Give the Boys a Great Big Hand

by Ed McBain

  “Excuse me,” he said, “excuse me.” And he executed an offtackle run around a group of men who were huddled at the tie rack. The ties apparently were made of Indian madras in colors the men were declaring to be simultaneously “cool,” “wild,” and “crazy.” Carella felt hot, tamed, and very sane.

  He kept looking for the owner of the shop, and finally a voice came at his elbow. “May I help you, sir?” And a body materialized alongside the voice. Carella whirled to face a thin man with a Fu Manchu beard, wearing a tight brown suit over a yellow weskit, and leering like a sex maniac in a nudist camp.

  “Yes, yes, you can,” Carella said. “Are you the owner of this shop?”

  “Jerome Jerralds,” the young man said, and he grinned.

  “How do you do, Mr. Jerralds?” Carella said. “I’m—”

  “Trouble?” Jerralds said, eying the bundle of wrapped clothes. “One of our garments didn’t fit you properly?”

  “No, it’s—”

  “Did you make the purchase yourself, or was it a gift?”

  “No, this—”

  “You didn’t buy the garment yourself?”

  “No,” Carella said. “I’m a—”

  “Then it was a gift?”

  “No. I’m—”

  “Then how did you get it, sir?”

  “The police lab sent the clothes over,” Carella answered.

  “The poli—?” Jerralds started, and his hand went up to stroke the Chinese beard, a cat’s-eye ring gleaming on his pinky.

  “I’m a cop,” Carella explained.

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. I’ve got a pile of clothes here. I wonder if you can tell me anything about them.”

  “Well, I—”

  “I know you’re busy, and I won’t take much of your time.”

  “Well, I—”

  Carella had already unwrapped the package. “There’s a label in the suit,” he said. “Urban-Surburban Clothes. This your suit?”

  Jerralds studied it. “Yes, that is our suit.”

  “How about the raincoat? It looks like the kind of thing you might sell, but the label’s been torn out. Is it your coat?”

  “What do you mean, it looks like the kind of thing we might sell?”

  “Stylish,” Carella said.

  “Oh, I see.”

  “With a flair,” Carella said.

  “Yes, I see.”

  “Important-looking,” Carella said.

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Cool,” Carella said. “Wild. Crazy.”

  “That’s our raincoat, all right,” Jerralds said.

  “How about this umbrella?”

  “May I see it, please?”

  Carella handed him the tagged umbrella.

  “No, that’s not ours,” Jerralds said. “We try to offer something different in men’s umbrellas. For example, we have one with a handle made from a ram’s horn, and another fashioned from a Tibetan candlestick, which—”

  “But this one is yours, right?”

  “No. Were you interested in—?”

  “No, I don’t need an umbrella,” Carella said. “It’s stopped raining, you know.”

  “Oh, has it?”

  “Several days ago.”

  “Oh. It gets so crowded in here sometimes—”

  “Yes, I can understand. About this suit and this raincoat, can you tell me who bought them?”

  “Well, that would be difficult to…” Jerralds stopped. His hand fluttered to the jacket of the suit, landed on the sleeve, scraped at the stain there. “Seem to have got something on the sleeve,” he said.

  “Blood,” Carella answered.

  “Wh—?”

  “Blood. That’s a bloodstain. You sell many of these suits, Mr. Jerralds?”

  “Blood, well it’s a popular…blood? Blood?” He stared at Carella.

  “It’s a popular number?” Carella said.

  “Yes.”

  “In this size?”

  “What size is it?”

  “A forty-two.”

  “That’s a big size.”

  “Yes. The suit was worn by a big man. The raincoat’s big, too. Can you remember selling both these items to anyone? There’s also a pair of black socks here someplace. Just a second.” He dug up the socks. “These look familiar?”

  “Those are our socks, yes. Imported from Italy. They have no seam, you see, manufactured all in one—”

  “Then the suit, the raincoat, and the socks are yours. So the guy is either a steady customer, or else someone who stopped in and made all the purchases at one time. Can you think of anyone? Big guy, size forty-two suit?”

  “May I see the suit again, please?”

  Carella handed him the jacket.

  “This is a very popular number,” Jerralds said, turning the jacket over in his hands. “I really couldn’t estimate how many of them we sell each week. I don’t see how I could possibly identify the person who bought it.”

  “There wouldn’t be any serial numbers on it anywhere?” Carella asked. “On the label maybe? Or sewn into the suit someplace?”

  “No, nothing like that,” Jerralds said. He flipped the suit over and studied both shoulders. “There’s a high padding on this right shoulder,” he said almost to himself. To Carella, he said, “That’s odd because the shoulders are supposed to be unpadded, you see. That’s the look we try to achieve. A natural, flowing—”

  “So what does the padding on that right shoulder mean?”

  “I don’t know, unless…Oh, wait a minute, wait a minute. Yes, yes, I’ll bet this is the suit.”

  “Go ahead,” Carella said.

  “This gentlemen came in, oh, it must have been shortly after Christmas. A very tall man, very well built. A very handsome man.”

  “Yes?”

  “He…well, one leg was slightly shorter than the other. A halfinch, a quarter-inch, something like that. Not serious enough to produce a limp, you understand, but just enough to throw the line of his body slightly out of kilter. I understand there are a great number of men whose—”

  “Yes, but what about this particular man?”

  “Nothing special. Except that we had to build up the right shoulder of the jacket, pad it, you know. To compensate for that shorter leg.”

  “And this is that jacket?”

  “I would think so, yes.”

  “Who bought it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He wasn’t a regular customer of yours?”

  “No. He came in off the street. Yes, I remember now. He bought the suit, and the raincoat, and several pairs of socks, and black knit tie. I remember now.”

  “But you don’t remember his name?”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “Do you keep sales slips?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Do you list a customer’s name on the slip?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But what?”

  “This was shortly after Christmas. January. The beginning of January.”

  “So?”

  “Well, I’d have to go through a pile of records to get to—”

  “I know,” Carella said.

  “We’re very busy now,” Jerralds said. “As you can see—”

  “Yes, I can see.”

  “This is Saturday, one of our busiest days. I’m afraid I couldn’t take the time to—”

  “Mr. Jerralds, we’re investigating a murder,” Carella said.

  “Oh.”

  “Do you think you can take the time?”

  “Well…” Jerralds hesitated. “Very well, would you come into the back of the store, please?”

  He pushed aside a curtain. The back of the store was a small cubbyhole piled high with goods in huge cardboard boxes. A man in jockey shorts was pulling on a pair of pants in front of a fulllength mirror.

  “This doubles as a dressing room,” Jerralds explained. “Those trousers are just for you, sir,” he said to the half-clad man. “This way; my desk
is over here.”

  He led Carella to a small desk set before a dirty, barred window.

  “January, January,” he said, “now where would the January stuff be?”

  “Is this supposed to be so tight?” the man in trousers said.

  “Tight?” Jerralds asked. “It doesn’t look at all tight, sir.”

  “It feels tight to me,” the man said. “Maybe I’m not used to these pants without pleats. What do you think?” he asked Carella.

  “Looks okay to me,” Carella said.

  “Maybe I’m just not used to it,” the man answered.

  “Maybe so.”

  “They look wonderful,” Jerralds said. “That color is a new one. It’s sort of off-green. Green and black, a mixture.”

  “I thought it was gray,” the man said, studying the trousers more carefully.

  “Well, it looks like gray, and it looks like green, and it also looks like black. That’s the beauty of it,” Jerralds said.

  “Yeah?” The man looked at the trousers again. “It’s a nice color,” he said dubiously. He thought for a moment, seeking an escape. “But they’re too tight,” and he began pulling off the trousers. “Excuse me,” he said, hopping on one leg and crashing into Carella. “It’s a little crowded back here.”

  “The January file should be…” Jerralds touched one temple with his forefinger and knotted his brow. The finger came down like the finger of doom circling in the air and then dived, tapping a carton that rested several feet from the desk. Jerralds opened the carton and began rummaging among the sales slips.

  The man threw the trousers onto the desk and said, “I like the color, but they’re too tight.” He walked to the carton over which he had draped his own trousers and began pulling them on. “I can’t stand tight pants, can you?” he asked Carella.

  “No,” Carella answered.

  “I like a lot of room,” the man said.

  “No, this is February,” Jerralds said. “Now where the devil did I put the January slips? Let me think,” and again the finger touched his temple, hesitated there until the light of inspiration crossed his bearded face, and then zoomed like a Stuka to a new target. He opened the second carton and pulled out a sheaf of sales slips.

  “Here we are,” he said. “January. Oh, God, this is going to be awful. We had a clearance sale in January. After Christmas, you know. There are thousands of slips here.”

  “Well, thanks a lot,” the man said, secure in his own loose trousers now. “I like a lot of room, you understand.”

  “I understand,” Jerralds said as he leafed through the sales slips.

  “I’ll drop in again sometime. I’m a cab driver, you see. I need a lot of room. After all, I sit on my ass all day long.”

  “I understand,” Jerralds said. “I think it was the second week in January. After the sale. Let me try those first.”

  “Well, so long,” the cab driver said. “Nice meeting you.”

  “Take it easy,” Carella answered, and the cabbie pushed through the hanging curtains and into the front of the shop.

  “Three shirts at four-fifty per…no, that’s not it. This is a job, you know. If you weren’t such a nice person, I doubt if I’d…one pair of swim trunks at…no…ties, no…one raincoat black, one suit charcoal, three pair lisle…here it is, here it is,” Jerralds said. “I thought so. January tenth. Yes, it was a cash sale.”

  “And the man’s name?”

  “It should be on the top of the slip here. It’s a little difficult to read. The carbon isn’t too clear.”

  “Can you make it out?” Carella asked.

  “I’m not sure. Chirapadano, does that sound like a name? Michael Chirapadano?”

  The landlady said, “Are you here again? Where’s your redheaded friend?”

  “Working on something,” Carella said. “I’d like to go through Chirapadano’s room again. That okay with you?”

  “Why? You got a clue?”

  “Maybe.”

  “He owes me two months’ rent,” the landlady said. “Come on, I’ll take you up.”

  They walked upstairs. She cleaned the banister with an oily cloth as they went up. She led Carella to the apartment and was taking out the key when she stopped. Carella had heard the sound, too. His gun was already in his hand. He moved the landlady to one side and was backing off against the opposite wall when she whispered, “For God’s sake, don’t break it in. Use my key, for God’s sake!”

  He took the key from her, inserted it into the lock, and twisted it as quietly as he could. He turned the knob then and shoved against the door. The door would not budge. He heard a frantic scurrying inside the apartment, and he shouted, “Goddamnit!” and hurled his shoulder against the door, snapping it inward.

  A tall man stood in the center of the room, a bass drum in his hands.

  “Hold it, Mike!” Carella shouted, and the man threw the bass drum at him, catching him full in the chest, knocking him backward and against the landlady who kept shouting, “I told you not to break it in! Why didn’t you use the key!”

  The man was on Carella now. He did not say a word. There was a wild gleam in his eyes as he rushed Carella, disregarding the gun in Carella’s fist as the landlady screamed her admonitions. He threw a left that caught Carella on the cheek and was drawing back his right when Carella swung the .38 in a side-swiping swing that opened the man’s cheek. The man staggered backward, struggling for balance, tripping over the rim of the bass drum, and crashing through the skin. He began crying suddenly, a pitiful series of sobs that erupted from his mouth.

  “Now you broke it,” he said. “Now you went and broke it.”

  “Are you Mike Chirapadano?” Carella asked.

  “That ain’t him,” the landlady said. “Why’d you break the door in? You cops are all alike! Why didn’t you use the key like I told you?”

  “I did use the damn key,” Carella said angrily. “All it did was lock the door. The door was already open. You sure this isn’t Chirapadano?”

  “Of course I’m sure. How could the door have been open? I locked it myself.”

  “Our friend here probably used a skeleton key on it. How about that, Mac?” Carella asked.

  “Now you broke it,” the man said. “Now you went and broke it.”

  “Broke what?”

  “The drum. You broke the damn drum.”

  “You’re the one who broke it,” Carella said.

  “You hit me,” the man said. “I wouldn’t have tripped if you hadn’t hit me.”

  “Who are you? What’s your name? How’d you get in here?”

  “You figure it out, big man.”

  “Why’d you leave the door unlocked?”

  “Who expected anyone to come up here?”

  “What do you want here anyway? Who are you?”

  “I wanted the drums.”

  “Why?”

  “To hock them.”

  “Mike’s drums?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, now who are you?”

  “What do you care? You broke the bass drum. Now I can’t hock it.”

  “Did Mike ask you to hock his drums?”

  “No.”

  “You were stealing them?”

  “I was borrowing them.”

  “Sure. What’s your name?”

  “Big man. Has a gun, so he thinks he’s a big man.” He touched his bleeding face. “You cut my cheek.”

  “That’s right,” Carella said. “What’s your name?”

  “Larry Daniels.”

  “How do you know Chirapadano?”

  “We played in the same band.”

  “Where?”

  “The King and Queen.”

  “You a good friend of his?”

  Daniels shrugged.

  “What instrument do you play?”

  “Trombone.”

  “Do you know where Mike is?”

  “No.”

  “But you knew he wasn’t here, didn’t you? Otherwise yo
u wouldn’t have sneaked up here with your skeleton key and tried to steal his drums. Isn’t that right?”

  “I wasn’t stealing them. I was borrowing them. I was going to give him the pawn ticket when I saw him.”

  “Why’d you want to hock the drums?”

  “I need some loot.”

  “Why don’t you hock your trombone?”

  “I already hocked the horn.”

  “You the junkie Randy Simms was talking about?”

  “Who?”

  “Simms. Randy Simms. The guy who owns The King and Queen. He said the trombone player on the band was a junkie. That you, Daniels?”

  “Okay, that’s me. It ain’t no crime to be an addict. Check the law. It ain’t no crime. And I got no stuff on me, so put that in your pipe and smoke it. You ain’t got me on a goddamn thing.”

  “Except attempted burglary,” Carella said.

  “Burglary, my ass. I was borrowing the drums.”

  “How’d you know Mike wouldn’t be here?”

  “I knew, that’s all.”

  “Sure. But how? Do you know where he is right this minute?”

  “No, I don’t know.”

  “But you knew he wasn’t here.”

  “I don’t know nothing.”

  “A dope fiend,” the landlady said. “I knew it.”

  “Where is he, Daniels?”

  “Why do you want him?”

  “We want him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he owns a suit of clothes that may be connected with a murder. And if you withhold information from us, you can be brought in as an accessory after the fact. Now how about that, Daniels? Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. That’s the truth.”

  “When did you see him last?”

  “Just before he made it with the dame.”

  “What dame?”

  “The stripper.”

  “Bubbles Caesar?”

  “That’s her name.”