by Ed McBain
"Maybe he liked your face," Carella said. "Maybe he figured you were too sweet to shoot."
"Yeah," Parker said, and he ripped the D.D. report from the machine. He did not like Carella. He could still remember the time in March when he and Carella had mixed it up a little in the squadroom. The fight had ended abruptly because Frankie Hernandez had reminded them both that the lieutenant was in the building. But Parker didn't like unfinished business. And maybe Carella had forgotten all about the incident though he doubted it but Parker had not, and would not until the thing was resolved finally, one way or another. Thinking back to that March day, he thought it odd that the same men had been present in the squadroom, the three of them, and that Carella had taken offense at a chance remark made to Hernandez. Why the hell were people always so touchy? He dropped the report on his desk and walked to the water cooler.
Frankie Hernandez, the third man who'd been there on that March day, the third man in the squadroom on this day in July, was standing at one of the filing cabinets, the drawer open. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt and dark-blue trousers. A .38 police special protruded from the holster strapped to his chest. He was a wide-shouldered man with a tan complexion and straight, black hair. His eyes were brown, the eyes of man who expected to be offended and who, as a result, was constantly prepared for the eventuality. It was not easy to be a Puerto Rican cop in a neighborhood with such a large Puerto Rican population especially if you happened to have been born and raised in the streets of the precinct. Whatever battles Hernandez fought with his neighbors, the police, and himself were reflected in his eyes. He was not a happy man. No man dedicated to a single cause ever is.
"What do you think of your pal there?" Parker asked from the cooler.
"What pal?" Hernandez asked "Miranda."
"He's no pal of mine," Hernandez answered.
"I thought we had him cold yesterday," Parker said, filling a paper cup and drinking from it. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "Five of us walked into that apartment, and the son of a bitch pulls a gun from someplace up his sleeve and cold-cocks us. The rotten punk. He made us look like amateurs. You see the paper today? 'Miranda Foils Cops.' A punk getting headlines."
"He's still no pal of mine," Hernandez said.
"Yeah," Parker answered. He seemed ready to say more, but he let the matter drop. "Who was that woman up here?" he asked.
"Her name's Gomez," Hernandez answered.
"What'd she want?"
"Her son's in some kind of trouble. She wants me to talk to him."
"What the hell does she think you are? A priest?"
Hernandez shrugged.
"You gonna go?" Parker asked.
"As soon as I finish what I'm working on."
"Maybe you are a priest."
"Maybe," Hernandez replied.
Parker walked to the coat rack in one corner of the room and took a dark-blue Panama from one of the pegs. "I'm going outside," he said, "see if I can't hear something."
"About what?" Carella asked.
"About that punk Miranda. He didn't vanish into thin air, that's for sure. So where would you go if you was him?"
"To Russia," Carella replied.
"Yeah. Well, I think he came back here. Right here someplace. He sure as hell wouldn't try to find another pad in Riverhead, not after we almost collared him there. So where? Home. Home to the 87th. And if he's somewhere around here, you can bet your ass everybody in the streets knows just where. So Andy Parker goes on the earie." He stopped at his desk, opened the top drawer, took out his service revolver and holster, and clipped the holster into his right hip pocket. "Don't work too hard," he said, as he went through the gate in the railing. "Not that I think you need the advice."
His footsteps echoed down the long corridor. Hernandez watched him as he turned to go down the flight of iron-runged steps. When he looked back into the squadroom, he saw that Carella had been watching the other man, too.
A glance passed between them. Neither said a word. Silently, they got back to work.
Azucena Gomez had been one of those fortunate people who are born beautiful and who remain beautiful no matter what tricks life decides to play on them. Her name, translated from the Spanish, meant White Lily, and she seemed to have been appropriately named because her skin was white and smooth, and her face, her body, seemed to combine all the delicate beauty and regality of that flower. The oval of her face was dominated by brown eyes which slanted to lend an exotic flair to otherwise serene features. Her nose was straight and slender, her mouth was a mouth which looked as if it could cry. She had managed, without the benefit of dieting, to maintain a body which had evoked many a street-corner whistle in her native Puerto Rico. She was forty-two years old, and she had known what it was to be a woman, still knew, and she knew the happiness and sorrow of motherhood. She was not a tall woman, perhaps the one flaw which robbed her of true beauty, but she seemed exceptionally tall as she stood by the bed and looked down at her son.
"Alfredo?" she said.
He did not answer her. He lay on the bed full length, his face buried in the pillow.
"Alfredo?"
He did not look up. He did not turn his head from the pillow. "Mama, lee me alone," he mumbled. "Please."
"You have to listen to me," she said. "It is important that you listen to me."
"It don' make no difference wha' you say, Mama. I already know what I got to do."
"You must go to the church, is that what you must do?"
"Si."
"And they will harm you."
He sat up suddenly. He was a sixteen-year-old boy with his mother's fair complexion and wide, brown eyes. The slight fuzz of adolescence clung to his cheeks. His mouth, like his mother's seemed ready to twist into sorrow.
"I go to church every Sunday," he said simply. "I go today too. They cannot stop me."
"They cannot stop you, but they will harm you. Is this what they said?"
"Si"
"Who told you this?"
"The boys."
"Which boys?"
"Mama, this is not for you," Alfredo said plaintively. "This is somethin'..."
"Why? Why will they hurt you?"
Alfredo would not answer. He stared at his mother, but he remained silent.
"Why, Alfredo?"
The tears came suddenly. He felt them welling into his eyes, and he turned from her quickly so that she would not see him crying. He threw himself onto the bed again, his face buried in the pillow, his shoulders heaving as he sobbed. His mother touched his shoulder.
"Cry," she said.
"Mama, I am asha"
"It is good to cry. Your father used to cry sometimes. It is not a sin for a man to cry."
"Mama, Mama, please, you don't understan'..."
"I understand that you are my son," Mrs. Gomez said with simple logic. "I understand that you are good, and that those who wish to harm you are bad. It is not for the bad ones to rule the streets, Alfredo. You say you must go to eleven o'clock mass, the way you always do. You say you must go, even though they will hurt you. This I do not understand."
He sat up again, and the words sprang from his lips like a scream.
"I cann turkey out!"
"You can't ... turkey out?" she asked, puzzled.
"I cann be afray, Mama. I cann be turkey. You don' understan'. This is not somethin' you understan'. Please. Let me do what I got to do."
His mother stood by the bed, staring at him,'staring at her son as if somehow she did not know him any longer, as if somehow the infant she had held to her breast, the infant who had sucked of her milk was no longer someone she knew. His face, his language, even his eyes seemed distant and strange. She studied him as if trying to force the reconstruction of an earlier bond through the power of her eyes alone.
At last she said, "I have gone to the police."
"What!" he shouted.
"Si."
"Why did you do that? You think the police will care a
bou' me? About Alfredo Gomez? The police are no good. Don' you know the police here in this neighborhood?"
"There are good police and bad police. I have gone to Frankie Hernandez."
"He iss the same as dee ress. Mama, why did you do this? Why cann you stay out of this?"
"Frankie will help you. He is from the barrio"
"But he's a cop now, a detective. He..."
"He grew up here in these streets. He is Spanish, and he helps his people. He will help you."
"You shoul not have gone," Alfredo said, shaking his head.
"I have never been inside a police station in my life," Mrs. Gomez said. "Today is the first time. My son is in danger, and I went for help." She paused. "He said he would come.
I gave him the address. He said he would come to talk to you."
"I will tell him nothing," Alfredo said softly.
"You will tell him all that is necessary to tell him."
"Wha" time is it?" he asked suddenly.
"You have time yet."
"I got to dress for church."
"Not until you talk to Frankie Hernandez. He will know what to do."
"He will know what to do," Alfredo said. "Sure, he will know what to do," and the mockery in his voice was tinged with bitterness and inescapable sorrow.
"He will know what to do," Mrs. Gomez said confidently.
4
The sailor's name was Jeff Talbot, and the rosy glow of the alcohol was beginning to wear off, and as he surveyed the street outside the luncheonette, he wondered how he could ever have said it looked like a nice neighborhood. Somehow, even the sunlight did not help the look of the street outside. It helped only in the way a powerful spotlight helps to illuminate a garbage dump. He blinked at the sunshine, and he blinked at the street outside, and he suddenly said, "I'm sober," and just as suddenly realized that he was. "Good," Luis said. "How does the world look?" "Miserable." He swung his stool back toward the counter. "I'm getting a headache. This is a pretty rotten neighborhood, ain't it?"
"It depends how you look at it," Zip said. "I happen to like it."
"You do?"
"It's where I live. When I'm here, that sidewalk sings." "What does it sing?" Jeff asked. His head was beginning to pound. He wondered why he was talking with a stranger, wondered why he'd drunk so much the night before.
"With him," Luis said, "it sings Rock and Roll."
"The old man is very hip, sailor. He knows all the proper..."
Zip stopped talking. He tensed suddenly on the stool, his eyes fastened to the street outside.
"What's the matter?" Jeff asked.
"The Law," Zip said quietly.
The Law to which he had referred was the law as personified by Detective Andy Parker who walked up the street with a sort of slumped, indifferent swagger, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, looking for all the world like a penniless bum who had just come from sleeping one off in a doorway. His bright Hawaiian shirt was rumpled and soiled with coffee stains. He scratched his chest indolently, his eyes flicking the street as he walked.
"The only law I got to worry about is the Shore Patrol," Jeff said, dismissing him. He shoved his empty cup across the counter. "Can I get another cup of joe?" He grinned and then winced in pain. "Oh, man, but that head hurts when I smile."
Outside the luncheonette, Andy Parker waved at Luis and said, "Que pasa, maricon?"
"Hello, Andy," Luis said, smiling. "Some coffee?"
"I can use a cup," Parker answered. "Hot." He walked into the luncheonette and took the stool next to Jeffs. He studied Zip for a moment and then asked, "When did you start catering to the punk trade, Luis?"
"I'm having a cup of coffee," Zip answered. "Anything wrong with that, Lieutenant?"
"I ain't a lieutenant, and don't get smart."
"I thought you'd at least be a captain by now. After all the drunks you pulled in from Grover Park."
"Look, kid..."
"This is Detective Andy Parker, sailor," Zip said. "He's what is known as a tough cop. Fearless. For two cents, he'd arrest his own grandmother." He grinned almost immediately, and Jeff recognized the pattern suddenly. It was as if someone had advised the boy that a grin would take him a long way, especially a grin composed of such sparkling white teeth, a grin that never failed to generate a warm response in its recipient. Even Parker, faced with the sudden dazzling brilliance of the grin, smiled.
"For two cents," he answered, "I'd kick your ass all over the sidewalk." But there was no menace in his words. The threat, disarmed by the grin, was a hollow one.
"See?" Zip said, still grinning. "I'll bet he can lick any sixteen-year-old kid on the block."
"Go ahead," Parker said, "push me another inch, kid." But again the threat was not real, the smile had stolen all its power. He turned his attention to the sailor, studied him for a moment and then said, "What are you doing around here, sailor?"
"Same thing as the kid here," Jeff answered. "Having a cup of coffee."
"Let's try it again," Parker said tiredly. "What are you doing around here?"
"I heard you the first time," Jeff said.
"Then give me a straight answer."
"Is this neighborhood off limits?"
"No, it ain't off limits, but it sure as hell..."
"Then leave me alone."
Parker studied him silently for a moment. Then he said, "Pretty salty, huh?"
"Yeah, pretty salty," Jeff said.
"Andy, he's a little drunk," Luis put in, spreading his hands. "You know, go easy on..."
"Keep out of this, Luis," Parker snapped.
"I'm sober now, Louise. Thanks."
"I asked a question."
"Oh, for God's sake," Jeff said, "I came to sit up with a sick grandmother."
Zip burst out laughing and then immediately squelched the laughter when Parker turned a frigid glare on him. Zip shrugged. Parker turned back to the sailor.
"What's your grandmother's name?" he asked icily.
"Now you got me, officer. I always just called her plain Grandma."
"What ship you off?"
"Why?"
"I'm asking!"
"How do I know you ain't a Russian spy?"
"You guys think you're pretty wise, don't you? Coming up here and fouling up my precinct?"
"Who's fouling up your lousy precinct? I'm drinking a cup of coffee, that's all."
"Here, Andy, here," Luis said, anxious to make peace. "Here's your coffee. Drink it while it's still hot."
Parker took the cup. "You know how many sailors get rolled up here?" he persisted.
"How many?" Jeff asked.
"This sailor don't get rolled, Lieutenant," Zip said. "He's under my protection."
"You couldn't protect a wooden nickel from a blind man. What'd you come looking for, sailor?"
"I told you," Jeff said, annoyed now. "Grandma."
"Tail?"
"Why? You peddling it on the side?"
"Sailor, don't get..."
"You mean to tell me I could actually find some in this nice, sweet, clean precinct you're so afraid I'm going to foul up?"
"Sailor, I'm talking to you like a friend. Get the hell out of here. Luis, am I giving him bum advice?"
Luis shrugged. "I told him the same thing, Andy!"
"Sure," Parker said, nodding. "Look, Luis lives here. He knows this place like the back of his hand. Did you tell him about this neighborhood, Luis?"
"I told him, I told him."
"About what you run into around here? The guys like Pepe Miranda?"
"Si, ah, there's a one," Luis said.
"What's the matter with Pepe?" Zip asked. "He made you guys look like a bunch of monkeys yesterday." He grinned suddenly. "How many cops did he ambush? Four? Five? Man, he made you look sick." He turned to Jeff. "They walked into the apartment, and in ten seconds he had their guns and was on his his merry way. They're lucky he didn't shoot them, just for kicks."
"Big hero, huh?" Parker said. "He elud
es the law, so you make him..."
"I ain't making him nothing. It only seems to me that you big detective masterminds should have got him by now, that's all. Don't you think so?"
"We'll get him," Parker said. "Especially if he came back to this neighborhood."
"Did he come back?" Zip asked, leaning forward.
"Maybe," Parker said.
"No kidding?"
Parker shrugged.
"Here? No kidding?"
"You wouldn't happen to know where, would you?"
"Me? Why, Lieutenant, I would tell you instantly if I knew. But, unfortunately, I do not follow the movements of the underworld."
"Luis?" Parker asked, turning to the counter suddenly, as if hoping to catch Luis off guard.
"This is the first I'm hearing, Andy. Why did he come back here? He didn't cause enough trouble here?"
"Who's Pepe Miranda?" Jeff asked.
"Pepe Miranda is a thirty-five-year-old punk. Am I right, Luis?"
"He's only a punk 'cause you can't nab him," Zip said.
"No, no, Andy is right," Luis said. "Miranda's no good. Pghhh, he's rotten."
"Luis and I get along fine," Parker said. "We understand each other. He's been around here as long as I have, and he never so much as spit on the sidewalk." Parker grinned. "He knows I'd drag him down the station house if he did, huh, Luis?"
"Oh, sure, sure," Luis said, riding with the gag.
"Why don't you drag Miranda down the station house, Lieutenant?" Zip asked sweetly.
"Don't think we won't! And cut the lieutenant crap! He's been riding for a fall for a long time now. When a kid has a j.d. card before he's fourteen ..."
"A what?" Jeff asked.
"A juvenile delinquency record. At fourteen. So what can you expect? He's no different now than when he started that street gang years ago. The Golden Spaniards. Remember them, Luis? This was even before street gangs were normal around here."
"He was ahead of his time," Zip said, grinning.
"Ahead of his time, my ass."
"No good," Luis said, pulling a face. "I remember. Snotnoses. Like today. No different."
"Except today is the atomic age," Parker said, "so they carry guns instead of knives. Miranda killed a kid in 1942, sailor, when he was seventeen. Slit the kid from ear to ear."