Any Woman He Wanted Read online

  She hesitated, then said softly, “Eight will be fine, Mike. I’ll be waiting. Please don’t mind—whoever may be here.”

  I replaced the receiver, thinking she probably meant that Fred Carmichael would be there. Then I thought about the scene that might ensue if Fred and I met at the Flynn house after what young Morgan must have told him this afternoon.

  I sat up, glancing at the clock. There would be no way for me to avoid meeting Fred Carmichael. You can hurt a man almost anywhere except in his pocketbook and have some hope for forgiveness.

  I touched the check made out to Lupe Valdez in the breast pocket of my jacket.

  It was three minutes of five. I got up and got out of there.

  As I pushed the key into my apartment doorlock, I could hear the soft strains of sentimental love ballads from my Magnavox console—a relic from my fat years as a vice-squad lieutenant.

  I stepped in. Lupe Valdez was sprawled out on my divan. This did my libido—whatever the hell that is—no good because her position, except that she was wearing more clothes, was much like the one I had captured the night before with my Rolex.

  She sat up, smiling wanly. Her cheeks were starkly pale, her black eyes lusterless.

  I grew aware of something else—the place was beginning to smell like her. There was nothing wrong with the scent—a combination of mild bath soap, faint toilet water and youthful cleanliness—nothing wrong at all except for its effect on me. I had nothing but sympathetic understanding for Morgan Carmichael’s rash need for this chick.

  “Hello, Mike.”

  She gave me the kind of adoring gaze a young girl fixes upon a father who is above human frailties, and who is just a little stronger and better than the next man. One thing her look did. It switched off my libido button, fast.

  I felt as gray, suddenly, as she looked.

  I smiled back at her, moved toward my portable bar, and at the faint frown in her eyes, stopped. The hell with it. My God, what were people doing to me?

  I went over to the couch, pulled the check from my inside coat pocket and dropped it in her lap.

  I don’t know what I expected her to do. What she did was burst into tears. She stared at the check, touched the amount, the scrawled signature with her fingers. She looked up at me and sat there sobbing, her eyes dripping, nose running, mouth trembling.

  I tossed my handkerchief into her lap on top of the check. She picked it up and blew her nose.

  “You’re all right now,” I told her. “You see an investment man at my bank tomorrow. You hear?”

  “I hear you, Mike.”

  “I’m sure neither the kid nor Morgan will mind if you use some of this to go away a few weeks before you get too outstanding. In fact, Morgan insisted that you do.”

  “He does have some feeling,” she whispered.

  “Oh, yes, he hurts for you.”

  “Oh, Mike. You’re so wonderful. I knew you would be—that first day I saw you.”

  “Sure. Only you hear me good. I want that kid to have a living trust. Understand?”

  She nodded.

  “I don’t want to pick him up some time for stealing something he couldn’t afford to buy.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “I don’t want him ever joining the cops, either—there are better jobs he can get.”

  She reached up, touched my face. “There are worse things than a good cop. Mike, I—I think I love you. Oh, Mike!”

  “You’re a doll, Lupe. You love everybody.”

  “Mike, I mean it.” She jumped up, began to pull off her dress. “Take me, Mike. All I have to give you is myself. You want me, don’t you, Mike?”

  “Sure, but not because you’re grateful to me, or trading favors.” I patted her on that sweet fanny. “Now get that dress back on and beat it. Go ahead. Scram.”

  So I sat there, my libido snugly buttoned down in my back pocket. What had happened to me? I wanted a woman who could laugh, and what did I have? A grieving widow and a pregnant teenager. Great.

  Carolyn was alone, waiting for me, when I got to her place. She answered the door herself, led me into the once more immaculate sun-room.

  She sat on the smartly modern, rigidly uncomfortable divan.

  “Come sit here, Mike. With me.”

  “There must be a more comfortable room in this house.”

  “Oh, Mike.” She smiled sadly. “I really have missed you. All these years. Even when I was happy with Tom. And I was happy, Mike. He was good. And he loved me. And I learned one lesson. Love can be learned.”

  “Sure it can.”

  She smiled. “You’re so violent, Mike. I can see in your face what you think of a love that has to be learned.... It isn’t really thunder and lightning. Not all the time.”

  “Sure. And castor oil is good for you, too.”

  I stared at her and remembered how she had looked seven years ago. She had been lovely then. Perhaps the loveliest girl I had ever seen. Now she was the loveliest woman—every promise of her girlhood had been fulfilled—in spades. And I thought of what she was saying about love—as though she had never met it, had never trembled with need of it, had never known what it was like—or what she had missed. Maybe she was lucky. Under her grief was a look of serenity, as if innocence were bliss.

  Also, maybe she was right. Perhaps the careful, decorous, sane life she had shared with Tom Flynn was the right answer. How would I have known? But watching her now, knowing that she had never really been touched, never been reached by passion, I thought of her as having been asleep—that there was in her seven years of violence she did not even know about.

  I felt the sick longing in my loins, felt the silence of this big house pressing in on us, the darkness at the tall windows—these all became part of the need that had been building in me until I was ready to burst with it. I stared at her and wanted to touch her, to hold her against me. What I felt was worse than desire. It was a sick need, and I had to remind myself that she was full of grief. I had to put everything else out of my mind.

  “You wanted to see me,” I reminded her. “You sounded worried.”

  I was astonished at the flatness of my voice.

  “I’m worried about Jerry.”

  “I’ve learned some things about him over the years. And since Tom’s death I’ve kept my ears open. He’s been doing a lot of gambling and he’s in pretty deep. The boys carried him as long as Tom was alive. They had an idea that Jerry was some kind of insurance, which proves they didn’t know Tom Flynn very well.”

  “Tom would never make a deal with any racketeers.”

  “I know. And like John Brown, he lies a-moldering in his—I’m sorry, Carolyn. It’s just that I found out a long time ago that you’ve got to compromise. No matter who you are.”

  “Tom was a good influence on Jerry when he was alive.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe he was. Maybe Jerry just played it cagey.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s nothing new about these gambling tabs on Jerry, Carolyn. You might as well know the truth. They’re old. Tom was alive when Jerry made them. I’m afraid Jerry was giving Tom the con—making him believe he was impressed by Tom’s unbending honesty.”

  “Oh, Mike, please—”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I’m so alone. I don’t know what to do. I kept thinking Jerry would settle down. That Tom would influence him—for good. And now I don’t even have that. Could you talk to him, Mike?”

  “He wouldn’t listen to me. Not any more. My talking to him might make him worse. He has some idea he has to prove I can’t influence him at all.”

  “But I’ve got to do something. Mike, you’re the only one I know who’s ever been able to control Jerry. Down deep, I know he has real respect for you—even affection.” She hesitated and presently I knew why. “Maybe you could talk to the gamblers he owes money to—make them see he can’t possibly pay them, that they’re just wasting time helping him destroy himself.”

 
; There seemed to be a sudden chill in the sunroom. “Nobody can talk to gamblers, Carolyn. What you mean is that you want me to scare hell out of them to protect Jerry.”

  “You could, Mike. Tom felt you could. I believe it—with all my heart.”

  “Well, stop deceiving yourself. Gamblers are protected in this town, better than any taxpayer you’ll ever meet. They’re entrenched, and they’re organized, and they are protected. They have been for a long time now”

  She seemed to grow more rigid; her cheeks became paler than ever. “I don’t believe that, Mike. Tom would never have permitted such a terrible state of affairs in this town. He loved this town. It was his life—”

  I gestured helplessly. “He couldn’t help it, Carolyn. He couldn’t stop them. He was a good man—maybe that was his weakness. He tried. He just couldn’t beat them. Once I might have—with a few others on the force who could move among the racketeers. Tom stopped me and without meaning to, threw the town wide open. Now the gamblers and racketeers are in the saddle—and nobody can stop them.”

  She sat a long time without speaking. “You wouldn’t help Tom,” she said finally. “I don’t know why I thought you’d help me.” Her voice was chilled.

  “I’d help you, Carolyn, if there were anything I could do.”

  She stood up, her face lifeless, her smile distant, cold. “I’m sure you would, Mike. Will you forgive me? I have a terrible headache.”

  I stood up, staring into her face, knowing the gap between us was wider than seven years now. She barely remembered me at all.

  I wondered if she heard me leave the house.

  Yet I wanted her. I wanted her. I wanted to touch her soft breast I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to love her.

  16

  They were waiting for me the next morning in Captain Neal Burgess’ office. When I didn’t look surprised to see them, poised and ready to pounce, we had a quorum. We all knew why we were there.

  Neal Burgess was Captain of Detectives, and next to me, low man on the totem pole. He was the only man in the room who looked sick. Chief Clyde Waylin looked troubled, but there was no illness in his face. Commissioner Stewart Mitchell sat at Neal’s desk, a thick briefcase across his short, fat legs, his face pink under his white hair.

  When we had all acknowledged it was a good morning, Mitchell was the one to raise the hammer and drop it on the nail.

  “Ballard, I thought you’d learned your lesson four years ago.”

  “What lesson was that, sir?”

  “Four years ago, you were a tool of Luxtro’s in this department. A disgrace to the honest men in police uniform. A paid cop. A crooked cop. Delinquent in your office, taking graft, and bribes. I felt then that you should have been dismissed, prosecuted.”

  “I remember, sir. You told me.”

  Mitchell leaned forward, his face burning. He, too, remembered. We had had quite an interview. I had known four years ago that he, too, was playing footsie with Luxtro. He had tried to call my bluff because he doubted I could prove my facts—and had backed down when I showed him I could. We had agreed on a compromise. He reminded me of the terms now.

  “We were lenient with you, Ballard. We allowed you to stay on the force. You were disciplined at my orders by being dropped to lowest rank in the detective bureau. We felt that you had paid, perhaps learned a lesson, and even your bitterest enemies admitted you could be a good officer, and a credit to the department. However, for four years, you’ve earned no advancement, no commendations. You’ve done nothing. Are you trying to make fools of us?”

  Burgess leaned forward. “What are your specific charges against Detective Ballard, Commissioner?”

  Chief Waylin said softly, “Never mind, Neal.”

  Neal’s voice was sharp. “Nobody gets at my men except through me. On that I insist. It’s always been that way, and it will continue that way as long as I hold my job.”

  “A commendable attitude, Captain.” This from Mitchell, who smiled a little, sickly, but continued to grapple with the bull while making his passes on a powderkeg. “Commendable as long as you protect the honest men in your command. But do not involve yourself with a man like Ballard—”

  “I still want to know, Commissioner, what he has done.”

  Mitchell’s hands moved on the brief case. “We’re not sure of what he might be doing, Captain. He hasn’t been working for a promotion in the department. This is strictly my way of being fair to him, as I try to be to all you men. He knows what he has been doing. I had better warn you, Ballard, if you are accepting outside gratuities again, this time there will be no leniency shown you. I want this man on probation, Captain Burgess.”

  “Where did the complaints come from?” Burgess said.

  “I’ll tell you this much. I had a call at my home last night from Mr. Fred Carmichael, and later from Mayor Bibb. The activities of Detective Ballard seem once again to have attracted unfavorable attention—enough so that two civic leaders have been moved to complain. We’re not going to tolerate it this time, Ballard. That’s all I need to say to you. Behave yourself, or you’re in desperate trouble. Do I make myself clear?”

  He had made himself clear—at least to me.

  There was more discussion. Burgess continued on my side—it was also his side. I answered questions, volunteered nothing. The questions were unspecific and I sensed they were fishing. What was I after, if anything? I wished I had the answer to that one.

  In the end it was decided that, despite some evidence that Ballard, the bad cop, was stirring again, my probation would not become effective immediately.

  I got up to leave when Mitchell and Waylin were going, but Neal shook his head. “I want to talk to you, Mike.”

  I shrugged, slumped back in the chair. The other two men went out. Waylin closed the door behind him.

  Burgess said, “What are you pulling, Mike? What’s the gimmick?”

  “You tell me.”

  “All right I will. I’ve heard that you have been questioning people around Halsey and Twenty-third about who shot young Hogan.”

  “Shouldn’t I? He was killed. I am a homicide man.”

  Burgess shook his head. “We made a thorough investigation, Mike. Hogan was mixed up in some small-time racket on the side—that was why he was killed. None of us believe it would be to the best interest of the police department to have all that brought out in the open.”

  I stared at him without speaking. I needed no words. He knew what I was thinking. The investigation had been ordered pigeon-holed. After Ed Clemmons’ death had been called an accident—which occurred while Ed had been cleaning his guns at 3:00 A.M.

  “Do you believe that about Hogan, Neal?”

  His face went white. His voice was very low. “If I didn’t you know damned well I’d order men kept on the case.”

  “And you believe Tom Flynn committed suicide while drunk?”

  He moved in his chair. “That’s enough, Mike. Flynn’s death was a suicide.”

  ‘And Ed Clemmons’ death was accidental?”

  “Yes.”

  ‘And Carl Hogan was a crooked cop that got what was coming to him?”

  He leaned forward. “For God’s sake! Yes. Why don’t you do your job— stay out of trouble with the commissioner, and stop asking questions? We’ve all got a job to do. You’ve got your own woes, now the commissioner is after you.”

  ‘And you don’t think there’s any connection?”

  “Good lord, Mike. What kind of accusations are you making? Against me. Against Waylin. Against Mitchell.”

  “You mean I have to take it, but I can’t dish it out?”

  “Listen to me. Whatever it is you’re doing that’s got Mitchell upset, cut it out. Do your job. That’s all we ask.”

  There was agony in his eyes, and his face muscles were rigid.

  Somebody knocked on the door. Before he could control himself, Burgess yelled, “All right, come in! Who is it? What the hell do you want?”

  Ernie Gault ca
me in with a slip of paper in his hand. I hadn’t seen him in three days. He looked as if he had aged ten years.

  “What is it, Ernie?”

  Burgess calmed down when he saw Ernie. Here was a guy everyone respected. He had given his life to the department.

  “Protection racket, Neal,” Ernie said. “What else?” He glanced at me, and looked sicker than before. But I knew it was not because he was troubled about me. Ernie had his own woes and since the death of Tom Flynn, the dishonesty in the department had been poisoning him like his ulcer. He knew Tom Flynn had been murdered, that Clemmons’ death was no accident and that there had been no honesty in the Hogan murder investigation, and he also knew he had to keep his mouth shut. It was all inside him. Like some terrible disease.

  “What now?” Neal said.

  “We had a call this morning, few minutes ago. Spyrous Papolous has been threatened.”

  The name rang a faint bell. I had to dig around in my mind to realize it was the name of the Greek. I had forgotten he had a real name.

  “What about Papolous?” I said.

  “He’s been threatened a couple times before, but has laughed it off. But now he thinks they mean business and he’s worried. He wants police protection.”

  Neal shrugged. “Can you stake him out?”

  Ernie’s face was rigid. “I need more men. Like I told you and Clyde. We need some special assignments.”

  Neal said, “We told you, Ernie. You’ll have to get by on the men you have.”

  “You mean you’re not going to give Papolous protection?” I leaned against the desk.

  “Never mind, Mike,” Ernie said, troubled.

  “Of course we’ll give him every protection we can,” Burgess said. “But we can’t hire extra detail men. If we get somebody we can put over there, we’ll do it.”

  “The Greek would never call you if he weren’t in bad trouble.” I was sitting on the edge of my chair.

  “I’ll run this department, Mike,” Burgess said. “You got your own woes.”

  “We’ll do what we can, Mike,” Ernie said.

  Burgess tried to laugh. “I know the Greek serves your favorite booze, Mike, but we have a department to run. We’ll run it our way.”