by Ed McBain
“Who bought it?”
“I don’t know her name.”
Ollie looked up at the ceiling again. “Man runs a hock shop, he doesn’t take last names, he doesn’t take any names,” he said to the hanging instruments, and shook his head in disbelief.
“You know what my profit was on this transaction?” Irving asked. “After overhead and incidentals?”
“What incidentals?”
“Incidentals, incidentals. Items stolen from this shop every day of the week, night and day, day and night.”
Ollie looked at him.
“Are you making fun of me playing the piano?” he asked.
“Why would I make fun of a cop who plays piano?”
“You think I’m kidding, don’t you?” Ollie said. “If you had a piano in here, I’d play it for you.”
“Too bad you don’t play trombone,” Irving said. “I got lots of trombones.”
“What happened?” Ollie asked, looking up at the ceiling. “Did the Philharmonic go bust?”
“The point is,” Irving said, “I make a lousy two-dollar profit on a shitty dispatch case, you come hokking my tchynik. A diamond bracelet gets stolen from one of my display cases, it takes you guys three months to get here cause you’re too busy writing a mystery book or playing the piano. Do me a favor. Go after my license. Please. It would be a mitzvah.”
“What’d she look like, this woman who bought the case?” Ollie asked. “Would you remember?”
“She was fat,” Irving said—putting undue emphasis on the word, Ollie felt.
“What else? Was she a hooker, too?”
“No, she didn’t look like a hooker.”
“What did she look like?”
“An opera singer.”
“What color opera singer?”
“White.”
“Hair, eyes?”
“Brown hair, brown eyes.”
“Ever in here before?”
“No.”
“Ever see her around the neighborhood?”
“No.”
“Here’s my card. If she comes in again, call me.”
“Sure. I got nothing else to do.”
Ollie looked at him.
“Irving,” he said, “I’m very serious here. Call me if she comes in again.”
“A lousy dispatch case,” Irving said, shaking his head.
“A dispatch case that maybe has that blond hooker’s fingerprints on it.”
“And mine, too, don’t forget,” Irving said.
“Ah yes,” Ollie said. “But you didn’t steal my book.”
“Thanks God,” Irving said.
OLLIE TOLD HIMSELF he did not wish to become engaged in any long boring conversations with any of the know-it-all sergeants or other pompous assholes who’d supervised the search for the murder weapon. He much preferred discussing the whys and the wherefores with a simple and straightforward individual like Officer P. Gomez who, by her own admission, had been present when the weapon was “recovered at the scene,” as she’d put it, and whose breasts besides looked very perky and alert in her fresh-out-of-the-Academy blues.
He checked the Thursday duty roster for uniformed cops, and learned that an Officer Patricia Gomez had signed in at 7:45 that morning, for foot patrol in the Eight-Eight’s Adam Sector. Since Adam Sector was where King Memorial was located, and since there was a very good diner on St. Sab’s and Thirty-second, not two blocks away from the hall, Ollie drove over there on the offchance that Officer Gomez might be enjoying her noon repast along about this time. As fate would have it, she was not. Or at least, she was not taking her lunch break here in the Okeh Diner.
Ollie cased the joint, and sighed when he realized she wasn’t there—but what would the odds on that have been, anyway? Then, so it shouldn’t be a total loss, he took a booth near one of the windows and ordered four hamburgers, two sides of fries, two glasses of milk, and a blueberry pie with a double scoop of vanilla ice cream. On his way out, he bought a Milky Way from the display on the counter near the cash register. He knew many cops who would not have paid for the Milky Way. But whereas there once was a time, ahyes, when Ollie might have considered himself a so-called coffee-andcruller cop, those days were gone forever. It was not that he was now more honest than he used to be. It was merely that cops all over the U.S.A. had been under such close scrutiny in recent years that the booty wasn’t worth the risk. Although he had to admit that cops were being looked at in a more favorable light ever since all the World Trade Center heroics. So perhaps a return to the good old days was in sight, who knew? Meanwhile, he paid for the candy bar. Munching on it contentedly, he walked back to the car and began cruising the sector in search of Officer Patricia Gomez.
He found her strutting up the avenue with that peculiar sidelong gait of hers, the Glock in its holster thrusting her right hip forward a bit sooner than the left one. A lot of Hispanic males, so-called, affected a similar walk, which they thought made them look deadly. On Officer Patricia Gomez, it merely looked sexy as hell. The males, they thought it was muy macho to make kissing sounds on the air and yell “Hey, mama, mira, mira!” whenever a good-looking babe walked by. Ollie was willing to bet two cents and a collar button that Officer Patricia Gomez would break the head of any young spic who kissed the air and yelled “mira, mira” at her.
Just for the hell of it, he rolled down the window on the street side, and yelled, “Mira, mira!” but he didn’t kiss the air. Officer Patricia Gomez stopped dead in her tracks, the left hip catching up with the right one, her right hand going to the Glock in the holster on her right hip—damn if she wasn’t about to shoot him!
“It’s me!” he yelled. “Ollie Weeks! I’m just practicing my Spanish.”
He pulled the car over to the curb, and she walked over to it with that same sidelong gait, gun hip leading, visored cap tilted kind of saucily, he noticed, sooty black ringlets showing below it, brown eyes sweeping the sidewalk as she came toward the car, checking the perimeter, she’d be a good cop one day, maybe already was one. The uniform had to be hand-tailored, the way it fitted her so snugly here and there.
“Get in,” he said. “I need some help.”
She looked puzzled for a moment, but then she yanked open the door on the curb side, climbed in, and pulled the door shut behind her.
“What’s up?” she asked.
“You were there when they found the murder weapon, right?”
“Is it?” she asked. “The murder weapon?”
“Turns out, yes,” he said. “It is.”
“Well, good,” she said, and seemed very pleased. Actually nodded. One for our side.
“Can you take me to where that was?” he said.
“Sure. The alley, you mean? Sure. But I have to clear it with my sergeant first.”
She was already reaching for the walkie-talkie on her belt.
“No need for that,” Ollie said. “I’ll square it later.”
“You sure? I don’t want to get in trouble.”
“Well, if you’re concerned, buzz him now and I’ll talk to him. Who is he?”
“Jackson. Yes, I’d rather we cleared it first, if that’s okay with you.”
“Jackson, sure,” Ollie said. He was thinking, Colored sergeant, expect bullshit. Black Means Flak, was what he was thinking. Patricia was already punching in the call numbers.
“Sergeant Jackson,” a voice said.
“Sarge, I’ve got Detective Weeks here,” Patricia said. “He’d like a word with you.”
Ollie took the radio.
“Hey, Jackson,” he said, “how are you?”
“Fine,” Jackson said warily. “What’s on your mind?”
“I need Officer Gomez for a while, show me around the alley where the evidence weapon was retrieved, that okay with you?”
“Which evidence weapon might that be?” Jackson asked.
“The gun used in the Henderson murder.”
“You mean you want to take her off post?”
“Is what I mea
n,” Ollie said. “If that’s okay with you.”
“I don’t know how my captain might feel about that.”
“Well, all I know is how the Chief of Detectives feels about one of our councilmen getting killed, is all I know,” Ollie said. “So maybe you can spare Gomez for an hour or so.”
“Let me talk to her,” Jackson said.
“Sure,” Ollie said, and handed Patricia the radio.
“Yes, Sarge?” she said. She listened and then said, “Ainsley and Thirty-fifth.” She listened again. “Thanks, Sarge.”
“Tell him I appreciate it,” Ollie said.
“Detective Weeks says he appreciates it,” she said, and listened, and then nodded, and thumbed the OFF button. “He’s sending somebody to cover for me,” she said. “Wants me back on post by two-thirty. That enough time for you?”
“Yes, indeed,” Ollie said, “ah yes. What’d he say?”
“About what?”
“When you told him I appreciated it.”
“Oh. Nothing, actually.”
“No, I’m curious, what’d he say?”
“Well…”
“Come on, tell me.”
“Well, what he said, actually, was ‘Tell Detective Weeks to shove it up his ass.’ Was what he said.”
“No kidding?”
“Well…yeah.”
“Thank you for your honesty, Patricia, may I call you Patricia?”
“Well…sure.”
“Thank you. And you may call me Ollie. Now let’s go look at that alley, okay? And fuck Sergeant Jackson.”
“ARE YOU SURE this is where you found the gun?” Ollie asked.
“Well, I didn’t find it myself, personally,” Patricia said. “But, yes, I was with the search team when the weapon was recovered, yes.”
“Here in this alley right here.”
“Yes, right here. In the sewer against the wall there.”
“Here on this side of the auditorium.”
“Yes. Here,” Patricia said.
“Mmm,” Ollie said.
He hoped he was impressing her with the exactitude and precision of his detective work. In truth, he was merely confusing her. This was where they’d found the gun, yes, right here in this alley, in the goddamn sewer, yes, so why did he keep asking her over and over again if this was where they’d found it? Was he a little hard of hearing?
“Because you see,” he said, “the shooter nailed him from stage right.”
Patricia didn’t know what he was talking about.
“Let me show you something,” he said. “I know this can get confusing,” he added, hoping that the impression he was giving was that of Patient, Experienced, Worldly Sleuth Mentoring Novice Investigator. Patiently, he reached into the inside breast pocket of his jacket and took out the folded diagram the electrical guy had made for him. Patiently, he unfolded it, and handed it to Patricia.
“You see where it says ‘Stage Right’ there?” he asked.
“Yes?”
“That’s where the shooter was standing when Henderson got aced.”
“Why is it called stage right when it’s on the left?” Patricia asked.
“I don’t know why that is,” Ollie said. “It’s one of life’s little mysteries. The point is, let’s say the shooter ran out into the alley afterward, and dumped the gun down that sewer…”
“Which is actually what did happen,” Patricia said.
“Well, that’s the problem,” Ollie said. “Tell me where we are,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Where are we now?”
“In the alley outside the auditorium,” she said and blinked in further confusion. He knew where they were. They were in the alley. She had told him a hundred times where they were. What was the matter with this man?
“Which alley? There are two alleys, one outside stage right, the other outside stage left. Where is this alley we’re standing in now?” he asked. “Which side of the auditorium?”
“Well…I don’t know.”
She looked at the metal doors at the far end of the alley, and she looked at the brick walls enclosing the alley, and then she looked at the garbage cans lining one wall. Nothing gave her a clue as to which side of the auditorium this was. Well, it was easy to get disoriented because Ollie had parked the car on St. Sebastian Avenue and they had entered King Memorial through the big glass doors at the front there. And then they’d walked across the lobby to where the auditorium was, and had gone into the auditorium itself and walked down the center aisle to the stage…
“Take a look at the drawing again,” Ollie said.
Patricia looked at it.
“Well,” she said, “if the shooter was standing here at stage right…”
“Yes, that’s where he had to be standing. Henderson was crossing from left to right, and he got shot in the chest, so the shooter had to be standing in the wings stage right. And if whoever shot him ran into the alley stage right and dumped the gun in the sewer on that side of the building, we’d right now be standing in that very same alley, am I right? Cause this is where you found the gun, am I right? In the sewer right here.”
“Yes, this is where we found the gun.”
“This very same alley.”
“Yes. In the sewer there.”
“Only problem is,” Ollie said, and here he smiled understandingly and comfortingly, “this is the alley outside stage left.”
Patricia looked at him.
“So how’d the shooter end up on the opposite side of the building?” Ollie asked. “You want a cup of coffee or something?”
PATRICIA WAS NERVOUS about the time. She kept looking at her watch. Ollie told her not to worry about Sergeant Jackson, he’d take care of Sergeant Jackson if the man gave her any static. They were sitting in a Starbucks—Ollie knew the location of every eatery in the precinct—not far from where Ollie had picked her up earlier, and where she was expected to relieve on post again at two-thirty. It was now ten minutes past two. Ollie had ordered cappuccinos for both of them, and had also brought back to the table a pair of what he called “everything” cookies, which were oatmeal cookies with raisins and chocolate chips and M&M’s in them.
“Do you like to eat?” he asked her, chewing on one of the cookies, washing it down with his coffee.
“Yes, but I have to watch my weight,” Patricia said.
“Oh, me, too,” Ollie agreed. “I try not to have more than five meals a day. The Rule of Five. Otherwise it can get out of hand. This is very good cappuccino, don’t you think?” he asked, and before she could answer, he said, “Making cappuccinos is like everything else in life. You either know what you’re doing or you don’t. If you have to tell a person to put a lot of foam on it, then she doesn’t know how to make a cappuccino in the first place. Cappuccino is like a religion, you know. The same way Muslims have to fall on their knees, five times a day, I think it is, some people have to go for cappuccino at ten or eleven in the morning and again at two or three in the afternoon. There are different denominations of the Cappuccino faith, and different houses of worship all over the city, Starbucks is only one of them, you know. They’re like mosques and churches and temples in other religions, except people go there to sit and drink Ca-poo-chee-no,” he said, throwing his arms up, and grinning. “But there has to be lots of foam on it, or it ain’t kosher, are you going to finish that cookie, or what?”
“Help yourself,” she said, and moved the paper napkin with the cookie on it closer to him on the table.
“Cause, you know, it’s a sin to let food go to waste,” he said, and reached for the cookie.
Patricia watched him eating.
“Why are you studying Spanish?” she asked.
“What?” he said.
“You said you were practicing your…”
“Oh, yeah. Right, right, mira, mira. Well, in this polyglot city, I like to be able to communicate with all types of individuals,” he said, chewing, drinking. “For example, I’m trying to l
earn how to say ‘What can you do?’ in five different languages. I got one language to go.”
“Why five?” she asked.
“The Rule of Five,” he said. “All good things come in five. For example, I’ll bet you’re five feet, five inches tall, am I correct?”
“No, I’m five-seven,” she said.
“That’s even better,” he said.
“I’m too short, right?” she said, and pulled a face.
“No, five-seven is perfect for a woman, ah yes,” he said.
“Is that W. C. Fields?” she asked.
“Why, yes, it is,” he said.
“I thought so.”
“Ah yes, m’little chickadee,” he said, and flicked ashes from an imaginary cigar.
Patricia laughed.
“The Rule of Five, huh?” she said.
“The Rule of Five, yes. I’m learning how to play five songs on the piano, too. Do you know ‘Night and Day’?”
“Oh sure.”
“I’ll play it for you sometime. Is there some song you’d like me to learn for you? Maybe some Spanish song? Let me know, and I’ll ask my piano teacher. Right now, she’s teaching me ‘Satisfaction.’”
“I like that song.”
“Yes, it’s a nice tune,” Ollie said.
“Why’d you pick that particular phrase? ‘What can you do?’”
“Well, it’s like saying ‘Go fight City Hall,’ ain’t it? Except it’s easier to translate. ‘What can you do?’” he said, and shrugged.
“Que puede hacer?” Patricia said, and shrugged in imitation.
“That’s it in Spanish, you’re absolutely right,” he said. “Do you know how to say it in Italian?”
“No, tell me.”
“Che si puoi fare?” he said, and hunched his shoulders and opened his hands to show the palms.
“Che si puoi fare?” she said, imitating him again.
“Perfect,” Ollie said. “Here it is in French. Qu’est-ce qu’on peut faire? How’s that? I know my accent ain’t so hot…”
“No, that sounded very French.”
“Did it?”
“Absolutely. You should grow a mustache to go with it.”
“You think so? You’re kidding me, right?”
“I’m kidding you. But it is a very good French accent. What other language do you know it in?”