Big Stan Read online

  W. R. Burnett (John Monahan)

  Big Stan

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  B. (scanning and OCR) and P. (formatting and proofing) edition.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  DEPUTY CHIEF OF POLICE SELLERS' office was on the seventh floor of the old City Building, and as Big Stan Hinchman stood waiting for Sellers, by appointment, he gazed idly out one of the large windows at the city spread flatly before him and calmly smoked a cigar. He had spent half his life waiting in various city offices, and he hardly knew what the word "impatient" meant. He was a big, calm, reassuring-looking blond man, about forty, with a sad, rather tough face. His gray eyes looked mildly, calmly, and fearlessly out at a world whose ugly side was only too familiar to him. He'd been a city detective for many years, and just recently had been boosted to deputy chief of detectives at Downtown.

  Before him to the west lay the lakelike expanse of the big river that wound sluggishly through the center of the huge Midwestern town, dividing it irrevocably into mutually antagonistic sections, the sheep and the goats, the rich and the poor, the lawless and the law-abiding, the luckless and the lucky. Far across the river a smoky red sunset flared above the massed tenements, warehouses, gas tanks, and industrial plants of Polishtown.

  Big Stan sighed as he stared mildly at the ugly rooftops and spires of that vast, flat, teeming community across the river-Polishtown, Steelton, Police District 12, whichever you wanted to call it. He'd been born there, and as a boy had run wild with the Polish alley gangs, and had helped to loot warehouses and strip parked automobiles and intimidate small businessmen. All that had been a thing of the past for almost a quarter of a century, and yet he often thought about it, and it had markedly conditioned his attitude in regard to criminals and their ways. But for the grace of God… he often told himself. For years he'd been known on the force-in derision-as Big Stan the Merciful.

  A young clerk put his head in the door. "He's on his way up, Stan. Be here in a moment."

  Big Stan nodded. He felt vaguely uneasy. Something important was up. He also felt vaguely hopeful. A new regime was now in power. Many of the older high-ups were being retired. Seniority did not mean as much now as it had in the past. Look at the new chief of police, barely forty, moved up over a hundred heads. Of course, he himself had just had a promotion, but things were moving very fast in the city, and he might be due for another step up. Stan needed more money. He was always in debt, even with what his wife, Ruth, made teaching at the nursery school. Stan flushed slightly, remembering it. The thought of his wife forced to work was very humiliating to him, though he never said anything about it. In fact, he hardly ever said anything at all about matters nearest to his heart. That is, not seriously.

  Deputy Chief of Police Ed Sellers came in briskly, carrying a smart-looking brief case. He was a small man with close-cropped gray hair and a nervous, birdlike manner. He was wearing a neat gray suit and large, shell-rimmed glasses that dwarfed his plain, small face.

  "Sorry, Stan," he said as he fussed round his desk, then sat down behind it. "I was unavoidably delayed."

  "It's all right, Ed," said Stan, lowering himself slowly onto a small, straight chair. Stan was about six foot two and bulky, with big shoulders and a wide, thick chest. Though he had no fat on him at all, he weighed 220 pounds. "Only thing is," Stan went on, "the wife expects me to pick up her and the kids at the school. O.K. if I call her?"

  "Sure, sure," said Sellers impatiently.

  Stan moved his chair over to the desk, and awkwardly dialed a number on the Deputy Chiefs smart-looking French phone. Sellers noticed how big, thick, powerful, and hairy Stan's hands were, and yet he was one of the gentlest guys on the force. A real good man to have around, an example to others. Some of the boys got pretty tough and brutal at times when the heat was on. Not Big Stan the Merciful.

  "Ruth?" Stan was saying. "Look, honey. Sorry to bother you, but I can't make it. Tied up. You'll have to go home in the bus. Dinner? Wait a minute." He turned to Sellers, who was impatiently fiddling with some papers. "How about me getting home to dinner?"

  "Yeah. Sure," barked Sellers. A policeman had no right to a private life, he was thinking. Much better if they were all single. Too many complications. They should be like soldiers, damn it! Sellers was a bachelor.

  "O.K., honey. See you at dinner. Spaghetti? Why not? Wait. How are the two little maniacs?" Stan listened for a moment, then a wide, surprisingly youthful grin spread over his rugged, lined face. "O.K., O.K." He hung up, laughing. Sellers was glaring at him. "Them kids," laughed Stan. "You see, it's a nursery school Ruth's teaching at, and she takes them along. And brother, do they louse it up! But she has to wait to get home before she can belt them. It's one of them progressive schools." Stan shook with laughter.

  Sellers bit his lower lip, adjusted his glasses, and was ready for business. "Uh… Stan," Sellers said, "you're a Polack, aren't you?"

  Stan's smile faded. "My mother was a-was Polish. My old man was German-Cincinnati German, that is. His family's been in this country three-four generations."

  "You were born in Polishtown?"

  "Yeah."

  "How well do you know Captain Mort Glinka?"

  "Station Twelve boss? Pretty well. He's no close friend.

  We say hello when I see him, which isn't often. We drink a glass of beer together."

  "What do you think of him?"

  Stan hesitated, glancing at Sellers narrowly. "I like him."

  "I mean as boss of Station Twelve. Worst place in town. You think he's capable?"

  Stan began to feel nervous, though he didn't show it. What was this? Could it be possible that he was up for Glinka's job? My God, one of the biggest jobs in town! And then Ruth could quit work and maybe he could get his debts paid off and Ruth wouldn't have to argue with the installment collectors and beg for time. "Yes," said Stan slowly, "I think he is. But you got his record, Ed. Get out the file."

  Sellers waved his hands impatiently. "Do you think you could get along with him if I sent you out there?" Stan's heart sank. Out to Station 12? It was a punishment district. When young coppers got out of line they sent them out to Station 12 for "seasoning." Everybody shied away from it. You could get killed out there and not half try. But to be boss of it was a different thing altogether.

  "What's the matter?" asked Stan. "Did I insult some brass?"

  "No, no," Sellers shouted impatiently; then he pulled open his desk drawer, rummaged around for a moment, and brought out a few sheets of paper fastened with a brad, and a stack of newspaper clippings, including some large black tabloid headlines.

  Stan glanced at the stuff for a moment, his heart sinking again, then he looked up and said, "Oh, the Black Phantom case. A bad one."

  "And getting worse," said Sellers. "There's going to be a panic in Polishtown if something isn't done and done fast. Glinka seems helpless. I mean, we can't get him to take extra precautions, or to vary his routine in any way. We've tried."

  Stan was amazed. "You mean you want me to…"

  Sellers nodded curtly. "Special assignment. The boss picked you. Not only because you're a Polack and know Glinka, but because you-well you get along with everybody and they like you. Mort's a tough nut and you know it. It's a job of diplomacy as much as anything else. Polishtown ward leaders have been calling the boss at all hours. Bothering him. They say their daughters and wives aren't safe on the street. Another woman beaten up and robbed last night, not four blocks from the station."

  "I know," said Stan. "But this thing's being ballooned up by the newspapers. It makes a good story. Everything that happens, they blame on this one guy. Black Phantom, they call him-that's a pretty silly thing to call him. Like the movies. Look, Ed. There's a normal amount of women getting slugged in Polishtown all the time. This is a circulation thing. Sells newspapers. There may be a guy loose worse than the others, but he don't do it all. Good God! Polishtown's a big place."

  "Don't tell me all that," cried Sellers. "I know it. All the same, this guy is bad. He's a nut of some kind, not just a thief. He looks in windows and scares girls and women with that mask he wears.

  "You sure? There's some talk he's a Negro."

  "No, no. That was only at first. He wears a weird black mask. One of the women was so scared she thought he was a Negro. That's all been exploded. Look at the record. It's right in front of you."

  "Another angle," said Stan, after a while. "The kids-the teen-agers. I was one once. We were a bad lot. We would have taken advantage of a thing like this to scare the hell out of everybody. I'm telling you, it's all ballooned up."

  Sellers began to shout. "All right! All right! So it's ballooned up. That's not the point. The point is the boss wants you to go to Station Twelve on special assignment-take one man with you. Glinka will put all facilities of the station at your disposal. He'd better, that is. The boss is new, as you know, and he won't stand for this old-fashioned police nonsense, stations fighting each other. A lot more older men will be retired if they're not careful."

  "This is an order, you mean," said Stan.

  "This, Stan, is an order."

  CHAPTER TWO

  BEFORE STAN DROVE HOME HE called his right-hand man, City Detective Joe Fay, and gave him the bad news.

  "Oh, no!" cried Joe. "Not Polishtown."

  "You're my boy," said Stan, chuckling to himself as he imagined the look on Joe's handsome, sophisticated face.

  "The home of the bedbug and the cockroach. Oh, please, Stanislaus!"

  "All right, I'll get Miggins. See you around."


  "What time do you want me, Dad, and where?"

  "Get a car from the spedal-detail pool and drive out after me about seven."

  "Ruth's not going to like this."

  "She'll get used to it. I forgot to tell you," Stan went on, chuckling, "it's from dark to dawn. Every night until."

  A pathetic groan came over the wire, then a growl. "I'll have that rat cornered in twenty-four hours. It's a must. I'll lose all my girl friends. They work in the daytime and sleep at night."

  "See you, Joe."

  When Stan got home, Ruth was feeding the two boys at the kitchen table. Bob, dark and rather handsome, was a little over four. Herb, blond and gray-eyed, like Stan, was nearly two and a half, and very big for his age. Ruth looked tired, and turned to Stan with a wan smile.

  "Herb's holding his food in his mouth again," she said. Stan looked from one boy to the other.

  "Dadda," said Bob, rather offhandedly. Herb merely stared. His cheeks were puffed out with unswallowed food.

  "I had to spank both of them," said Ruth. "They got into a fight with a very large boy. They both jumped on him. Herb was the worst. He wouldn't quit."

  Big Stan glared at his small son. "You swallow that food, you understand?"

  Herb glared back unperturbed.

  Wanting to laugh, Big Stan turned away and called over his shoulder, "Got time for a shower?"

  "Yes," said Ruth. "But make it fast."

  On his way upstairs, he heard Ruth admonishing Herb in her patient voice: "Swallow your food, dear. No chocolate pudding till you've swallowed this food."

  He heard Herb let out a yell, then Ruth's voice: "Look what you've done, Herbert. All over your bib."

  Stan shook his head and laughed. Bob was sly and would get his own way eventually by hook or crook; he was little trouble. Like his mother's family, probably, Stan thought. Herb, he's going to be a big tough Polack like me.

  ***

  Stan helped Ruth with the dishes. They worked in silence. He'd already given her the bad news and she seemed depressed. It bothered him to have her depressed. Finally he said, "It won't be so bad, honey. You can use the car now all you want to. This is a special assignment, so I'll use a car from the pool. All the time, I mean. And if they don't like that, they can reassign me."

  "Now don't get in any trouble on my account, Stan. You're going along good."

  Always cautious, Stan thought, and always wise. Lucky day for him when he met her. It had been quite a big laugh all over town, though. Stan Hinchman and a schoolteacher! It didn't figure. Old-maid schoolteacher, you might say. She'd been thirty when he'd met her five years ago.

  Joe Fay arrived at seven on the dot. As usual, he looked like anything but a detective in his gray flannel double-breasted suit, his pale-blue shirt with its neatly pinned collar, and his conservative blue-and-gray striped tie. He kissed Ruth's hand. This was a matter of ritual. At first it had annoyed Stan. Now he liked it, because it pleased and flattered Ruth so much. Ruth was tall, thin, dark, and plain. Not the kind of woman you would think handsome, dapper Joe Fay would ever so much as look at with his pretty shopgirls, secretaries, and models. But strangely enough, Ruth was Joe's ideal woman. He had said so many times and he meant it. "I respect her, Stan," he explained. "She's the only woman I've ever respected except my mother, God rest her soul."

  "You look after him now, Joe," said Ruth. "Take good care of him."

  Stan laughed. "Look after me! Why, I have to look after that Irishman all the time."

  "It's the sad truth," said Joe, flashing his white teeth. "But I'll make a special effort this time, Ruth."

  "You think he's dressed proper for Polishtown, Ruth?"

  " 'Properly', Stan."

  "She's still trying to educate me, Joe-and getting no place."

  Joe laughed. "Dad's ignorant but smart, Ruth. I wouldn't worry about his education if I were you. Look at me. I was even a year at the brothers'-a college man, for the love of God-and Stan's forgotten more than I'll ever know."

  Down the hall there was a loud banging.

  Stan shouted, "Stop that racket, you heathens. Go to sleep." In a normal tone of voice he went on: "I'll knock their heads off if they don't stop that playing around after they been put to bed."

  "Oh, sure," said Joe, smiling.

  Stan took Ruth in his arms and kissed her. Joe stood nearby, watching them, a pleased smile on his lips. They were his folks. His own mother and father were dead now, and his brother, Bernie, was out in California-not that he'd ever given much of a damn about Bernie. Yes, they were his folks. Sometimes after a party that had turned out to be pretty lousy, along about dawn Joe would go away someplace by himself and think about Stan and Ruth and be reassured that there was decency in the world, and kindness, and maybe even hope.

  " 'By, Stan," Ruth was saying. "We'll miss you tonight."

  "See you at breakfast. Come on, Joe."

  As they went out there was a loud banging down the hall, and Stan grimaced.

  Stan lived in the lower-middle-class suburb of Cherrington, where the little frame houses, the lawns, the trees, and the shrubbery were almost identical from street to street. The suburb was on the "right" side of the river but almost directly across from the northern reaches of Polish-town and connected to it by the big, new Kosciusko Street Bridge. The glow of the blast furnaces in Polishtown could be seen from Stan's front porch at night.

  As they drove across the bridge, Joe said, "What's with this business, Stan?"

  "I don't like it. First place, it's mostly a newspaper blowup. Second place, Mort Glinka's not going to love us for coming in special. Makes him look bad."

  "The new chief's got a lot to learn. Hell, he's younger than you, Stan. You're the guy should be chief."

  "Dream on, Joe."

  They were nearing the end of the bridge now. Polish-town, dim-lit and formidable, stretched before them with its narrow, crooked streets, its massed brick tenements, its factories, poolrooms, cheap bars, and clip joints. A battered old yellow surface car turned slowly at the terminal elbow in front of them; it was empty except for an old woman with a shawl over her head. The motorman clanged the bell irritably. Three teen-age boys in loose shirts and corduroy pants jumped onto the back platform out of nowhere and started an argument with the conductor, a gray-haired man.

  "Pull up," said Stan sadly.

  Joe eased the car in to the curb on the other side of the bridge ramp. "Let me handle this, Stan," he said.

  Stan put a big hand on Joe's shoulder, pushing him back into his seat. Then he opened the car door and got out. The surface car had stopped now at a signal from the conductor and Stan saw the motorman moving back through the car with the heavy steel control arm in his right hand.

  The conductor saw Stan coming and heaved a sigh of relief. He was being pushed around by the three young hoodlums, who were all talking at once.

  Stan put his foot on the lower step and looked up at the group. "What's the trouble?" he asked mildly.

  The kids jerked round and looked at him. "Fuzz," said one of them. "Always turning up."

  "These boys are all the time trying to hitch rides," the conductor explained.

  Now the motorman appeared on the platform with the control arm.

  "Aw, please don't hit me, Pop," said one of the kids mockingly.

  Stan repressed a smile, thinking of his own wild days in Polishtown.

  "All right, boys," he said. "Break it up."

  "Cryssake," one of the kids said. "Car's empty, ain't it? What's the idea we can't ride? This here's a free country."

  "Break it up," said Stan.

  Slowly the boys got down from the platform and Stan moved back a little to let them pass. After a moment the car went on, the bell clanging loudly. The boys stood staring at Stan, who was taking out a cigar and lighting it.

  "Smoking on duty. My, my!" said one of the boys.

  Another grinned at him mockingly. "You know, Pop, I think we could take you."

  "I don't think so," Stan replied, laughing.

  "He's a kick, this brute," said the other one. "Seems like a nice Joe. But how could that be? He's a copper."