The Devil's Own Rag Doll Read Free Page A

again. “Okay, okay. He stay out on Wyoming, little apartment building next to Bidwell’s on Fenkell there, you’ll find ’im.”
    I stood up, wiped the muzzle of my gun on my trousers, and holstered the piece. I wanted to spit the coppery taste from my mouth. You could have just told us that in the first place, I thought.
    Thrumm said nothing more. He drew his arms and legs in close and pulled up his shirttail to dab at his bloody nose. Bobby folded his knife and slipped it into his pocket with a wistful look on his face. He turned to push open the big door of the garage. Bright light washed in to show how small Toby Thrumm had become: all out of lies and bluff, smacked down to the dirt floor of his own garage, his blood let out. I turned away from him because the rich redness dazzled my eye.
    I knew that the quick escalation of low-level violence had panicked Thrumm into telling the truth. But one thing troubled me as I followed Bobby out of the garage: Why was Thrumm so reluctant to spill Pease’s whereabouts? Thrumm was not such a big man, but he was hard in the arms and back from his labor, and Pease had never been anything more than a loser on a slow downward slide, small and soft and used to talking his way through trouble. I was thinking hard as we walked back to the car.
    Another thing tugged at my gut. Because I did not see how it could be useful, I had not told Bobby of my acquaintance with young Jane Hardiman. In the late fall of 1941, not long before the Japs came to Pearl Harbor, I was walking my beat as usual. Two girls came out of Bland’s Liquor and turned up the street toward me like it was the Easter Parade. To see them walking arm-in-arm like they were, in a district where there wasn’t anything but bump shops and beer gardens and grubby factory rats—well, it put a jolt in me. It was getting toward dusk, and I knew the type of trouble that percolated on my beat after sundown. As they came close, I pulled out my billy and spread my arms to corral them to a halt.
    The tallest one spoke with a twinkle in her eye. “Some trouble, officer?”
    â€œNot yet there isn’t,” I said. “That’s the way it’s going to stay. What kind of business you girls have with Bland?”
    The smaller girl kept her eyes down.
    The other said, “He wouldn’t sell us any liquor, if that’s what you’re wondering. He did sell us a pack of smokes, though.”
    â€œJane!”
    â€œI don’t mind the smoking, girly,” I said. “But the two of you can’t be anything but trouble for me down here.”
    â€œI’m Jane Hardiman, and this is my friend Missy—”
    â€œJane! Don’t tell him—”
    â€œI don’t care who you are,” I said. “I want you off my beat before the wolves come out.”
    â€œRousted by the authorities! I suppose we’re criminals now,” Jane Hardiman said. Her tone was flippant, but her eyes smiled warmly. “Will you have to take us in? I don’t think Missy’s constitution can accommodate any hard time.”
    â€œIf you won’t get into a cab, I’ll have to call a scout car to take you home.”
    â€œWe’ll take the cab!” piped Missy.
    I brought them along to the cab stand around the corner and put them in the first car.
    Jane rolled down the window and beckoned me near. “Officer, I don’t suppose you could front us a dollar or two for the cab? We’re a little short.”
    The cabbie said, “I don’t take no charity case.”
    The girl was not more than fifteen years old, I judged, but she had managed to confound me. I put my hand on the door and stooped down to get a look at her face. I was ready to pull the money from my pocket.
    â€œI’m just teasing, Officer,” Jane said. “I have plenty of money.” She put her hand over mine—the bad one—and then brought it up to touch my cheek