Murder Money Read online

  MURDER MONEY

  JAY BENNETT

  Table of Contents

  MURDER MONEY

  CONTENTS

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CONTENTS

  Copyright © 1962 by Jay Bennett.

  Published by Wildside Press LLC.

  wildsidepress.com | bcmystery.com

  DEDICATION

  For Dad and Mother Sally, Steve, and Randy

  CHAPTER ONE

  We never know when we stand at the hairline of death. We never know when our lives suddenly veer and begin to move slowly, inexorably down a road of fear, of blood, of death.

  We never know.

  Eddie Doran didn’t know it either.

  He walked down the dingy stairs of the gymnasium and out into the wintry street. The day was slowly dying into night. He hunched his big shoulders and looked bitterly ahead of him.

  So it’s all over, he said to himself. The whole damn thing is over and done with. I’m through. Washed up.

  He clenched his big hands and stared at the passing cars, his eyes seeing nothing but a blur. The words of Al Walker, his manager, came back to him with an insistent force.

  “No more fights, Eddie. Nobody’ll buy you anymore. You’re thirty-five, kid. An old man. It’s the end of the road. It had to come; you know it. It had to.”

  “Yeah,” Eddie muttered.

  Then he sighed gently, turned and began walking down the darkening street, his huge body bent forward a bit, the gray eyes cold and tormented. And as he walked, the bitterness grew within him.

  It’s not right, he said to himself. I should get a chance to make a few bucks. I’m fighting almost twenty years and I come up with nothing. I got all of eight hundred bucks standing between me and the bread line. Eight hundred lousy bucks.

  “Paper, Eddie?”

  Eddie stopped and turned sharply. He looked down grimly at the newsstand dealer.

  “What?”

  “Asked if you wanted a paper, Eddie. That’s all.”

  Eddie’s rugged face softened a bit; a flicker of a smile passed over the gray eyes.

  “Okay, Phil.”

  “Anything wrong, Eddie?”

  Eddie took the paper from him and tucked it under his arm. The street lights suddenly went on, making the coin in Eddie’s hand glisten. He dropped it into the tin tray and watched it spin and die flat.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” he said.

  “You’ll turn lucky yet.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Just keep your spirits up, lad.”

  “They’re up. Touching a cloud.”

  “So long, Eddie.”

  “So long, Phil.”

  And as he turned away and began walking again, he wondered how the blind newsdealer always knew him as he passed by.

  Maybe it’s my stumblebum walk.

  Eddie’s face became grim and bitter again. The full, smiling mouth was now thin and tight. The wind started up, biting into him. Eddie turned up the collar of his overcoat and began to walk faster.

  When he came to Thirty-eighth Street and Eighth Avenue, he stopped, bewildered. The thought had suddenly struck him that he was walking aimlessly. He had nothing but an empty night ahead.

  He stood there in the passing crowd, a lone, huge figure. The wind beat against him, blowing through his thick brown hair. His reddening face was cold and bleak.

  Nowhere to go. Like I lost the world. Like I don’t belong anywhere. I knew this was coming and yet deep inside of me I didn’t know. That’s why it’s hitting me so hard now. Just taking the guts out of me.

  I don’t belong anywhere. Wherever I go, they’ll know I’m washed up. Even if they don’t, something in me will tell it to them. And that’s even worse.

  I’m starting to rock. Just like somebody hit me hard and the legs start to give. And then the rest of you goes. Christ, how I know that feeling. It happened to me the last two times out. I saw the punch coming and I just stood there and took it. Couldn’t even get out of the way.

  And I’ve got to get out of the way now. Or I’ll go down.

  “How’s tricks, Eddie?”

  Eddie turned and saw Farrell, the traffic cop, coming over to him. He shrugged his shoulders and said nothing.

  “Not so good?”

  “Not so good.”

  “Any fights coming up?”

  Eddie slowly shook his head. “No more, Farrell,” he said.

  “Oh.”

  “Looks like the Commission put the lid on. Al can’t sell me any more.”

  Farrell reached up and patted Eddie’s shoulder. “It’s for the best, Eddie.”

  “Yeah. I guess it is.”

  “Has to come to an end sometime.”

  “Everything comes to an end.”

  The street lights gleamed on FarreU’s face and badge. About them was the harsh, unfeeling sound of the traffic.

  “You always were a good, likable guy, Eddie. Keep that big smile going, huh?”

  “I finish with nothing, Farrell.”

  The policeman’s eyes widened with surprise. “You should have a good egg by now. You’ve been main go at the Garden lots of times.”

  “I haven’t fought in the Garden in two years.”

  “Still you should have a nice bank account. You were never one of the wild ones.”

  “It’s gone. How do I know what happened to it?”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Eddie.”

  “I helped out some guys. Threw away the rest. Who knows where it went? But it went.”

  As he walked away from Farrell, he began to wonder, where did the money go?

  Then he started to tick off in his mind the people he had helped. They were all pros like himself. One had gone blind and Eddie had given him three grand. Then there was Tommy Avenie, two grand. Martie Price, a grand. Joe Alean, who had been killed in the ring, four grand.

  Joe had left a wife and two kids. They didn’t have a dime to their names. But what the hell.

  And now what have I got? And who’s giving out to help me? I don’t know a goddam thing to do. I never learned a trade. I never learned nothing.

  Three years high school and some books. And that’s me. Christ, I’ve got to hole up somewhere.

  Yeah, I threw away money, too. I hit the races and the girls. I was no different than the rest. But I’d like to have some of the money I gave away.

  Ah, what the hell’s happening to me? I gave it. I had it and I gave it. And that’s that.

  He stopped and passed his hand wearily over his face. His coat flapped open in the cutting wind. He hesitated a moment, then decided to go home to his rooms. He felt too tired and despondent to roam the streets. It would be better to get home. By taxi. Might as well live it up till the end.

  Eddie walked over to the curb and stood waiting for an empty cab to come by. The longer it took, the more his weariness and bitterness grew. The cold was beginning to work into his bones. He was about to give up and begin tramping the long, dreary blocks crosstown, when he saw the dome light of an empty cab.

  “Cabbie!” Eddie yelled, waving his hand.

 
The yellow car slowed down and came to a stop near him. Eddie started toward it when a small figure darted before him and into the cab. It happened so fast that for an instant Eddie just stood there, staring. But when the door was about to slam shut, he reached out sharply and caught its handle.

  “Don’t move,” he called to the driver.

  “Come on, buddy, let’s get . . .”

  “Shut up,” Eddie cut in grimly.

  Then he turned away and peered into the cab. The man was small and dapper, with a thin, lean face and deep-set black eyes.

  “What the hell are you trying to pull?” Eddie asked bitterly.

  The man spread his arms in an uncomprehending gesture. “Señor?” The voice was soft and melodic. But the eyes were sharp and wary.

  “Get out.”

  “Hurry, Señor. In hurry.”

  “I said, get out.”

  “Please, Señor. Hurry.”

  “Come on, let’s get going,” the cab driver broke in angrily.

  The words and the voice set Eddie off. It was all the spark that he needed. “I said shut up, you sonofabitch!”

  He turned back with fury to the small, dark man. “Goddam you, get out.”

  Before the man could say anything, Eddie reached in and grabbed him, lifting him out and setting him down hard on the sidewalk.

  “Please. Please,” the man protested.

  “The hell with you,” Eddie said.

  He got in and slammed the door shut. The cab started up.

  “Señor! Señor!!”

  The little man frantically tried to open the door.

  “Get going,” Eddie said to the driver.

  As the car swung away into the traffic, Eddie turned and looked back. The man was out in the street running after them, his hands waving wildly. Eddie kept looking till the desperate figure was lost in the distance.

  “East Eighteenth Street. Between Second and Third Avenue,” he ordered the driver.

  “Okay.”

  It was then that Eddie felt the brief case at his side.

  “The guy sure wanted a cab bad,” the driver said.

  “Just keep driving,” Eddie said. “I don’t like the way you talk.”

  “I just wanted to get going, that’s all.”

  “You almost got going, man. Right on your ass.”

  The driver was silent. Eddie turned his attention back to the brief case. Its lock gleamed in the dimness of the cab. The leather felt soft and smooth. Eddie’s big hand stroked it thoughtfully.

  I guess it belonged to the little Spanish guy, he said to himself. I didn’t see him get into the cab with it. But, come to think of it, I almost didn’t see him get in until he was in. *

  His hand stroked the leather, measuredly, rhythmically.

  “East Eighteenth Street?”

  “Yeah.”

  Eddie lifted the brief case and then set it down again beside him. It was heavy. He thought of the little man and how he had run into the street after them, his arms wild with loss.

  He began to feel sorry for what he had done.

  The brief case must mean an awful lot to him, he thought.

  “Turn around,” he suddenly said.

  “What?”

  “Turn around and head back for Eighth Avenue.”

  “Okay.”

  “Right where you picked me up.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  While they were riding, Eddie kept staring at the little brass lock of the case. There must be some important business papers in there, he thought. That’s why the little fellow had the lock on it. Must be pretty important to him. Maybe he was in a bastard hurry to get to some important appointment. Maybe he was scooting for a plane at the airport.

  Then he’d have other bags with him.

  “Here’s where I picked you up,” the driver said.

  Eddie shoved the brief case into the shadows of the seat and got out of the cab.

  “Just stay put till I come back.”

  “You didn’t pay me yet.”

  “I know. That’s why you’ll stay put.”

  Eddie smiled coldly at him, turned and scanned the crowded sidewalk. There was no sign of the little man. He walked slowly up and down the long block, his gray eyes searching out every passing face, every hurrying figure. After a while he sighed and gave it up.

  The man had vanished.

  “All right, you can take me back now.”

  “East Eighteenth Street?”

  “You got a good memory. You should be on a quiz show.”

  “You still don’t like me?”

  “That’s right.”

  In the days to come Eddie would think back about that, wondering how things would have turned out if he had liked the cab driver. He would have given the brief case to the driver and it all would have ended there.

  Ended.

  And no one would have died.

  But he didn’t like the driver, and so, he didn’t trust him with the case.

  “You look familiar to me,” the driver said.

  “Do I?”

  “You’re a fighter, aren’t you?” “I was.”

  He would wonder. Wonder why of all the cab drivers in New York he had to fall in with this one. And in the end he would say to himself, with a broken cry, Fate! And let it go at that.

  “Didn’t I see you at Saint Nick’s? About four months ago?”

  “No.”

  “Yeah. You’re Eddie Doran, aren’t you?”

  Eddie tucked the brief case inside his overcoat and sat back against the seat again.

  “Sure, that’s who you are. You were real good, Eddie. Didn’t you once go a split decision with Archie Moore?”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Not so long ago. I remember seeing it on television. You were out in Chicago. Wasn’t it there?”

  Eddie didn’t answer.

  “A great fight, Eddie. You shoulda had it. Great fight About eight years ago. Seven or eight years ago. In the summer. Right, Eddie?”

  “A hundred years ago,” Eddie said. Then he added quietly, “I said you talk too much.”

  The driver was silent until they pulled up in front of an old apartment building. It loomed dully in the night, flanked by shabby brownstones. The block was windswept and deserted.

  “This where you want to go?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sorry I rubbed you the wrong way, Eddie.”

  Eddie got out and silently paid him. Then he stood in the bleak night and watched the car go off; its taillights flickered out into the darkness. Eddie felt alone again.

  When he got upstairs he sat around the small dreary apartment for a long while. The wind was getting stronger, pushing hard against the windows. Eddie went into the kitchen and took a screw driver from one of the cupboard drawers.

  Setting the case on the table, he began to work at its lock. The picking sound of the screw driver mingled with the rattling of the window panes. Finally the brief case was open.

  There was a hundred thousand dollars crammed into it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  For the next three days and nights he stayed in the little apartment, only going out to pick up the newspapers. Then he would hurry back, lock the door and read through them.

  There was not one word about the lost money.

  On the fourth morning, after scanning the papers, he went over to the phone, stood a moment thinking hard, then slowly dialed the number. When he heard Al Walker’s voice, his first impulse was to jam the receiver back onto its hook. But he didn’t.

  “Al?”

  “Eddie? Where’ve you been keeping yourself? I called you a few times and didn’t get you.”

  “Just didn’t feel like answering the phone.”

  “Oh. You’re in the dumps.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’ll come out of it.”

  “Yeah.”

  There was a pause. And then he heard Al’s voice again.

  “You call me ab
out anything special?”

  The impulse to jam the receiver came up hard again, but he found himself talking on. “Very special.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Come on over. I want to talk to you.”

  “I’ve got a few things to take care of. How about some time this afternoon?”

  “How about now?” Eddie said.

  There was a pause again. Then he heard Al answer. “Okay, Eddie. I’ll be right over.”

  “And come alone.”

  “Why don’t I take Laura along? Maybe you’ll call up Carol and we’ll all have a time together. Make a day of it. It’ll be good for you, Eddie. Give you a lift. That’s what you need, kid.”

  “Maybe you’ll just come over alone.”

  There was a pause.

  “Whatever you say, Eddie.”

  “That’s what I say.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Eddie hung up, went over to the window and looked out at the gray morning. The sky was grim and ready for snow; the street below was quiet and empty. A few cars straggled by and then all was silent and unbroken again.

  I wonder if it’s all right to bring Al into this, he thought to himself. Maybe I ought to play it all alone. I don’t know. Al’s got a good head on him and he’s been pretty loyal through the years. We’ve been through a lot together and now he’s almost as broke as I am. You don’t find good fighters every day. And I was good, but Al helped some too.

  Eddie turned away from the window and went into the dreary kitchen. He thumbed through the pile of newspapers that were on the little table, then pushed them aside, went over to the stove and lit the jet under the pot of coffee. Soon the quiet bubbling of the liquid pierced the heavy silence of the room. He stood there listening to it, thinking.

  He had just finished his breakfast when the doorbell rang. Eddie sat rigid, then slowly got up and went to the door. He stood with his big body bent forward, listening, his eyes cold and sharp until he heard Al’s muffled voice.

  “Eddie?”

  “Okay.”

  Eddie quickly opened the door and let Al in. Then he shut it again and leaned hard against it.

  “Why the hell did you let me ring so much?” Al asked.

  “Didn’t realize it was ringing.”

  “You got ears, haven’t you?”

  “I got them.”