Brain Guy: A gang killer meets his match in a TNT blonde Read online

  “It sounds good, but I don’t know.”

  “What you leery of? It’ll boil down to everyone thinking it plain dumb luck, with a coupla guys busting in accidental.”

  “They won’t believe that.”

  “If they don’t, what’s the difference if they don’t prove anything?” He glanced away from Joe, who was gasping as if he’d swum too far, his chest heaving, his face going greenish. “Tomorrow to all questions you just tell them the truth. It’s easy. I’ll see you tonight when I get back from the Stangers’. We’ll rehearse again.” Joe muttered as if his lungs were full of water, suddenly realizing what Bill had done. “You’re a filthy crook. That’s all you are, and you’re bound to get into a peck of trouble even if you think you’re wiser’n hell. You might get away this time, but you’ll get caught sure as fate.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about. The kids pulled off the job.” He pressed the cigar stub in the tray. On Thursday the paint supply was due for a ride. He yawned at the window. Sunday abode peacefully in Leroy. But all he had to do was turn around and see Joe at war, his yellow head hanging, to see the death of youth and virginity. Hell, thought Bill, I’ve raped something in Joe. I always do in people. “Want dinner, Joe?”

  “I’m not hungry. I’ll make up a sandwich.” He smiled. “Who are the kids you mentioned?”

  Bill laughed. “They’re little gents, that’s all.”

  “I guess I’ll wash up. I guess I’ll get my sandwich later.” It was almost eight and he didn’t want to think of what he had to do tomorrow when he reported for work. His face was flushing, the skin hot on temples and cheekbones. He was punchdrunk. Bill’s talk had had the effect of punches. Bill appeared to have discarded the entire affair like a shabby tie, as if tomorrow would never show up. He’s acting calm for my sake, thought Joe.

  “You have a good time with Cathy. Be normal. That shouldn’t be hard. She’s a neat little trick,” he commented with an elder brother’s leer.

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Cut out the comedy. Want dough?”

  “I got enough,” Joe said sullenly. “I like Cathy, and your cracks don’t go.”

  “Why let your liking prevent you from having a good time?” All these damn tenement dames were pie handled by a smart fellow. The poor sluts. Not a break in hell for them. “Tell the Gebhardts I’m in with a headache.”

  “Aw right.” He frowned at Bill, the bold laughing lips, this brother of his sprawling all over the place with a sense of being naked. Joe rammed on his hat. That God-damned swine hinting things about Cathy. What could you expect?

  “Have a good time.”

  “Go to hell, you cheap crook.” Down the gloomy stairs, he was thinking: Bill’s a wolf. A wolf. Bill was a knife in his guts. The pain hurt. He was hopeless. Metz tomorrow. He’d see Metz. He swallowed his fear like another knife and knocked on the Gebhardt door.

  He was glad when they were walking under the El. Inside her house, in the respectable light, with Mr. Gebhardt reading his Zeitung, the Sunday American folded on his lap, his wife in the kitchen, but not very busy, so that it was easy to imagine her resting soon and sewing, in the domesticity of the youngsters, smelling wholesome as carrots, he’d been forced to smile, to say words said by some being fatally associated with himself.

  The two of them kept step like soldiers, almost of a height, both slim and vigorous. At night Greenwich was haunted, the El pillars towering high and almost black as the shadows, the closed shops and plants obtruding blank walls. The workers were all gone, but yet there was a threat of malicious people observing them from secret peep-holes.

  “Is Bill’s headache bad?” she asked.

  “Not so bad. It’ll do him good to stay home one night.”

  She admired Bill for staying home with a headache. Bill was a stepper, and when Joe asked why she didn’t forget about Bill, she wondered if he was jealous. Bill was a stepper, and fresh. Gee, he was fresh. What he’d done to her Saturday, the fresh thing. “Bill’s still at that bookkeeping job?”

  “And gets a raise every week.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I haven’t a tin belly, have I?” he said bitterly. She hadn’t caught on. She belonged to him and also to the shadow so that she was his and not his. The darkness and solitude were everywhere. He gripped her, holding her tight, giving in to the loneliness inside of him, his youth flowing out. What could he hold to? He let loose, lonely as before. On this street of hallways crowded with ghosts, he didn’t know what to say, taking her hand. The city too was taking her hand, and taking her hand was his life in the city these few months, the bitter winter mornings of rising early, the lonely days, the suspicions about Bill, the loveless grind with only the Gebhardts offering sympathy, only Cathy offering love. All this held on to her fingers and all this was voiceless, or, having voice, that voice the clangor of steel wheels, the sirens crying in the harbor.

  That hugging a minute ago, outside a plate-glass window of copper appliances, was the real thing to both of them. Yes, sir, the real bona-fide thing. That was real love, thought Cathy with the bemused victory of a woman. For the first time she’d felt Joe was wanting something else besides her body. Wanting her body was grand, but real love was something else, real love had been the way he’d been a minute ago, wanting something else besides her body. Over and over she repeated this echo of her own making, now faint, almost out of hearing, her blood flooding up so that her skin tingled and she’d have loved to press every inch of her flesh to him; now loud and triumphant, Joe silent, his voice not bugling to her youth, stilled and at ease, sharpened to trivial details. Something else. Love. Sure. Love was grand. She loved him.

  They got off at Ninth Avenue and Twenty-third. The towered area of London Terrace filled a square block. They hurried east towards the canopy of the Grand Opera House, announcing two features and six acts of vaudeville (only place in town where you could see the real old-fashioned vaudeville), all for forty cents. Joe bought tickets. The lobby was immense, marbled, hung with huge gilt mirrors and decorated with the heroic dubious bronzes of fifty years ago. They sat in old decaying seats, just dodging the edge of a pillar. It was 1932 and he’d see Metz in the morning.

  When Joe left, Bill’s face sagged. He didn’t look so bright. He belonged to the flat. His face seemed to have too much flesh, his nose almost blobby, his lips thick, his fore-head creasing suddenly like a curtain falling loose from a rigid support. He belonged to the flat — to the bedroom painted pea-soup green, the parlor with its few books, the kitchen with the combination sink wash-basin bathtub shower. His hopelessness belonged to the flat. His conscience like a sneered-at obscure relative suddenly popped up from round some mental corner. What a swell brother he was! Just swell. The Metz robbery proved his lousiness. Of all places to hook. Christ. But there wasn’t a loop-hole. Not one. Didn’t all fools think they never left loop-holes, clues? Fools were too hot in the pants, too near their crime to be truly observant. What if some damn bull would pick up one clue, two clues, a dozen? He turned the faucet on in the sink, watching the white jet splashing, the steady stream washing away all the clues and traces of a hundred crimes, playing around to give himself a holiday from thinking. He gulped two glasses of water, pacing up and down just as they all did, all the dopes and crooks. Walking up and down. Who? Me, the typical Me, the Me crook doing everything in the same old way, feeling remorse — oh, remorse, and fear — oh, fear. I pace the floor like a caged tiger, a caged rat’s more like it…. Lord, how he’d kidded himself, thinking he was a brain guy because McMann said he was! Why’d McMann call him brain guy? Better be careful. Brain guy. What a damn laugh that was! He looked at himself in the dresser mirror with a feeling like nausea. How far away he was, as if he were staring at a photo taken long ago when he was a kid! His brown hair was getting dry, falling out. What a mug! And that mug was the cold analyst. He was the guy, the scientist, mind you, who took crime in his stride. Just look at those swellings under his eyes.
Look at the brain guy and puke in your hat.

  Starting from the inside corner of each eye, cutting down to the cheekbone, two heavy lines were graven. Inside the triangular areas the flesh was slightly discolored. A swell specimen. The brain guy. Like hell. What’d his phenagling get him? What had he, good Lord, what was the use of it, what was the profit? Some dough that was never enough, a taste for booze and whores. He stunk to hell. And now all he had to do was mix Joe up, the only person who cared for him. Wasn’t that brainy? What a life! He’d never pick up a couple grand. He’d die or get shoved in jail. His position was weak. As Joe had said, the avenue was talking. Wiberg, Soger, Petrucci, and now Metz. All of them socked when they’d been in the dough. His old clientele. He was the insider, and probably some smart bull was wise even at this moment, and wouldn’t have to be so smart either. He put his feet on the table. Under the electric light his hair was reddish. He lit up another cigar, suddenly more comfortable, outside his own skin, laughing at himself. Why bellyache? Because he had nothing else to do. For the first time in months he was sitting on his behind, thinking up things to hurt himself with; not drinking or shooting pool or bulling with McMann or sleeping with Madge or on the way or coming home from all these time-killers. He was wide awake, he was alone. He puffed dreamily, remembering his old job, the first few times he’d smoked cigars. It was after a month or so with Stanger. That job was heaven with its easy dough. He remembered his first bet on a horse, on Amnesic it was. How in hell, when, where, how had he shaken down his first joint? He couldn’t remember, but those pimps and toughs had shelled out regular. How I began, he thought with a sneaky admiration for himself; too much easy dough too easily got. You don’t break habits.

  Joe’d be all right. He pushed thought of Joe from him. What a life he’d had! Lousy to be out of work, and Paddy sending him down to Pop; himself wandering around with that match-box. Some joke. But he’d got what he wanted out of Paddy just the same. And on Thursday there was the paint supply. My dear, he thought as if he were a charity worker, I’ve been so wrapped up. The world was spinning, the dumb goofy world with millions out of jobs, with headlines about depression, communism, Japan knocking off China, but he’d been so wrapped up. That was funnier than hell. One of these days he’d buy a newspaper and wipe something with it. What’d he care? He’d grab a few grand and quit. He better take the damn dog for an airing; then he’d call on the Stangers. If a smart bull checked up, that’d seem fishy. Home for the first time. Calling on Stanger. Doing this and doing that where he’d done neither before. An alibi was an alibi. Prove your body. That was all you needed. Bodies at certain places at certain hours. Nobody was interested checking up where your mind was, what you thought. The dog was growing like a son-of-a. What was it but a son-of-a-bitch? And that’s what he was. He was not. Whatever you did in life inevitably dragged others along. If Joe had enough guts, he’d’ve cut loose from him. Not cutting loose showed Joe wasn’t such an angel. Joe had taken his easy dough. Joe was just a punk.

  The policeman on duty at the station house showed Metz into a private room. Metz thought the cop looked funny without his blue hat. Metz minded his own business, which meant walking in a fog, twisting his lips with his habitual idiotic grin, and rubbing his chin bashfully. The door slammed. He was all alone. They make me think they’re important customers, he thought; funny peoples, cops. A round man in a double-breasted gray suit sat down at the flat desk. He wore his derby tilted far back on his head as if he’d come in from a game of pool. His fat cheeks were red, his eyes blue above a network of wrinkles. Not appearing to glance at him from behind his thick glasses, Metz realized he was one of those fellers. “My name’s Hanrahan, Mr. Metz.” He pointed a long nose at the shopkeeper, patting his belly, belching and complaining about a steak, his eyes flicking their bright blue points like little searchlights. His nose had many enlarged pores, his face was slightly greasy, with a jowl and double chin. Metz thought he was a greasy eater and a regular sneaky goneph.

  “Yeh, I’m here,” said Metz.

  Hanrahan had the cordiality of a third-rate politician. “You get what I’m going to tell you. I’ve the dope on your store, got it this morning when some egg called up and said things looked phony at the dairy store. Got any idea who called?”

  “Me? Sundays I’m home. I live in Brooklyn.”

  “I know. The guy who phoned belonged to the mob holding up all those stores. See?”

  “I hope so. I don’t like coming down all the way here on the subway when it takes over an hour, and my wife she doesn’t like it, Sunday being one day off.”

  “You took the Brighton, and that subway’s strictly local on Sundays.”

  “Ain’t it wonderful how you know?”

  Hanrahan suddenly shot his jaw forward. “Why’n hell you make that crack? You know damn well that isn’t knowing much. Don’t play dumb with me. Don’t you think I know that any feller that can work himself up into owning three large stores is a pretty shrewd article? Give me a little credit, Metz.”

  Metz grinned. “What you want? An inside job, ain’t it? That’s how you say? No one know about the money but me and the clerks.”

  “One of them is no good.”

  “All good boys, Mr. Hanrahan.”

  “Which one’s a little bad?”

  “I don’t like to say it, but if anyone tip somebody off, maybe it’s Joe.”

  “You’re to keep him on. Get it. You’re right. The holdup’s dumb luck pulled off by some yeggs. Or an inside job. Your store’s the fourth robbed in three months. Wiberg, Soger, Petrucci, and you. That’s not dumb luck. You must help me, Metz. All these stores were taken when they had real money on the premises, payrolls and so on…. Why in hell did you leave dough in your ashcan of a bank?”

  “Oi a shame to be so dumb, but it was very good Saturday and some I took home, some I locked up.”

  “It boils down to some guy knowing all about you storekeepers and where your dough is kept. It’s that easy. An insider’s wise to your tricks. Insiders always get careless. They all slip. They know so much they think they can get away with murder.”

  “What you think?”

  “This insider could’ve known about your dough only from one of the clerks. That’s how we’ll grab him.”

  Metz paled, deadly serious. He knew who the insider was, listening to Hanrahan expand needless detail. He had three clerks. One of them was a bad boy. Were the clerks all Jews, and who were they anyway? “Two is Jews, relatives of mine.”

  Hanrahan paled a little too. “Who’s the goy, Metz?”

  “Joe Trent. He’s been on only a few months.”

  “How’d you take him on?”

  “His brother’s a friend of mine.”

  “What does he do? Does he work?”

  “He used to work for Stanger’s real-estate company. He is not working now. He used to collect all the stores. He collect Wiberg, and all them fellers robbed.”

  Hanrahan laughed harshly. “I wanted to hear you say it. I knew it without your help. I’ve been talking to Soger and Petrucci and Wiberg. ‘How is it,’ I says, ‘you guys are held up when you’re flushed? Ain’t it funny? Don’t it prove you told somebody, a friend, some good guy?’ I got them to thinking. Wiberg admitted his wife knew and a cousin. Soger said only his clerk, who was also his son. Petrucci said his wife, two daughters, and about half of his ginny society knew how he ran his business. Oh, I had them using their heads, and without their suspecting it they pinned it on Bill Trent tight as hell. Why, of course, the rent-collector knew; not the new one, but the old one, a fine good fellow; too bad he lost his job. I’m crazy, Metz. Huh! Like hell I am, but I wanted you to tell it. You’re smarter than the pack. Shall I third-degree your Jewish relatives or Joe Trent? Inside jobs are always easy. You always know what and where to look.”

  “Joe’s a good honest kid.”

  “So’s his brother. Why’d you hire Joe? He ain’t a Jew. Why?”

  “I got fellers not Jews workin
g for me.”

  “All right. All right. You took on the kid. Bill Trent ain’t so dumb, but they always slip. You took on a green kid because Bill says so when the town’s full of experienced help.”

  “You know so much, why ask?”

  “I’ve checked up on a few things. I wonder if this smart article got your rent reduced or what?”

  “You should a Jew be.”

  “Maybe I am. You don’t know why Billy boy got canned? Well, let it go. The point is, since his canning we’ve had four robberies among old tenants of his. Coincidence? Nope. You lost your dough like the rest when you had a pile of it. Is it coincidence or Billy boy?”

  “He didn’t make me hire Joe to steal from me. No.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s no.” As he’d listened to the detective, the abashed fake grin had disappeared. Now, dark, somber, he added: “I hate to hear. Bill a fine feller. His brother work hard and good.”

  “I still got plenty work. Not so easy pinning it on him. He worked smooth and fast. When Soger was stuck up they were chased by a copper in a cab, but they got away.” He didn’t mention he’d sent the word down to the stools with the regular mobs, but nothing had turned up. He had a hunch Bill wasn’t in with a regular mob. Mobs weren’t taking on outsiders. All they could do to keep themselves clicking. “You don’t can Joe until you hear from me.” He yawned, speaking again about the steak, vaguely intimating this was a social as well as a business visit. “So long. Don’t forget.”

  “Good-by. You figure things pretty good.”

  “I’m good at pinochle too,” said Hanrahan.

  Bill read a magazine. The dog was sleeping in its box near the bed, three or four bones scattered on the floor where the dog had left them. The bones were the dog’s treasures, and each day he cleverly hid them behind chairs and under the bed. Bill looked at the dachshundish body speckled black and white. That dog slept sound. His only worries were eating worries. That was his worry, too. Only he was greedier, a few grand greedier. Thursday’s job ought to net a few pennies. It might be their real start and Duffy’s end. McMann had said that the Metz break was half the battle. The kids in on the Metz job thought they were wonders, and if Thursday went off O.K., the kids’d be theirs.