The Deep (10 page)

Dixie lay on the couch, his mouth and jaw strangely out of shape. His eyes saw me, but he didn't move. Benny's mouth was still swollen, hatred twisting it into a painful grimace. Behind Lenny Sobel Harold and Al stayed close together, only this time Al kept one hand in his pocket. The other three who turned around were uptown all right. Uptown and on the fashionable side where the doorman saluted and pedigree was stamped on the doorbell nameplates.

I said, “Everybody's hurting around here today.”

“Be smart, Deep,” Benny told me. “What d'ya want?”

“Nothing, friend. I got it all. It's what you want.” I looked at the three gentlemen from uptown and their faces flushed.”

“Go ahead, Deep.” Benny's voice was raspy, his bloated lips softening the Red Hook accent.

“What made you think you could take over, friend?”

“Who else was ...”

“You didn't wait very long.”

“The organization wasn't gonna come apart because you wasn't handy, Deep. You ...”

I interrupted again. “I don't suppose you talked to Batten, did you?”

“So what's he got? You don't show, he got ...”

“Maybe a million in enterprises, Benny-boy. But that's not big time when you can walk out with the rest of the package, is it?”

For a short space it was still. One of the uptown boys sucked wetly on a cigar and coughed out blue smoke. None of them wanted to watch me at all. They were on the wrong end of the stick this time, drawn there by necessity, but there just the same, the chagrin of it drenched and basted with the stink of hypocrisy.

Lenny Sobel leaned back in his chair, a lifetime of experience in these matters showing in his face as he weighed and divided the possibilities and at last, arriving at a conclusion, he said to me alone, “Do you have anything to control ... or to sell?”

My grin was as nasty as I could make it. “I could have.”

“But you don't,” he smiled, then the smile went mean. “You haven't figured it out all the way yet and
you don't have it.”
When I didn't answer he said, “You've run the prettiest bluff I've ever seen,” and with a barely perceptible movement of his head he said over his shoulder, “Get him.”

I hit Harold in the hip with one that shattered his pelvis and caught Al in the biceps before he could make a left-handed draw. For one unbelieving second the little hood looked at his ruined arm then let out a long sob and fainted.

When I cocked the .38 I grinned at Lenny and watched the color run out of his face. Right then he looked old. A beaten, terrified hood who had stuck around just one day too long and now he knew it. Words that he was trying to say wouldn't come out and he seemed to choke on his tongue. Benny was watching, fascinated, his eyes wide and filmy looking. The three from uptown who had never been so close to death hadn't time to have the horror of the moment register yet.

I said, “Stand up, Lenny.”

He choked again and tried to run and stumbled over his gunbearers. While he was still on his knees I put a hot one across his rump and he let out a hoarse yell.

“Just like the old days,” I said. “Right in the behind.”

When I laughed one of the gents at the table went into a hysterical giggle and didn't stop until he was out of breath.

“You, Benny?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I pass. You're crazy.” “Could be. Dixie playing?”

“You hurt him bad, Deep. He's popping every hour.”

“Clean this mess up. Then pass the word.”

“Sure, Deep.”

“Tell 'em to get in line. That whip is going to start cracking pretty quick.”

“Sure, Deep.”

“And any more meetings, you invite me in, buddy.”

“No ... you got it wrong, Deep. These are ... friends.”

“Friends?” I said. “Three big pillars of the church calling a stinking hood like you friend? Don't be so damn dumb, Benny. I know these guys and their business and if you want to go on trying to give me the business you're going to wind up with a tag on your toe.”

“Gee, Deep ...”

“Shut up. Just get in line. That means way back. You never were a big one in the old days. Don't try to get rough now, because you don't even have a little idea how rough it can really get.”

They said nothing and watched me leave. At the bar I picked up my forty cents change that was still there and said to Bimmy, “My apologies, fat man. They asked for it.”

He didn't answer.

I said, “No need to remind you that this is a family matter, is there?”

When he finished his clinical study of my face he shook his head. “Don't worry. I know what to do.”

Outside Cat was pressed against the glass, his thin body tense and shivering. He kept rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand, looking nervously up and down the block. I answered him before he could ask it. “Relax. They just got chopped up a little bit.”

“Who'd you hit?”

“Lenny and his two boys.”

“You're bringing it on fast, Deep. Fast!”

“Not really, Cat. I'm just slowing down the action a bit.”

“Okay, okay. Just let's get out of here so they can blow their mad. Any nabs come in, we're tagged quick.”

I laughed and we waved down a cab and got in. At the nearest IRT kiosk I told Augie to get the breakdown on all of Bennett's enterprises, listing every employee he ever had or anybody he ever financed. We dropped him off, then rode up Amsterdam to 101st Street where Cat had a room, picked up some of his personal effects and went on to the apartment.

On the stoop I opened the door and handed him the keys. “Stay put until I call you. Lock up. I don't want anybody roaming around here.”

“Where you going?”

“To see a doll, Cat.”

“Look, you better let me tag along. You forgetting those boys in from Philly?”

“Lew James and Morrie Reeves,” I said, “At the Westhampton under the names of Charlie and George Wagner.”

“Yeah. And they got contacts here.”

I laughed and opened the door back of me. “So have I, pal.”

 

Late evening was turning into early night when I came out of Maury's hole-in-the-wall diner on the east side of Columbus Avenue. I walked down to 103rd Street, turned the corner and started east. And there was Mr. Sullivan, looking at me with that same look he had when he beat me to my back with a pair of cuffs so long ago.

He put a hand on my chest, the motion almost a friendly gesture to any stranger watching ... unless he saw the stiffness in the fingers and noticed how the night stick stopped twirling.

“The trouble's getting bigger, boy.”

“Oh?”

“It's only going to end one way.”

“I know, Mr. Sullivan. It
has
to end only one way.”

“Always the smart one,” he said.

I nodded. “I have to be.”

His eyes were like glass. “The talk is getting bigger and stronger. I don't like it.”

“What do you figure on doing about it, old-timer?”

“It's my beat, boy. My beat. I've been here a long time. I've seen all the big ones, all the tough ones come and go. One day they're here, the next day they're lying sprawled in the gutter. A couple of them I put there myself.”

“You're over retirement age, aren't you, Mr. Sullivan?”

The red crept into his face slowly and his hand came away from my chest. “Don't ask for it, Deep.”

“Sure, Mr. Sullivan,” I said with a laugh. “I'll do like you say.”

I walked around him and all the while I could feel his eyes poking holes through my back. They were two holes, very close together, smaller going in than coming out, the way a pair of steel-jacketed slugs makes them. I shook off the feeling and walked on up to Grogan's market, opened the door into pitch darkness, my hand going to my pocket for a book of matches.

I tore one out, struck it and held it up. But I was looking in the wrong direction. Whoever had cuddled in the doorway smashed something down across the back of my head and when I hit the floor with my face there wasn't any feeling left at all.

Unconsciousness was only a partial thing. All feeling was gone, but there was still the knowledge of what had happened. There were still sounds from outside, vehicle sounds and people sounds. There was knowledge that my mouth was open and the incredible sour dirt taste of floor filth was on my tongue. There were things stumbling over me, then the door opened and closed, smashing into my head in the motion. But at least it turned my mouth to one side.

Sensation flooded back on a tidal wave of pain. It ran up my legs and back, then centered in my neck at the base of the skull. I got to my knees, spat, and when I could, wiped my mouth with my sleeve. I spat again, stood up and felt the sticky wetness oozing down through my hair. It took a full minute of standing propped against the wall before I felt like moving and when I did my foot nudged the makeshift sap and it rolled across the floor. By the light of a match I could still see some of my hair stuck to the tacky side of the soda bottle and all I could think of was how lucky I had it when the thing didn't break and slice me open like a peeled banana.

When I walked outside the street traffic was normal and there wasn't anybody at all who seemed to have special eyes for the doorway. There was an old man looking in Grogan's window and I tapped him on the arm.

“You see anybody come out of here, mister?”

He turned, looked at me, then past me to the doorway. His shrug was a universal gesture of the neighborhood. “I see nobody.”

I grunted, rubbed my hand across my head and let him see the blood on my fingers. “I just got cold cocked.”

His mouth tightened into a grimace and he said harshly, “Them damn kids. Damn kids, all of them. All the time they do that. Stay in the vestibule with the light out and hit you when you come in. Every night I hear. You shouldn't go in without light being on. They killed old Julian Chaser like that. For thirty cents they got.” He spat disgustedly and walked away, his advice given and his contempt of humanity more firm than ever.

Then I swore under my breath, reached for my pocket and felt the wallet still there and the rod in the belt rig. I swore again as I slammed the door open and ran up the stairs, stumbling over the junk piled around the landings.

The door was open, the inside dark. I felt for the light, snapped it on and stood there waiting, the gun heavy in my fist. I sidled across the room, groped for the light in the bedroom and pulled it. I was careless as hell and if another gun was there waiting for me I was going to be all the way dead.

But there wasn't any other gun. There was only Tally Lee lying there with her head smashed in, the blood on her face not yet coagulated. She wasn't sprawled in the attitude of death; she lay in the relaxed position of sleep and she was lucky. She never knew what hit her.

I knew what hit her, though. I had tasted of it downstairs earlier.

For a few seconds I just stood there and took in the details. There was only one out of place and that was the throw rug kicked to one side almost violently when there hadn't been but one violent act in the room.

One other detail was there and it was a couple of minutes before it made sense. When it did the throw rug made sense too and the back of my head began to pound again and I wanted to shoot somebody so bad I could taste it.

I called to her quietly but there was no answer. I called again and parted the drapes that separated the living room from the others. The street light coming in the uncurtained windows outlined the few pieces of furniture. I saw a floor lamp to one side, found the switch and turned it.

Every motion I made was instinctive. My mind was a numb thing that wanted to see or know nothing, shocked with the knowledge that Helen, who lay there sprawled half off the couch with a thin line of blood running down her cheek, was dead too.

My fingers found a pulse, then my mind came back alive again and I lifted her to the couch. The crazy mad inside me made my hands shake and pulled my body so tight that every movement was almost awkward.

There was a lump under her hair and the skin was broken, but it was no more than that. I wet a towel, wiped her face and waited until a soft moan moved her mouth.

“Helen ... Helen.”

She moved her head and her eyes squinted with agony. I held the towel against her and stroked her face until she opened her eyes. They were blank at first, then puzzled. I said, “What happened, honey?”

Memory of it returned slowly. I could see it come back, reaching for an answer. “Deep?”

I squeezed her face gently. “You're okay, baby?”

Plaintively she said, “Deep?”

“Easy, sugar. It's me.”

Then it hit her all at once and her eyes were great big things alive with terror and before she could scream I put my hand over her mouth and held her head close to me.

When it passed I looked down at her. “What happened?”

Her tongue wet her lips. “The door ... I answered the door. I thought it was ... you.” Her eyes were wide, staring at me.

“It wasn't me, baby.”

“When I took the lock off ... it flew open. I fell down ... and then something ...” she sucked in a breath jerkily, “... Deep, what happened?”

“You got slammed on the head, kid.”

“But who ...”

“I don't know. He got me too.”

“Deep ...” She reached up and touched my face. “What happened to ... Tally?”