See Them Die

by Ed McBain

  "The jackets are hot," Zip said impatiently. "Can't you keep your mind on what we're doing here?"

  "But I lak dee jacket. I don't see why..."

  "You think this is the right time, Zip?" Cooch interrupted. "The streets are crawling with bulls."

  "It's exactly the right time. Every cop m the city's got his hands full with Pepe. We can move in on Alfie and get him before they even know what happened."

  "What's dee sense havin' a jacket if you cann wear it, huh?" Papa persisted.

  Zip whirled on him angrily. For a moment, it seemed as if he would strike him. "You want to end up on Bailey's Island?" he shouted.

  "Where's dat?"

  "In the middle of the River Dix! It's a prison. You wear the jacket, and that's where you'll wind up."

  "Wha' did I do, huh?" Papa asked. "Why I cann wear dee jacket? Why they put me in jail if I wear dee jacket?"

  "Oh, man, try to explain anything to this moron! Why the hell don't you go back where you came from?" Zip said angrily. "Go to Puerto Rico, will ya? Do me a favor."

  "If I b'long dee Latin Purples," Papa said logically, unfazed, "I shoul' wear dee jacket. Den ever'body knows who I am. Thass what you say, Zeep. So now I cann wear dee jacket. Why not?"

  "Don't try to figure it out, Papa," Zip said. "Just take my word for it. Right now, we got Alfie to worry about."

  "Cann we let it wait, Zip?" Sixto said. "Wha's the hurry? Maybe tomorrow..."

  Zip's eyes flashed, and again he looked as if he were about to cry, and yet he seemed strong and determined at the same time. "Now!" he said. "Today! I'm sick of waiting for tomorrow! I'm gonna be somebody today!"

  "You don' have to kill Alfie to be somebody," Sixto said.

  "What's the sense talking to a tiger? You're like a goddamn foreigner. Look we ain't debating this no more. It's decided already."

  "But who decided?" Sixto asked.

  "I decided."

  "Then why don' you go shoot him?"

  The words came out of his mouth before he realized he was going to say them. They produced an instant silence. Zip clenched his fists and then unclenched them.

  "What's your story, Sixto?" he said softly.

  Sixto took a deep breath. "I don' think we should shoot him."

  "You don't, huh?"

  "No."

  "Well, I think we should. And that's that."

  "That's what..."

  "That's what?" Zip said, his fists working. "Go ahead, finish it"

  "Tha's what Pepe Miranda would do," Sixto blurted. "Tha's not what my fodder would do. My fodder woul'n shoot nobody."

  "So what the hell is your father? A big shot? He works in a factory, for Pete's sake!"

  "What's wrong wi' workin' in a factory?"

  "You want to be a factory worker, go ahead. I don't wanna work in no damn factory!"

  "What you wanna do?" Sixto asked, and again there was a silence. He was certain that Zip would begin crying this time. This time the tears seemed on the verge of eruption. "You wanna go aroun' killing people all the time? Is that what you wanna do?" Sixto persisted.

  "Look..."

  "You tink it's so smart to kill somebody? My people never kill nobody, not here, not on the islan'. So what's so special abou'..."

  "You're looking for trouble," Zip said quietly.

  "We kill Alfie ... wha's the sense? What does that make us?"

  "You're looking for trouble," Zip repeated.

  "You tink 'cause we beat up somebody, 'cause we..."

  "Shut up!"

  "... act like tough guys ..."

  Zip slapped him suddenly and viciously. Sixto's head snapped back. He was shocked for a moment, and the blow had hurt him. But he stared at Zip coldly, and then wiped his hand across his mouth.

  "All right?" Zip asked.

  Sixto did not answer. Cooch watched his face, a slight smirk beginning on his mouth. Papa seemed confused, as if he did not know whether to smile or frown.

  "All right?" Zip asked again. Again, there was no answer. "All right," he said nodding. "Let's map this out."

  Cooch grinned. He was glad this nasty disciplinary business was out of the way. He was glad they were moving into action again. "What's the first step, Zip?"

  "First, we gotta find out if Alfie's still in the apartment. Papa, you and Sixto'll take care of that. Go up in the hallway and listen outside the door. If he's in there, you'll hear him. Then you come back and report to me."

  "How do we get him out, Zip?" Cooch asked.

  "All we got to do is get him in the hallway."

  "But how?"

  "I don't know." He paused, thinking. "Ain't he got no buddies? Like Papa could call him out, makin' believe he was a buddy."

  Cooch shook his head. "Alfie's a lone wolf."

  "There must be somebody he trusts, somebody he'd come out in the hallway to talk ... hey!" He snapped his fingers. His face was suddenly alive. If ever he'd looked about to cry, he did not look that way now. "Sure," he said. "We say we want to be friends, see? That's the story we give. And the go-between believes it, and tells that to Alfie. When Alfie comes out in the hallway, bam!"

  "Yeah, but who, Zip? Who's gonna be the go-between? Who we gonna get that Alfie would trust?" Zip grinned from ear to ear. "China," he said.

  15

  In the hallway of the building in which Alfredo Gomez lived, Sixto suddenly knew what had to be done. Perhaps he had known it all along, perhaps he had known ever since he'd gone into the drugstore, known without admitting it to himself. But he knew now that one could not stand committed by refusing to commit oneself. And he knew now that more than the mere presence of police on the street was necessary to prevent the senseless murder of Alfredo Gomez. He recognized that he must choose a side and choose it now, and that once he had made his choice he would have to defend it. He was very young to be finding himself at such a crossroad. Too young, perhaps, to be making a choice which would influence another's life as well as his own. But the crossroad was there, and he faced it, and he made his choice unheroically. He made his choice the way most choices are made, made it through a combination of character and conviction. For Sixto, no other choice would have been possible. The choice was as much a part of him as his hands. "Papa," he whispered.

  'Wha's dee matter?" Papa said.

  "Sit down. I wann to talk to you."

  The boys sat on the steps leading to the first floor. It was dark in the hallway, and quiet. Most of the building's tenants were out in the street watching the siege. But even though he knew he would not be overheard, Sixto whispered. And because whispering is contagious, Papa whispered, too. Side by side in the darkened hallway, the boys talked.

  "Wha's dee matter?" Papa asked again.

  "Papa ... this ... this is all wrong."

  "Wha's all wronn?"

  "What we going to do. To Alfie."

  "Zeep say..."

  "Papa, please. Listen to me. Please."

  "I lis'nin', Sixto."

  "Iss wrong to kill Alfie, Papa."

  "Wronn? But Zeep say..."

  "Iss wrong! Papa, look ... look, you like it here? You like this city?"

  "Si."

  "We come here ... is nice here ... is better. We don' want to be like that Pepe Miranda up there!"

  Papa hesitated for a moment, confused. Then he said, "Pepe Miranda's the grays thin' ever happen this neighborhood."

  "No, Papa. No. He brings shame to us."

  Papa shook his head. Gently, like a father about to explain something to a favored child, he covered Sixto's hand with his own. Then, with little patting motions characteristic of the slow movement which had earned him his nickname, he said, "No, no you wronn, Sixto. He the grays thin' ever happen aroun' here."

  "Papa, he kills people!" Sixto said, pulling back his hand.

  "St. He's brave."

  "Papa, that's not..."

  "He's a brave man," Papa insisted. "He hole off all dee cops, an' he..."

  "He's not brave! He's no good! He
don' care for you or me, ony for himself. He iss bad, an' he brings disgrace to us."

  "No, Sixto," Papa said slowly. 'Wo es verdad. De ningun modo..."

  "Don' speak Spanish!" Sixto said. "We here now, we speak English." He paused. "Papa, you understan' what I'm saying?"

  "St, yo comprendo. Pero..."

  "Don' speak Spanish!"

  "Why I cann speak Spanish?" Papa asked, puzzled.

  "Papa, listen to me," Sixto said desperately. "We not gonna kill Alfle."

  "Sure, we gon' kill him," Papa said, nodding.

  "No. No, we not. We kill him, then we doin' wrong. Like Zip. Like Pepe."

  "Zeep bought me pidaguas, Sixto," Papa said.

  "Papa, he iss bad."

  "Zeep? Bad?"

  "Yes, yes."

  "An' Pepe?"

  "Yes, him too."

  "No," Papa said. He shook his head. "Zeep say he iss good."

  Sixto was trembling. He did not want to play his trump, and yet he saw that Papa was still unconvinced, saw that more was needed.

  "Papa, you think I am good?"

  "Si."

  "Would I do something bad, Papa?"

  "No. I don' think so."

  "Papa..."

  He sucked in a deep breath.

  "Papa ... the one who called the police ... the one who told them where Pepe wass ... it was me. I called them."

  The hallway was silent. He felt at once that he had made a terrible mistake, that he had revealed something which should have remained secret. Papa studied him with blank eyes.

  "You tole on Pepe?" he asked incredulously.

  "Yes."

  "How you know where he wass?"

  "I saw him yesterday. I recognize his picture from the paper. All day, I wonder about it. Then I think ... I think it's best to tell."

  "But ... but tha's bein' ... a rat, Sixto."

  "No."

  "But you tole on Pepe!"

  "Yes."

  "Why? Why you do this?"

  "Because he iss bad."

  Papa was silent for a long time. Then he scratched his head and said, "If Pepe iss bad, why does Zeep say...?"

  "Zip only wants to be big. He thinks it makes him big to boss. But it's ony big when you let everybody live his own life. Papa, listen. Please. Please listen." He suddenly felt like crying. He clutched Papa's arm fiercely and said, "Papa, we go this way now, we never stop, you hear?"

  "I hear. Si, si."

  "We go this way now, we get like Zip, and then we wind up like Pepe. We bring more shame to the barrio. We hurt ourselves."

  "Si, si, comprendo."

  "Papa, quien adna al reves anda el camino dos veces. If we take the wrong road, we make the journey twice."

  "But ... Zeep iss bad?"

  "Yes, yes."

  Struggling with this new idea, Papa said, "But he bought me pidaguas," and then fell silent. His brow was furrowed, his eyes puzzled. After a long time, he said, "An' Pepe iss bad too?"

  "Yes."

  "Sixto... iss you alone who thinks like this? Or ever'body?"

  "Everybody, Papa. Everybody in the streets."

  "I ... Sixto ... I wanna be lak ever'body in thees city. But Zeep say..."

  "Papa, we are only strong if we do the right thing."

  Again, Papa was silent, thinking. He shrugged and turned to Sixto.

  "I ... I don' wann to be dee bad guy, Sixto."

  "No."

  "I wann to be dee goo' guy."

  "Si, st."

  He shrugged again. "I don' know how to say in English."

  "You are with me, Papa?"

  Papa beamed. "Si, I am wi' you, Sixto." He continued smiling. "Sixto?" He paused. "We dee goo' guys, Sixto?"

  "Yes, Papa," Sixto said very softly. "We the good guys."

  The other good guys came up the street.

  There were two of them. One was a detective lieutenant named Peter Byrnes. The other was a priest named Steve Carella.

  Carella felt rather foolish. He had felt foolish in the rectory of the church while arguing with Father Donovan who had, perhaps rightfully, insisted that the policemen were planning something which would make a mockery of a man's faith in God.

  "This man doesn't have a faith in God," Byrnes had said. "He wants a priest up there for one reason and one reason alone. He wants to use him as a shield to get out of that apartment."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I know it," Byrnes said. "Take my word for it. The last time Pepe Miranda was inside a church was the day he was baptized."

  "He may wish to make his peace."

  "Father, I respect your attitude, believe me. But I think I know a little more about this man than you do. Now you can either let me borrow one of your black things, whatever you call them..."

  "Cassock."

  "Yes, your cassock, or else we'll have to root around someplace else and find one. That'll take time, and Miranda may shoot somebody else during that time. Now, it's up to you."

  "And suppose his request for a priest is legitimate?" Father Donovan asked.

  "Then I'll come straight down from the apartment, and I'll come straight here, and I'll give you back your hassock..."

  "Cassock."

  "Cassock, and you can go up and see him yourself. Is that fair?"

  "It sounds fair." Father Donovan had studied Byrnes. "My garment would never fit you, Lieutenant"

  "I'll squeeze into it."

  Father Donovan shook his head. "No. You've got at least thirty pounds on me. The garment is cut tight to begin with."

  "Father, we're in an awful hurry. Could we please...?"

  "Besides," Carella said, "you can't go up there, Pete."

  "Why not?"

  "You've been our talk-man so far. If somebody else starts using the megaphone, Miranda'11 get suspicious. You've got to stay in the street and keep talking to him."

  "I'm going up," Byrnes said. "I wouldn't ask any of my men to take a chance like..."

  "The cassock doesn't fit you," Carella said.

  "The hell with the ... pardon me, Father."

  "And Miranda would smell a rat," Carella said.

  "I don't care what he..."

  "So I'd better go up. Father Donovan and I are about the same size."

  "Steve, you can't..."

  "That's settled," Carella said.

  "Steve..."

  "What?"

  "I ... nothing." He paused. "He's a killer."

  "I know."

  "And it was my idea to..."

  "It was our idea. We got it at the same time, Pete. Remember?"

  "If you get shot, you damn fool..."

  "I've been shot before," Carella said.

  The men stared at each other.

  "All right," Byrnes said, sighing, "where's the cassock, Father?"

  Now, walking down the street, Carella still felt foolish. For if Pepe Miranda had not been inside a church since the day of his baptism, Carella hadn't been inside one — not to pray, at least — since shortly after his confirmation. That was a long, long time ago. Parading down the street now in a priest's long black apparel, feeling the cold hard snout of a .38 against his belly beneath the black cloth, trying to look pious as hell, he felt only foolish. A set of prayer beads was entwined around his right hand. He quickly shifted them to his left, so that his right would be free for a quick draw if it came to that.

  "What's the plan?" he asked Byrnes.

  "I'll tell Miranda we've got his priest. He'll probably check from the window. Then you go up."

  "Then what?"

  "If he wants to confess or something, let him confess. Watch for your chance, and slug him if he turns his back."

  "But you told Father Donovan..."

  "Yeah, I lied in church," Byrnes said. "Actually, Miranda isn't going to make any confession, Steve. He's going to grab you the minute you walk into that apartment, and he's going to use you as a shield when he walks out."

  "What do I do? Wait for my chance and then..."

 
; "You do nothing. Let him lead you out I'll have men on either side of the doorway. The minute he steps into the street, you'd better duck." Byrnes paused. "I'd feel a lot happier if I were doing this myself, Steve."

  "Why?" Carella grinned. "Because I might get killed? My goodness, what a thing to be worrying about."

  "You're not worried about it, huh?"

  "Didn't you hear that reporter, Pete?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Life is cheap," Carella answered.

  They had come up to the squad car now. Byrnes reached into it for the megaphone. "You set, Steve?"

  "As set as I'll ever be."

  "Steve, we're going to begin blasting the minute he clears the front stoop. The shots will be coming from behind him, but I can't guarantee that all these bums learned anything at the police academy. When you clear the stoop, make a dive for the sidewalk."

  "Okay."

  "Good luck."

  "Thanks." Carella paused. "Suppose he just wants to pray a little?"

  Byrnes shrugged. "You've got a set of prayer beads. Use them." He paused. "Good luck," he said again.

  "Let's get it moving," Carella said, "before I chicken out."

  Byrnes picked up the megaphone and blew into it. "Miranda?" he called. There was no answer. "Miranda?" Still no answer.

  "Maybe he slit his own throat," Carella whispered.

  "Miranda, this is Lieutenant Byrnes. Can you hear me?"

  "I hear you. What is it?"

  "We've got your priest."

  "Where is he? Get him out in the middle of the street. I want to see him."

  Carella nodded at Byrnes, and then took a deep breath. Slowly, he walked to the center of the street.

  "You can't see him if you don't look," Byrnes said.

  There was a long silence. Suddenly, Miranda's head popped up above the window sill. He looked into the street for no longer than ten seconds, and then dropped from sight again. Even in that short a time, Byrnes and Carella saw that his eyes were puffed and his face was streaked.

  "All right," Miranda shouted. "Send him up."

  "Not so fast, Miranda," Byrnes said, thinking, I've got to make this look good. He knows we wouldn't send up a priest unless he makes some concession. He knows we're considering the idea that this may be a trap. He knows we're not stupid.

  "What is it now?" Miranda said.

  "The priest stays right where he is unless I get some promises from you," Byrnes said.

  "Here we go," Miranda answered, and the people in the street began chuckling.