter. But it was an illusion.

The Kid was curled up in one of the booths while Tracy and Tess sat at the counter, having moved there not to disturb the boy after he dropped off to sleep.

“The Welfare Department called about you-know-who,” Tracy said glumly.

“He is a swell kid.” Tess sighed. She wasn’t eating her food.

“Not hungry?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“It’s probably better for him,” Tracy said not too convincingly. He ate the chili; he was hungry, wolfing it down—it was the first time he’d eaten since breakfast.

“Probably,” Tess allowed. She didn’t sound very convinced, either.

Mike was pouring Tracy some coffee. Tracy swallowed a spoonful of chili and asked, “What’s the ratio of beans and meat to melted rubber in this concoction, Mike?”

“Trade secret,” Mike said good-naturedly, and moved away.

“You may be right,” Tess said.

“What?” Tracy asked.

“About the child. We can’t keep passing him around between us like a puppy. Spends half his time at the greenhouse with me, the rest at police headquarters with you . . .”

He nodded, embarrassed. “I’ve stuck you with him a lot, the last two days . . .”

“I don’t consider myself
stuck
with him.”

“I know, I know. But I haven’t been able to do my share. The case is really heating up. We’ve been knocking off mob operations left and right . . . we’ve intercepted half a dozen of Big Boy’s payoffs. One more major sting and we can cripple his cash flow.”

She smiled faintly. “You’ve really got him on the run, don’t you? That’s good. I’m very proud of you, Dick.”

He looked at her shyly. “You know, I might be able to spend time with you two this evening. Since it looks like the orphanage is in the cards for the little guy tomorrow.”

“Dick, we
have
to
talk.”

“Well, sure.” He put the spoon down; he touched her hand. “What is it, dear?”

She seemed to be having difficulty finding the words; then she was about to begin when his two-way spoke up.

“Tracy!” Bug Bailey’s voice said. “Come in, Tracy . . .”

She sighed; not angry, just frustrated, and a little sad.

“Honey,” he said, patting her hand, ignoring the two-way, “don’t worry about it. I’m sure Sam or Pat will intercept that call. I’m off-duty.”

“Are you sure?”

He made a sweeping gesture of finality with one hand. “Positive. Now, what is it?”

“Dick . . . I can’t stay at your place any longer.”

“Well, I can understand that. For appearance’ sake . . .”

“No. It’s not that.” She sighed again; averted his gaze. “My apartment isn’t really habitable right now, so I’m . . . leaving.”

“Leaving?”

“Going to my mother’s, in Homewood.”

After the murder of her husband, Mrs. Trueheart had sold the delicatessen and moved from the city to a bungalow in one of the outlying suburbs.

“Well, Tess, that’s an awful long commute into the city to get to your job.”

“I know. But it’ll only be temporary.”

“Good. Until you can find a new apartment.”

“No. I mean, until I find a new job, closer to Mama’s.”

“Tess. I don’t understand . . .”

Her eyes were tragic. “Dick, I used to dream that someday maybe things would settle down. That you’d be able to take the time to really live a normal life. Now . . . now I know that’s never going to happen.”

“Tess . . .”

“I wouldn’t want you to give up what you love doing. I’d never ask that.”

The wrist radio interrupted again, in its obnoxious, staticky way: “Come in, Tracy . . . come in!”

Bug’s voice.

“Sam’ll cover it,” Tracy said.

“No. It’s all right. I understand.”

“Tracy,” Bug’s voice said, “please come in . . .”

“I’ll just tell him to call Sam,” Tracy said, and raised his wrist near his face, as if lifting a great weight. “What is it, Bug?”

“Tracy,” Bug’s voice said, “you better get down to the Southside Warehouse right away—sounds like a
big
payoff is comin’ down.”

“Bug,” Tracy began, “check in with Pat or Sam. I’m indisposed.”

“No,” Tess said quietly, touching his arm. “It’s all right. Go.”

“You’re sure?” he asked her.

She nodded.

“I’m on my way, Bug,” Tracy said. He took Tess’s hand and squeezed it. “I’ll be back. We’ll talk this out.”

“Go,” she said, and her smile was faint, but supportive.

The industrial area near the river was blacker than the inside of a fist. Tracy parked and walked to the massive redbrick warehouse, thinking he’d probably go in that same window in the alleyway, where he’d found Patton unconscious a few nights ago.

But when he tried a door on the Front Street side, and it quietly opened, he slipped on in—why stand on ceremony? As long as he had his gun in hand, that is.

Stacked crates loomed, throwing inky shadows; the stockpiled boxes along the periphery provided good cover, and he ducked behind them, moving down an aisle, edging quietly along, listening for voices, for any sound.

He didn’t hear voices, but he did hear a mechanical rumbling; and the guttural purr of an engine.

Moving cautiously, he headed toward the source of the sound, and then, between stacked boxes, he got a view of something.