by Ed McBain
Solemnly, remembering the shaggy-dog story, Hank said, “Life is a fountain.”
“Huh?” Fanny said. “What do you mean, life is a fountain?”
He looked at her with a mock stunned expression. “You mean life isn’t a fountain?”
“Hank,” she said, wagging her head, “you’re working too hard. Close the windows in your office. Don’t let the sun in.”
He grinned, and then he remembered the silent phone call, and the grin dropped from his mouth. In the street outside, the buildings of justice had closed their faces for the night. An occasional light burned like an unblinking eye in the otherwise gray façades of the buildings. The streets, thronged with counselors and clerks and offenders and witnesses during the daytime, were almost empty at this hour. He glanced at his watch. Nine-ten. With luck, he’d be home before ten o’clock. A nightcap with Karin, outdoors perhaps, and then to bed. It was a beautiful balmy night, and the night stirred something deep inside him, a memory impulse leaping into vague restless prominence. He could not pinpoint the memory, but he felt very young all at once, and he knew the memory was connected with his youth, the smell of a summer night, the giant black arc overhead dotted with swarming stars, the sound of the city all around him, the myriad sounds gathering and rising to become the sound that only a city possessed, the heartbeat of a metropolis. It was a night to drive along the West Side Highway with the top of a convertible down and the jewel lights of the city gleaming in the sky, reflecting on the waters of the Hudson. It was a night for listening to “Laura,” a night designed to show man that romance was a very real thing which had nothing whatever to do with the daily grind of the rat race.
He was unconsciously smiling when he entered City Hall Park. His step, too, was lighter, and his shoulders were back and his head was erect and he felt as if he owned the city of New York. Lock, stock, and barrel, the city was his, a giant wonderland of peaks and minarets and soaring towers designed for his pleasure alone. He hated this city, but, by God, it sang in his blood, it roared there like the intricate tonality of a Bach fugue, it was his city, and he was a part of it, and as he walked beneath the spreading leaf canopy of the park trees he felt as if he were merging with the concrete and the asphalt and the steel and the blazing tungsten, as if he were truly the city personified, and he knew for a fleeting instant how Frankie Anarilles felt when he walked the streets of Spanish Harlem.
And then he saw the boys.
There were eight of them, and they sat on two benches flanking either side of the path which wound through the small park. The lampposts along the path, he noticed, had either gone out accidentally or been put out. In any case, the benches upon which the boys sat were in total darkness and he could not see the boys’ faces. The area of blackness, intensified by the high covering arch of the heavily laden trees, spread for at least fifty feet along the path. The darkness began not ten feet ahead of him.
He hesitated.
His stride broke, and he remembered the telephone call—“Mr. Bell?”—and then the silence, and he wondered if that call had been made to ascertain the fact that he was still in the office. There were two detectives assigned to his home in Inwood, but … Suddenly he was frightened.
The boys sat motionless on the benches. Silently, like wax figures shrouded in impenetrable darkness, they sat and waited.
He decided to turn and walk out of the park.
And then he decided he was being foolish. There was nothing ominous about a group of young kids sitting in a park in the middle of a city. For God’s sake, there were probably a thousand policemen cruising the area! His right foot touched the patch of darkness on the path, moved into it, followed by his left, and then his right again, and then the darkness was everywhere around him as he approached the benches and their silent cargo, the fear returning in him with alarming suddenness.
The boys sat quietly. There was no talking—hardly any breathing, it seemed to him—as he passed between the two benches looking neither to the left nor the right, neither acknowledging their presence nor denying it.
The attack came swiftly, surprisingly because, if anything, he expected a punch to be hurled, but instead something lashed across his chest, something hard and sinuous, something alive with fury. He balled his fists and turned to the first attacker, but the same live terror leaped out of the darkness at his back, and he heard the rattle of metal, the sound of chains, chains? can it be they’re using? and then he felt the sharp snap of metal across his face, and now there was no doubt that the weapons in the hands of these eight boys were tire chains, skid chains, spiked with metal prongs to catch at the snow, wielded with surprising deftness and agility.
He threw a punch at a shadowy figure and someone grunted in pain, and then from behind him another of the skid chains whipped at his legs and he felt raw pain rocket up his spine to explode inside his skull. Another of the flailing chains whipped across his chest, and he seized at it with his hands, pulling at it, feeling the ripping of his flesh as his hands tore across the metal prongs.
There was a curious silence to the scene. None of the boys spoke. Occasionally they grunted when he struck one of them, but they said nothing intelligible. There was only the sound of heavy labor, and the sound of the metal chains lunging into the darkness, colliding with his body until he felt pain everywhere and still the chains would not stop their metallic methodical beating. A chain struck the calf of his right leg, and he felt himself losing his balance, and he thought I must not fall, they’ll stomp me, they’ll kick me with combat boots, and then his shoulder slammed against the concrete path and a kick exploded against his rib cage, and another set of tire chains descended on his face with the wild power of a medieval mace. And then the chains and the boots joined in a medley of organized pain, and still there was no sound but the chains and the labored breathing of the boys and far off the muted hum of an automobile engine somewhere on the street.
He was filled with rage, an impotent blind rage that threatened to consume him, overwhelming the shrieking pain he knew. There was injustice to this beating, but at the hands of his assailants he was helpless, helpless to stop the prongs which tore at his clothes and his flesh, helpless to stop the thick leather of the boots as they descended on him. Stop it, you goddamn fools! he screamed mentally. Do you want to kill me? What are you solving? What the hell are you solving?
A kick tore open his face. He could feel the skin ripping apart like the skin of a frankfurter on the outdoor barbecue grill of his home in Inwood, his face tearing, it was funny, the warm flow of blood, I must protect my teeth, the city swarming about him, all the sounds of the city rushing into the vortex of fifty-foot blackness on the path of the park, and the chains whipping, and the boots, the boots, and within him the outrage at the injustice, the impotent outrage suffocating him, rising inside him until a shocking star-shell explosion of pain rocked the back of his head and sent him soaring wildly into unconsciousness.
And in that last instant before the darkness became complete, he realized that he didn’t know whether his attackers were the Thunderbirds or the Horsemen.
And it didn’t make a damned bit of difference either way.
TEN
She stood by the bed.
She wore a white skirt and a black sweater, and her blond hair was pulled back into a pony tail captured by a small black ribbon.
“Hello, Dad,” she said.
“Hello, Jennie.”
“How do you feel?”
“A little better.”
He had been in the hospital for three days now, but this was the first time Jennie had come to visit. Sitting up in bed with his face and his body bandaged, he looked at the sunlight playing on his daughter’s hair, and he thanked God that the pain was gone now. The only pain now was in the memory of what had happened to him. The police had found him on the park path a little after midnight. The path around him had been stained with blood, and the hospital doctors later told him he’d been in deep shock. They’d dressed his
wounds and filled him with sedatives and now, three days later, the pain in his body was gone. But the other pain still lingered, a pain of puzzlement, the pain of not being able to understand an attack that was senseless and cruel.
“Why did they beat you, Dad?” Jennie asked.
“I’m not sure,” he answered.
“Did it have something to do with the Morrez case?”
“Yes. In a twisted way, I suppose it did.”
“Are you doing something wrong?”
“Wrong? Why, no. What makes you think that?”
Jennie shrugged.
“What is it, Jennie?”
“Nothing. Just … the way the kids in the neighborhood have begun treating me, like a leper or something. I thought—I thought maybe you were doing something wrong.”
“I don’t think I am, Jennie.”
“All right,” she said. She paused. “Mommy went to see that boy the police picked up.”
“What boy?”
“The one who wrote you the threatening letter. About the Thunderbirds. You know the one.”
“Yes?”
“Well, they picked up the boy who wrote it. I guess your beating finally goosed the police into action.”
“Jennie, that’s hardly the proper language for a young lady to—”
“Anyway, they got him, Daddy. He’s a cripple.”
“A cripple?”
“A polio victim. He walks with a limp. They had his picture in the newspaper. He looked very sad, Daddy.”
“Did he?”
“Yes. When I saw his picture, I wondered what it would be like to be crippled and—and growing up in Harlem. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Mommy went to see him this morning. The police let her. She asked him if he’d meant the threat, if he’d really meant that he would kill you.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said, ‘Yes, goddamnit! Why would I send the note otherwise?’”
“Jennie, your language …”
“I’m only quoting him, Dad.” She paused. “But he wasn’t in on the beating. He isn’t even one of the Thunderbirds, and he has an alibi for the night you were beat up. I talked to Mommy on the phone before I came over here. She said they’ll release him as soon as someone puts up the bail for him.”
“How much?”
“Two thousand dollars. Daddy, will this sound strange?”
“What, Jennie?”
“If I had two thousand dollars, I’d put it up for bail. Because, Daddy, he looked so sad. He looked so damn sad.” She paused. “Does that make any sense to you?”
“A little,” he said.
Jennie nodded. “Will they be letting you out of here soon?”
“A week,” he said. “Maybe a little longer.”
“They hurt you pretty badly, didn’t they?”
“Yes.”
“How does it feel? To get beat up, I mean.”
“Well, it doesn’t feel good,” he said, and he attempted a smile.
“Daddy, whichever way this case works out, isn’t … isn’t there the possibility that you may be beaten up again?”
“I suppose there’s that possibility.”
“Are you afraid?”
He met her eyes with his own, and he saw that she was seeking honesty, but he lied nonetheless. “No,” he said, “I’m not afraid,” and he knew instantly he’d made a mistake by lying.
Jennie turned her head away from him. “Well,” she said, “I guess I ought to be scramming. Mommy said to tell you she’ll be here tonight.”
“Will you come again, Jennie?” he asked.
“Do you want me to?” she said, and again her eyes met his.
“Yes, I’d like you to.”
“I’ll try,” she said.
“Maybe … maybe we’ll be able to talk.”
“Maybe.”
“I meant without nurses or anything interrupting.”
“Yes. I know what you meant. The way we used to talk when I was a little girl.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe,” she said again. “But it’ll have to be after next week sometime. Mommy’s sending me to Rockaway to stay with the Andersons.”
“Oh? When was this decided?”
“Last night.”
“How long will you be gone?”
“A week.” Jennie hesitated. “I think Mommy’s afraid something might happen to me if I stay in the city.”
“I see,” Hank said.
“Do you think something might happen to me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well …” Jennie shrugged. “I’ll be going now, Dad.” She bent over the bed and kissed him hastily. “Take good care of yourself.”
She walked to the door, and he watched it close gently behind her. And then she was gone.
The next week went by very slowly, despite Karin’s daily visits. He thought of the attack often during that long, lonely week, and he wondered if he would ever be well enough to forget that Wednesday night, ever be well enough to forget the silent savagery of the boys who had attacked him. He had learned quite a bit from the beating. He had learned, to begin with, that a beating reduced a man to nothing more and nothing less than an open wound shrieking its pain to the night. A man was powerless when attacked by a gang intent on administering a merciless, methodical beating. The gang was a cold jury, a harsh judge, an emotionless hangman. And, lacking emotional content, the beating took on even more horrifying meaning. A man who’d been beaten, Hank knew, would never forget the pain, and the humiliation, and the empty terror of his helplessness.
And yet, the gangs in Harlem conducted warfare on a regular basis. Didn’t each gang skirmish have, by simple logic, a winning side and a losing side? And hadn’t each gang member experienced at one time or another the pain of defeat in battle? A battle, he reminded himself, is not a beating. But still, didn’t they enter each fight with fear? How could they face guns, and knives, and broken bottles—and tire chains—without fear? How could they rationalize the knowledge that if they fell they would surely be stomped into the pavement? Were they fearless heroes, men of steel, nerveless men of action?
No.
They were afraid. He knew they were afraid. And yet they fought. For what?
For what?
He did not know the answer. The question plagued him all that week. On the day before his release, the question still echoed in his mind. He wondered if this last day would ever pass, if he would ever truly leave this damned clean, sterile, antiseptic isolation booth. He was thankful for the respite from his thoughts and his loneliness when, at two that afternoon, his nurse, a woman in her fifties, walked into the room.
“Do you feel like talking to someone, Mr. Bell?” she asked.
“Any time,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“Oh, not me,” she said. “There’s a visitor outside.”
“Oh? Who?”
“A man named John Di Pace.”
“And he wants to talk to me?”
“Yes.”
“Send him in, won’t you?”
“Provided you don’t get all excited,” the nurse said.
“Dear,” he told her, “I’m getting out of here tomorrow. How are you ever going to survive without me to fuss over?”
The nurse smiled. “We’ll miss you sorely,” she said. “You’re the nastiest patient we ever had on this floor. I guess the beating didn’t teach you anything.”
“It taught me the pleasures of an alcohol rub,” he said, and he winked lewdly.
“You’re impossible. I’ll send in Mr. Di Pace.”
He adjusted the pillows behind him and waited for Di Pace’s appearance. He felt rather odd. He was about to meet the man who had taken Mary from him so long ago, when Mary had meant so much, and he felt no rancor now, only an absorbing curiosity. Nor did the curiosity have anything to do with Mary. He realized with a start that he was not interested in meeting the husband of M
ary Di Pace; he was only interested in meeting the father of Danny Di Pace.
A knock sounded on the door.
“Come in,” he said. “It’s open.”
The door swung wide, and John Di Pace entered the room. He was a tall man who seemed embarrassed by his own height as he walked hesitantly toward the bed. His hair was dark and his eyes were brown, and Hank wondered what quirk of nature had provided Danny with his mother’s recessive coloration. The man provided an instant impression of gentleness. Not knowing Di Pace, never having heard him speak, Hank instantly knew that he was one of the gentle people, and he was suddenly glad he was here.
“Sit down, Mr. Di Pace,” he said, and he extended his hand. Di Pace took it. Fumblingly, he sat.
“I didn’t know whether I should come or not,” Di Pace said. His voice was low, almost a whisper, and Hank instinctively knew again that this was a man who rarely raised his voice in anger. “But I read about what happened, and I … I thought I should come. I hope you don’t mind.”
“It’s a pleasure to see you,” Hank said.
“How do you feel?”
“Okay now. I’m getting out of here tomorrow.”
“Oh. Then I just caught you in time.”
“Yes.”
Di Pace hesitated. “Was it as bad as the newspapers said?”
“I guess so. Yes.”
“Eight of them,” Di Pace said, and he shook his head. “I can’t understand it.” He paused. “Can you?”
“No. Not exactly.”
“Was it the—the Puerto Ricans? Or Danny’s friends?”
“I don’t know. It was dark.”
“Not that it matters,” Di Pace said, and he laughed nervously and then stopped, and in his eyes there was the greatest sadness Hank had ever seen on the face of a man. “I just don’t understand it,” he said. “Maybe people behave this way, I don’t know. Maybe in war or something? But—Were you in the service?”
“Yes,” Hank said.
“Oh sure. That’s stupid of me. Of course you were.…” The voice trailed off. “I missed it,” he said. “I had a punctured eardrum. I was four-F.” He paused. “A friend of mine used to send me Yank magazine.”
“That was a good magazine,” Hank said.