I waited another few minutes, then started back—not even sure I'd crawled in a straight line. It was worse than finding that needle in a haystack. But I had to have money and there wasn't anything to do but look and hope my college gunmen didn't return. I started walking, stooping down to push bricks aside, every muscle stiff and hurting. I'd covered about fifty feet when a voice called, “What are you doing in there?”
A young cop was coming down the middle of the street, swinging his night stick. I couldn't have run if I'd wanted to. I climbed back over the junk and reached the street. My left shoe was sliced open on one side.
The cop had a freshly scrubbed baby face, clean and neat as his blue uniform. He was compactly built, not very tall, and didn't look over twenty-one. This was my day for kids. He ran his eyes over me, made sure he didn't come too close, as he said, “You're in a bad way. Don't you know you're trespassing?”
“I know I lost my wallet with all my dough crawling over this stuff. Listen, two big kids walked me down that street over there, covering me with guns. Then a guy with a sawed-off rifle came firing at us, and a fellow in a car drove up, also banging away. I hit the dirt and crawled over here.” I heard my voice dying: I could hardly believe the story myself!
The cop let me have a good natured grin. “You must have been on an all night binge. What were you guzzling, pure King Kong?”
I moved toward him, blowing my breath. “Smell any liquor?”
He jabbed me lightly in the stomach with his stick. “That's close enough.”
“You smell any booze on me?”
“No. What happened to all these... er... gunmen?”
“I don't know. Maybe one of them is wounded or dead?”
“Let's look.”
I started over the bricks but he said, “Come on, we'll walk abound—using the street.”
As we walked he asked, “Was it a stickup? How many men were shooting?”
“Four, that I saw. No, it wasn't a stickup.”
“What were they... eh... shooting at you for?”
“I don't know. Two kids stopped me on the avenue over there, asked for a light. Looked like college boys— no older than you. Then they throw guns on me and walk me here, where the shooting started.”
The cop glanced over the deserted streets, gripped his night stick. “You been sick recently, mister?”
“Look, you think I crawled through that crap for exercise? I'm telling you straight! Lord, there was a small war going on, didn't you hear any gunfire?”
We'd reached the spot where it had started, there wasn't any blood, no body, not even an empty shell. Babyface stared at me. “I turned the corner from over there about three minutes ago. I didn't hear shots. Have you any identification?”
“Told you, I lost my wallet. See how my pocket is ripped? Damn it, do you think I cut myself up like this as a practical joke!”
“Don't shout. Got a home?”
“Yeah. That is, I came into town this morning to see the sights and...”
“No sights around here. What's your business?”
“I'm a shrimp buyer down in Tampa.”
“Your clothes are a mess but you don't look like a bum. Let's go to the precinct house and call a doc to...”
“Doctor? I'm not crazy! I'm telling you the truth! There were at least a dozen shots fired, the slugs must have hit something. Find them and...”
He shook his head sadly, his eyes running over the leveled blocks. I realized how stupid I sounded: it would be impossible to find any lead in this mess, even if they might be imbedded in the remains of the few walls still standing. He said, “There's a construction office way over there, somebody would have come running, or reported shots.”
The office and equipment was a good four blocks away, they couldn't have heard the shots. And most of them were at lunch. I gave up. “Officer, whether you believe it or not, I'm telling you the truth. I'll go back to my... hotel and change.”
“Nothing I can hold you for. Sure you're feeling okay?”
“Yeah.”. I glanced at my wrist watch. The crystal was smashed but the watch was still ticking. Sowor would be back by now. I'd sure killed an hour!
The cop pulled out a notebook. “Give me your name and address, list of any papers you had in the wallet, and how much money. In case it's found you'll be able to claim it.”
“There was over six hundred bucks in the wallet; nobody will turn it in. I'm late for a business appointment. So long, officer.” I headed toward the avenue. He didn't stop me. Turning the corner I glanced back to see the young cop still standing where I'd left him, swinging his club vigorously. For a second I wondered if he wasn't too young to be a policeman. Passing a store window I saw my reflection. My face and shirt were dirty, my clothes torn. All told I looked like the wrath of God.
There was this dull little bar and I went in and asked the fat bartender where the men's room was. He pointed to a narrow door, asked, “You been playing potsy with a truck?”
“I fell in the remains of the houses around the corner,” I said, making for the John. I heard him call out, “Then sue 'em.”
The men's room wasn't much bigger than a coffin but I was able to clean up my face and hands, brush most of the dirt off my torn clothes. I still looked terrible, a few bruises on my face, and my hands full of cuts. I tried to comb my hair with my fingers and felt blood on the matted hair. When I came out the barkeep said, “You look like you need a belt. What will it be?”
“I sure need something. Rye neat... Wait.” I felt of my pockets. I didn't have a cent on me. “Never mind, I lost my wallet in the bricks. Unless you want to take a slightly busted wristwatch in payment?”
The barkeep glanced at my watch and shook his head. A little guy wearing a stained butcher's white coat and a battered straw hat who was reading a track tip sheet and sipping a brew at a table said without looking up, “I'll pay for his shot, Jim. If he needs one half as bad as he looks, be inhuman not to give him a taste.”
I thanked him. He winked as he told me, “I know how you feel. I go on a bender for a couple days myself. Anyway, soon as they build this project, all us storekeepers are going to be rich. That's why they jack up my rent now, when they're just tearing down the houses and ain't even started the project foundation. Darn shame...”
I gulped the rye and thanked him on my way out. I didn't have time for bar chatter. The drink didn't work any miracles, I still felt sore and hurt, but it cleared up some of the fog. I knew one thing. Rose hadn't been imagining a single incident. I also knew I was going to get to the bottom of this fast, and on the way I'd get hunk with somebody for the beatings I'd been taking the last dozen or so hours.
Reaching the brownstone I went up the steep stairs, rang the bell. The toothless old jockey in the dirty turtle-neck gave me both gums in a smile—which vanished as he took in my torn clothes. I asked, “Sowor here?”