Eight Black Horses

by Ed McBain

  Sunset was at 4:46 p.m.

  By then nine cars—the eight on patrol and the sergeant’s car—had gone up.

  Three police officers were killed—one of them a woman—and five were hospitalized, two of them in critical condition for third-degree burns.

  * * * *

  ‘He’s telling us to go piss in the wind,’ Brown said.

  It was bitterly cold outside, and frost rimed the grilled windows of the squadroom.

  This was the tenth day of Christmas.

  January 3 by the calendar on the wall. Five minutes after ten by the clock. Four detectives were on duty that morning. Brown, Kling, Meyer and Carella. They were all looking at the ten blank D.D. forms that had been delivered by Federal Express earlier that morning. The forms looked innocent enough. Standard police department issue. Printed for the department by municipal contract.

  ‘He’s telling us to go write up our reports,’ Brown said, ‘cause it won’t help one damn bit.’

  ‘These forms are legit,’ Kling said. ‘You can’t buy them anyplace, he had to have got them from a squadroom.’

  ‘Or ten squadrooms,’ Carella said.

  ‘Write up your dumb reports, he’s saying,’ Brown said. File your shit on the eight black horses and the nine cars...’

  ‘And he planned that way back in October?’ Meyer asked. ‘To send us ten D.D. forms so we could write up reports?’

  ‘Ten D.D. forms, right,’ Brown insisted. ‘For the ten separate...’

  ‘Are we supposed to write up a D.D. report on this shit, too?’

  ‘On what shit?’ Brown asked.

  ‘On this shit. The D.D. forms we got today.’

  ‘That’s what you write the shit on, isn’t it?’ Brown said, looking at the other men as though Meyer had momentarily lost his wits. ‘You write the shit on D.D. forms.’

  ‘I meant about the forms.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Does he expect us to file a report about these forms?’

  ‘Who knows what he expects?’ Brown said. ‘The man has a twisted mind.’

  ‘So he’s telling us to write a report on the pear tree, right? And the two nightsticks...’

  ‘Don’t go over them again, okay?’ Kling said. ‘I’m tired of hearing all that stuff over and over again.’

  ‘He’s tired,’ Brown said, rolling his eyes.

  ‘No, let’s go over it again,’ Carella said. ‘This is all we’ve got, so let’s go over it.’

  Kling sighed.

  ‘First the pear tree,’ Carella said.

  ‘On the first day of Christmas,’ Brown said. ‘I told you all along it’d be the twelve days of Christmas.’

  ‘Give him a medal,’ Meyer said.

  ‘With the ear attached to it,’ Carella said.

  ‘To let us know it was him,’ Brown said.

  ‘Then the two nightsticks...’

  ‘Easy to come by,’ Kling said.

  ‘Ditto the three pairs of handcuffs,’ Brown said.

  ‘Easy stuff.’

  ‘Then all that stuff from precincts all over the city...’

  ‘Four police hats, five walkie-talkies, six police shields...’

  ‘The wanted flyers...’

  ‘Seven of them.’

  ‘From squadrooms, had to be,’ Brown said.

  ‘Not necessarily. Any muster room bulletin board...’

  ‘Yeah, okay, so he coulda got them in a muster room someplace.’

  ‘And then it gets serious,’ Carella said.

  ‘Eight black horses,’ Kling said. ‘Six blocks from here.’

  ‘And the nine cars. Our own cars.’

  The men were silent.

  ‘Ten D.D. forms,’ Meyer said.

  ‘You don’t find those hanging on no muster room bulletin board,’ Brown said.

  ‘Those came from a squadroom,’ Kling said.

  ‘Or ten squadrooms,’ Carella repeated.

  ‘So tomorrow we get eleven Detective Specials,’ Brown said.

  ‘And on Thursday we get the big feast. Twelve roast pigs.’

  ‘And a hundred dancing girls,’ Meyer said.

  ‘I wish,’ Brown said, and then looked quickly over his shoulder, as if his wife, Caroline, had suddenly materialized in the squadroom.

  “Maybe he’s finished,’ Kling said. ‘Maybe the nine cars were the end of it, and now he’s telling us he’s finished, we can go write up our reports. Like Artie says.’

  ‘What about the guns tomorrow?’ Meyer asked. ‘If he sends them.’

  ‘He’ll be telling us to shove our guns up our asses,’ Brown said.

  ‘He’s roasting the pigs, don’t you get it?’ Kling said.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Pigs,’ Kling said. ‘Cops.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So didn’t you ever watch “Celebrity Roast” on television?’

  ‘What’s that?’ Meyer said.

  ‘A roast,’ Kling said. ‘It’s this testimonial dinner, all these guys get up and rake another guy over the coals. They tell jokes about him, they make him look foolish—a roast. Didn’t you ever hear of a roast?’

  ‘Those cops yesterday got roasted, all right,’ Meyer said.

  Carella had been silent for some time now.

  ‘I was just thinking ...’ he said.

  The men turned to him.

  ‘My grandmother once told me that in Naples ... in other Italian cities, too, I guess ... whenever someone important dies, his coffin is put in a big black carriage, and the carriage goes up the middle of the street ... and it’s drawn by eight black horses.’

  The men thought this over.

  ‘Was he telling us there’d be some funerals the next day?’ Kling asked.

  ‘First the eight black horses and then the dead cops? On the following day?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Carella said.

  The squadroom windows rattled with a fierce gust of wind.

  ‘Well,’ Kling said, ‘maybe those cars yesterday were the end of it.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Carella said.

  * * * *

  The invitation read:

  Scrawled on the flap of the card in the same handwriting was the message:

  Andy Parker was touched.

  He hadn’t even realized the lieutenant’s wife knew his name.

  He wondered if he was expected to bring a present.

  * * * *

  On January 4, the eleventh day of Christmas, eleven .38-caliber Colt Detective Specials were delivered to the squadroom. They were not new guns. Even a preliminary examination revealed that all of them had previously been fired, if only on a firing range. Each of the guns had a serial number stamped on it. A check with Pistol Permits revealed that the eleven guns were registered to eleven different detectives from precincts in various parts of the city. None of the detectives had reported a pistol missing or stolen. It is shameful for a cop to lose his gun.

  ‘Like I told you,’ Brown said, ‘he’s telling us to stick our guns up our asses.’

  ‘No,’ Carella said. ‘He’s telling us he’s been inside eleven different squadrooms.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Parker said. ‘I know blues who pack the Special.’

  ‘That ain’t regulation,’ Brown said.

  ‘As a backup,’ Parker said. ‘Anyway, what are you, a fuckin’ Boy Scout?’

  The fact remained that the Detective Special was the weapon of choice for most detectives in this city. All three detectives sitting there at Carella’s desk were carrying a gun similar to the ones spread on its top like a small arsenal.

  ‘Only an asshole gets his gun ripped off,’ Parker said, and wondered if Carella and Brown had been invited to the lieutenant’s party tomorrow night. ‘What we oughta do, we oughta wrap them like presents, send them back to those assholes,’ he said.

  And wondered again if he was expected to bring a present.

  I don’t even like the lieutenant, he thought.

  * * * *

 
CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Deaf Man would have been the first to agree that most catastrophes were caused by the fools of the world. He would not have dreamed, however, that sometimes a fool can prevent a catastrophe, thereby rising above his lowly estate to achieve the stature of a hero.

  Genero’s first opportunity to become a hero came at two forty-five on the afternoon of January 5, the twelfth day of Christmas. The city had by then taken down all its Christmas trimmings. It looked somehow naked, but there were probably eight million stories in it anyway. The temperature, hovering at twelve degrees Fahrenheit—which was twelve above zero here, but approximately eleven below zero in Celsius-speaking countries—did much to discourage the fanciful notion (twelve days of Christmas indeed!) that the holiday season had lingered beyond New Year’s Day. The citizens knew only that winter was here in earnest, and Easter was a long way away. In between there’d be the short holiday crumbs thrown to a chilled populace: Lincoln’s Birthday, Valentine’s Day, Washington’s Birthday, Saint Patrick’s Day—with only Washington’s Birthday officially observed. For now, the city and the months ahead looked extraordinarily bleak.

  The cops were nervous.

  Only three days ago nine police cars had been blown up.

  This did not indicate an attitude of civic-mindedness on the part of the populace.

  In some quarters of the city, in fact, some citizens were heard to remark that it served the cops right. Now they knew what it felt like to be victimized. Maybe now they’d do something about the goddamn crime in this city. Maybe they’d make it safe to ride the subways again. What patrol cars had to do with subways, no one bothered clarifying. The talk was all about the shoe being on the other foot, and turnabout being fair play, and what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. The people of this city, even when police cars weren’t being blown up, felt ambivalent about cops. If they came home one night to find their apartment burglarized, the first thing they did was call the cops. And then complain later about how long it took for them to get there and about how they’d never recover the stolen goods anyway. In this city a vigilante could become a hero, even if he was a fool.

  To the cops of the Eight-Seven, Genero was not a fool. The word was too elite for their vocabulary. Genero was a complainer and a whiner and an inefficient cop and a dope, but he was not a fool. Just a jackass. Not many of the detectives enjoyed being partnered with Genero. They felt, perhaps rightfully, that if push came to shove, Genero wasn’t the candidate they’d elect to help them out of a tight spot. A cop’s very life often depended upon the reaction time of his partner. How could you entrust your life to a man who couldn’t spell ‘surveillance?’ Or perhaps even ‘vehicle.’ Even the worst male chauvinist pig on the squad would have preferred being partnered with a woman rather than with Genero. Tell them that Genero was about to become a hero, and they’d have laughed in your face.

  By two forty-five on the twelfth day of Christmas, Genero—because he’d done some splendid detective work at the office—was in possession of the lieutenant’s home number. He did not know what he would do if the lieutenant himself answered the phone, but he would cross that bridge when he came to it. He also did not know what he would call Harriet Byrnes if she answered the phone, but he guessed he would think of something.

  A woman answered the phone.

  ‘Mrs. Byrnes?’ Genero said,

  ‘Yes?’ Harriet said.

  ‘This is Richard,’ he said.

  He felt funny announcing himself as Richard, but that’s what she’d called him in the invitation, wasn’t it?

  ‘Who?’ she said.

  ‘Richard,’ he said.

  ‘Richard who?’ she said.

  ‘Genero. Detective Richard Genero,’ he said. ‘Detective/Third Grade Richard Genero.’

  ‘Yes?’ she said.

  ‘You know,’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’ she said.

  ‘I work with your husband,’ he said. ‘Peter Byrnes. Detective-Lieutenant Peter Byrnes. Pete.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, but he isn’t here just now. Can I...?’

  ‘Good,’ Genero said. ‘I mean, actually I wanted to talk to you, Mrs. Byrnes.’

  ‘Yes?’ Harriet said.

  ‘Am I expected to bring a present?’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tonight.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘To the party.’

  There was a long silence on the line.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Harriet said. ‘What party do you... ?’

  ‘You know,’ he said, and almost winked.

  There was another long silence.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Harriet said, ‘but I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I haven’t told anybody, you don’t have to worry,’ Genero said.

  ‘Told anybody what?’ Harriet said.

  ‘About the party.’

  Harriet thought one of her husband’s detectives had flipped. That sometimes happened during the holidays. Cops had a habit of eating their own guns during the holidays. Some cops even ate their own guns on Halloween. But the holidays had come and gone, hadn’t they?

  ‘What did you say your name was?’ she asked.

  ‘Genero,’ he said. ‘You know. Richard.’

  ‘Is there some problem, Detective Genero?’ she said.

  ‘Only about whether to bring a present.’

  ‘Well, I’ll have to ask Pete...’

  ‘No, don’t do that!’ he said at once.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s supposed to be a surprise, isn’t it?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I thought... the invitation makes it sound like a surprise party.’

  ‘Well, does it mention a present?’ Harriet asked, and wondered why she was entering into this man’s delusional system.

  ‘What?’ Genero said.

  ‘I said...’

  ‘Well, no, that’s why I’m calling.’ He suddenly thought he might have the wrong number. ‘Is this Harriet Byrnes?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, this is Harriet Byrnes.’

  ‘Lieutenant Byrnes’s wife?’

  ‘Yes, I’m Lieutenant Byrnes’s wife.’

  ‘So should I bring a present?’

  ‘Detective Genero,’ Harriet said, ‘I’m sorry, but I can’t advise you on that.’

  ‘You can’t?’ Genero said.

  ‘Maybe this is something you ought to discuss with someone who can really help you,’ she said, if you’re deeply troubled about some sort of present...’

  ‘Who?’ Genero said.

  ‘You,’ Harriet said. ‘Aren’t you the one who’s troubled about...?’

  ‘I mean, who should I discuss it with?’

  ‘I think you should call the Psychological Service,’ she said.

  ‘How do you spell that?’ Genero asked.

  ‘Just call the Psychological Service at Headquarters,’ she said. ‘Tell them you’re extremely worried about this present, and tell them you’d like to make an appointment to see someone. Once you’ve talked to them, you’ll be able to judge for yourself whether...’

  ‘Oh, I get it,’ Genero said. ‘Okay, don’t worry. Mum’s the word.’

  ‘Meanwhile, I’ll tell Pete you...’

  ‘No, no, don’t blow the surprise, Mrs. Byrnes, that’s okay. Thanks a lot. I’ll probably see you later, huh? Thanks again,’ he said, and hung up.

  Harriet looked at the telephone receiver.

  She found it difficult to believe she had just had this conversation.

  She wondered if she should call Pete and tell him that one of his detectives had gone bananas. And then she wondered if perhaps someone really was throwing a surprise party for her husband. She sighed heavily. Sometimes police work got very, very trying.

  * * * *

  Genero could have become a hero when he spoke to Harriet Byrnes. He could have realized then that she hadn’t sent him an invitation at all and that there wasn’t going to
be any surprise party for the lieutenant. But Genero was a dope, and he didn’t realize anything at all, and he still didn’t know whether he should bring a present or not.