I looked at the empty bottle of bourbon, picked it up, and put it in the trash bucket under my desk. I was tired and hungry and wanted to go home. But there was something else I needed to do.
I stood up, grabbed my hat, walked across the room, shut out the lights, and locked the door. I wanted to talk to someone.
I went down to the lobby and out the main door. The night was still warm, but the sea air had moved in, and it felt like it might rain. I looked up and down the street – casually – wanting anyone interested in me to think I was trying to remember where I parked my car. I caught the glow of a cigarette burning in some shadows across the street, and I hoped it was someone waiting for me. If it was, I planned to make it easy for him to follow along.
I turned down 6th and aimed towards Broadway, heading for an alley I knew well. It was dark in there, and about 20 yards in, it cut hard to the right, and I figured I could use that turn to jump my shadow. Then we could talk.
I walked slowly, took my time, and didn’t look back. At the first corner, I crossed to the south side of the street and walked past the Hayward Hotel. I stopped and looked into the window of a little market just to be sure my shadow had a chance to spot me and had time to get across the street. After waiting a minute or more, I continued on my way towards Broadway.
The alley I was planning to use was just the other side of Louie’s Diner, underneath the big neon fat man with the bib Louie had as a sign. That gave off plenty of light for someone to see me where I went. I knew it would be hard to see anything clearly. Still I was betting I’d be able to make out his silhouette as he came in. I just wasn’t sure I would see him plain enough to tell if he had anything in his hands. But I expected a knife.
I turned into the alley and walked as quickly as I could to the corner where it cut to the right. I looked for a makeshift shield, hoping for the lid of a trash can or anything metal, but I only found a large sheet of corrugated cardboard. At least it was good size and quite thick. It would have to do. I picked it up and looked back the way I came.
A small, almost boyish, shape appeared in the entrance. He stopped and studied the darkness. I heard the click of a switch knife.
Detto – it had to be – came into the alley. I crouched down, held the cardboard with both hands, and waited.
He took his time. I don’t know if he was that cautious, if he couldn’t see, or if he was afraid. But he kept inching forward. And that’s what mattered.
When he was almost on top of me, I jumped up and, with my arms extended, smashed the sheet of cardboard against him. He slashed at it, and I could hear it ripping, but his knife didn’t come near me, and with his arms and the knife covered by the cardboard, I could push at him and keep the blade away from me.
I forced him towards the wall. He kicked me and got one sharp blow on my ankle. I didn’t quite lose my balance, but I was knocked off kilter enough to lose pressure and he broke free. The knife slashed across my arm.
I thrust the cardboard against his chest and got him against the wall, but he kept kicking. I avoided his feet as best as I could and concentrated on holding his arms immobile. Still, he got the knife below the bottom of my shield, jabbing and waving it around with just his wrist. Somehow, he managed to cut into my thigh, and I put my knee into his groin as hard as I could. He yelled in surprise and pain.
But he didn’t double over, and his other hand had found its way above the cardboard, and he was grabbing at me, tearing at my hair, and slapping at my head. I pinned him against the wall, held the cardboard against him with my shoulder, and smashed a forearm into his face. He twisted and squirmed but couldn’t free himself. I beat my forearm into his face once more and cracked his head against the wall. The fight started dripping out of him.
I let the cardboard drop and got a hand on the arm with the knife. He was still struggling and kicking, and he pounded at me with his other hand, but the blows barely stung and never hit with any force.
With my hands now locked around his wrist and, wanting him to drop the knife, I slammed that arm against the wall as hard as I could. He cursed at me, and his other hand pulled at my face and my ears and my hair – anything he could close his fingers around. I banged his arm against the wall again, but the damn kid still held on to the knife.
I pulled him towards me, put my knee into him, and forced him to the ground. Squatting beside him, I smashed his arm across my leg. I don’t think I broke anything, but I hurt him, and his hand opened, and the knife fell. I tossed it down the alley.
After that, there wasn’t much fight left in the boy. He did try to stand, but I nailed him square on the jaw with a fist, and he went back down.
He laid there and moaned a bit and then started retching. I sat him up, leaned him against the wall, and held him while he vomited into his lap. He didn’t look too good, and he didn’t look too tough. He didn’t look like anything but a little boy who had been playing gangster too long.
I looked at my arm and then at my thigh. Neither cut was much of anything, but I was going to need a new suit.
Detto was in far worse shape. And I didn’t think most of his problems were from the fight. He was shaking and sweating far more than I was – his face was dripping with sweat. He was clammy and, as I felt at his neck, his pulse was racing. His breath was nothing but raspy wheezing.
“How long has it been since you’ve hit up, kid?”
He looked at me, shivered, and said, “Two days.”
“That’s tough. And it’ll just get worse.”
He looked at me, and his eyes were watery, and his nose was dripping snot. “My arm hurts like a son of a bitch,” he said. “Maybe it’s broken?” And he sounded all of twelve.
I looked at his arm, felt for the bones. He winced and started to cry.
“It’s not broken,” I told him. “At least, I don’t think so. But you need a doctor. I’ll get an ambulance. There’s a phone in Louie’s place and I won’t be long.”
I hated to leave him, but I couldn’t see that he was going anywhere. I went and made the call, and I asked Louie for a rag, one damp with cool water.
When I got back, Detto was worse. His bowels had let loose, and he was sitting in his own mess, crying harder. “It hurts,” he groaned.
I bent down, kneeled next to him, used the rag to wipe his forehead and his face, and said “Ambulance is on its way. Should be here soon. Georgia Street isn’t far.”
I wiped at him some more and asked, “Why didn’t you get some stuff from Benny?”
“He don’t sell to me anymore. He’s all tied up with some guy he wants to hook.”
“You know anything about that guy? Benny’s guy?”
Detto flinched and retched, but nothing came up. He coughed, and I sponged his face. He seemed terribly young and fragile.
“Can you tell me anything about that guy?” I asked again.
He shuddered and said “A big guy. Loads of money.” He was trembling and his words came in broken lumps, between the rattles of his breath. Shaking, he said, “You sure got Benny last night.”
He retched again, but his stomach was dry, and all it did was hurt.
The spasms over, his breath came in fast and shallow gasps. He swallowed hard a few times and moaned. I put the rag on his forehead, and I heard the sirens. It wasn’t just an ambulance. A prowl car was on its way as well.
Detto coughed and looked at me with an emotion I couldn’t place. There was something disappointed and something confused and something contemptuous. “And Benny told me we was gonna make you the patsy. It was all planned.”
“There was a plan?”
He pulled his lips into the smallest of smiles, and said, “Yeah.” He closed his eyes and panted some more. He groaned, “My gut hurts. Make it stop,” and he doubled over.
I put the rag on the back of his neck and asked, “What was the plan, Detto?”
He breathed fast and hard and swallowed some more. He trembled and then said, “Benny and I would bump you off and grab some stuff you had. You were broke. Owed Benny money. Everyone would think you took the stuff and faded away.”
He sat up and looked at me with a small, cold, heartless smile. “The deal was worth three grand to Benny, and he said he’d give me one.”
The sirens were closer, and Detto started shaking violently. I wiped snot from his face, and his eyes were very scared and very young.
“Benny’s idea?”
He grimaced as more pain surged through him, but mumbled, “I guess.”
“What happened?”
Detto closed his eyes, and his face twisted with another sting low in his gut. He squeezed out some words. “Henderson. He got the stuff. Yesterday.” He took a breath, opened his eyes, and looked at me. “Benny kept all the dough.” He coughed some more and shook and closed his eyes.
“Who gave him the dough, Detto? Where’d the money come from?”
He coughed and retched and slid down the wall.
I pulled him up again and demanded, “Who was it, Detto? Tell me.”
He looked at me with tears in his eyes and his mouth pulled tight. “Guy from Silver Lake.”
He was in bad shape, and his next few days were going to be hard and nasty. I knew I had hurt him, but not this bad. Despite whatever I had done, I figured he would be in the hospital for days – two or three days at least to get past the worst and maybe as much as a week to get back on his feet. Anyway, I didn’t think he’d be talking to anyone but doctors, nurses, and cops for a good while. That was probably a good thing for me.
About then a black and white pulled up, its flashing lights turning the alley red and white, over and over. A voice called out, “Police.” I yelled, “down here,” and Roy Porter and his partner, Larry Wilson, ran up. I had known Porter for almost ten years, and Wilson had been at Camp Anza with me. Roy looked at the kid, sniffed the air, which didn’t smell any too good, and asked, “What happened to him?”
“A misunderstanding. He pulled a knife on me. I didn’t much care for that, so I took a swing at him, and he cut me.” I showed Roy the cuts on my arm and leg. “Things got a bit rough after that, but I got hot once he tried to carve me. If you look hard enough, the knife’s over there, somewhere.” I jerked my head down the alley.
“Is he hurt?”
“We weren’t dancing at the Sunday social, Roy.” I stood up and said “The real problem is he’s a junkie who hasn’t had anything in a few days. He’s dope sick.”
Roy asked, “Can he talk?”
“He’s been talking to me.”
Detto turned around and looked at Porter and then Wilson. He looked mockingly at Roy’s uniform, his gun, and his badge, and then at me. His eyes were tough and hard now, older and dead cold. “I don’t talk to cops without a lawyer,” he hissed. He closed his eyes and turned his head away. They learn awfully young.
Lettres d'un Inconnu 