by Ed McBain
He heard footsteps, a thousand footsteps, running over him and past him and down the steps, thundering, thundering. He did not lose consciousness. With his face pressed to the rough wooden floor, with the taste of his own blood in his mouth, he idly wondered why private eyes always swam down, down, down, into a pool of blackness, wondered idly why Mrs. Glennon had lied to him, wondered why he’d been beaten, wondered where his gun was, and groped for it blindly, his fingers sticky with blood. He crawled toward the steps.
He found the top step and then hurtled headlong down the flight, tumbling, crashing into the banister, cutting his bald scalp on the sharp edge of one of the risers, his legs and arms twisted ludicrously as he rolled and bounced to the ground-floor landing. He could see a bright rectangle of light where the vestibule door was opened to the street outside. He spit blood and crawled through the dim vestibule and onto the front stoop, dripping a trail of blood behind him, blinking blood out of his eyes, his nose running blood, his lips running blood.
He half crawled, half dragged himself down the low flight of steps and onto the sidewalk. He tried to raise himself on one elbow, tried to call out to anyone in the street.
No one stopped to assist him.
This was a neighborhood where you survived by minding your own business.
Ten minutes later a patrolman found him on the sidewalk, where he had swum down, down, down, into that pool of blackness.
The sign outside the garage read BODY AND FENDER WORK, EXPERT PAINTING AND RETOUCHING. The owner of the garage was a man named Fred Batista, and he came out to gas up Brown’s unmarked sedan only to learn that Brown was a detective who had come to ask questions. He seemed to enjoy the idea. He asked Brown to park the car over near the air pump and then invited him into the small garage office. Batista needed a shave, and he was wearing grease-covered overalls, but there was a twinkle in his eyes as he and Brown went through the questioning routine. Maybe he’d never seen a cop up close before. Or maybe business was bad and he was glad for a break in the monotony. Whatever the reason, he answered Brown’s questions with verve and enthusiasm.
“Joe Wechsler?” he said. “Why, sure, I knew him. He’s got a little hardware store right down the street. Many’s the time we run over there when we needed a tool or something. A fine man, Joe was. And a terrible thing what happened to him in the bookstore.” Batista nodded. “I know Marty Fennerman, too—guy who runs the store. He had a holdup there once, you know that? Did he tell you that?”
“Yes, sir, he told us,” Brown said.
“Sure, I remember, musta been seven, eight years ago. Sure. You want a cigar?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Batista.”
“You don’t like cigars?” Batista said, offended.
“Yes, I do,” Brown said. “But I don’t like to smoke them in the morning.”
“Why not? Morning, afternoon, what’s the difference?”
“Well, I usually have one after lunch and another after dinner.”
“You mind if I smoke one?” Batista asked.
“Go right ahead.”
Batista nodded and spit the end of the cigar into a barrel of soiled rags near his scarred desk. He lighted the cigar, blew out a great stream of smoke, said “Ahhhhhh,” and then leaned back in his ancient swivel chair.
“I understand Mr. Wechsler had some work done by you a little while before the shooting, is that right, Mr. Batista?”
“That’s right,” Batista said. “A hundred percent.”
“What kind of work?”
“A paint job.”
“Did you do the job personally?”
“No, no. My body and fender man did it. It wasn’t such a big job. Some nut hit Joe while he was parked on the street in front of his store. So he brung the car in here and I—”
“The car was hit?”
“Yeah. But nothing big. You know, just a scratched fender, like that. Buddy took care of it.”
“Buddy?”
“Yeah, my body and fender man.”
“Who paid for the job? Mr. Wechsler or the man who hit him?”
“Well, truth is, nobody paid for it yet. I just billed Joe last week. ‘Course, I didn’t know he was gonna get killed. Listen, I can wait for my money. His wife’s got enough grief right now.”
“But it was Mr. Wechsler you billed?”
“Yeah. Joe didn’t know who hit him. Like, you know, he come back from lunch one day, and there was this big scratch in the fender. So he brung the car in here, and we took care of it. Buddy’s a good man. Only been with me a month or so, but much better than the last guy I had.”
“I wonder if I could talk to him.”
“Sure, go right ahead. He’s in back. He’s working on a ‘56 Ford. You can’t miss him.”
“What’s his last name?”
“Manners. Buddy Manners.”
“Thanks,” Brown said. He excused himself and walked to the back of the garage.
A tall, muscular man in paint-stained coveralls was spraying the side of a blue Ford convertible. He looked up as Brown approached, decided Brown was no one he knew, and went back to work.
“Mr. Manners?” Brown asked.
Manners cut off the spray gun and looked up inquisitively. “Yeah?”
“I’m from the police,” Brown said. “I wonder if I could ask you a few questions.”
“Police?” Manners said. He shrugged. “Sure, go right ahead.”
“You did some work for Joseph Wechsler, I understand.”
“For who?”
“Joseph Wechsler.”
“Wechsler, Wechsler…Oh, yeah, ‘59 Chevy, that’s right. Spray job on the left front fender. Right. I can only remember them by the cars.” He grinned.
“I guess you don’t know what happened to Mr. Wechsler then.”
“I only know what happened to his car,” Manners said.
“Well, he was killed Friday night.”
“Gee, that’s a shame,” Manners said, his face going suddenly serious. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He paused. “An accident?”
“No, he was murdered. Don’t you read the papers, Mr. Manners?”
“Well, I was kind of busy this weekend, I went up to Boston— that’s where I’m from originally—to see this girl I know. So I didn’t see no papers from here.”
“Did you know Wechsler pretty well?”
Manners shrugged. “I think I met him twice. First time was when he brung the car in, and then he come in once while I was painting it. Said the color was a little off. So I mixed a new batch and sprayed the fender again. That was it.”
“Never saw him again?”
“Never. He’s dead, huh? That’s a shame. He seemed like a nice little guy. For a kike.”
Brown stared at Manners levelly and then said, “Why do you say that?”
“Well, he seemed nice,” Manners shrugged.
“I mean, why did you call him a kike?”
“Oh. Why, ‘cause that’s what he was. I mean, did you ever hear him talk? It was a riot. He sounded like he just got off the boat.”
“This spray job you did for him…Did you argue about the color of the paint?”
“Argue? No, he just said he thought the color was a little off, and I said okay, I’ll mix a new batch, and that was it. It’s hard to match exactly. You know. So I done my best.” Manners shrugged. “I guess he was satisfied. He didn’t say nothing when he picked up the car.”
“Oh, then you did talk to him again?”
“No, I only saw him those two times. But if he’d have kicked about the work, I’da heard it from the boss. So I guess he was satisfied.”
“When did you go to Boston, Mr. Manners?”
“Friday afternoon.”
“What time?”
“Well, I knocked off work about three o’clock. I caught the four-ten from Union Station.”
“You go alone, or what?”
“Alone, yeah,” Manners said.
“What’s the girl’s name? The one i
n Boston?”
“Why?”
“I’m curious.”
“Mary Nelson. She lives in West Newton. If you think I’m lying about being in Boston—”
“I don’t think you’re lying.”
“Well, you can check anyway.”
“Maybe I will.”
“Okay.” Manners shrugged. “How’d he get killed? The kike?”
“Someone shot him.”
“That’s too bad,” Manners said. He shook his head. “He seemed like a nice little guy.”
“Yeah. Well, thanks, Mr. Manners. Sorry to have interrupted your work.”
“That’s Okay,” Manners said. “Any time.”
Brown went to the front of the garage again. He found Batista filling a customer’s gas tank. He waited until he was through and then asked, “What time did Manners leave here Friday afternoon?”
“Two-thirty, three, something like that,” Batista said.
Brown nodded. “This spray job he did for Wechsler. Did Wechsler complain about it?”
“Oh, only about the first color Buddy put on. It didn’t match right. But we fixed it for him.”
“Any static?”
“Not that I know of. I wasn’t here the day Joe came in and told Buddy about it. But Buddy’s an easygoing guy. He just mixed up a new batch of paint, and that was it.”
Brown nodded again. “Well, thanks a lot, Mr. Batista,” he said.
“Not at all,” Batista said. “You sure you don’t want a cigar? Go ahead, take one.” Batista smiled. “For after lunch.”
Carella was downtown at Headquarters watching a parade of felony offenders go through the ritual of the Lineup.
Willis was out talking to known junkies in the neighborhood, trying to get a lead on the addict named Anthony La Scala.
Di Maeo was rounding up two more known criminals who had been arrested by Bert Kling, convicted, and released from prison during the past year.
Kling was at the funeral parlor with Ralph Townsend, making final arrangements for Claire’s burial the next day.
Bob O’Brien was alone in the squadroom when the telephone rang. He absentmindedly lifted the receiver, put it to his ear, and said into the mouthpiece, “87th Squad, O’Brien.” He was in the middle of typing up a report on the results of his barbershop plant. His mind was still on the report when Sergeant Dave Murchison’s voice yanked him rudely away from it.
“Bob, this is Dave downstairs. On the desk. I just got a call from Patrolman Oliver on the South Side.”
“Yeah?”
“He found Meyer beat up on a sidewalk there.”
“Who?”
“Meyer.”
“Our Meyer.”
“Yeah, our Meyer.”
“Jesus, what is this? Open season on cops? Where did you say he was?”
“I already sent a meat wagon. He’s probably on his way to the hospital.”
“Who did it, Dave?”
“I dunno. Patrolman says he was just laying there in his own blood.”
“I better get over to the hospital. Will you call the loot, Dave? And send somebody up here to cover, will you? I’m all alone.”
“You want me to call somebody in?”
“I don’t know what to tell you. There should be a detective up here. You’d better ask the skipper about it. I hate to bust in on a guy’s day off.”
“Well, I’ll ask the loot. Maybe Miscolo can cover till somebody gets back.”
“Yeah, ask him. What hospital did you say?”
“General.”
“I’ll get over there. Thanks, Dave.”
“Right,” Murchison said, and he hung up.
O’Brien put the phone back onto the cradle, opened the top drawer of his desk, took his .38 Police Special from the drawer, clipped it to the left side of his belt, put on his jacket and his hat, made a helpless wide-armed gesture to the empty squadroom, and then went through the slatted rail divider and down the iron-runted steps and past the muster desk where he waved at Murchison, and then out into the October sunshine.
The week was starting fine, all right.
The week was starting just fine.
They picked up Terry Glennon at 4:00. By that time a hardy contingent of bulls had returned to the squadroom, and they surrounded Glennon in casual deceptiveness as he sat in a straight-backed chair asking why he had been dragged into a police station.
Bob O’Brien, who was a most obliging cop, said, “We dragged you into a police station because we think you and some of your buddies beat the crap out of a cop this morning. Does that answer your question?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Glennon said.
“The cop’s name is Detective Meyer Meyer,” O’Brien went on obligingly. “He is now at General Hospital being treated for cuts and bruises and shock and maybe concussion. Does that make it any clearer?”
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That’s okay; play it cool,” O’Brien said. “We got all the time in the world. I went to the hospital around lunchtime and Meyer told me he had paid a little visit to the Glennon household, where a young guy named Terry Glennon got very upset because Meyer was talking to his mother. The mother, according to Meyer, made some sarcastic reference about the young fellow’s friends. Does that ring a bell, Glennon?”
“Yeah, I remember that.”
“How about remembering where you vanished to after you and your buddies ganged up on Meyer?”
“I didn’t vanish no place. I was around the block. And I didn’t gang up on nobody, neither.”
“You weren’t around the block, Glennon. We’ve been looking for you since noon.”
“So I took a walk,” Glennon said. “So what?”
“So nothing,” Carella said. “Fellow can take a walk. No law against that.” He paused, smiled, and said, “Where’d you go when you left your house, Glennon?”
“Downstairs.”
“Where downstairs?” Willis asked.
“The candy store.”
“What candy store?” Brown asked.
“On the corner.”
“How long did you stay there?” Di Maeo asked.
“I don’t know. An hour, two hours, who remembers?”
“Somebody better remember,” O’Brien said. “Why’d you beat up Meyer?”
“I didn’t.”
“Who did?” Carella said.
“I don’t know.”
“Ever hear of Claire Townsend?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“My mother spoke of her. And the cop was asking about her.”
“Ever meet her?”
“No.”
“Know anybody named Joe Wechsler?”
“No.”
“Anthony La Scala?”
“No.”
“Herbert Land?”
“No.”
“Why’d you beat up Meyer?”
“I didn’t.”
“Why doesn’t your mother like your friends?”
“How do I know? Ask her.”
“We will. Right now we’re asking you.”
“I don’t know why she don’t like them.”
“You belong to a gang, Glennon?”
“No.”
“A club then? What do you call it, Glennon? An athletic and social club?”
“I don’t belong to nothing. I don’t call it nothing ‘cause I don’t belong to nothing.”
“Did your gang help you beat up Meyer?”
“I don’t have a gang.”
“How many of you were there?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I went downstairs and—”
“What’d you do? Wait for Meyer in the hallway?”
“—and I stood in the candy store for—”
“Beat him up when he left your mother?”
“—for a few hours, and then I took a walk.”
“Where’d you have lunch?”
�
�What?”
“Where’d you have lunch?”
“I had a hot dog on Barker.”
“Let’s see your hands.”
“What for?”
“Show him your hands!” Carella snapped.
O’Brien turned Glennon’s hands over in his own. “That’s all we need,” O’Brien said. “Those cuts on his knuckles’ll cinch it.”
Glennon did not take the bait. He remained silent. If he had been one of the people who’d beaten Meyer with lead pipes, he did not offer the information.
“We’re gonna lock you up for a little while,” Willis said. “I think you’ll like our detention cells.”
“You can’t lock me up,” Glennon said.
“No? Try us,” Willis answered. “Steve, I think we better hit the old lady again, find out the names of Junior’s friends.”
“You leave my mother alone!” Glennon shouted.
“Why? You gonna beat us up, too?”
“You just leave her alone, you hear me? I’m the man of that house! When my father died, I became the man of the house! You just stay away from her.”
“Yeah, you’re some man,” Brown said. “You wait in the dark with twelve other guys and you coldcock a—”
“I didn’t wait no place! You just stay away from my mother!”
“Lock him up,” O’Brien said.
“And you can’t lock me up, either. You got to have grounds.”
“We got grounds.”
“Yeah? What?”
“Suspicion,” Willis said, calling on the old standby.