Hail, Hail, the Gang's All Here!

by Ed McBain

  “What the hell for? This hick blows the whistle for no reason at all, and we’re supposed—”

  “Let’s hear what the man has to say, okay?” Kapek said sharply.

  “Okay,” Rebecca said.

  “Whatever he has to say,” Sally said, “he’s full of crap.”

  “Listen, sister,” Kapek warned.

  “Okay, okay,” Sally said, and tossed her long blonde hair. Rebecca crossed her legs and lighted a cigarette. She blew the stream of smoke in Searle’s direction, and he waved it away with his hands.

  “Mr. Searle?” Kapek prompted.

  “I was sitting in my room reading the Times,” Searle said, “when a knock sounded on the door.”

  “When was this, Mr. Searle?”

  “An hour ago? I’m not sure.”

  “What time did you catch the squeal, Phil?”

  “One-twenty.”

  “Just about an hour ago,” Kapek said.

  “Then it must have been a little earlier than that,” Searle said. “They must have arrived at about one-ten or thereabouts.”

  “Who’s that, Mr. Searle?”

  “These young ladies,” he answered, without looking at them.

  “They knocked on your door?”

  “They did.”

  “And then what?”

  “I opened the door. They were standing there in the corridor. Both of them. They said…” Searle shook his head. “This is entirely inconceivable to me.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They said the elevator operator told them I wanted some action, and they were there to supply it. I didn’t know what they meant at first. I asked them what they meant. They told me exactly what they meant.”

  “What did they tell you, Mr. Searle?”

  “Do we have to go into this?”

  “If you’re going to press charges, why, yes, I guess we do. I’m not sure yet what these girls did or said to—”

  “They offered to sleep with me,” Searle said, and looked away.

  “Who the hell would want to sleep with you?” Sally muttered.

  “Got to be out of your mind,” Rebecca said, and blew another stream of smoke at him.

  “They told me they would both like to sleep with me,” Searle said. “Together.”

  “Uh-huh,” Kapek said, and glanced at Rebecca. “Is that right?” he asked.

  “Nope,” Rebecca answered.

  “So, okay, what happened next?” Kapek asked.

  “I told them to come back in five minutes.”

  “Why’d you tell them that?”

  “Because I wanted to inform the police.”

  “And did you?”

  “I did.”

  “And did the girls come back?”

  “In seven minutes. I clocked them.”

  “And then what?”

  “They came into the room and said it would be fifty dollars for each of them. I told them that was very expensive. They both took off their sweaters to show me what I would be getting for the money. Neither of them was wearing a brassiere.”

  “Is that right?” Kapek asked.

  “Nobody wears bras today,” Sally said.

  “Nobody,” Rebecca said.

  “That don’t make us hookers,” Sally said.

  “Ask the officer here in what condition he found them when he entered the room.”

  “Phil?”

  “Naked from the waist up,” the patrolman said.

  “I wish them arrested,” Searle said. “For prostitution.”

  “You got some case, Fatty,” Rebecca said.

  “You know what privates are, Fatty,” Sally asked.

  “Must I be submitted to this kind of talk?” Searle said. “Surely—”

  “Knock it off,” Kapek said to the girls. “What they’re trying to tell you, Mr. Searle, is that it’s extremely difficult in this city to make a charge of prostitution stick unless the woman has exposed her privates, do you see what I mean? Her genitals,” Kapek said. “That’s been our experience. That’s what it is,” he concluded, and shrugged. Rebecca and Sally were smiling.

  “They did expose themselves to me,” Searle said.

  “Yes, but not the privates, you see. They have to expose the privates. That’s the yardstick, you see. For arrest. To make a conviction stick. That’s been the, you see, experience of the police department in such matters. Now, of course, we can always book them for disorderly conduct…”

  “Yes, do that,” Searle said.

  “That’s Section 722,” Kapek said, “Subdivision 9, but then you’d have to testify in court that the girls were soliciting, you know, were hanging around a public place for the purpose of committing a crime against nature or any other lewdness. That’s the way it’s worded, that subdivision. So you’d have to explain in court what happened. I mean, what they said to you and all. You know what I mean, Mr. Searle?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “We could also get them on Section 887, Subdivision 4 of the Code of Criminal Procedure. That’s, you know, inducing, enticing, or procuring another to commit lewdness, fornication—”

  “Yes, yes, I quite understand,” Searle said, and waved his hand as though clearing away smoke, though Rebecca had not blown any in his direction.

  “…unlawful sexual intercourse or any other indecent act,” Kapek concluded. “But there, too, you’d have to testify in court.”

  “Wouldn’t the patrolman’s word be enough? He saw them all exposed that way.”

  “Well, we got half a dozen plays running in this town where the girls are naked from the waist up, and also down, and that doesn’t mean they’re offering to commit prostitution.” Kapek turned to the patrolman. “Phil, you hear them say anything about prostitution?”

  “Nope,” the patrolman answered, and grinned. He was obviously enjoying himself.

  “I heard them,” Searle said.

  “Sure. And like I said, if you’re willing to testify in court—”

  “They’re obvious prostitutes,” Searle said.

  “Probably got records, too, no question,” Kapek said. “But—”

  “I’ve never been busted,” Sally said.

  “How about you, Rebecca?” Kapek asked.

  “If you’re going to start asking me questions, I want a lawyer. That’s how about me.”

  “Well, what do you say, Mr. Searle? You want to go ahead with this, or not?” Kapek asked.

  “When would I have to go to court?”

  “Prostitution cases usually get immediate hearings. Dozens of them each day. I guess it would be tomorrow sometime.”

  “I have business to take care of tomorrow. That’s why I’m here to begin with.”

  “Well,” Kapek said, and shrugged.

  “I hate to let them get away with this,” Searle said.

  “Why?” Sally asked. “Who did you any harm?”

  “You offended me gravely, young lady.”

  “How?” Rebecca asked.

  “Would you ask them to go, please?” Searle said.

  “You’ve decided not to press charges?”

  “That is my decision.”

  “Beat it,” Kapek said to the girls. “Keep your asses out of that hotel. Next time, you may not be so lucky.”

  Neither of the girls said a word. Sally waited while Rebecca ground out her cigarette in the ashtray. Then they both swiveled out of the squadroom. Searle looked somewhat dazed. He sat staring ahead of him. Then he shook his head and said, “When they think that, when they think a man needs two women, they’re really thinking he can’t even handle one” He shook his head again, rose, put his homburg onto his head, and walked out of the squadroom. The patrolman tilted his nightstick at Kapek and ambled out after him. Kapek sighed and went to the Modus Operandi File.

  The lastknown address for Bernard Goldenthal was on the North Side, all the way downtown in a warehouse district adjacent to the River Harb. The tenement in which he reportedly lived was shouldered between
two huge edifices that threatened to squash it flat. The street was deserted. This was Sunday, and there was no traffic. Even the tugboats on the river, not two blocks away, seemed motionless. Carella and Brown went into the building, checked the mailboxes—there was a name in only one of them, and it was not Goldenthal’s—and then went up to the third floor, where Goldenthal was supposed to be living in Apartment 3A. They listened outside the door and heard nothing. Carella nodded to Brown, and Brown knocked.

  “Who is it?” a man’s voice asked from behind the door.

  “Mr. Goldenthal?” Brown asked.

  “No,” the man answered. “Who is it?”

  Brown looked at Carella. Carella nodded.

  “Police officers,” Brown said. “Want to open up, please?”

  There was a slight hesitation from behind the door. Carella unbuttoned his coat and put his hand on the butt of his revolver. The door opened. The man standing there was in his forties, perhaps as tall as Carella, heavier, with black hair that sprang from his scalp like weeds in a small garden, brown eyes opened wide in inquiry, thick black brows arched over them. Whoever he was, he did not by any stretch of the imagination fit the description on Goldenthal’s fingerprint card.

  “Yes?” he said. “What is it?”

  “We’re looking for Bernard Goldenthal,” Brown said. “Does he live here?”

  “No, I’m sorry,” the man said. “He doesn’t.” He spoke quite softly, the way a very big man will sometimes speak to a child or an old person, as though compensating for his hugeness by lowering the volume of his voice.

  “Our information says he lives here,” Carella said.

  “Well, I’m sorry,” the man said, “but he doesn’t. He may have at one time, but he doesn’t now.”

  “What’s your name?” Carella asked. His coat was still open, and his hand was resting lightly on his hip, close to his holster.

  “Herbert Gross.”

  “Mind if we come in, Mr. Gross?”

  “Why would you want to?” Gross asked.

  “To see if Mr. Goldenthal is here.”

  “I just told you he wasn’t,” Gross said.

  “Mind if we check it for ourselves?” Brown said.

  “I really don’t see why I should let you,” Gross said.

  “Goldenthal’s a known criminal,” Carella said, “and we’re looking for him in connection with a recent crime. The last address we have for him is 911 Forrester, Apartment 3A. This is 911 Forrester, Apartment 3A, and we’d like to come in and check on whether or not our information is correct.”

  “Your information is wrong,” Gross insisted. “It must be very old information.”

  “No, it’s recent information.”

  “How recent?”

  “Less than three months old.”

  “Well, I’ve been living here for two months now, so he must have moved before that.”

  “Are you going to let us in, Mr. Gross?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” Gross said.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t think I like the idea of policemen crashing in here on a Sunday afternoon, that’s all.”

  “Anybody in there with you?”

  “I don’t think that’s any of your business,” Gross said.

  “Look, Mr. Gross,” Brown said, “we can come back here with a warrant, if that’s what you’d like. Why not make it easy for us?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Why shouldn’t you?” Carella said. “Have you got anything to hide?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  “Then how about it?”

  “Sorry,” Gross said, and closed the door and locked it.

  The two detectives stood in the hallway and silently weighed their next move. There were two possibilities open to them, and both of them presented considerable risks. The first possibility was that Goldenthal was indeed in the apartment and armed, in which event he was now warned and if they kicked in the door he would open fire immediately. The second possibility was that the IS information was dated and that Goldenthal had indeed moved from the apartment more than two months ago, in which event Gross would have a dandy case against the city if they kicked in the door and conducted an illegal search. Brown gestured with his head, and both men moved toward the stairwell, away from the door.

  “What do you think?” Brown whispered.

  “There were two of them on the grocery store job,” Carella said. “Gross might just be the other man.”

  “He fits the description I got from the old lady,” Brown said. “Shall we kick it in?”

  “I’d rather wait downstairs. He expects us to come back. If he’s in this with Goldenthal, he’s going to run, sure as hell.”

  “Right,” Brown said. “Let’s split.”

  They had parked Brown’s sedan just outside the building. Knowing that Gross’s apartment overlooked the street, and hoping that he was now watching them from his window, they got into the car and drove north toward the river. Brown turned right under the River Highway and headed uptown. He turned right again at the next corner, and then drove back to Scovil Avenue and Forrester Street, where he pulled the car to the curb. Both men got out.

  “Think he’s still watching?” Brown asked.

  “I doubt it, but why take chances?” Carella said. “The street’s deserted. If we plant ourselves in one of the doorways on this end of the block, we can see anybody going in or out of his building.”

  The first doorway they found had obviously been used as a nest by any number of vagrants. Empty pint bottles of whiskey in brown paper bags littered the floor, together with empty crumpled cigarette packages, and empty half-gallon wine bottles, and empty candy bar wrappers. The stench of urine was overpowering.

  “No job’s worth this,” Brown said.

  “Don’t care if he killed the goddamn governor,” Carella said.

  They walked swiftly into the clean, brisk October air. Brown looked up the street toward Gross’s building. Together, he and Carella ducked into the next doorway. It was better, but only a trifle so.

  “Let’s hope he makes his move fast,” Brown said.

  “Let’s hope so,” Carella agreed.

  They did not have long to wait.

  In five minutes flat, Gross came down the front steps of his building and began walking south, toward the building where they waited. They moved back against the wall. He walked past swiftly, without even glancing into the hallway. They gave him a good lead and then took off after him, one on each side of the street, so that they formed an isosceles triangle with Gross at the point and Brown and Carella at either end of the base.

  They lost him on Payne Avenue, when he boarded an uptown bus that left them running up behind it to choke in a cloud of carbon monoxide. They decided then to go back to the apartment and kick the door in, which is maybe what they should have done in the goddamn first place.

  There is an old Spanish proverb that, when translated into city slang, goes something like this: When nobody knows nothing, everybody knows everything.

  Nobody seemed to know nothing about the Jose Vicente Huerta assault. He had been attacked in broad daylight on a clear day by four men carrying sawed-off broom handles, and they had beaten him severely enough to have broken both his legs and opened a dozen or more wounds on his face, but nobody seemed to have had a good look at them, even though the beating had lasted a good five minutes or more.

  Delgado was not a natural cynic, but he certainly had his doubts about this one. He went through Huerta’s building talking to the tenants on each floor, and then he went to the candy store across the street, from which the front stoop of the building was clearly visible, and talked to the proprietor there, but nobody knew nothing. He decided to try another tack.

  There was a junkie hooker in the barrio, a nineteen-year-old girl who had only one arm. Her handicap, rather than repelling any prospective customers, seemed instead to excite them wildly. From far and wide, the panting Johns came uptown seeking
the “One-Armed Bandit,” as she was notoriously known. She was more familiarly known as Blanca Diaz to those neighborhood men who were among her regular customers, she having a habit as long as the River Harb, and they knowing a good lay when they stumbled across it, one-armed or not, especially since the habit caused her to charge bargain rates most of the time. Conversely, many of the neighborhood men were familiarly known to Blanca, and it was for this reason alone that Delgado sought her out.

  Blanca was not too terribly interested in passing the time of day with a cop, Puerto Rican or otherwise. But she knew that most of the precinct detectives, unlike Vice Squad cops, were inclined to look the other way where she was concerned, perhaps because of her infirmity. Moreover, she had just had her 3:00 P.M. fix and was feeling no pain when Delgado approached her. She was, in fact, enjoying the October sunshine, sitting on a bench on one of the grassy ovals running up the center of The Stem. She spotted Delgado from the corner of her eye, debated moving, thought, Oh, the hell with it, and sat where she was, basking.

  “Hello, Blanca,” Delgado said.

  “Hullo,” she answered.

  “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. I’m not holding, if that’s what you mean.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “I mean, if you’re looking for a cheap dope bust…”

  “I’m not.”

  “Okay,” Blanca said, and nodded. She was not an unattractive girl. Her complexion was dark, her hair was black, her eyes a light shade of brown; her lips were perhaps a trifle too full, and there was a small unsightly scar on her jawline, where she had been stabbed by a pimp when she was just sixteen and already shooting heroin three times a day.

  “You want to help me?” Delgado asked.

  “Doing what?”

  “I need some information.”

  “I’m no stoolie,” Blanca said.

  “If I ask you anything you don’t want to answer, you don’t have to.”

  “Thanks for nothing.”

  “Querida,” Delgado said, “we’re very nice to you. Be nice back, huh?”

  She looked him full in the face, sighed, and said, “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything you know about Joe Huerta.”

  “Nothing.”

  “He ever come to visit you?”