Willis did not like working overtime. There are very few people who enjoy working overtime, unless they are paid for it. Willis was a detective 3rd/grade, and his salary was $5,230 a year. He was not paid by the hour, nor was he paid by the number of crimes he solved yearly. His salary was $5,230, and that was what he got no matter how many hours he put in.
He was somewhat miffed, therefore, when Fats Donner failed to call him that Wednesday night. He had hung around the squadroom answering the phone every time it rang and generally making a nuisance of himself with the bulls who had come in on relief. He had listened for a while to Meyer, who was telling Temple about some case the 33rd had where some guy was going around stealing cats. The story had not interested him, and he had continually glanced at the big clock on the wall, waiting. He left the house at nine, convinced that Donner would not call that night.
When he reported for work at 7:45 the next morning, the desk sergeant handed him a note, which told him Donner had called at 11:15 the night before. Donner had asked that Willis call him back as soon as possible. A number was listed on the sheet of paper. Willis walked past the desk and to the right, where a rectangular sign and a pointing hand showed the way to the DETECTIVE DIVISION. He climbed the metal steps, turned where the grilled window threw a pale-grayish morning light on a five-by-five-square interruption of the steps, and then proceeded up another sixteen steps to the second floor.
He turned his back to the doors at the end of the corridor, the doors marked LOCKERS. He walked past the benches, the men’s lavatory, and the clerical office and then through the slatted rail divider and into the detective squadroom. He signed in, said good morning to Havilland and Simpson, who were having coffee at one of the desks, and then went to his own desk and slid the phone toward him. It was a gray, dull morning, and the hanging light globes cast a dust-covered luminescence over the room. He dialed the number and waited, looking over toward Byrnes’s office. The lieutenant’s door was wide open, which meant the lieutenant had not yet arrived. Byrnes generally closed his door as soon as he was in his office.
“Got a hot lead, Hal?” Havilland called.
“Yeah,” Willis said.
A voice on the other end of his phone said, “Hello?” The voice was sleepy, but he recognized it as Donner’s.
“Fats, this is Willis. You called me last night?”
“What?” Donner said.
“Detective Willis, 87th Squad,” Willis said.
“Oh. Hi. Man, what time is it?”
“About eight.”
“Don’t you cats never sleep?”
“What’ve you got for me?”
“You make a guy going by Skippy Randolph?”
“Not off the bat. Who is he?”
“He’s recently from Chi, but I’m pretty sure he’s got a record here, too. He’s been mugging.”
“You sure?”
“Straight goods. You want to meet him?”
“Maybe.”
“There’s gonna be a little cube rolling tonight. Randolph’ll be there. You can rub elbows.”
“Where?”
“I’ll take you,” Donner said. He paused. “Steam baths cost, you know.”
“Let me check him out first,” Willis said. “He may not be worth meeting. You sure he’ll be at this craps game?”
“Posilutely, dad.”
“I’ll call you back later. Can I reach you at this number?”
“Until eleven. I’ll be at the baths after that.”
Willis looked at the name he’d written on his pad. “Skippy Randolph. His own moniker?”
“The Randolph is. I’m not so sure about the Skippy.”
“But you’re sure he’s mugging?”
“Absotively,” Donner said.
“Okay, I’ll call you back.” Willis replaced the receiver, thought for a moment, and then dialed the Bureau of Criminal Identification.
Miscolo, one of the patrolmen from Clerical came into the office and said, “Hey, Hal, you want some coffee?”
“Yes,” Willis said, and then he told the IB what he wanted.
The Bureau of Criminal Identification was located at Headquarters, downtown on High Street. It was open twenty-four hours a day, and its sole reason for existence was the collection and compilation and cataloguing of any and all information descriptive of criminals. The IB maintained a Fingerprint File, a Criminal Index File, a Wanted File, a Degenerate File, a Parolee File, a Released Prisoner File, a Known Gamblers, Known Rapists, Known Muggers, Known Any-and-All Kinds of Criminal Files. Its Modus Operandi File contained more than 80,000 photographs of known criminals. And since all persons charged with and convicted of a crime are photographed and fingerprinted as specified by law, the file was continually growing and continually being brought up to date. Since the IB received and classified some 206,000 sets of prints yearly, and since it answered requests for some 250,000 criminal records from departments all over the country, Willis’s request was a fairly simple one to answer, and they delivered their package to him within the hour. The first photostatted item Willis dug out of the envelope was Randolph’s fingerprint card.
Willis looked at this rapidly. The fingerprints were worthless to him at this stage of the game. He reached into the envelope and pulled out the next item, a photostatted copy of the back of Randolph’s fingerprint card.
Willis looked through the other items in the envelope. There was a card stating that Randolph had been released from Baily’s after eight months of good behavior on May 2, 1950. He had notified his parole officer that he wished to return to Chicago, the city in which he was born, the city he should have returned to as soon as he’d been discharged from the Marine Corps. Permission had been granted, and he’d left the city for Chicago on June 5, 1950. There was a written report from the Chicago parole office to which Randolph’s records had been transferred. Apparently, he had in no way violated his parole.
Willis thumbed through the material and came up with a transcript of Randolph’s Marine Corps record. He had enlisted on December 8, the day after Pearl Harbor. He was twenty-three years old at the time, almost twenty-four. He had risen to the rank of corporal, had taken part in the landings at Iwo Jima and Okinawa, and had personally been responsible for the untimely demise of fifty-four Japanese soldiers. On June 17, 1945, he was wounded in the leg during a Sixth Marine Division attack against the town of Mezado. He had been sent back for hospitalization on Pearl, and after convalescence, he was sent to San Francisco, where he was honorably discharged.
And, four years later, he mugged a fifty-three-year-old man and tried to take his wallet.
And now, according to Donner, he was back in the city—and mugging again.
Willis looked at his watch and then dialed Donner’s number.
“Hello?” Donner asked.
“This craps game tonight,” Willis said. “Set it up.”
The crap game in question was of the floating variety, and on this particular Thursday night, it was being held in a warehouse close to the River Highway. Willis, in keeping with the festive spirit of the occasion, wore a sport shirt patterned with horses’ heads and a sport jacket. When he met Donner, he almost didn’t recognize him. Somehow, the flabby quivering pile of white flesh that sucked in steam at the Turkish baths managed to acquire stature and even eminence when it was dumped into a dark-blue suit. Donner still looked immense, but immense now like a legendary giant, magnificent, almost regal in his bearing. He shook hands with Willis, during which ceremony a ten-dollar bill passed from one palm to another, and then they headed for the warehouse, the craps game, and Skippy Randolph.
A skinny man at the side door recognized Donner, but took pause until Donner introduced Hal Willis as “Willy Harris, an old chum.” He passed them into the warehouse then, the first floor of which was dark except for a lightbulb hanging in one corner of the room. The crapshooters were huddled under that bulb. The rest of the room was crowded with what seemed to be mostly refrigerators and ranges.
“There’s a fix in with the watchman and the cop on the beat,” Donner explained. “Won’t anybody bother us here.” They walked across the room, their heels sounding noisily on the concrete floor. “Randolph is the one in the green jacket,” Donner said. “You want me to introduce you, or will you make it alone?”
“Alone is better,” Willis said. “If this gets fouled, I don’t want it going back to you. You’re valuable.”
“The harm’s already done,” Donner said. “I passed you through the door, didn’t I?”
“Sure, but I could be a smart cop who even had you fooled.”
“Gone,” Donner said. And then—in a whisper so that his heartfelt compliment would not sound like apple-polishing—he added, “You are a smart cop.”
If Willis heard him, he gave no sign of it. They walked over to where the blanket was spread beneath the lightbulb. Donner crowded into the circle of bettors, and Willis moved into the circle opposite him, standing alongside Randolph. A short man with a turtleneck sweater was rolling.
“What’s his point?” Willis asked Randolph.
Randolph looked down at Willis. He was a tall man with brown hair and blue eyes. The knife scar on his temple gave his otherwise pleasant face a menacing look. “Six,” he said.
“He hot?”
“Luke,” Randolph replied.
The man in the turtleneck sweater picked up the cubes and rolled again.
“Come on six,” someone across the circle said.
“Stop praying,” another man warned.
Willis counted heads. Including himself and Donner, there were seven men in the game. The dice rolled to a stop.
“Six,” the man in the turtleneck sweater said. He picked up most of the bills on the blanket, leaving twenty-five dollars. He retrieved the dice then and said, “Bet twenty-five.”
“You’re covered,” a big man with a gravelly voice said. He dropped two tens and a five on to the blanket. The man in the turtleneck rolled.
“Come seven,” he said.
Willis watched. The dice bounced, then stopped moving.
“Little Joe,” the turtleneck said.
“Two-to-one no four,” Willis said. He held out a ten-spot.
A man across the circle said, “Got you,” and handed him a five. Turtleneck rolled again.
“That’s a crazy bet,” Randolph whispered to Willis.
“You said he was luke.”
“He’s getting warmer every time he rolls. Watch him.”
Turtleneck rolled a six and then a five.
The man across the circle said to Willis, “Take another five on that?”
“It’s a bet,” Willis said. He palmed a ten, and the man covered it with a five. Turtleneck rolled. He got his four on the next throw. Willis handed the $30 to the man across the circle. Turtleneck left the fifty on the blanket.
“I’ll take half of it,” Gravel said.
“I’ve got the other half,” Willis said.
They dropped their money, covering Turtleneck’s.
“You’re nuts,” Randolph said.
“I came here to bet,” Willis answered. “When I want to knit argyles, I’ll stay home.”
Turtleneck rolled a seven on his first throw.
“Son of a bitch!” Gravel said.
“Leave the hundred,” Turtleneck replied, smiling.
“You’re covered,” Willis told him.
From across the circle, Donner eyed Willis dubiously. Gravel’s eyebrows went up onto his forehead.
“We’ve got a sport with us,” Turtleneck said.
“Is this a sewing circle or a craps game?” Willis asked. “Shoot.”
Turtleneck rolled an eight.
“Six-to-five no eight,” Willis said. The men in the circle were silent. “All right, eight-to-five.” Six-to-five was the proper bet.
“Bet,” Gravel said, handing Willis a fiver.
“Roll,” Willis said.
Turtleneck rolled.
“Boxcars,” Randolph said. He looked at Willis for a moment. “I’ve got another eight bucks says no eight,” he said.
“Same bet?” Gravel asked.
“Same.”
“You’re on.” He handed Randolph his five.
“I thought this guy was getting hot,” Willis said, smiling at Randolph.
“What gets hot, gets cool,” Randolph replied.
Turtleneck rolled his eight. Gravel collected from Willis and Randolph. A hook-nosed man across the circle sighed.
“Bet the two hundred,” Turtleneck said.
“This is getting kind of steep, ain’t it?” Hook Nose asked.
“If it’s too steep for you, go home to bed,” Randolph answered.
“Who’s taking the two hundred?” Turtleneck asked.
“I’ll take fifty of it,” Hook Nose said, sighing.
“That leaves a C and a half,” Turtleneck said. “Am I covered?”
“Here’s a century,” Willis said. He dropped a bill onto the blanket.
“I’ll take the last fifty,” Randolph said, throwing his money down with Willis’s. “Roll, hotshot.”
“These are big-timers,” a round-faced man standing on Willis’s right said. “Big gamblers.”
Turtleneck rolled. The cubes bounced across the blanket. One die stopped, showing a deuce. The second die clicked against it and abruptly stopped with a five face up.
“Seven,” Turtleneck said, smiling.
“He’s hot,” Round Face said.
“Too damn hot,” Hook Nose mumbled.
“Bet,” Gravel put in.
“Bet the four hundred.”
“Come on,” Hook Nose said. “You trying to drive us home?”
Willis looked across the circle. Hook Nose was carrying a gun, its outline plainly etched against his jacket. And, if he was not mistaken, both Turtleneck and Gravel were heeled, too.
“I’ll take two bills of it,” Willis said.
“Anybody covering the other two?” Turtleneck asked.
“You got to cool off sometime,” Randolph said. “You got a bet.” He dropped two hundred onto the blanket.
“Roll’em,” Willis said. “Shake ‘em first.”
“Papa’s shoes got holes, dice,” Turtleneck said, and he rolled an eleven.
“Man, I’m hot tonight. Bet it all,” he said. “Am I covered?”
“Slow down a little, cousin,” Willis said suddenly.
“I’m betting the eight,” Turtleneck answered.
“Let’s see the ivories,” Willis said.
“What!”
“I said let me see the cubes. They act talented.”
“The talent’s in the fist, friend,” Turtleneck said. “You covering me or not?”
“Not until I see the dice.”
“Then you ain’t covering me,” Turtleneck answered dryly. “Who’s betting?”
“Show him the dice,” Randolph said. Willis watched him. The ex-Marine had lost two bills on that last roll. Willis had intimated that the dice were crooked, and now Randolph wanted to see for himself.
“These dice are straight,” Turtleneck said.
Gravel stared at Willis peculiarly. “They’re Honest Johns, stranger,” he put in. “We run a square game.”
“They act drunk,” Willis said. “Prove it to me.”
“You don’t like the game, you can cut out,” Hook Nose said.
“I’ve dropped half a G since I walked in,” Willis snapped. “I practically own those dice. Do I get a look or don’t I?”
“You bring this guy in, Fats?” Gravel asked.
“Yeah,” Donner said. He was beginning to sweat.
“Where’d you dig him up?”
“We met in a bar,” Willis said, automatically clearing Donner. “I told him I was looking for action. I didn’t expect educated dice.”
“We told you the dice are square,” Gravel said.
“Then give me a look.”
“You can study them when they’re passed to you,” Turtleneck said. “It’s still my roll.”
“Nobody rolls till I see them dice,” Willis snapped.
“For a small man, you talk a big game,” Gravel said.
“Try me,” Willis said softly.
Gravel looked him over, apparently trying to determine whether or not Willis was heeled. Deciding that he wasn’t, he said, “Get out of here, you scrawny punk. I’d snap you in two.”
“Try me, you big tub!” Willis shouted.
Gravel stared hotly at Willis for an instant and then made the same mistake countless men before him had made. There was, you see, no way of telling from Willis’s appearance what his training had been. There was no way of knowing that he was expert in the ways of judo or that he could practically break your back by snapping his fingers. Gravel simply assumed he was a scrawny punk, and he rushed across the circle, ready to squash Willis like a bug.
He was, to indulge in complete understatement, somewhat surprised by what happened to him next.
Willis didn’t watch Gravel’s face or Gravel’s hands. He watched his feet, timing himself to rush forward when Gravel’s right foot was in a forward position. He did that suddenly and then dropped to his right knee and grabbed Gravel’s left ankle.
“Hey, what the hell—” Gravel started, but that was all he ever said. Willis pulled the ankle toward him and upward off the ground. In the same instant, he shoved out at Gravel’s gut with the heel of his right hand. Gravel, seeing his opponent drop to his knees, feeling the fingers tight around his ankles, feeling the sharp thrust at his mid-section, didn’t know he was experiencing an ankle throw. He only knew that he was suddenly falling backward, and then he felt the wind rush out of him as his back collided with the concrete floor. He shook his head, bellowed, and jumped to his feet.
Willis was standing opposite him, grinning.
“Okay, smart guy,” Gravel said. “Okay, you smart little bastard,” and he rushed forward again.
Willis didn’t move a muscle. He stood balanced evenly, smiling, waiting, and then he struck suddenly.
He grabbed Gravel’s left arm at the elbow bend, cupping it with his right hand. Without hesitation, he snapped Gravel’s left arm upward and forced his left hand into Gravel’s armpit. His hand was opened flat, but the fingers were not spread. They lay close together, the thumb tucked under them, out of the way. Willis wheeled to the right, swinging Gravel’s arm over his left shoulder and forcing it downward by pressing on the elbow grip.
He bent forward suddenly, and Gravel’s feet left the ground, and then Willis gave a sharp jerk and Gravel found himself spinning upward in a shoulder overthrow, the concrete coming up to meet him.
Considerately, and because he didn’t want to break Gravel’s arm, Willis released his grip on the elbow before Gravel smashed into the concrete. Gravel shook his head, dazed. He tried to get up, and then he sat down again, still shaking his head. Across the circle, Hook Nose’s hand snaked toward the opening of his jacket.
“Hold it right there!” a voice said.
Willis turned. Randolph was holding a .45 in his fist, covering the others. “Thanks,” Willis said.
“Scoop up that eight hundred,” Randolph answered. “I don’t like crooked games.”
“Hey, that’s my dough!” Turtleneck shouted.
“It used to be ours,” Randolph replied.
Willis picked up the money and put it in his pocket.
“Come on,” Randolph said.
They started for the side door, Randolph backing away from the circle, still holding the .45. The skinny man who’d passed Willis in looked confused, but he didn’t say anything. Most men don’t when a .45 is in the picture. Willis and Randolph ran down the street.
Randolph pocketed the gun and hailed a cab on the corner. “You like a cup of coffee?”
“Sure,” Willis said.
Randolph extended his hand. “My name’s Skippy Randolph.”
Willis took it. “Mine’s Willy Harris.”
“Where’d you learn judo?” Randolph asked.
“In the Marines,” Willis said.
“It figured. I was in the corps, too.”
“No kidding?” Willis said, feigning surprise.
“Sixth Division,” Randolph said proudly.
“I was in the Third,” Willis said.
“Iwo?”
“Yes,” Willis said.
“I was in Iwo and Okinawa both. My company was attached with the Fifth when we hit Iwo.”
“That was a goddamn mess,” Willis said.
“You said it. Still, I had some good times with the corps. Caught a slug at Okinawa, though.”
“I was lucky,” Willis said. He looked around for wood to knock and then rapped his knuckles on his head.
“You think we’re far enough away from those creeps?” Randolph asked.
“I think so.”
“Any place here,” Randolph told the cabbie. The driver pulled up to the curb, and Randolph tipped him. They stood on the sidewalk, and Randolph looked up the street. “There’s a coffeepot,” he said, pointing.
Willis took the $800 from his pocket. “Half of this is yours,” he said. He handed Randolph the bills.
“I figured them dice were a little too peppy,” Randolph said, taking the money.
“Yeah,” Willis said dryly. They opened the door to the coffeepot and walked to a table in the corner. They ordered coffee and French crullers. When the order came, they sat quietly for a while.
“Good coffee,” Randolph said.
“Yeah,” Willis agreed.
“You a native in this burg?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Chicago, originally,” Randolph said. “I drifted here when I was discharged. Stuck around for four years.”
“When were you discharged?”
“‘45,” Randolph said. “Went back to Chicago in ‘50.”
“What happened to ‘49?”
“I did some time,” Randolph said, watching Willis warily.
“Haven’t we all?” Willis said evenly. “What’d they get you on?”
“I mugged an old duffer.”
“What brings you back here?” Willis asked.
“What’d they get you for?” Randolph asked.
“Oh, nothing,” Willis said.
“No, come on.”
“What difference does it make?”
“I’m curious,” Randolph said.
“Rape,” Willis said quickly.
“Hey,” Randolph said, raising his brows.
“It ain’t like what it sounds. I was going with this dame, and she was the biggest tease alive. So one night—”
“Sure, I understand.”
“Do you?” Willis said levelly.
“Sure. You think I wanted to mug that old crumb? I just needed dough, that’s all.”
“What’re you doing for cash now?” Willis asked.
“I been makin’ out.”
“Doing what?”
Randolph hesitated. “I’m a truck driver.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Who do you work for?”
“Well, I ain’t workin’ at it right now.”
“What are you working at?”
“I got something going, brings in a little steady cash.” He paused. “You looking for something?”
“I might be.”
“Two guys could really make out.”
“Doing what?”
“You figure it,” Randolph said.
“I don’t like playing ‘What’s My Line?,’” Willis answered. “If you’ve got something for me, let me hear it.”
“Mugging,” Randolph said.
“Old guys?”
“Old guys, young guys, what’s the diff?”
“There ain’t much dough in mugging.”
“In the right neighborhoods, there is.”
“I don’t know,” Willis said. “I don’t like the idea of knocking over old guys.” He paused. “And dames.”
“Who said anything about dames? I steer away from them. You get all kinds of trouble with dames.”
“Yeah?” Willis said.
“Sure. Well, don’t you know? They get you on attempted rape as well as assault. Even if you didn’t lay a hand on them.”
“That right?” Willis said, somewhat disappointed.
“Sure. I stay away like they’re poison. Besides, most dames don’t carry too much cash.”
“I see,” Willis said.
“So what do you think? You know judo, and I know it, too. We could knock this city on its side.”
“I don’t know,” Willis said, convinced that Randolph was not his man now, but wanting to hear more so that he could set him up for a pinch. “Tell me more about how you work it.”