Chapter 3: the Graft Is Green

Izzy seemed surprised when he found that Gordon was turning in to the quasi-secret entrance to Mother Corey’s. “Coming here myself,” he explained. “Mother got ahold of a load of snow, and sent me out to contact a big pusher. Coming back, the goons picked me up and gave me the job on you. Hey, Mother!”

Bruce Gordon didn’t ask how Mother Corey had acquired the dope. When Earth had deported all addicts two decades before, it had practically begged for dope smuggling.

The gross hulk of Mother Corey appeared almost at once. “Izzy and Bruce. Didn’t know you’d met, cobbers. Contact, Izzy?”

“Ninety per cent for uncut,” Izzy answered.

They went up to Gordon’s hole-in-the-wall, with Mother Corey wheezing behind, while the rotten wood of the stairs groaned under his grotesque bulk. At his questions, Gordon told the story tersely.

Mother Corey nodded. “Same old angles, eh? Get enough to do the job, they mug you. Stop halfway, and the halls are closed to you. Pretty soon, they’ll be trick-proof, anyhow; they’re changing over to electric eyes. Eh, you haven’t forgotten me, cobber?”

Gordon hadn’t. The old wreck had demanded five per cent of his winnings for tipping him off. Mother Corey had too many cheap hoods among his friends to be fooled with. Gordon counted out the money reluctantly, while Izzy explained that they were going to be cops.

The old man shook his head, estimating what was left to Gordon. “Enough to buy a corporal’s job, pay for your suit, and maybe get by,” he decided. “Don’t do it, cobber. You’re the wrong kind. You take what you’re doing serious. When you set out to tinhorn a living, you’re a crook. Get you in a cop’s outfit, and you’ll turn honest. No place here for an honest cop--not with elections coming up, cobber. Well, I guess you gotta find out for yourself. Want a good room?”

Gordon’s lips twitched. “Thanks, Mother, but I’ll be staying inside the dome, I guess.”

“So’ll I,” the old man gloated. “Setting in a chair all day, being an honest citizen. Cobber, I already own a joint there--a nice one, they tell me. Lights. Two water closets. Big rooms, six-by-ten--fifty of them, big enough for whole families. And strictly on the level, cobber. It’s no hide-out, like this.”

He rolled the money in his greasy fingers. “Now, with what I get from the pusher, I can buy off that hot spot on the police blotter. I can go in the dome and walk around, just like you.” His eyes watered, and a tear went dripping down his nose. “I’m getting old. They’ll be calling me ‘Grandmother’ pretty soon. So I’m turning my Chicken House over to my granddaughter and I’m going honest. Want a room?”

Gordon grinned, and nodded. Mother Corey knew the ropes, and could be trusted. “Didn’t know you had a granddaughter.”

Izzy snorted, and Mother Corey grinned wolfishly. “You met her, cobber. The blonde you shook down! Came up from Earth eight years ago, looking for me. I sold her to the head of the East Point gang. Since she killed him, she’s been doing pretty well on her own. Mostly. Except when she makes a fool of herself, like she did with you. But she’ll come around to where I’m proud of her, yet ... If you two want to carry in the snow, collect, and turn it over to Commissioner Arliss for me--I can’t pass the dome till he gets it--I’ll give you both rooms for six months free. Except for the lights and water, of course.”

Izzy nodded, and Gordon shrugged. On Mars, it didn’t seem odd to begin applying for a police job by carrying in narcotics. He wondered how they’d go about contacting the commissioner.

But that turned out to be simple enough. After collecting, Izzy led the way into a section marked “Special Taxes” and whispered a few casual words. The man at the desk went into an office marked private, and came back a few minutes later.

“Your friend has no record with us,” he said in a routine voice. “I’ve checked through his tax forms, and they’re all in order. We’ll confirm officially, of course.”

In the Applications section of the big Municipal Building, at the center of the dome, there was a long form to fill out at the desk; but the captain there had already had answers typed in.

“Save time, boys,” he said genially. “And time’s valuable, ain’t it? Ah, yes.” He took the sums they had ready--there was a standard price--and stamped their forms. “And you’ll want suits. Isaacs? Good, here’s your receipt. And you, Corporal Gordon. Right. Get your suits one floor down, end of the hall. And report in eight tomorrow morning!”

It was as simple as that. Bruce Gordon was lucky enough to get a fair fit in his suit. He’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be in uniform.

Izzy was more businesslike. “Hope they don’t give us too bad territory, gov’nor,” he remarked. “Pickings are always a little lean on the first few beats, but you can work some fairly well.”

Gordon’s chest fell; this was Mars!

The room at the new Mother Corey’s--an unkempt old building near the edge of the dome--proved to be livable, though it was a shock to see Mother Corey himself in a decent suit, and using perfume.

The beat was in a shabby section where clerks and skilled laborers worked. It wasn’t poor enough to offer the universal desperation that gave the gang hoodlums protective coloring, nor rich enough to have major rackets of its own.

Izzy was disgusted. “Cripes! Hope they’ve got a few cheap pushers around that don’t pay protection direct to the captain. You take that store; I’ll go in this one!”

The proprietor was a druggist who ran his own fountain where the synthetics that replaced honest Earth foods were compounded into sweet and sticky messes for the neighborhood kids. He looked up as Gordon came in; then his face fell. “New cop, eh? No wonder Gable collected yesterday, ahead of time. All right, you can look at my books. I’ve been paying fifty, but you’ll have to wait until Friday.”

Gordon nodded and swung on his heel, surprised to find that his stomach was turning. The man obviously couldn’t afford fifty credits a week. But it was the same all along the street. Even Izzy admitted finally that they’d have to wait.

“That damned cop before us! He really tapped them! And we can’t take less, so I guess we gotta wait until Friday.”

The next day, Bruce Gordon made his first arrest. It was near the end of his shift, just as darkness was falling and the few lights were going on. He turned a corner and came to a short, heavy hoodlum backing out of a small liquor store with a knife in throwing position. The crook grunted as he started to turn and stumbled onto Gordon. His knife flashed up.

Without the need to worry about an airsuit, Gordon moved in, his arm jerking forward. He clipped the crook on the inside of the elbow, while grabbing the wrist with his other hand. The man went sailing over Gordon’s head, to crash into the side of the building. He let out a yell.

Gordon rifled the hood’s pockets, and located a roll of bills stuffed in. He dragged them out, before snapping cuffs on the man. Then he pulled the crook inside the store.

A woman stood there, moaning over a pale man on the floor; blood oozed from a welt on the back of his head. There was both gratitude and resentment as she looked up at Gordon.

“You’d better call the hospital,” he told her sharply. “He may have a concussion. I’ve got the man who held you up.”