by Ed McBain
“That’s a good way to be,” the bartender agreed.
“I know it. Oh, my friend, do I know it! I was dead in Whiting Center, and now I’m here and alive and . . . look, let me buy you a drink, huh?”
“I don’t drink,” the bartender insisted.
“Okay. Okay, I won’t argue. I wouldn’t argue with anyone tonight. Gee, it’s gonna be a great Christmas, do you know? Gee, I’m so damn happy I could bust.” He laughed aloud, and the bartender laughed with him. The laugh trailed off into a chuckle, and then a smile. Pete looked into the mirror, lifted his glass again, and again said, “Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas.”
He was still smiling when the man came into the bar and sat down next to him. The man was very tall, his body bulging with power beneath the suit he wore. Coatless, hatless, he came into the bar and sat alongside Pete, signalling for the bartender with a slight flick of the hand. The bartender walked over.
“Rye neat,” the man said.
The bartender nodded and walked away. The man reached for his wallet.
“Let me pay for it,” Pete said.
The man turned. He had a wide face with a thick nose and small brown eyes. The eyes came as a surprise in his otherwise large body. He studied Pete for a moment and then said, “You a queer or something?”
Pete laughed. “Hell, no,” he said. “I’m just happy. It’s Christmas Eve, and I feel like buying you a drink.”
The man pulled out his wallet, put a five dollar bill on the bar top and said, “I’ll buy my own drink.” He paused. “What’s the matter? Don’t I look as if I can afford a drink?”
“Sure you do,” Pete said. “I just wanted to . . . look, I’m happy. I want to share it, that’s all.”
The man grunted and said nothing. The bartender brought his drink. He tossed off the shot and asked for another.
“My name’s Pete Charpens,” Pete said, extending his hand.
“So what?” the man said.
“Well . . . what’s your name?”
“Frank.”
“Glad to know you, Frank.” He thrust his hand closer to the man.
“Get lost, Happy,” Frank said.
Pete grinned, undismayed. “You ought to relax,” he said, “I mean it. You know, you’ve got to stop . . .”
“Don’t tell me what I’ve got to stop. Who the hell are you, anyway?”
“Pete Charpens. I told you.”
“Take a walk, Pete Charpens. I got worries of my own.”
“Want to tell me about them?”
“No, I don’t want to tell you about them.”
“Why not? Make you feel better.”
“Go to hell, and stop bothering me,” Frank said.
The bartender brought the second drink. He sipped at it, and then put the shot glass on the bar top.
“Do I look like a hick?” Pete asked.
“You look like a goddamn queer,” Frank said.
“No, I mean it.”
“You asked me, and I told you.”
“What’s troubling you, Frank?”
“You a priest or something?”
“No, but I thought . . .”
“Look, I come in here to have a drink. I didn’t come to see the chaplain.”
“You an ex-Army man?”
“Yeah.”
“I was in the Navy,” Pete said. “Glad to be out of that, all right. Glad to be right here where I am, in the most wonderful city in the whole damn world.”
“Go down to Union Square and get a soap box,” Frank said.
“Can’t I help you, Frank?” Pete asked. “Can’t I buy you a drink, lend you an ear, do something? You’re so damn sad, I feel like . . .”
“I’m not sad.”
“You sure look sad. What happened? Did you lose your job?”
“No, I didn’t lose my job.”
“What do you do, Frank?”
“Right now, I’m a truck driver. I used to be a fighter.”
“Really? You mean a boxer? No kidding?”
“Why would I kid you?”
“What’s your last name?”
“Blake.”
“Frank Blake? I don’t think I’ve heard it before. Of course, I didn’t follow the fights much.”
“Tiger Blake, they called me. That was my ring name.”
“Tiger Blake. Well, we didn’t have fights in Whiting Center. Had to go over to Waterloo if we wanted to see a bout. I guess that’s why I never heard of you.”
“Sure,” Frank said.
“Why’d you quit fighting?”
“They made me.”
“Why?”
“I killed a guy.”
Pete’s eyes widened. “In the ring?”
“Of course in the ring. What the hell kind of a moron are you, anyway? You think I’d be walking around if it wasn’t in the ring? Jesus!”
“Is that what’s troubling you?”
“There ain’t nothing troubling me. I’m fine.”
“Are you going home for Christmas?”
“I got no home.”
“You must have a home,” Pete said gently. “Everybody’s got a home.”
“Yeah? Where’s your home? Whiting Center or wherever the hell you said?”
“Nope. This is my home now. New York City. New York, New York. The greatest goddamn city in the whole world.”
“Sure,” Frank said sourly.
“My folks are dead,” Pete said. “I’m an only child. Nothing for me in Whiting Center anymore. But in New York, well, I get the feeling that I’m here to stay. That I’ll meet a nice girl here, and marry her, and raise a family here and . . . and this’ll be home.”
“Great,” Frank said.
“How’d you happen to kill this fellow?” Pete asked suddenly.
“I hit him.”
“And killed him?”
“I hit him on the Adam’s apple. Accidentally.”
“Were you sore at him?”
“We were in the ring. I already told you that.”
“Sure, but were you sore?”
“A fighter don’t have to be sore. He’s paid to fight.”
“Did you like fighting?”
“I loved it,” Frank said flatly.
“How about the night you killed that fellow?”
Frank was silent for a long time. Then he said, “Get lost, huh?”
“I could never fight for money,” Pete said. “I have a quick temper, and I get mad as hell, but I could never do it for money. Besides, I’m too happy right now to . . .”
“Get lost,” Frank said again, and he turned his back. Pete sat silently for a moment.
“Frank?” he said at last.
“You back again?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have talked to you about something that’s painful to you. Look, it’s Christmas Eve. Let’s . . .”
“Forget it.”
“Can I buy you a drink?”
“No. I told you no a hundred times. I buy my own damn drinks!”
“This is Christmas E . . .”
“I don’t care what it is. You happy jokers give me the creeps. Get off my back, will you?”
“I’m sorry. I just . . .”
“Happy, happy, happy. Grinning like a damn fool. What the hell is there to be so happy about? You got an oil well someplace? A gold mine? What is it with you?”
“I’m just . . .”
“You’re just a jerk! I probably pegged you right the minute I laid eyes on you. You’re probably a damn queer.”
“No, no,” Pete said mildly. “You’re mistaken, Frank. Honestly, I just feel . . .”
“Your old man was probably a queer, too. Your old lady probably took on every sailor in town.”
The smile left Pete’s face, and then tentatively reappeared. “You don’t mean that, Frank,” he said.
“I mean everything I ever say,” Frank said. There was a strange gleam in his eyes. He studied Pete carefully.
“About my mother, I meant,”
Pete said.
“I know what you’re talking about. And I’ll say it again. She probably took on every sailor in town.”
“Don’t say that, Frank,” Pete said, the smile gone now, a perplexed frown teasing his forehead, appearing, vanishing, reappearing.
“You’re a queer, and your old lady was a . . .”
“Stop it, Frank.”
“Stop what? If your old lady was . . .”
Pete leaped off the bar stool. “Cut it out!” he yelled.
From the end of the bar, the bartender turned. Frank caught the movement with the corner of his eye. In a cold whisper, he said, “Your mother was a slut,” and Pete swung at him.
Frank ducked, and the blow grazed the top of his head. The bartender was coming towards them now. He could not see the strange light in Frank’s eyes, nor did he hear Frank whisper again, “A slut, a slut.”
Pete pushed himself off the bar wildly. He saw the beer bottle then, picked it up, and lunged at Frank.
The patrolman knelt near his body.
“He’s dead, all right,” he said. He stood up and dusted off his trousers. “What happened?”
Frank looked bewildered and dazed. “He went berserk,” he said. “We were sitting and talking. Quiet. All of a sudden, he swings at me.” He turned to the bartender. “Am I right?”
“He was drinking,” the bartender said. “Maybe he was drunk.”
“I didn’t even swing back,” Frank said, “not until he picked up the beer bottle. Hell, this is Christmas Eve. I didn’t want no trouble.”
“What happened when he picked up the bottle?”
“He swung it at me. So I . . . I put up my hands to defend myself. I only gave him a push, so help me.”
“Where’d you hit him?”
Frank paused. “In . . . in the throat, I think.” He paused again. “It was self-defense, believe me. This guy just went berserk. He musta been a maniac.”
“He was talking kind of queer,” the bartender agreed.
The patrolman nodded sympathetically. “There’s more nuts outside than there is in,” he said. He turned to Frank. “Don’t take this so bad, Mac. You’ll get off. It looks open and shut to me. Just tell them the story downtown, that’s all.”
“Berserk,” Frank said. “He just went berserk.”
“Well . . .” The patrolman shrugged. “My partner’ll take care of the meat wagon when it gets here. You and me better get downtown. I’m sorry I got to ruin your Christmas, but . . .”
“It’s him that ruined it,” Frank said, shaking his head and looking down at the body on the floor.
Together, they started out of the bar. At the door, the patrolman waved to the bartender and said, “Merry Christmas, Mac.”
Small Homicide
Her face was small and chubby, the eyes blue and innocently rounded, but seeing nothing. Her body rested on the seat of the wooden bench, one arm twisted awkwardly beneath her.
The candles near the altar flickered and cast their dancing shadows on her face. There was a faded, pink blanket wrapped around her, and against the whiteness of her throat were the purple bruises that told us she’d been strangled.
Her mouth was open, exposing two small teeth and the beginnings of a third.
She was no more than eight months old.
The church was quiet and immense, with early-morning sunlight lighting the stained-glass windows. Dust motes filtered down the long, slanting columns of sunlight, and Father Barron stood tall and darkly somber at the end of the pew, the sun touching his hair like an angel’s kiss.
“This is the way you found her, Father?” I asked.
“Yes. Just that way.” The priest’s eyes were a deep brown against the chalky whiteness of his face. “I didn’t touch her.”
Pat Travers scratched his jaw and stood up, reaching for the pad in his back pocket. His mouth was set in a tight, angry line. Pat had three children of his own. “What time was this, Father?”
“At about five-thirty. We have a six o’clock mass, and I came out to see that the altar was prepared. Our altar boys go to school, you understand, and they usually arrive at the last moment. I generally attend to the altar myself.”
“No sexton?” Pat asked.
“Yes, we have a sexton, but he doesn’t arrive until about eight every morning. He comes earlier on Sundays.”
I nodded while Pat jotted the information in his pad. “How did you happen to see her, Father?”
“I was walking to the back of the church to open the doors. I saw something in the pew, and I . . . well, at first I thought it was just a package someone had forgotten. When I came closer, I saw it was . . . was a baby.” He sighed deeply and shook his head.
“The doors were locked, Father?”
“No. No, they’re never locked. This is God’s house, you know. They were simply closed. I was walking back to open them. I usually open them before the first mass in the morning.”
“They were all unlocked all night?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I see.” I looked down at the baby again. “You . . . you wouldn’t know who she is, would you, Father?”
Father Barron shook his head again. “I’m afraid not. She may have been baptized here, but infants all look alike, you know. It would be different if I saw her every Sunday. But . . .” He spread his hands wide in a helpless gesture.
Pat nodded, and kept looking at the dead child. “We’ll have to send some of the boys to take pictures and prints, Father. I hope you don’t mind. And we’ll have to chalk up the pew. It shouldn’t take too long, and we’ll have the body out as soon as possible.”
Father Barron looked down at the dead baby. He crossed himself then and said, “God have mercy on her soul.”
I was sipping at my hot coffee when the buzzer on my desk sounded. I pushed down the toggle and said, “Levine here.”
“Dave, want to come into my office a minute? This is the lieutenant.”
“Sure thing,” I told him. I put down the cup and said, “Be right back,” to Pat, and headed for the Skipper’s office.
He was sitting behind his desk with our report in his hands. He glanced up when I came in and said, “Sit down, Dave. Hell of a thing, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I’m holding it back from the papers, Dave. If this breaks, we’ll have every mother in the city telephoning us. You know what that means?”
“You want it fast.”
“I want it damned fast. I’m pulling six men from other jobs to help you and Pat. I don’t want to go to another precinct for help because the bigger this gets, the better its chances of breaking print are. I want it quiet and small, and I want it fast.” He stopped and shook his head, and then muttered, “Goddamn thing.”
“We’re waiting for the autopsy report now,” I said. “As soon as we get it, we may be able to—”
“What did it look like to you?”
“Strangulation. It’s there in our report.”
The lieutenant glanced at the typewritten sheet in his hands, mumbled, “Uhm,” and then said, “While you’re waiting, you’d better start checking the Missing Persons calls.”
“Pat’s doing that now, sir.”
“Good, good. You know what to do, Dave. Just get me an answer to it fast.”
“We’ll do our best, sir.”
He leaned back in his leather chair, “A little girl, huh?” He shook his head. “Damn shame. Damn shame.” He kept shaking his head and looking at the report, and then he dropped the report on his desk and said, “Here’re the boys you’re got to work with.” He handed me a typewritten list of names. “All good, Dave. Get me results.”
“I’ll try, sir.”
Pat had a list of calls on his desk when I went outside again. I picked it up and glanced through it rapidly. A few older kids were lost, and there had been the usual frantic pleas from frantic mothers who should have watched their kids more carefully in the first place.
“What’s t
his?” I asked. I put my forefinger alongside a call clocked in at eight-fifteen. A Mrs. Wilkes had phoned to say she’d left her baby outside in the carriage, and the carriage was gone.
“They found the kid,” Pat said. “Her older daughter had simply taken the kid for a walk. There’s nothing there, Dave.”
“The Skipper wants action, Pat. The photos come in yet?”
“Over there.” He indicated a pile of glossy photographs on his desk. I picked up the stack and thumbed through it. They’d shot the baby from every conceivable angle, and there were two good close-ups of her face. I fanned the pictures out on my desk top and phoned the lab. I recognized Caputo’s voice at once.
“Any luck, Cappy?”
“That you, Dave?”
“Yep.”
“You mean on the baby?”
“Yeah.”
“The boys brought in a whole slew of stuff. A pew collects a lot of prints, Dave.”
“Anything we can use?”
“I’m running them through now. If we get anything, I’ll let you know.”
“Fine. I want the baby’s footprints taken and a stat sent to every hospital in the state.”
“Okay. It’s going to be tough if the baby was born outside, though.”
“Maybe we’ll be lucky. Put the stat on the machine, will you? And tell them we want immediate replies.”
“I’ll have it taken care of, Dave.”
“Good. Cappy, we’re going to need all the help we can get on this one. So . . .”
“I’ll do all I can.”
“Thanks. Let me know if you get anything.”
“I will. So long, Dave. I’ve got work.”
He clicked off, and I leaned back and lighted a cigarette. Pat picked up one of the baby’s photos and glumly studied it.
“When they get him, they should cut off his . . .”
“He’ll get the chair,” I said. “That’s for sure.”
“I’ll pull the switch. Personally. Just ask me. Just ask me and I’ll do it.”
The baby was stretched out on the long white table when I went down to see Doc Edwards. A sheet covered the corpse, and Doc was busy typing up a report. I looked over his shoulder:
Doc Edwards looked up from the typewriter.
“Not nice, Dave.”
“No, not nice at all.” I saw that he was ready to type in the Result of chemical analysis space. “Anything else on her?”