by Ed McBain
'From the time of the abortion, I knew this would happen.'
'What abortion? Can you tell us what you mean?'
'When Midge wanted to have the abortion, and they said no.'
'Who said no?'
'Johnny's gang. The boys in his gang. They said no, she couldn't have one. The kids came to me, they said they wanted to get married because the gang said Midge couldn't have the abortion. I refused. Midge was only fifteen, Johnny was seventeen at the time. How can you let two kids get married when they're so young? I told them I agreed with… whatever his name is… the one with the fake smile, the one's who's president. Put the baby up for adoption. I made a mistake. The kids never got over it. Both of them. And Johnny began having trouble with the gang from the minute Midge had the baby and put it up for adoption. I thought I was doing the right thing. They were such kids. How can you let two children get married. They didn't know, it's not easy, my own marriage… they didn't know. I was trying to help them. I made a mistake. I should have given them my blessings and told them to go ahead. Then maybe this wouldn't have happened. Maybe he'd have broken with the gang once and for all, and this wouldn't have happened.' She seemed to remember something terribly significant, and said with an air of surprise, 'Johnny's birthday was two weeks ago. He was just eighteen. I want to go to the hospital. I want to make sure it's him. I have to make sure. Do you see? Do you understand?'
'Yes, Mrs. Quince.'
'Because I have to make sure.'
'Mrs. Quince, I know you'd like us to catch whoever killed your son, and maybe you can help us do that.'
'Yes,' she said. Her voice was toneless. She seemed not to be listening.
'I'm going to tell you what we already know, and also what we believe. We know that Midge McNally was found dead in the woods off Highway 14 in Turman, across the river, early Friday morning. An eyewitness at the scene saw two boys wearing Yankee Rebel gang jackets, as well as a truck bearing the Yankee Rebel insignia on its door panels. We've since found the truck, abandoned, and we've also found the house in which we believe Midge was being held captive. It belongs to a woman named Martha Walsh, who's the aunt of a Yankee Rebel named Big Anthony.'
'Yes,' Mrs. Quince said.
'We have very good reason to believe that Big Anthony and another boy took Midge to Turman last Wednesday night, and then for some reason killed her. We don't know why yet. Nor have we yet located Big Anthony.'
'Do you think he killed my son?'
'We don't know. Once we find him, we'll be able to ask him some questions. We've got enough right now to make an arrest. Which is where we can use your help.'
'What help?' she asked.
'In finding him. In finding Big Anthony.'
'How can I help you?'
'Was there any place… did Johnny ever mention any place that members of his gang would go to if they needed… well, if they needed to be out of sight for a while?'
'What do you mean?'
'To hide.'
'Hide?'
'From the police. Was there such a place, here in the city, that they could go to? Other than the clubhouse on Hitchcock and Dooley? A place the police might not know about?'
'I don't know of any such place here in the city.'
'Detective Broughan's files indicate that Johnny'd been in trouble with the law on several occasions…'
'Yes,' she said, and nodded.
'We're particularly interested in June of last year, when the 101st Squad couldn't locate your son for six days. He finally walked into the station house and said he didn't know they'd been looking for him, but there he was, and what did they want to know. Apparently he'd been hiding someplace till a suitable alibi could be concocted for him. Do you remember that incident, Mrs. Quince?'
'No.'
'It involved a shooting.'
'No, I don't remember.'
'Last June. The latter part of the month.'
'No.'
'Would you remember whether or not Johnny was gone from the apartment any time last June?'
'No.'
'You do remember the police coming here to ask for him. Detective Broughan? Of the 101st Squad?'
'Yes, I remember that. But I'm not here all the time, you see.'
'But you were here when Detective Broughan came around asking for Johnny. That was in June, Mrs. Quince.'
'Yes, I was here. But only because I'd come back for something, I forget what. I think I'd taken the wrong shoes, I think that was it. Black shoes, I think, when I needed my blue ones. Yes, that was it. I'm not here a lot of the time, you see.'
'Where are you?' Kling asked.
'I stay with a friend of mine. My husband and I are separated, you see.'
'Were you staying with your friend in June? When Johnny was missing for six days?'
'I suppose so, I really don't remember. I'm not here too often. I don't like this building. I don't like the people in this building. A lot of spies are beginning to move in. I stay with my friend a lot of the time. Johnny's a big boy, you see, he can take care of himself.' She hesitated, realizing what she had just said. 'I… I always thought he could take care of himself,' she said. 'I couldn't be expected to… I couldn't be expected to watch over him every minute. He was eighteen years old. When I was eighteen, I was already married.'
'Do you have any other children, Mrs. Quince?' Kling asked.
'I had another son. He was killed in Vietnam.'
'I'm sorry.'
'Yes,' Mrs. Quince said, and nodded. 'My husband left in 1965, I don't think he even knows our oldest boy got killed in the war. I wonder if he'll ever find out they're both dead now. Or if he'll even care. I heard he was living in Seattle. Somebody said they saw him in Seattle, I forget who. Somebody. They said he seemed very happy.' Mrs. Quince nodded again. 'It's difficult raising two boys alone, you know. A man should be around to… to… I don't know,' she said, and shrugged. 'It's difficult. I did my best. I tried to do the right thing. When Roger wanted to enlist, I said no, but he went anyway. And when I found out Johnny was running around with a gang, I tried to talk to him, but… you know… it's very difficult when there isn't a man in the house. They just tell you to go to hell, you know? You're their mother, but they say Go to hell, and then they do what they want to do. Johnny was no saint, he'd been in trouble with the law since he was twelve. The time he shot that other boy was the worst, I suppose…'
'Was that last June, Mrs. Quince?'
'Yes. The time you were talking about. He shot a boy who belonged to another gang, I forget the name of the gang, they have such dumb names, it's all so dumb.'
'Would it have been the Death's Heads?'
'I don't know. I don't remember.'
'When Detective Broughan came around looking for Johnny… did you know at the time that he'd shot someone?'
'Yes.'
'But you didn't tell that to Detective Broughan?'
'No.'
'Do you know what happened to that boy your son shot, Mrs. Quince?'
'Yes. He died in Washington Hospital.'
'Yes,' Carella said.
'Yes, I know.' She lifted her chin, her eyes met Carella's. 'What did you want me to-do, mister? Turn him in? He was my son. I'd lost one the November before, I wasn't about to lose another one. Not that it matters now. You live around here, it catches up. It has to catch up.' She lowered her eyes again. 'I don't know any rich men's sons who got killed in that war over there, do you? And I don't know any rich men's sons who get killed in the street in the middle of the night. If there's a God, mister, he doesn't know about poor people.'
'Mrs. Quince,' Carella said, 'when Detective Broughan was looking for your son last June, did you know where he was hiding?'
'Yes,' she said. 'I knew.'
'Where?' Carella asked, and leaned forward.
'It won't help you,' Mrs. Quince said. 'He was at that house in Turman.'
At four o'clock that afternoon, precisely one week and twelve hours after the six bodies had been fo
und in the telephone-company ditch, Carella got a phone call from Phyllis Kingsley, sister of the bearded white man who'd spent time with Eduardo and Constantina Portoles on the night all three of them were murdered. Phyllis told him she had been contacted by a girl named Lisa Knowles, who had flown in from California the moment she'd learned of Andrew Kingsley's death. The girl wanted to talk to the police. She was staying at the Farragut Hotel in midtown Isola.
Carella thanked Phyllis, hung up for just an instant, and then placed a call to the Farragut.
Chapter Eight
He did not get downtown until a little after five o'clock.
Night had descended on the city, the street lamps were on, the homeward rush of office workers had already begun. He drove for two blocks, looking for a parking space, and finally had to put the car in a garage. He did not particularly enjoy this because he knew he wouldn't be reimbursed for the cost of the parking, no matter how many chits he put in. The streets were bleakly cold. Pedestrians went past him swiftly, heading for subway kiosks and bus stops, their heads ducked against the fierce wind, hands clutched into coat collars or stuffed into pockets. He looked up at the sky and hoped it would not snow. He did not like snow. Teddy had once talked him into trying skiing, and he had almost broken his leg the first time down, and had given up on skiing and on snow and also on cold weather that got into a man's bones and made him miserable all over. He thought of Midge McNally lying in mud and leaves in the woods, her blouse stiff with blood. He thought of Johnny Quince, two bullets in the back of his head, shoeless, wearing only trousers and a shirt. And he thought of the six naked corpses lying in the telephone-company ditch. He hurried toward the hotel.
The Farragut was a fleabag catering to hookers, junkies, pushers, and pimps. If Carella had cared to make a few dozen arrests while he was on the premises, just so the trip downtown shouldn't be a total loss, he could have done so with ease. But this was not his precinct, and presumably there were cops here to protect the citizenry, uphold the morality, and continue the unceasing war against narcotics abuse; he would let their mothers worry. In the meantime, the preconceived opinion he formed of Lisa Knowles was not a very good one. What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this? he asked himself, even before he met her.
As it turned out, Lisa Knowles was a nice girl. She just didn't have very much money, and she had taken a room at the Farragut only because it was the least expensive thing she could find. Lisa was the very picture of blooming, bursting, youthful California health. She looked nineteen, a barefooted, very tall girl - at least five-nine - with bright blue eyes sparkling against a suntanned face, blond hair cascading to the small of her back, long legs encased in blue jeans, firm breasts braless under a tight white cotton T-shirt. Greeting him at the door to her room, she immediately apologized for the dump she was living in, and then explained how short she was of cash. Carella followed her into the room, and she closed the door behind him. There was a bed in the room, and a single easy chair, and a standing floor lamp, and a cigarette-scarred dresser. Lisa sat cross-legged on the bed. Carella took the easy chair.
'I understand you want to talk to us,' he said.
'Yes.' She emphasized the single word with a curt nod of her blond hair. She had big hands and big feet; she was a big girl all over. He could visualize her on a Malibu beach, wearing a bikini, riding a surfboard. He could also, and he was surprised by the unbidden image, visualize her in bed. He immediately got back to business.
'What about?' he said.
'Andrew Kingsley. I got a letter from him four days after he was killed. He'd written it last Saturday. I would have taken it to the California fuzz…' She smiled radiantly. 'Cops, excuse me,' she said. 'Only I figured they'd just brush it off because it wasn't their case. Was I right?'
'Well, I don't know. The Los Angeles police are a pretty efficient bunch,' Carella said, and returned the smile. 'I'm sure they would have contacted us.'
'How'd you know it was Los Angeles? And not San Francisco or San Diego or whatever?'
'Because Kingsley's sister told us he'd been doing work in Watts. That's Los Angeles,' Carella said, and shrugged.
'Smart, smart,' Lisa said, and tapped her temple with her forefinger. 'Anyway, I raised the bread and came here personally. I didn't want to take a chance on the letter going astray, because I think it may help you find whoever killed him. Also, my folks are down in Miami, and a visit is long overdue, so I figured I'd kill two birds with one stone. Provided they send me the air fare. I'm afraid to give them the address of this dump, they might recognize it and call out the Marines. But I have to wire them because all I've got is about thirty cents to my name - that's an exaggeration, but really, I'm almost flat. If I don't get some financial help real soon, I'll have to join the hookers in this place,' She smiled again. The image of Lisa Knowles as prostitute suddenly filled the small, shoddy, cheerless room. Lisa in garter belt and open-crotch panties, long blond hair spread on the pillow, Lisa being used and abused by drunken sailors and…
'How old are you?' Carella asked abruptly.
'Twenty-two. Why?' she said.
'Just wondered.'
'Old enough,' she said, 'don't worry,' and again she smiled her radiant smile, and Carella suddenly felt terribly uncomfortable and wanted to get out of there, and go home, and say to his wife, 'Hey, guess what, honey? A beautiful twenty-two-year-old blonde was flirting with me today, what do you think of that, honey?' Except that Lisa Knowles wasn't flirting. Or was she? It was she, after all, who'd made the reference to prostitution. Why are you showing me all these dirty pictures, Doctor? Carella thought, and smiled.
'Yes?' she said.
'What?'
'Why are you smiling?'
'I just thought of something very funny,' he said, and then became all business again. 'Mind if I see the letter?'
'Oh, sure,' she said, and got off the bed, and went across the room, long legs devouring the worn linoleum, backside round and firm in the tight blue jeans - Now listen, Carella told himself, and watched despite the self-admonition as she dug into the leather shoulder bag on the dresser top and came up with a red-and-blue-bordered air-mail envelope. She walked back to where he was sitting, and stopped just before the chair, her knees almost touching his. He took the envelope from her, adjusted the shade on the lamp for better illumination, and then removed the letter from the envelope and unfolded it. Lisa moved behind the chair so that she could read over his shoulder.
'See the date?' she said. 'He was killed last Sunday, am I right? The letter was written on Saturday.'
'Yes, that's right,' Carella said, and began reading the letter:
Darling Golden Girl, how are you?
I'm still here crashing with my sister, which is something of a drag, but I've finally made some contacts and I think I'll be able to get started on the work I came east for.
'He used to call me Golden Girl,' Lisa said.
'Mmm,' Carella said.
'Because I'm a blonde.'
'I see that.'
He was about to say something more. He changed his mind, and started reading the rest of the letter:
Tomorrow night, I'll be going uptown to talk to the president of a gang that calls itself The Death's Heads. This is a Puerto Rican gang, and the leader is a fellow named Edwards Portoles, who I'd met through Julio Cabrera. You remember him, he's the one who used to play piano at the Sunset Shrine, on the Strip. He's here now, playing Tuesdays and Fridays at a place downtown in the Quarter, barely eking out a living, but doing he likes best—which is all that matters, am I right, Goldilocks?
'He also called me Goldilocks,' Lisa said.
'Because you're a blonde, I'll bet.'
'How'd you guess?'
'Smart, smart,' Carella said, and tapped his temple as she had done earlier.
Anyway, Julio introduced me to this Portoles fellow who lives in the same neighbourhood Julio grew up in, and that's I got to know what the situation is up there. The situation, to put it
mildly, stinks. In fact, my dear, it is partially ripe for the likes of yours truly, Andrew Kingsley, to step in and try to make some progress before everybody kills everybody else. Lisa, the gangs up there are currently engaged in what amounts to full-scale warfare, and unless somebody can show them a peaceful way to settle their differences, a lot of innocent people are going to suffer. I say this with the knowledge that only two weeks ago, a mother wheeling her baby in the park was accidentally gunned down when a member of a gang called the Scarlet Avengers opened fire on a member of Portoles's gang.
The situation seems to be particularly aggravated between three gangs up there—Portoles's gang, which is called The Death's Heads, a black gang called The Scarlet Avengers, and a white gang called The Yankee Rebels. It's my idea that if I can get them working together on a constructive project, then maybe they'll stop trying to kill each other. I've already made some tentative suggestions along these lines to Portoles, whose seems interested in the idea—probably because his closest friend was murdered just six months back, in June. He seems tired of this senseless war. I think he'd like to end it. He also told me that the president of the Scarlet Avengers is a married man with a newborn baby, and really much too old for all this street bopping. It's Portoles's opinion that he might be willing to listen too. The real problem may prove to be the president of the Yankee Rebels, who—from all Portoles has told me—is an egotistical, brutal, unforgiving, humourless, puritanical, and basically rather stupid person who has deluded himself into believing he's the only one in the neighbourhood who knows the true and righteous path, and that anyone who disagrees with him is either crazy or intent on thwarting his grandiose and thoroughly self-serving schemes. His name if Randall Nesbitt, and I will try to talk to him after I see Portoles tomorrow night, and Atkins, the leader of the Avengers, later in the week.
'Listen, you don't happen to live here in the city, do you?' Lisa asked suddenly.
'Yes. Well, no, not downtown here. I live up in Riverhead. Why?'
'Just wondered,' she said.
'Because I thought if I have to stay in this hotel one more night, I'll go out of my mind,' Lisa said. 'I was coming up the stairs today, and I saw a guy shooting up right on the second-floor landing. I mean, can you imagine that? He's got the rubber tied around his arm, you know, and his vein is popping out, and he's got the needle poised and ready to go. Right on the staircase! And there were girls running around the halls in their underwear all last night, and strange guys prowling around and knocking on my door, I'm telling you this is some hotel. Which is why I asked if you live here in the city.'