Free Live Free Page 7

  The policeman was not listening. Ax in hand, he mounted the stoop, taking two steps at a time.

  The door opened and a second policeman looked out. He had a round, freckled face. “I thought that was you, Bill. You got it, huh?”

  Williams relaxed and lowered his ax. “Yeah. What you doing in here?”

  “Playin’ with a kitty.”

  “What you say?”

  “You asked me. Come on in.”

  Williams did. Like a shadow, the little guy slipped in with him, ducking under his arm as he closed the door. Inside, an old woman sat in a rocking chair, smiling indulgently. Sergeant Proudy crouched on the worn oriental carpet before her. He held a length of string from which was suspended a crumpled ball of pink paper. A kitten with intelligent yellow eyes watched the paper with fascination, occasionally extending a tentative paw.

  “This place sure don’t smell good,” Williams said under his breath.

  “It’s just the cat box, Bill.”

  Sergeant Proudy glanced up. “You got the ax.”

  “Yeah,” Williams said slowly. “Right.”

  “Chop the door yet?”

  “What you mean? I just got back. Dispatcher say somebody try to bust in here, and here I am.”

  “That was me that called,” the old woman in the rocker said. “I hung up when I saw it was the police. No use crying wolf when the fire’s out.”

  Williams asked Sergeant Proudy, “What happened, anyhow?”

  “Fred dropped his light and we got the wrong house. I knew something was the matter as soon as that door went flying open. The Free place has doors like a fort.”

  Evans added, “We were pretty cold, so when Mrs. Baker here asked us in it sounded good. Then the Sarge got to playin’ with her cat.”

  “Puff,” Mrs. Baker explained.

  Sergeant Proudy said, “I happen to like cats. Some people do, ain’t that right? It’s no crime.”

  Williams shook his head. “‘Course not. Me, I’d rather have a dog, but it’s just what a man’s taste run to. I believe, though, they’re ’bout ready with that big machine outside.”

  The little guy who had slipped in behind Williams said, “They’ve had some kind of breakdown—I think they said something about a cylinder head.” He had taken off his trenchcoat and battered felt hat. Perhaps everyone there except Mrs. Baker herself thought he belonged in the house.

  “We ought to get them out anyways,” Williams said. “Get it done.”

  “Yeah.”

  Puff had changed tactics. She was clapping both gray paws now.

  “If you ain’t going to go, I believe I’ll just go out and set in me and Evans’s cruiser. Something might come over the radio.”

  Sergeant Proudy stood up. “You trying to smart off, Bill?”

  “Not me. I just meant what I said. Not a thing else.”

  The little guy glanced at Mrs. Baker. “Maybe you’d like some coffee before you go out. I know I would.”

  “I don’t have any,” Mrs. Baker told him. “Just tea for two and cooco. How about some cooco? It always goes so nice on a cold day.”

  “Yes’m, I’d like some,” Williams said. “I got mighty cold walking all the way down to that fire station.”

  “We were out in it as much as you were, ain’t that right?”

  “I never said you wasn’t, Sarge. I never said you went and set in the cruiser or anything like that. I know you must have got cold too. Probably that’s why Fred dropped his flash. A man’s fingers gets cold and he start dropping things. Why I just ’bout dropped this ax a couple times on my way back.”

  Sergeant Proudy looked at Williams dangerously.

  Mrs. Baker murmured, “I’ll Polly put the kettle on,” and bustled off. The little guy offered helpfully, “If you’re really worried about that radio, I’ll go listen a while. I’m not cold. I’ll come in and tell you if anything comes over it.”

  “There’s a man out there with blue glasses on that’s probably listening now,” Williams said.

  The doorbell rang, and the little guy opened the door to see who it was. The snow had slackened again, but enough had fallen to form a minute glacier at the bottom of the door. The man on Mrs. Baker’s stoop wore sunglasses, a coconut-fiber hat, a colorful sports shirt, and shorts. His face looked sunburned. “Could you let me inside?” he asked the little guy.

  “I might. You another insurance salesman?”

  “No.” The man in the sports shirt raised one hand solemnly. It was shaking. “I swear to you on my mother’s grave, on my honor and everything I hold dear, that I am not selling insurance.”

  “I’d let an insurance salesman in,” the little guy said. “I just wondered if you were one. There’s quite a few out there.” He stood aside and let the man in the sports shirt across the threshold.

  “Thank God. I’m freezing.”

  “You look it.”

  “I always have a couple gin slings before I go out on calls—we’ve got them free in the office—but by God, I don’t think they help a bit.”

  “I may come up to your office sometime.”

  “We’d love to have you. I mean that.” The man in the sports shirt reached into its pocket and took out a card. “Any time. Let me know.” The card read:

  Sim Sheppard

  “SUNSHINE ESTATES”

  The little guy said, “I think you’re looking for Sergeant Proudy, am I right? I’m not him, I’m Jim Stubb. Proudy’s the one with the kitten. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

  * * *

  Barnes tapped Stubb on the shoulder. “What is it?” he asked. Like Stubb, he stood in the snow, his coat collar turned up against the wind.

  “You don’t know, huh?”

  Barnes pursed his lips. “Salesmen?”

  “Yeah. There must be a hundred of the bastards. Insurance. Stocks and bonds. Florida real estate.”

  “I called them. I said I was Proudy and told them to meet me here.”

  “I thought it was something like that. You’re a clever devil, Ozzie.”

  “Madame Serpentina wanted me to do something, and I had to think and think before I came up with this. I don’t believe it will stop them. Not really.”

  “It’s sure as hell slowing them down.”

  The three policemen were fighting their way through the mob. It might have been a riot.

  “I think we should go up and stand in front of the door,” Barnes said. “It may be the last thing we can do.”

  “Watch your step. Candy threw some water out of her window a while back, and it froze.”

  “I should have thought of that,” Barnes said. There was no rail on the stoop, and the two roomers clung to each other to keep from falling.

  “Anyway, she did,” Stubb told him. “Candy’s a straight-forward girl. Hey, look at that!”

  Down the street, a van with an elaborate antenna on its roof loomed through the falling snow.

  “Channel Two News,” Stubb said. He took off his glasses and wiped them on his sleeve.

  Barnes glanced at him admiringly. “You call them?”

  “If I called them, they wouldn’t come. But I called a hell of a lot of politicians, and I figured somebody would tip them. There’s always somebody in politics who wants to make a little time with the media.”

  Williams flourished the fire ax over his head. Beside it, Evans’s nightstick rose and fell. One of the salesmen yelled. A siren howled in the distance.

  “More police,” Barnes said.

  Stubb nodded. “I was afraid of that.”

  “Think we ought to lock arms?”

  “We’re not young enough, but sure. No nukes! Save the whales! Free’s an endangered species!”

  They locked arms. Stubb used his free hand to take off his glasses and slip them into a pocket in his trenchcoat.

  Evans was thrusting with his nightstick now, using its blunt end to punch the bellies of the salesmen. Williams and Proudy broke free and mounted the stoop, Williams still brandishing
the ax. “Get out the way!” he ordered the two roomers.

  The yellow machine’s operator revved its engine.

  “Not us,” Stubb told Williams. A rusty, bulbless porch light thrust forward from the bricks. Stubb was just able to grasp its bracket to steady himself.

  The salesmen surged after Sergeant Proudy. Beyond them, a little class of varicolored children and a gaggle of old people watched with interest, wiping their noses on their sleeves. The camera crew had taken in everything at a glance and was already shooting as a reporter advanced with a microphone. Down the street, a black-and-white police car skidded around the corner.

  “It’s you,” Sergeant Proudy said to Barnes. “Where’s Free?”

  “Yes, it’s me,” Barnes told him.

  Williams asked, “Why you want to do this anyway? What this old house mean to you?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Stubb said. “To tell you the truth, I’m damned if I know.”

  “Well, move. I’m just going to have to carry you off.”

  Stubb shook his head.

  Sergeant Proudy threw his arms around Barnes, pinning Barnes’s own to his sides. From nowhere, as it seemed, there was an explosion of white dust. Sergeant Proudy began to sneeze violently, and on the third sneeze, he released Barnes.

  Williams yelled, “Get out the way!” and shouldered Stubb aside. Swiftly the red ax flashed up, then slammed forward. There was a scream of wood as Williams wrenched at the blade.

  Behind him, Mick Malloy lost his balance on the icy steps and fell heavily against Nate Glasser and Ozzie Barnes. Both of them fell against Williams. The long, sharp wrecking spur of the fire ax flew wildly back just as Sergeant Proudy straightened up from yet another sneeze.

  Vaguely through the falling snow and the fog of myopia, Stubb saw the white of bone and the gush of blood.

  The Casualty

  When Captain Davidson stepped out of his car, the street was calm again. The television crew had departed for a more visual disaster, and of the varicolored kids and old folks, only a corporal’s guard remained. Four policemen, in attitudes diversely self-important, oversaw the conversation of the salesmen. A fifth drooped some distance away. “Now then,” Captain Davidson demanded. “What’s going on here?”

  A big, red-faced policeman stepped forward. “They got him in there, sir.”

  “The hell they have.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You were here when it happened?”

  “Yes, sir. I been here the whole time. I come with him. I’m Evans, sir.”

  “And you let them take him inside?”

  “I couldn’t help it, sir. The doctor did it. The sergeant was down on the sidewalk floppin’ around, with these salesmen steppin’ all over him—”

  “Did you say salesmen?”

  “Yes, sir. Them over there, sir. Then this old doctor come runnin’ up from someplace. I think he lives around here, sir. He was yammerin’ about stoppin’ the bleedin’. Then the door opened. This big fat gal in a pink robe that threw the water at us opened it, and the doc yelled help him up. So I did, and the first thing I knew, the doc had his shoulder on one side and the guy with the mustache was on the other side, and the two of them carried him in the house and locked the door, sir.”

  “And you didn’t go with him.”

  Evans shook his head. “I tried to, sir, but all the salesmen was tryin’ to get in too, and the fat gal was pushin’ them away. She’s a good pusher.”

  “This whole God-damned operation has a curse on it,” Captain Davidson said bitterly. “It’s already taken ten times as long as it should have and used up ten times too many men. Now this.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You looked like you were going to say something, Evans. Spit it out.”

  “No, sir. I wasn’t goin’ to say anythin’.”

  The captain jerked his head toward the construction vehicles parked along the curb. “Where are the operators?”

  “Down the street, sir, gettin’ some coffee.”

  “I don’t blame them.”

  “No, sir.”

  Captain Davidson walked to the stoop and leaned forward to peer at the door.

  “Watch it, sir. It’s icy.”

  “So I see.”

  “Think we’ll get much more snow, sir?”

  Captain Davidson turned around to look at Evans. “Not before we have them out of there, no. Not before I have the whole God-damned bunch of you screw-offs back on the job. Who’s got the ax?”

  None of the policemen spoke.

  “You heard me. Somebody hit this door with an ax. Williams, you beaned Proudy with it. Where is it now?”

  Williams muttered.

  “Speak up! If you’re afraid to swing it again, I’ll do it myself. Where is it?”

  “Somebody got it.”

  A slightly disheveled man in blue spectacles separated himself from the knot of salesmen. “A little guy with thick glasses got it, Captain.”

  “What?”

  “This officer was somewhat dazed—I think we all were—and this little guy came up to the officer and said, ‘I’ll take that,’ and took the ax from his hand. That was the last I saw of it.”

  “Who are you?”

  It was said briskly and even abruptly, but the man in the blue spectacles stepped forward smiling. “Nathaniel Glasser, Captain.” Like a stage magician producing a miraculous bouquet, he extended his card. “I’m an investment counselor. Possibly you’ve heard of us—Papke, Mittleman, Glasser & Dornberg. We got our clients into women’s preperfumed bras right at the beginning. They made millions, and we steered them into tax shelters. Our own percentage is very small, of course.” The card was in Captain Davidson’s hand. Glasser stepped back, still smiling.

  “The sunlight troubles your eyes, Mr. Glasser?”

  “Hm? Oh, you mean these?” Glasser removed his blue spectacles. “Yes, it does. When the sun’s out, I mean. Reflects off the snow. I’m not wanted, if that’s what you’re thinking, Captain.”

  “No, I suppose not. The sun’s not out now, Mr. Glasser.”

  “They have my correction,” Glasser said, and replaced the blue spectacles.

  Captain Davidson turned away. “Evans, you’re pretty big. I want you and Williams here up on that stoop. You two—” he gestured toward a pair of policemen who had been watching the salesmen. “You go around back. You, Peters,” he pointed to his driver. “You come—”

  At that moment, the door of the Free house opened; Mick Malloy stepped out, closing it behind him.

  “What are you waiting for, you dumb bastards! Evans! Get that door!”

  Evans lunged for it, slipped on the ice, and caught himself by grabbing the knob. After a moment he got his knees under him and tried to turn it. “Locked again, Captain.”

  “Yeah, I bet.” Captain Davidson stalked across to Malloy. “Who’re you?”

  “Eighteen years on the force,” Malloy said. “Seven in plain clothes. I’m Mick Malloy. Used to be Eleventh Precinct, Captain.”

  “You live in there?”

  “’Fraid not, Captain. I was just in there talking to Sergeant Proudy; I’m his insurance advisor.” Malloy’s hand dipped into an inner pocket and came out with an official-looking document. His eyes sought out a red-faced man in the crowd. “I just signed Sergeant Proudy up for twenty-five thousand whole life.”

  The red-faced man stepped forward, swinging his attache case. “You signed him while he was lying there bleeding? You dirty cocksucker!”

  “He was anxious to sign,” Malloy said happily. “He wanted to sign, Steve. You should have heard him thank me afterwards. I could have made it fifty. I’m kind of sorry I didn’t.”

  “Suppose he dies?” Marshal asked angrily. (Captain Davidson watched the two of them in silence.)

  “He won’t.”

  “The hell you say! You’re no doctor.”

  “The doctor’s a doctor. He’s got him in there taking stitches in his head. He
’s not yelling about oxygen and transfussions, is he?”

  “How the hell would I know?”

  Captain Davidson said, “You said you didn’t live there, Malloy.”

  “I don’t, Captain.”

  “Then you wouldn’t mind if we had a look at your keys, would you? Just friendly. You say you’re an ex-cop. You ought to know how it is.”

  “I’d like the keys back, Captain. I hope you’ll keep the card. You know how it is.”

  “I don’t. I never sold insurance.”

  A shivering man in shorts and a short-sleeved shirt appeared at Malloy’s elbow. “Did you say twenty-five thousand whole life?”

  Captain Davidson tossed the keys to Evans on the stoop.

  “Double indemnity. Beneficiary’s his wife.”

  “That’s what I thought I heard,” the shivering man said. He was nursing a styrofoam coffee container. “One of the guys was talking about it when I came up. I had him—” He paused to wipe his nose.

  Glasser pushed him aside. “Look, you’re leaving, right? Malloy, right?” He thrust out a hand, and Malloy took it. “Nat Glasser. You got nothing to lose, so tell me. What kind of a presentation did he go for? Man-of-the-world? Serious? We’ve got something opening up that—”

  “How do you know I don’t have a concussion?” Sergeant Proudy asked argumentatively.

  “Do I look like God?” the old doctor said. “I don’t know.” As a matter of fact, he did look like God. He was a small, elderly man who sported a little white beard and an even whiter mustache; the collar of a tattersall shirt—an almost infallible sign of the presence of deity—peeped above the collar of his overcoat.

  “Suppose I do have a concussion?”

  “You’re blacking out? Seeing spots?”

  “No.”

  “Dizzy?”

  “Not much.”

  “Your fingers are numb. You drop things.”

  “Not since I dropped that flashlight, and that was before I got hit.”

  “Then supposing you have a concussion, I’m ordering you to go home and go to bed. In the morning, see your regular doctor and tell him what happened.”

  “That’s what you said before.”

  “I noticed it myself.” The doctor glanced at his curved needle and put it away. “Concussion is a bruising of the brain. It can be so slight there’s practically no symptoms at all. The main thing is to leave it alone until it gets better. Don’t play football. If you see somebody trying to hit you with a ball bat, duck. (Nurse, let me have some tape.) If you want to find out for certain if you have a concussion, we’ll perform an autopsy. If you think you might have a fractured skull, go to the emergency room of the nearest hospital and tell them that. They’ll zap your head with a few X-rays, and it’s a poor X-ray man that can’t find a little crack someplace if he looks hard enough. He’ll tell you to give up football until the bone knits. Okay, all done, put on your hat and you can go home.”