by Ed McBain
“Let me talk to the manager,” he said.
The manager or the owner or whoever he was came over grinning nervously.
“You know this girl?” Ollie asked.
The man looked at the picture.
“She live aroun corner,” he said.
“Right. Ever see her?”
“She killed,” he said.
“When’s the last time you saw her?” Ollie asked.
“Before kill.”
“When before?”
“Night before. She come in, buy milk.”
“What time was that?”
“Same now.”
“Three-thirty, around then?”
“T’ree-t’irty, yes.”
“Was she alone?”
“Alone, yes.”
“Say anything to you?”
“Say hello, goodbye.”
“Did you thank her for buying the milk?”
“What?”
“Forget it. How long was she in here?”
“Fi’ minute. Go across street diner.”
“Thanks,” Ollie said, and winked. “English word,” he explained, and walked out.
The diner at this hour was packed with what Ollie called “denizens,” which in his dictionary—but no one else’s—was the antonym of “citizens.” Here were the predators, the occupiers of the night, the people who woke up at midnight and began stalking the city like the wild animals they were. White, black, Latino, they all talked too loud and looked too tough till you shoved a nine in their face. The minute Ollie walked in, they knew he was a cop. To make the point clearer, he tossed open his coat and jacket, flashing the nine again. He didn’t want to sit on a stool with his back to the door. He took a booth in the corner instead, where he could watch the counter and also see anyone coming in or going out. He lifted a menu from where it was nesting between the napkin holder and the salt and pepper shakers, studied it briefly, and signaled to the waitress. She was thirty-three or -four, Ollie guessed, not a beautiful woman, but there was something very sexy about her weariness.
“Bring me two burgers and a large order of fries,” he told her.
“We only got one size order of fries,” she told him.
“What size is that?”
“It don’t have a designation. It’s just the fries we serve as a side order.”
“Okay, bring me two of them.”
“They’re just the normal size of the side order.”
“Good, bring me two of the normal size.”
“I mean, that’s not their designation or anything, they don’t have a designation. That’s just the size they are.”
“That’s fine,” Ollie said. “Two orders. Whatever size they are.”
“Two burgers, two sides of fries,” the waitress said, and walked off to place the order. When she came back some five minutes later, Ollie’s shield was sitting on the table. He pointed to it, winked, and said, “When it quiets down a little, I want to talk to you.”
The waitress looked at the shield.
“Sure,” she said. “I have a break at four. I’ll bring myself a cup of coffee.”
“What would you say if I told you I know how to play piano?” he asked.
“Do you?”
“I’m gonna learn.”
“Good for you,” she said. “I’ll see you later.”
She came back again at a few minutes past four. She offered him a cigarette, lighted one for herself when he refused, and then sipped at the coffee she’d carried with her to the table. Stretching her legs, she said, “So who killed who?”
“How’d you guess?”
“You look like Homicide.”
“Bite your tongue,” Ollie said.
“I used to date a Homicide cop.”
“Did he wear black underwear?”
“No. Black everything else though.”
“What’s your name?” Ollie asked.
“Hildy. What’s yours?”
“Ollie Weeks. I work out of the Eight-Eight.”
“Okay.”
“Hildy, you prob’ly know a girl was killed around the corner here last month. Girl named Althea Cleary.”
“Yeah.”
“You know her?”
“Yeah. She used to come in here all the time. I think she was a dancer or something. Either that or a hooker. She’d come in here two, three in the morning almost every night.”
“Was she in here the night she got killed?”
“I don’t even know when that was.”
“November ninth.”
“You’re still lookin for whoever done it, huh?”
“Still lookin.”
“November ninth,” she said, thinking.
“Would’ve been a Tuesday night.”
“I can’t say for sure.”
“Do you remember any night this month when she might’ve come in here with a guy? Some kind of Jamaican, tall, easy grin. Would’ve had a knife scar down the left-hand side of his face.”
“Oh yeah,” she said, nodding.
“You remember him?”
“Mean-looking son of a bitch. Light complexion, kind of bluish-green eyes, lots of white back there someplace. But Althea didn’t come in with him. He was here already.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“He walked in, it must’ve been two-thirty or so,” Hildy said. “First thing I noticed was the scar. Well, hell, you couldn’t miss it. You see lots of knife scars up here, but this one was a beaut. What you don’t see much of up here is Jamaicans, though. You get all colors of the rainbow up here, but this ain’t what you’d call a Jamaican neighborhood. That’s farther uptown, near the ballpark, you know? Minute he asked for a cup of coffee, I caught the Jamaican speech. You know how they sound. Cop of coffee ond a scrombled egg son’wich,” she said, trying to sound Jamaican but failing miserably; Ollie knew because he had such a finely tuned ear. “Anyway, Althea didn’t come in till sometime later.”
“You knew her by name?”
“Oh sure. She was a regular.”
“How about the Jamaican? Did he give you a name?”
“Nope.”
“Who made the first move?”
“You mean him or Althea? Actually, it was him. She took a seat in one of the booths, ordered whatever it was, I forget. He wandered over, introduced himself, sat down.”
“You didn’t hear a name when he introduced himself, did you?”
“Nope.”
“John Bridges?”
“Nope. Took off his hat, though.”
“Polite.”
“Oh yes.”
“Curly black hair, right?”
“Well, I didn’t notice if it was curly, but it was black, all right.”
“He seem gay to you?”
“Gay? Hell, no.”
“So what happened with the two of them?”
“Was she a hooker?” Hildy asked.
“Not officially. She worked in a topless joint downtown.”
“Cause she got real friendly with him, is what I mean.”
“Did they leave here together?”
“Yeah.”
“What time?”
“Around three-thirty.”
“Arm in arm, or what?”
“Well … friendly. Like I said.”
“Think she was heading home with him?”
“Saw them turning the corner together. Through the window there,” Hildy said, and nodded toward it.
“Then it was a possibility.”
“A likelihood. So when do you start?”
“Start what?”
“Piano lessons.”
“Oh. Soon.”
“You’ll have to play for me sometime,” she said.
“What’s your favorite song? I’ll learn it.”
“Gee, that’s hard to say. Without dating myself.”
“That’s not always true. You got songs they call standards, you didn’t have to be a teenager at the time to know them.”
“Like what?”
“Like ‘Stardust,’ for example. Everybody knows ‘Stardust.’”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t?”
“Nope.”
“How about ‘Night and Day’?”
“Is that a song?”
“You never heard of ‘Night and Day’?”
“Never.”
“Sinatra? You heard of Frank Sinatra?”
“Of course I heard of Frank Sinatra.”
“That was one of his big songs, ‘Night and Day.’”
“I don’t know it.”
“What Sinatra songs do you know?”
“‘Mack the Knife.’”
“That was Bobby Darin’s big hit.”
“It was not.”
“Of course it was. You know any other Sinatra songs?”
“Sure.”
“Which ones?”
“‘Strangers When We Meet’?”
“That was a book.”
“No, it was a song.”
“‘Strangers in the Night’ was the song.”
“Oh yeah, right.”
“Do you know any Beatles’ songs?”
“Sure, I do.”
“Which ones?”
“The one about diamonds?”
“‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’?”
“Right, that’s it.”
“Any others?”
“Sure, but I can’t remember their names offhand.”
“What songs do you remember?”
“Well, there’s ‘Back 2 Good’ by Matchbox 20?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And ‘Bad.’ By U2. You know that one?”
“Uh-huh. What else?”
“How about ‘Uninvited’?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Alanis Morisette? You ever hear of her?”
“Uh-huh.”
“‘Criminal’? You oughta know that one, a cop. Fiona Apple?”
“Uh-huh,” Ollie said. “Well, I guess I could learn some of those songs for you.” He’d already forgotten the titles. “How about ‘Satisfaction’?” he asked. “You know ‘Satisfaction’?”
“Sure,” Hildy said. “The Rolling Stones.”
Bingo, Ollie thought.
The special 800 line was officially called the Police Information Network, or PIN for short. The team of twelve police officers manning the line called themselves “The Rat Fink Squad.” The female officer who answered one of the phones that Tuesday afternoon said, “Police Information Network, good morning.”
A woman’s voice said, “I saw the Guido’s Pizzeria commercial.”
“Yes, ma’am?” the officer said.
“Is this call being recorded?” the woman asked.
“Yes, ma’am, it is,” the officer said.
“Do you have caller ID there?”
“Yes, ma’am, we do.”
The officer had been instructed to tell the truth in answer to any caller’s questions. She thought this was stupid, but that was what they’d told her.
“Then it’s a good thing I called from work, huh?”
“Either way, ma’am, whatever you tell us will remain strictly confidential.”
“I don’t want to say anything to anyone but a detective,” the woman said.
“Shall I ask a detective to call you back?” the officer asked.
“Please,” the woman said.
Bert Kling spoke to her shortly after three P.M. and went to see her at home later that evening. She lived in a five-story walkup outside the Eight-Seven, on Coral Street farther downtown, near the old Regency Theater building. Betty Young turned out to be white and thirtyish, a good-looking, dark-haired, blue-eyed woman who told him she’d just got home twenty minutes ago. When he arrived, she was still wearing the suit and jacket he assumed she’d worn to work that morning, standing at the kitchen counter, eating a Twinkie and drinking a glass of milk. She asked him if he’d care for anything, and when he declined, she invited him into the living room of the one-bedroom apartment where she sat on the sofa and he sat on an easy chair facing her. Through the row of windows behind her, Kling could see the tall smokestack of a building several doors away, dominating the skyline.
She told him she worked as a receptionist for the accounting firm he’d called, and she’d been able to make ends meet until her mother in Orlando, Florida, suffered a stroke this past August. Which was why she could sure use the fifty thousand bucks Guido’s was offering, what with all the additional medical expenses and all.
“But what I want to make sure of,” she said, “is that I’ll be protected in this thing. We’re talking about murder here, you know.”
“Yes, Miss, I know.”
“So what kind of protection would I be getting if I tell you what I know?”
Kling explained that her name would be kept confidential, that she would not be called as a witness in any criminal proceeding …
“I’m not a witness, anyway,” she said. “I didn’t actually see anybody kill anybody.”
“But you do have information that would lead us to the person or persons responsible?”
“Yes, I do. The point is, how can I be sure my name won’t be made public?”
“Well, there would be no need to do that.”
“Suppose some television reporter gets nosy, how do I know the cops won’t tell him my name? Or the Guido’s people? How can I be sure?”
“You can’t,” Kling said. “You’d just have to trust us.”
She gave him a look that said Trust you? In this city, he was used to such looks.
“And how do I know I’ll get my money?” she asked.
“Same thing,” he said. “Trust.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Or maybe … I know we wouldn’t do this if it was a police reward … but maybe the company’d be willing to put half the money in escrow to begin with and then pay the rest after arrest and conviction.”
“Arrest and conviction?” she said.
“Yes, that’s the …”
“Oh, no, wait a minute,” she said. “Suppose you arrest the guy who did the shooting and then your D.A. screws up? Why should I be responsible for a conviction?”
“Well, those are the terms of the Restaurant Affiliates offer. Arrest and …”
“The who offer?”
“Restaurant Affiliates. That’s the corporation that owns the Guido’s chain. Arrest and conviction is what they stipulated.”
“Then it’s not really a genuine offer, is it?”
“I think it’s genuine, Miss.”
“How? If some inept D.A. lets him walk, I don’t get the reward. How’s that genuine?”
“Well, the D.A.’s Office wouldn’t bring it to trial if they didn’t think they had a strong case.”
“But they lose cases all the time, don’t they?”
“Well … no. Not all the time. I would say they win many more cases than they lose.”
“Still, where’s my guarantee? I stick my neck out …”
“Win or lose, your safety would be protected. If you identified this person for us … I’m assuming you know only one of the shooters, am I right?”
Betty looked surprised.
“What gives you that idea?” she asked.
“Well, you referred to ‘the guy who did the shooting’ and just now you said something about the D.A. letting him walk. Him. Singular. So I’m assuming you know only one of them.”
“Gee, an actual detective,” she said, a remark which in this city didn’t surprise Kling. In fact, nothing in this city surprised Kling. He plunged ahead regardless. “In any case,” he said, “I don’t want to ask you any questions until you’re ready to answer them. So …”
“I won’t be ready to answer them till Guido’s assures me I’ll get the fifty thousand if what I tell you leads to charges, never mind conviction. If there’s a catch to this, they can just forget the whole thing.”
“I can’t speak for them, of course, but I don’t think ther
e’s a catch. I think they genuinely want to apprehend these guys. Or even one of them, if that’s all the information you have.”
She said nothing.
He looked at her.
“You could feel perfectly safe,” he said.
She still said nothing.
“Let me take this back to my lieutenant,” Kling said. “He’ll want to make some calls. If we can tell Restaurant Affiliates we’ve actually got someone who’s willing to come forward with information …”
“I am.”
“I understand that.”
“But only if they drop the conviction part of it. I want my money the minute he’s charged with the crime. I mean, suppose I’d seen O.J. stabbing his wife and I gave the police information that led to his arrest? And then he walked. Do you see what I mean?”
“But you said you didn’t witness the actual shooting …”
“That’s right, I didn’t witness the shooting itself. But I know one of the men who did it.”
“Why’d you decide to come forward at this time, Miss Young?”
“My conscience was bothering me.”
She paused a moment, and then said, “Also, I broke up with him last week.”
The deputy chief in charge of PIN was informed by Lieutenant Byrnes of the Eighty-seventh Squad somewhere away the hell uptown that one of his detectives had interviewed a young woman who claimed to know one of the shooters in the pizzeria rumble, but would not divulge any information about him until she was assured she’d get the reward money the moment criminal charges were brought—all of this in a somewhat breathless rush from Byrnes who was, to tell the truth, a bit excited by what Kling had brought home.
“The fuck she think she is?” the deputy chief asked.
“You might want to discuss this with the Guido’s people,” Byrnes suggested.
“They’ll say no,” the deputy chief said.
He was wrong.
The executives up at Restaurant Affiliates, recognizing another brilliant public relations coup when they saw one, immediately pounced upon it. On television that night—with commercial spots going for hundreds of thousands of dollars a minute—all five major networks and most of the cable channels gave at least two minutes of free broadcast time to the news that RA, Inc., ever mindful of the uncertainties of the criminal justice system, were revising their reward offer. If anyone provided information leading to the arrest and indictment of the shooters, the $50,000 was theirs for the asking.
RA Inc.’s advertising people might have been forgiven for linking the singular “anyone” with the plural “theirs” because they were selling a product and they didn’t want to offend any feminist who might object to the proper but politically incorrect “his.” Too clumsy to say “his or hers for the asking.” Much easier to say “theirs” and play it ungrammatically safe, as if anyone cared. But the journalists reporting the revised offer should have known better. Instead, they read it verbatim from the ad agency’s press release, compounding the felony. Further aiding and abetting, most of them closed their reports with the slogan RA, Inc. had paid millions to popularize over the years: “So come on over to Guido’s for a nicer pizza!”