City of the Dead

»21«

“Pigs—goddamn pigs. Whadda hell I s’pose to do now? Dis goddamn mess—I can no rent like dis.”

Francis Haggard gazes impassively into the lengthening shadows encroaching on a squalid four-room flat, recently vacated, and from all visible signs, vacated in great haste. He moves slowly around the room followed by Mr. Guzman, the peppery little Puerto Rican superintendent of the building.

“Whadda hell I s’pose to do now wid dis goddamn mess?”

Haggard cannot answer his question. Actually, Mr. Guzman is luckier than he knows. The devastation visited on this squalid little flat with its punctured walls and peeling plaster is nothing compared to what Haggard had seen Friday evening in the loft on Varick Street.

Except for the obvious filth of the place, as evidenced by the battalions of roaches diving for cover the moment they had entered, and the heavy mosaic of graffiti inflicted on every bare inch of wall, the detective sees nothing that plaster, sizing, and several gallons ‘of cheap latex paint won’t cure.

His eyes roam searchingly through the spray-can calligraphy—this lingua franca of the slums—for some clue to the whereabouts of the recent occupants. But very little seems to emerge from all the curlicues and numbers other than more street shibboleths of the “Power to the People” variety, cant and sloganeering, bombastic rhetoric, all strident and admonitory. A mixture of agitprop banalities out of the underground press combined with a kind of comic-strip mentality. But suddenly, once again, smeared in bright, gaudy letters near the top of the wall, that opaque and faintly unnerving message he’d read on the Varick Street wall gleams down upon him.

“Alla time here, nine, ten years ago, we got nice people,” Mr. Guzman laments. “Family people, hardworking church people, you know? Now jus’ a lotta junkies and freaks.”

Haggard nods abstractly. His pebble blue eyes watch a wasp dive into an overhead light, collide with a sickening crack, then plummet downward to the floor where it lies on its back buzzing and pedaling its legs fecklessly in the air.

“Now I gotta spend coupla hundred bucks—clean up dis goddamn mess—”

“That’s too bad.” The detective shakes his head commiseratively. “When did they pull out?”

“I dunno. Two, t’ree days maybe. I come up to collect de rent and dere’s no one here, you know? I open up wit’ de key and find dis goddamn mess.”

“Uh-huh.” Haggard nods. “How many of them were there?”

“Here?” Mr. Guzman points to the floor.

“Uh-huh.”

“I dunno. A lot. Always different faces. Maybe two, t’ree regular—maybe five, six. I dunno. Never de same. Come and go all time day and night.”

“They bother anyone? Make a lot of noise?”

“No. Dat’s one t’ing. Dey very quiet. You never know dey in or out.”

“Uh-huh.” The detective nods. “Any women?”

“Women?”

“Yeah. Did they ever bring women here?”

Mr. Guzman pauses, baffled by the question, the barrier of language having momentarily stumped him. “Women?”

“Yeah—you know—girls.”

“Oh, girls.” The clouds part. Guzman smiles deeply, flashing a gold incisor. “Sure. Plenty girls.”

“Ever see this one?”

Guzman’s eyes roam quickly over the small photo of Lauren Konig on the DD13. “No—I never see.” He thrusts it back at JHaggard, then jerks it back again and holds it, squinting, at arm’s length from his body. “I dunno—maybe. Dere so many. Come here all times of day and night. For the boys. Boff, boff, boff they go—fast. In de bed and out. You know? Den dey go ’way.” He looks at the photograph once more and shrugs. “No—I never see dis one. Mostly I see de guys. Longhairs. Freaks. Dirty. Filthy. Never bathe, you know? Stink.”

“Yeah, I know. What about this Eggleston?”

“Oh—Mr. Eggleston. He de boss.”

“The boss?”

“Sure. He pay de rent. Handle de money. Always telling de others what to do. You go here. You go dere. He very nice. Very polite. Not like de others. Know what I mean?”

“Uh-huh.” Haggard nods wearily. “And you got no idea where he’s gone?”

“No. How I got an idea where he’s gone? If I know where he go, I go get my rent. I make him pay for de goddamn mess here. I go myself. I don’t care. He beat me for two months’ rent. Now I gotta pay.”

The detective listens, making a show of sympathy. But he listens without really hearing, his eyes gliding over the simple-minded wall scribblings without really seeing. But it is the empty carton of-TNT sticks that really rivets his attention, the empty canisters of gelignite, the empty boxes oi percussion caps and cheap Japanese detonators, the small wisps of wire coil, the unmistakable odor of cordite hanging over the place that scares him sick.

“I ever see dis guy,” Mr. Guzman fumes on, “I break his legs. What de hell he do? He some kinda crook?”

Haggard turns, evading the question. “I wanna get this guy, too, Mr. Guzman. And you’ve got my word, I’m gonna get him. Lock this apartment now. Don’t touch anything. Don’t let anyone in here.” He starts out, then turns back. “Listen—these guys ever come back for this stuff”—he waves his arm around the room—“you call me. Hear? Understand?”

“Yeah—sure.”

Haggard scratches two telephone numbers on a pad. “You can’t reach me at the first, try me at the second. Okay?”

“Yeah—sure. Sure. Okay. Whadda hell you gonna do about my place here?” Mr. Guzman gazes desolately about the wreckage of his rooms.

“First I wanna get some fingerprints outta here. Then I’m gonna send the bomb squad in.”

“Bomb squad?” Guzman squeaks. But already the detective has gone out the door without hearing him or seeing the queasy, sickish grin fading in the shadows behind him.