Rogue Cop Read online

  “Not a bad habit,” Beaumonte said, glancing at her appraisingly.

  “I’m okay,” she said.

  “Yeah, so far. Won’t change your mind, Mike?”

  “All right, make it a mild Scotch,” Carmody said.

  “I’ll have sherry, the Spanish with the crowns on the label,” Beaumonte told Nancy. He glanced at Carmody. “It’s a fine one. I have it imported especially. You have to watch sherry, Mike. It’s splendid when it’s right. But when it isn’t, I mean if it’s off even a shade, well it’s not worth drinking.”

  “Sure,” Carmody said, managing to keep his annoyance from showing in his face. Beaumonte had grown up on bootleg whiskey; he had been a small-time hoodlum in the Thirties, a skinny punk in pin-striped suits and a gray fedora, which he wore pulled down all around in the style favored by Capone’s bums in Chicago. Money, carloads of it, had brought out the art lover and wine bibber.

  Nancy brought their drinks on a round silver tray, and Beaumonte’s expression changed as he noticed that she had made herself another highball. “You’ve had enough,” he said. “Leave that here and go lie down.”

  “Dan, don’t be dull,” she said, trying to soften his face with an impudent, gamin smile. “You’ll spoil the party.”

  “You’ve had your ration for today,” he said, and now he meant business. His face and manner were unpleasant. “It’s sloshing in the scuppers. Beat it. Sleep it off.”

  “All right, Dan,” she said quickly, her little pose melting under the hard anger in his eyes. “So long, Mike.”

  Here was the art patron and wine sipper, Carmody thought, and the irony of it was enough to check his irritation. For some reason Beaumonte enjoyed humiliating her; and by a freak of timing the scenes always seemed to occur when he was playing the grand gentleman to the hilt. Maybe she planned it that way, Carmody thought. Beaumonte had picked her out of a chorus line six years ago, and since that time had transformed her into a lady. She had been trained to walk and talk, to manage a dinner party for thirty and to dress herself with quiet taste. Beaumonte had hired trainers and coaches for her, he had schooled her like an intelligent dog until she could perform any social trick with ease. And somewhere on the way she had started hitting the bottle. She would probably be dead in five years, Carmody knew, and he wondered if that was why Beaumonte was so rough on her. Because the investment wasn’t paying off; the bought-and-paid-for little lady had crossed him by turning into a lush. But there was something else, Carmody guessed. Beaumonte would have enjoyed humiliating a real lady, but no genuine article would take it; so he had created Nancy as a stand-in for the real thing. By hurting her he took a small revenge against a class which had always intimidated him; people whose English was correct and whose manners were casual and right.

  Beaumonte sat down in a deep chair, the glass of sherry in one hand, the slim cigar in the other. He looked up at Carmody, a small frown gathering on his pampered features. “Let’s get right to it, Mike. Sit down and get comfortable.” He sipped some of the sherry and wet his full lips. Then he turned his clear brown eyes directly to Carmody. “It’s this, Mike. If your brother fingers Delaney it can cause us trouble. Because Delaney has told our lawyer that he’s going to talk, unless we take him off the hook. So your brother’s got to be sensible. You understand?” Carmody shrugged his wide shoulders and said nothing. The silence stretched out awkwardly until Beaumonte, still frowning, said, “Well, do you see it?”

  “Part of it,” Carmody said. “What’s the rest of it?”

  “All right, let’s start at the start,” Beaumonte said, settling in the chair and crossing his fat legs. “Delaney, who’s worked for us off and on for years, shot and killed a man named Ettonberg. That was last month. It was a stupid murder, and not tied up with us in any way. Ettonberg and Delaney had a fight about a woman and Delaney killed him after he’d been drinking so much that he couldn’t hit the ground with his hat. As you know, this happened in a boardinghouse on your brother’s beat. He went in and found Delaney standing over Ettonberg with a gun in his hand. If he’d killed the bastard right then, he’d have done us a favor. But Delaney slugged your brother and got away without being seen by anyone else. So he went to Martin’s joint where there was a poker game and fixed himself up an alibi.”

  “I guess we both know the story pretty well,” Carmody said. “The cops picked up Delaney on my brother’s description. Eddie testified at the Grand Jury hearing and the D.A. got a true bill.”

  “Okay, now we’re up to the present,” Beaumonte said. “When Delaney goes to trial your brother can finger him right into the chair. And that can’t happen. If it does, Delaney talks.”

  What did Delaney know? Carmody wondered. “Can he hurt you by talking?” he asked.

  Beaumonte looked annoyed. “Don’t talk about me being hurt. I don’t like that kind of talk.”

  Carmody shrugged. “No point in not being realistic. I talk pretty damn much.”

  “We’re going to save Delaney,” Beaumonte said. Carmody’s remark had brought spots of color into his cheeks, but he didn’t let his anger get him away from the subject. “So you talk to your brother, Mike?”

  “What do I tell him?”

  “You tell him he don’t identify Delaney at the trial.”

  “Will that do any good?” Carmody said. “My brother has already testified against Delaney at the Grand Jury hearing.”

  “Don’t you worry about the legal end of it,” Beaumonte said. “That’s what we pay lawyers for. And here’s the way they’ve figured it. Delaney’s attorney waived a hearing before the Magistrate the night of the murder. So your brother didn’t have to identify him then. Naturally, Delaney was held for the Grand Jury without bail. In this state defendants don’t appear at the Grand Jury hearings, so your brother didn’t confront Delaney and make an identification. He just testified that to the best of his knowledge a man named Delaney was standing over Ettonberg’s dead body when he came on the scene. That gave the D.A. his true bill. Your brother won’t confront Delaney until the trial. And that’s when he blows the case up by refusing to finger him.”

  “It will look raw as hell,” Carmody said.

  “To hell with how it looks,” Beaumonte said angrily. “They’ll know he’s lying but they won’t be able to prove it. The jury is what counts. And our attorneys will make them believe that your brother’s an honest cop who won’t send an innocent man to the chair just to fatten up some D.A.’s score of convictions. Delaney will beat the rap. And, by God, Mike, he’s got to beat this rap. You understand?”

  “They’ll boot my brother off the force.”

  “So is that bad? We’ll take care of him. Offer him ten thousand to start with, and see what he thinks of it. And we can go higher. A lot higher.”

  Carmody hesitated a moment. Then he said, “Why do you want me to handle it, Dan?” A phrase came into his mind from his forgotten religion and forgotten values: “Let this chalice pass from me!" He didn’t want this job, and in some intuitive manner he was afraid of it. But there was no one he could ask for help. Not Beaumonte, that was certain. And there was no one else. Let this chalice... Why had those words occurred to him?

  Beaumonte was rolling the cigar between his full red lips, watching him carefully. “I want you to handle it because it’s a big job,” he said at last. “I’ll tell you this: Ackerman is watching it personally.”

  Carmody nodded slowly. It was important then, no doubt of it. Ackerman was number one. He controlled the city’s gambling and numbers racket. Beaumonte ran the west side personally, and acted as a link between Ackerman and the other districts; he supervised the operations of Fanzo in Central, Nick Boyle in Meadowstrip, and Lockwood in the Northeast. But all of it was under Ackerman’s thumb. He juggled the judges and magistrates and cops, he put the collar on the politicians he needed and he fought the reform movement on the high inside levels. Thinking about it, Carmody felt a brush of anxiety; there was a lot of muscle stacked up against his brot
her.

  “Why is Ackerman so interested?” Carmody asked.

  Beaumonte was silent a moment. Then he said quietly, “Don’t start guessing about him. You know that’s stupid. Just remember he’s interested. That’s enough. Now there’s one other point. I don’t want any hard feelings between you and me.”

  “I don’t get that,” Carmody said.

  Beaumonte got to his feet and glanced at his gold wrist watch. “Hell, it’s later than I thought,” he said. Carmody had risen also and Beaumonte put a hand on his arm, turning him toward the door. “This thing has got to be handled, one way or the other,” he said. “I want it peaceful. I hope your brother is smart and winds up with a nice little bundle in his pocket.” They stopped at the door, facing each other, and something had changed in Beaumonte’s smooth plump face. He was still smiling but the smile meant nothing now. “We’re not kids, Mike,” he said. “I’m putting it on the line. If your brother don’t play ball we’ll have to handle it our way. That’s why you’re making the first pitch. If you don’t sell him the deal, you can’t blame us for doing what we got to do. Is that clear enough?”

  “I’ll talk to my brother,” Carmody said evenly.

  “How do you get along with him?”

  “So-so.”

  “What’s the matter? He’s your kid brother, he should do what you tell him.”

  “We don’t see much of each other,” Carmody said.

  “That’s too bad.” Beaumonte looked at him, his head tilted slightly. “Don’t he like your friends?”

  “Lots of people don’t,” Carmody said, holding his irritation in check.

  “Not smart people,” Beaumonte said, smiling. “When’ll you see him?”

  “As soon as I can.”

  “Make it tonight He doesn’t go to work until twelve.”

  “How do you know?”

  Beaumonte shrugged. “I told you this was important. We’re keeping tabs on him. You see him now, then come back. I’ll be here all night. Got that?”

  Carmody hesitated. “Okay, Dan,” he said finally.

  Beaumonte smiled. “We want this peaceful. Good luck.”

  2

  Carmody drove from Beaumonte’s apartment to a drug store on Market Street and called his brother’s home. There was no answer. He replaced the receiver and remained seated in the booth, thinking coolly and without emotion of Beaumonte’s words: We want this peaceful... but if your brother won’t play ball we’ll have to do it our way.

  Beaumonte meant that. There was no phoniness about him when it came to business. He squandered his bluff on paintings and horse shows and the Mayor’s council on human relations, catering generously then to his itch for approval and respectability. But this was business. His and Ackerman’s. And they’d order Eddie killed with no more emotion than they’d order a steak.

  Carmody wasn’t worried yet. The confidence in his own strength and brains was the hard core of his being, impervious to strain or pressure. Somehow, he would save Eddie. He accepted Beaumonte’s deadly injunction as a factor in the equation. They — Beaumonte and Ackerman-meant business. Therefore, something else would have to give. That was Eddie.

  After a ten-minute wait he dialed Eddie’s number again and let it ring. Eddie might be outside watering the lawn, or at the workbench in the basement, repairing a lock or mending a screen. Something important, Carmody thought.

  The phone clicked in his ear. Eddie’s voice said, “Yes? Hello.”

  “This is Mike. How’s the boy?”

  “Mike? How are you?” Eddie’s tone was neutral, neither friendly nor unfriendly. “I was splicing a hose out in the back yard. You been ringing long?”

  Splicing a hose, Carmody thought, shaking his head. “Eddie, I want to see you tonight.”

  “I’m going out pretty soon,” his brother said.

  “Well, I can meet you anywhere you say. This is important. Where will you be?”

  “Vespers at Saint Pat’s.”

  “Vespers?”

  “Sure. You might remember if you put your mind to it.”

  Eddie’s tone, hard and sarcastic, warned Carmody off the subject. “How about afterward then?” he said.

  There was a short silence. Then Eddie said, “I’ve got a date later, Mike.”

  “Well, something you’ve been keeping from me, eh?” Carmody said, trying for a lighter touch.

  “I know what’s on your mind,” Eddie said shortly. “And the answer is no, Mike.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions,” Carmody said. This was no time for anger; that would tear it for good. “I’ve got something to tell you in person. So how about it?”

  “Okay,” Eddie said, after a pause. “There’s a club at Edgely and Broad called the Fanfair. I can meet you there at eleven.”

  “Fine.” He tried once more for a lighter mood. “You’re moving in swanky circles, kid.”

  “It’s just a neighborhood joint,” Eddie said, keeping it cold and distant. “I’ll see you, Mike.”

  Carmody left the booth and glanced at his watch. It was almost eight-thirty and there was no point in going back to Headquarters. He ordered a lemon Coke at the fountain and looked over the magazine rack while he drank it. Then he phoned in and left a message with the clerk for Lieutenant Wilson, saying he was on something important and would be in later. The clerk told him everything was still quiet, and added that the card game could go on all night if things stayed this way.

  “Yes, we’ve got snap jobs,” Carmody said, and replaced the receiver.

  With almost two hours to kill, he left the drug store and strolled down Market, trying to dismiss the memory of Eddie’s coldness. It hadn’t always been that way. Carmody was eight years older than his brother and as a boy Eddie had idolized him, which was inevitable, considering the difference in their ages. He had taught Eddie to swim, to play ball, to fight and had bought him clothes and lent him money for his first dates. Eddie had been a nice little guy, Carmody thought, walking along the bright crowded street. A serious kid, not bright or shrewd but straightforward and dependable. Almost too pretty in the soft, dark-pale Irish manner; flawless fair skin, long-lashed blue eyes, thick, curly black hair. In his cassock and surplice with the round white collar under his chin he had always stolen the show at St. Pat’s Christmas and Easter processions. But he’d never been spoiled, Carmody remembered. He was just a likable little boy, shyly earnest and direct, with a thousand little-boy questions always buzzing in his head. Carmody smiled slightly. Why don’t footballs float like balloons? Could the old man lick Jack Dempsey? How come you have to leave home when you marry an old girl? Carmody had always felt like smiling at him when he asked questions like that, his face serious, his long-lashed eyes staring at Mike as if he knew everything in the world. They’d got along fine then and maybe that was the only way two people ever got along — when one of them was so trusting that he accepted the other’s every word without doubt or resentment. But it couldn’t stay that way. Eventually, the dumb one got smart and saw that his idol was just another poor fool.

  Time was standing still, Carmody thought, looking at his watch. The crowds went by him, charged with night time excitement and a traffic cop waved and gave him a soft, smiling salute. He crossed the street and stopped to look at the bright posters in front of a movie house. Buying a ticket, he went inside and took a back seat. The audience sloped down from him to the screen, a dark, intense unit. There was an irritating smell of stale smoke and popcorn in the heavy air.

  After twenty minutes he lost interest in the picture and left. It was the kind of junk that annoyed him thoroughly, a sticky, phony story about a man and woman who ran into trouble because they ignored the standards of their society. Who in hell made those standards? A group of frightened ninnies who clung for protection to the symbols of reversed collars and nightsticks, and wanted only a kind boss, an insurance policy and a two-room apartment with babies.

  There was no penalty for smashing the rules made by these timid p
eople; Carmody had proved that to his satisfaction. The truth they gave lip-service to didn’t exist; there was no mystery about life, no hidden value, no far-away beauty and happiness. The true life spread around every human being, a dog-eat-dog slaughter for money and power. Those who didn’t see it were blinded by fear; they closed their eyes to the truth because they were afraid to fight. They wanted a handout, a pension, a break, from some other world. They can’t take this world, and that’s why we take it away from them, Carmody thought.

  Finally, he turned into a night club on Fifteenth Street, a big splashy place with a name band and a Hollywood star doing an M.C. turn between pictures. Carmody had a drink with the owner, a worried little man named Ventura, who was going into court the following month to explain some tax irregularities. They talked about the case and Ventura wanted to know if Carmody had heard anything about it, or did he know the judge, and how the hell did things look anyway?

  “That’s all Federal,” Carmody said, relieved that there was no way he could help. That was odd; normally he didn’t mind doing a favor. Maybe I want a favor, he thought. But what? And who can help me? While Ventura was off greeting a chattering bunch of expensive-looking college kids, Carmody paid the check and left.

  Now it was time to see his brother.

  Eddie was sitting at the bar, his broad back to the entrance, and Carmody came up behind him and slapped him on the shoulder. His brother turned, smiling awkwardly, and they exchanged hellos and shook hands.

  “What’ll you have?” Eddie asked him.

  “It doesn’t matter. Scotch, I guess.”

  “I’ll coast on this,” Eddie said, nodding at his half-filled glass of beer.

  The Fanfair was a pleasant spot, several notches above a neighborhood tavern. There was a piano on a dais at the end of the long bar and beyond that double doors led to the dining room. The lighting was soft and the decorations were attractive; it was the sort of place a young man would take his girl after the movies, or where a married couple would bring their in-laws for Sunday dinner. There was no bouncer, no drunks or cigarette girls, no unescorted women.