"Didn't you recognize me?"
"How much you want?"
"Not much," the detective said.
"Just a little information.
Bellsey strained against his bonds. Then, when he realized that was futile, he began to rock back and forth on the chair.
"Stop that," Calazo said.
"Fuck you," Bellsey said, gasping.
The detective brought the sap thudding down on the back of the man's right hand. Bellsey opened his mouth to shriek, and Calazo jammed the wadded handkerchief back in his mouth.
"No screams," he said coldly.
"Remember our agreement?
Gonna keep quiet?"
Bellsey sat a moment, breathing deeply. Finally he nodded.
Calazo pulled out the gag.
"You better kill me," Bellsey said.
"Because if you don't, when I get loose I'm going to kill you."
"Nah," Ben Calazo said, "I don't think so. Because I'm going to hurt you-I mean really hurt you, just like you've hurt so many other people.
And you're never going to be the same again. After you get hurt bad, your whole life changes, believe me."
Something in Bellsey's eyes altered. Doubt, fear-whatever-shallowed their depths.
"Why do you want to hurt me?"
"That's easy. I don't like you."
"What'd I ever do to you?"
"What'd those four guys you stomped ever do to you?"
"What four guys?"
Calazo brought the sap down again on the back of Bellsey's left hand.
The man's head jerked back, his eyes closed, his mouth opened wide. But he didn't scream.
"The hand…" Calazo said.
"A lot of little chicken bones in there. Mess up your hands and you're in deep trouble. Even after lots of operations they never do work right again. Now tell me about the four guys."
"What four-" Bellsey started, but when he saw his captor raise the sap again, he said hastily, "All right, all right! I got into some hassles.
Street fights-you know? They were fair fights."
"Sure they were," Calazo said.
"Like that detective you took outside the Tail of the Whale. A kidney punch from behind. Then you gave him a boot. That was fair."
Bellsey stared at him.
"Jesus Christ," he gasped, "you're a cop!"
Calazo brought the bludgeon down on the back of Bellsey's right hand: a swift, hard blow. They both heard something snap. Bellsey's eyes glazed over.
"You did it-right?" the detective said.
"The four guys near your hangouts and the cop outside the Tail of the Whale.
All your work-correct?"
Ronald Bellsey nodded slowly, looking down at his reddened hands.
"Sure you did," Calazo said genially.
"A tough guy like you, it had to be.
It's fun slugging people, isn't it? I'm having fun."
"Let me go," Bellsey begged.
"I admitted it, didn't I? Let me loose."
"Oh, we got a way to go yet, Ronald," Calazo said cheerfully.
"You're not hurting enough."
"God almighty, what more do you want? I swear, I get out of here, I'm going to cut off your schlong and shove it down your throat."
Calazo brought the sap down again on the back of Bellsey's right hand.
The man passed out, and the detective brought more water to throw in his face.
"Keep it up, sonny boy," he said when Bellsey was conscious again.
"I'd just as soon pound your hands to mush.
You're not going to do much fighting with broken hands, are you? Maybe they'll fit you with a couple of hooks."
"You're a cop," Bellsey said aggrievedly.
"You can't do this.
"But I am doing it-right? Get a good look at me so you can pick me out of a lineup. The trouble with you tough guys is that you never figure to meet anyone tougher. Well, Ronald, you've just met one. Before I'm through with you, you're going to be crying and pissing your pants.
Meanwhile, let's get to the sixty-four-dollar question: Where were you the night your shrink was killed?"
"Oh, my God, is that what this is all about? I was home all night. I already told the cops that. My wife was there. She says the same thing."
"What'd you do at home all night? Read the Bible,-do crossword puzzles, count the walls?"
"I watched television."
"Yeah? What did you watch?"
"That's easy. We got cable, and I remember from nine to eleven there was a special on Home Box: Fifty, Years of Great Fights, 1930-1980. It was films from all the big fights, mostly heavyweights. I watched that."
Calazo looked at him thoughtfully.
"I saw that show that night, Good stuff. But you could have chilled your shrink and checked TV Guide just to give yourself an alibi."
"You fucker," Bellsey said in a croaky voice, "I really did--" But Calazo snapped the sap down on the back of Bellsey's left hand, and the bound man writhed with pain. Tears came to his eyes.
"See," the detective said, "you're crying already. Don't call me names, Ronald; it's a nasty habit."
Calazo stood there, staring steadily down at his captive.
Bellsey's hands had ballooned into puffs of raw meat. They lay limply on the arms of the chair, already beginning to show ruptured blood vessels and discolored skin.
"I wish I didn't believe you," Calazo said.
"I really wish I thought you were lying so I could keep it up for a while. I hate to say it, but I think you're telling the truth."
"I am, I am! What reason would I have to kill Ellerbee?
The guy was my doctor, for Christ's sake!"
"Uh-huh. But you hurt five other guys for no reason, didn't you? Well, before I walk off into the sunset, let me tell you a couple of things.
Betty Lee had nothing to do with this. I told her if she didn't, she'd be in the clink. You understand that?"
Bellsey nodded frantically.
"If I find out you've been leaning on her," Calazo continued, "I'm going to come looking for you. And then it won't be only your hands; it'll be your thick skull. You got that?"
Bellsey nodded again, wearily this time.
"And if you want to come looking for me, I'll make it easy for you: The name is Detective Benjamin Calazo, and Midtown North will tell you where to find me. Just you and me, one on one. I'll blow your fucking head off and wait right there for them to come and take me away. Do you believe that?"
Ronald Bellsey looked up at him fearfully.
"You're crazy," he said in a faltering voice.
"That's me," Calazo said.
"Nutty as a fruitcake."
With two swift, crushing blows, he slammed the sap against Bellsey's hands with all his strength. There was a sound like a wooden strawberry box crumpling. Bellsey's eyes rolled up into his skull and he passed out again. The stench of urine filled the air. The front of Bellsey's pants stained dark.
Detective Calazo packed his little gym bag. He put in the sap, the rolls of remaining tape. Then he stripped the tape from Bellsey's unconscious body, wadded it up, and put that in the bag, too. He donned fedora and overcoat. He looked around, inspecting. He remembered the glass he had used to throw water in Bellsey's face, and took that.
He opened the hallway door, wiped off the knob with Bellsey's handkerchief, and threw it back onto the slack body. He rode down in the elevator, walked casually through the lobby.
The guy behind the desk didn't even look up.
Calazo called the hotel from two blocks away.
"There's a sick man in room eight-D," he reported to the clerk.
"I think he's passed out. Maybe you better call for an ambulance."
Then he drove home, thinking of how he would word his report to Sergeant Boone, stating that, in his opinion, Ronald J. Bellsey was innocent of the murder of Dr. Simon Ellerbee.
The girls arrived at the Delaney brownstone on the afternoon of Christmas Eve: Mary and
Sylvia, two bouncy young women showing promise of becoming as buxom as their mother. The first thing they did was to squeal with delight at the sight of the Christmas tree.
Sylvia: "Fantastic!"
Mary: "Ineredibobble!"
The second thing they did was to announce they would not be home for Christmas Eve dinner. They had dates that evening with two great boys.
"What boys?" Monica demanded sternly.
"Where did you meet them?"
Mother and daughters all began talking at once, gesturing wildly.
Delaney looked on genially.
It became apparent that on the train down from Boston, Mary and Sylvia had met two nice boys, seniors at Brown.
They both lived in Manhattan, and had invited the girls to the Plaza for dinner and then on to St. Patrick's Cathedral for Handel's Messiah and midnight mass.
"But you don't even know them," Monica wailed.
"You pick up two strangers on the train, and now you're going out with them? Edward, tell them they can't go. Those men may be monsters."
"Oh, I don't know…" he said easily.
"Any guys who want to go to St. Pat's for midnight mass can't be all bad. Are they supposed to pick you up here?"
"At eight o'clock," Sylvia said excitedly.
"Peter-he's my date-said he thought he could borrow his father's car."
"And Jeffrey is mine," Mary said.
"Really, Mother, they're absolutely respectable, very well behaved.
Aren't they, Syl?"
"Perfect gentlemen," her sister -vowed.
"They hold doors open for you and everything."
"Tell you what," Delaney said, "when they arrive, ask them in for a drink. They're old enough to drink, aren't they?"
"Oh, Dad," Mary said.
"They're seniors."
"All right, then ask them in when they come for you. Your mother and I will take a look. If we approve, off you go. If they turn out to be a couple of slavering beasts, the whole thing is off."
"They're not slavering beasts!" Sylvia objected.
"As a matter of fact, they're rather shy. Mary and I had to do most of the talking-didn't we, Mare?"
"And they're going to wear dinner jackets," her sister said, giggling.
"So we're going to get all dressed up. Come on, Syl, we've got to get unpacked and dressed."
"Oh, sure," Delaney said solemnly.
"Go your selfish, carefree way. Your mother and I have been waiting months to see you, but that's all right. Go to the Plaza and have your partridge under glass and your Dam Perignon. Your mother and I will have our hot dogs and beans and beer; we don't mind.
Don't even think about us." The two girls looked at him, stricken. But when they realized he was teasing, flew at him, smothering him with kisses.
He helped them upstairs with their luggage, then came down to find Monica in the kitchen, sliding a veal casserole into the oven.
"What do you think?" she asked anxiously.
He shrugged.
"We'll take a look at these 'perfect gentlemen' and see. At least they're picking up the girls at their home; that's a good sign."
Just then they heard chimes from the front door.
"Now who the hell can that be?" Delaney said.
"Don't tell me Peter and Jeffrey have turned up three hours early."
But when he looked through the judas, he saw a uniformed deliveryman holding an enormous basket of flowers, the blooms lightly swathed in tissue paper. Delaney opened the door.
"Mr. and Mrs. Delaney?"
"Yes.
"Happy Holiday to you, sir."
"Thank you, and the same to you."
He signed for the flowers, handed over a dollar tip, and brought the basket back to the kitchen.
"Look at this," he said to Monica.
"My God, it's enormous! Is it for the girls?"
" No, the deliveryman said Mr. and Mrs. Delaney."
Monica pulled the tissue away carefully, revealing a splendid arrangement of carnations, white tea roses, lilacs*, and mums, artfully interspersed with maidenhair fern. -It's gorgeous!" Monica burst out. ,"Very nice. Where the hell did they get lilac this time of year? open the card."
Monica tore it open and read aloud: "Happy Holidays to Monica and Edward Delaney from Diane Ellerbee." Oh, Edward, wasn't that sweet of her?"
"Thoughtful," he said.
"She must have spent a fortune on that."
"Would you like a carnation for your buttonhole?" Monica asked mischievously.
He laughed.
"Have you ever seen me wear a flower?"
"Never. Not even at our wedding.
"What would you think if I suddenly showed up with a rose in my lapel?"
"I'd suspect you had fallen in love with another woman!"
They had a leisurely dinner at the kitchen table: veal casserole, three-bean salad, and a small bottle of California chablis that wasn't quite as dry as the TV commercials claimed. They talked about how well the girls looked and what time they should be home from their date.
"Make it two o'clock," Delaney said.
"I forget how long midnight mass lasts, but they'll want to stop off somewhere for a nightcap."
"Two in the morning?" Monica said dubiously.
"When I was their age I had to be home by ten in the evening."
"And that was only a few years ago," he said innocently.
"You!" she said, slapping his shoulder lightly.
"I better go upstairs and see how they're coming along."
"Go ahead," he said.
"I'll clean up in here."
After he had set the kitchen to rights, he inspected his liquor supply, wondering what he might offer the girls' gentlemen callers.
They'd know about martinis, he suspected, and daiquiris, margaritas, and black russians. He thought of the cocktails that had been popular when he was their age: whiskey sours, manhattans, old-fashioneds, and fizzes, smashes, and flips.
He suddenly decided to give them a taste of the old days, and stirred up a big pitcher of bronx cocktails, taking little sips until he had the mixture of gin, sweet and dry vermouth, and orange juice just right.
Then he put the pitcher in the fridge to chill.
He went into the living room and plugged in the Christmas lights. He sat solidly in his favorite chair, stared at the beautiful tree, and brooded about Calazo's report exonerating Ronald Bellsey. How could the detective be so sure?
He had the feeling that Calazo's judgment had resulted from more than a friendly dialogue between cop and subject.
But whatever it was, the report had to be accepted. They had taken the investigation of Bellsey's alibi as far as it could go.
Which left Joan Yesell… When he heard the door chimes, he glanced at the mantel clock and saw it was a few minutes after eight. At least they were prompt. He lumbered into the hallway to let them in, shouting upstairs, "Your perfect gentlemen are here!"
God, they were so young! But street cops now seemed young to Delaney.
And what was worse, the nation had elected presidents who were younger than he.
The boys certainly were presentable in their dinner jackets.
He didn't particularly care for ruffled shirts and butterfly bow ties-but different times, different fashions. What worried him most was that he couldn't tell one from the other, they were so alike. He addressed both as "young man."
"A drink while we're waiting?" he suggested.
"Don't go to any trouble, sir," one of them said.
"We have a reservation at nine, sir," the other one said.
"Plenty of time," Delaney assured them.
"It's already mixed."
He brought in the pitcher of bronx. cocktails and poured.
"Merry Christmas," he said.
"Happy Holidays," they said in unison, tried their drinks, then looked at each other.
"A screwdriver," one of them said.
"Sort of."
"But there's
vermouth in it," the other one said.
"Right, sir?"
"Right."
"Whatever it is, it's special. I'd just as soon forget about the Plaza and stay right here."
"A bronx cocktail," Delaney said.
"Before your time. Gin, sweet and dry vermouth, and orange juice."
"I'm going to sell it in mason jars," one of them said.
"My fortune is made."
Delaney liked them. He didn't think they were especially handsome-go try to figure out what women saw in men but they were alert, witty, respectful. And they didn't scorn small talk, so the conversation went smoothly.
Monica came down first, and.both youths rose to their feet: another plus. Delaney poured her a cocktail and listened, as, within five minutes, she learned their ages, where they lived in Manhattan, what their fathers did for a living, what their ambitions were, and at what hour they intended to return her treasures, safe, sound, and untouched by human hands.
When Mary and Sylvia entered, they seemed so lovely to Delaney that his eyes smarted. He poured them each a halfcocktail, and a few minutes later said, "I guess you better get going. You don't want to keep the Plaza waiting. And remember, two o'clock is curfew time. Five minutes after that and we call the FBI. Okay?"
The girls gave him a quick kiss and then they were gone.
"Please, God," Monica said, "let it be a wonderful night for them.
"It will be," Delaney said, closing, locking, and chaining the door.
"Nice boys."
"Peter's going on to medical school," Monica reported as they returned to the living room, "and Jeffrey wants to be an architect."
"I heard," Delaney said, "and I was disappointed. No cops."
The cocktail pitcher was still half-full, and he got ice cubes from the kitchen and poured them each a bronx on the rocks.
"Should we put the presents under the tree tonight or wait for tomorrow morning?" he asked.
"Let's wait. Edward, you go to bed whenever you like. I'll wait up for them."
"I was sure you would," he said, smiling.
"And I plan to keep you company."
He sat relaxed in the high wing chair covered with bottlegreen leather, worn to a gloss. Monica wandered over to Diane Ellerbee's basket of flowers placed on their Duncan Phyfe desk. She made small adjustments in the arrangement.
"It really is gorgeous, Edward."
"Yes-2' he started, then stopped. He rose slowly to his feet.
"What did you say?" he asked in a strangled voice.
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