by McBain, Ed
I won't take any chances. I'll stick to the diet, and I'll watch my weight, and I'll call on Lieutenant Byrnes and ask him to assign all the pretty-widow cases to the bachelors on the squad.
No cup of coffee, that settles that. The coffee in itself probably doesn't have too many calories, but the sugar certainly does.
No coffee. I'll walk around and window shop that's excellent for the figure.
Or maybe I should go up to the squad now?
Maybe Steve'll be back earlier than he thought. I could surprise him. Yes, maybe I'll do that. Go up to the squad now and wait for him. I'll think about it.
He might like a surprise waiting when he walks into the squad room
The man walked with his head bent.
There was no breeze blowing, not a strong breeze in any case, only a mild caressing murmur of air, but he walked with his head bent because he never really felt quite like himself in this city, never really felt quite like a person. And so he ducked his head, pulling it into his shoulders as far as he could, almost like a turtle defending himself against any blow which might come.
The man was nicely dressed. He wore a tweed suit and a neat blue tie fastened to his white shirt with a tiny gold pin. He wore dark blue socks, and black loafers, and he knew he looked like any other man walking the streets, and yet he did not feel as if he were a real person here, an individual, a person who could walk with his head up and his shoulders back-the city had done that to him, the city had given him this feeling of not belonging, not being. And so he walked with his hands in his pockets and his head bent.
And because his head was bent, he happened to notice the blue sheet of paper lying on the sidewalk. And because he was in no particular hurry to get anywhere in this city of hostility which made him feel unimportant, he picked up the paper and studied it with curious brown eyes.
The blue sheet of paper was the original Detective Division Report which Meyer Meyer had typed and floated down from the second-story window of the precinct house.
The two carbon copies of the D.D. form were nowhere in sight on the sidewalk.
There was only the one blue sheet, and the man picked it up and studied it, and then walked to one of the big trash baskets sitting under the lamppost on the corner of the block. The trash basket read KEEP
OUR CITY CLEAN.
The man crumpled Meyer Meyer's message and hurled it into the trash basket.
Then he put his hands into his pockets, ducked his head, and walked on his way in this hostile city.
The man's name was Juan Alverra, and he had arrived from Puerto Rico three months ago. No one in the city had attempted to teach Juan the English language which Meyer had used to compose his note.
Juan Alverra read and wrote only Spanish.
CHAPTER 10
Cotton Hawes unobtrusively closed first one window and then the other. Outside, the sultry night pressed its blackness against the windowpanes, filtered by the triangular mesh beyond the glass. The six hanging light globes, operated by a single switch inside the railing near the coat rack, feebly defended the room against the onslaught of darkness. A determined silence had settled over the squad room the silence of waiting.
Angelica Gomez sat with her crossed legs and high-heeled pumps, jiggling one foot impatiently. Her coat was draped over the back of her chair. Her peasant blouse swooped low over her confessedly unrestricted bosom. She sat with her own thoughts-thoughts perhaps of the man whose throat she'd cut, a man named Kassim whose friends had behind them the power of the vendetta; thoughts perhaps of the uncompromising arm of the law;
thoughts perhaps of an uncomplicated island in the Caribbean where the sun had always shone and where she had helped cut sugar cane in season and drunk deeply of rum at night with the guitars going in the velvet black hills.
At the desk beside her sat Virginia Dodge, solemnly dressed in black-black dress and black overcoat and black shoes and black leather tote bag. Thin white legs and a thin white face. The blue-black steel of a revolver in her fist. The colorless oil of a high explosive on the desk before her.
Nervously, the fingers of her left hand rapped a tattoo on the desk top. Her eyes, so brown that they toe appeared black, darted about the room, wild birds searching for a roost, settling always on the corridor beyond the railing, waiting for the apearance of a detective who had sent her man to prison.
Behind her, on the floor near the huge green bulk of the metal filing cabinets, lay at Miscolo, police clerk. Unconscious, gasping for breath, his Chest and head on fire, Miscolo did not know he might be dying. Miscolo knew nothing. In the void of his unconsciousness, he dreamt he was a boy again. He dreamt that it was Hallowe'en, dreamt that he was carrying bundles of paper to be tossed into the huge bonfire set in the middle of the city street. He dreamt he was happy.
Cotton Hawes wondered if the room were getting any hotter.
It was difficult to tell. He was sweating profusely, but he was a big man, and he always did sweat when the pressure mounted. He had not sweated much when he was a detective assigned to the 30th Squad. The 30th was a posh precinct and he had not, in all truth, relished his transfer to the 87th. The transfer had come through in June, and now it was October-four paltry months-and here he was a part of the 87th, working with the men here, knowing the men here, deeply concerned about the welfare of a single solitary man named Steve Carella.
Perhaps the lieutenant was right.
Misunderstanding Byrnes' thinking, Hawes assumed he was willing to let Carella die for the safety of the other men on the squad, and perhaps Byrnes' reasoning was right.
Perhaps it was perfectly moral and perfectly logical to allow Carella to walk into the blazing end of a .38. But Hawes did not believe so.
The 87th, he'd discovered, was a strange precinct and a strange squad. He had approached the transfer with great hostility, rejecting the concept of slums and slum dwellers, rejecting the men of the squad, chalking them off as disillusioned cynics even before he'd met them. He had learned otherwise, and very quickly.
He had learned that the people of the slums were only people. They enjoyed the same pleasures he did, and they suffered a great many misfortunes he would never have to suffer. They wanted love, and they wanted respect,
and the walls of a tenement (lid not necessarily become the cage of an animal. He had learned this from the men of the squad. He had seen each and every one of them in action. He knew that they held no rose-colored-glasses view of the precinct or its crime rate. He knew they could knock a thief flat on his back without batting an eyelid and without any great amount of soul-searching afterwards. Crime was crime, and no cop of the 87th tried to rationalize the evil of crime.
But he was surprised to learn that the men of the 87th clung to another concept which in no way limited the effectiveness of their law enforcement; that concept was fairness. And within this concept, they knew when to get tough and when to understand, They did not automatically equate slum dwellers with criminals. A thief was a thief-but a person was a person. Fairness. And he had found the concept a contradictory one for men confronted daily with the facts of violence and sudden death.
And now, in the squad room where fairness was an unspoken credo, the men had been presented with a situation1 which was totally unfair, totally illogical, and yet it sat there. Immovable, illogical, unfair, it sat there and waited.
Perhaps there was a primitive justice to the reasoning of Virginia Dodge. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, had not the Bible so specified? Hawes' father had been a religious man, a man who'd felt that Cotton Mather was the greatest of the Puritan priests, a man who'd named his son in honor of the colonial God-seeker who'd hunted witches with the worst of them.
Jeremiah Hawes had chalked off the Salem witch trials as the personal petty revenges of a town feeding on its own ingrown fears. He had exonerated Cotton Mathe:
and the role the priest had played in bringing the delusioi to its fever pitch.
And now, Virginia Dodge was enga
ged in her own witch hunt. Revenge. Steve Carella had done her an irreparable ill by sending her husband to prison, where he' died. Perhaps the good Reverend Parris in 1692 had felt too, that the townspeople of Salem had done him the same ill when they'd haggled over the amount of firewood he'd need to get through the winter. Perhaps the Reverend Parris had all unconsciously fed the fires of the hunt in an attempt to strike back at the petty people of the town. There was no such element of unconscious behavior in the actions of Virginia Dodge. She had come here to do murder, she had come here to satisfy a consuming desire for revenge.
There had been sane people in 1692.
There were sane people in this squad room today. And yet the sane ones had allowed the "witches" to be hanged. And would the sane ones here, today, in the face of the judgment of Virginia Dodge, fanatic, allow Steve Carella to be hanged?
I wonder if it's getting any hotter? Hawes thought.
He looked across the room and saw that Willis had unloosened his tie. He hoped desperately that-if the room were truly getting hotter-none of the men would mention the heat, none of them would go to the thermostat and lower it to a normal setting.
Leaning against the bulletin boards near the coat rack, Lieutenant J3yrnes watched Hawes with narrowed eyes.
Of all the people in the room, Byrnes had been the only one to see Hawes raise the thermostat. Talking with Grossman on the telephone, he had watched Hawes as he stepped swiftly to the wall and twisted the dial on the instrument. Later, he had seen Hawes when he closed both windows, and he knew then that Hawes had something on his mind, that both actions were linked and not the idle movements of a thoughtless man.
He wondered now what the plan was.
He also wondered who or what would screw it up.
He had seen the action, but he was reasonably certain no one else in the room had followed it. And if Hawes was banking on heat, who would soon comment on the heat? Anyone might. Bert Kung had already taken off his jacket and was now mopping his brow. Willis had pulled down his tie. Angelica Gomez had pulled her skirt up over her knees like a girl sitting on a park bench trying to get a breeze from the river. Who would be the first to say, "It's hot as hell in here?"
And why did Hawes want heat to begin with?
He knew that Hawes had misunderstood him. He felt somewhat like a man falsely accused of racial prejudice because of a misunderstood remark. Hawes, of course, had not been attached to the 87th at the time of the Hernandez kill. Hawes did not know that Carella had risked his life for Byrnes' son, had come very close to losing that life.
Hawes did not know how strong the bond was between Byrnes and Carella, did not know that Byrnea would gladly face a cannon if be thought it would help Steve.
But Byrnes was faced with the problem of command And using the timeless logic of generals in battle, he knew that he could not be concerned over the welfare of a single man when the lives of many other were at stake. If Virginia Dodge's single weapon were that .38, he'd have gladly sacrificed himself on its muzzle. But she also held bottle of high explosive.
And if she fired at the bottle, the squad room would go up and with it every man in the room. He owed a lot t Carella, but he could not-as commanding officer of thi squad-try a gamble which would endanger every life for a single life.
He hoped now that Hawes' plan was not a foolihardl one.
And, sourly, he thought, Any plan is a foolhardy 0fl4 with that bottle of nitro staring at us.
Bert Kung was beginning to sweat.
He almost walked over to the windows and then he remembered something.
Hadn't Cotton just walked over there to close them Hadn't he just seen Cotton ... And wasn't the temperature in the room controlled b:
thermostat? Had someone raised the thermostat? Cotton Did Cotton have a plan?
Maybe, maybe not. In any case, Bert Kung would me! right down into a puddle on the wooden floor before h opened a window in the joint Curiously, he waited Profusely, he sweated.
Hal Willis was about to comment on the rising temperature in the room when he noticed that Bert KIng's shirt was stained with sweat. Their eyes locked for a moment. Kijug wiped a hand across his brow and shook perspiration to the floor.
In an instant of mute understanding, Hal Willis realized that it was Supposed to be getting hotter in the room.
He searched KIng's eyes, but there was no further clue in them.
Patiently, his underwear shorts beginning to stick to him, he wiggled on his chair and tried to make himself more comfortable.
Meyer Meyer wiped the beaded sweat from his upper
It's hot as hell in here, be thought. I wonder if anybody found my notes.
Why doesn't somebody turn down the goddam heat? he thought. He glanced over at the thermostat. Cotton Ilawes was standing near the wall, his eyes fastened to Virginia Dodge. He looked for all the world like a sentry guarding something. What the hell was he guarding?
Hey, Cotton, he thought, reach over and lower that damn thermostat, will you?
The words almost reached his tongue.
And then he wondered again if anyone had found his notes.
And, wondering this, his mind drifted away from thoughts of the heat in the room and-oddly for a man who had not been inside a synagogue for twenty years- he began to pray silently in Hebrew.
Angelica Gomez spread her legs and closed her eyes. It was very hot in the room, and with her eyes closed she imagined she was lying on a rock in the mountains with the sun beating down flatly on her browned body. In Puerto Rico, she would climb trails as old as time, trails hidden by lush tropical growth. And then she would find a hidden glade, a glade wild with ferns. And in that glade, there would be a level rock, and she would take off all her clothes and tilt her breasts to be kissed by the sun.
Idly, she wondered why there was no sun in the streets of the city.
Lazily, she kept her eyes closed and allowed the heat to surround her.
Suspended, her mind in the Caribbean, she relished the heat and hoped no one would open a window.
The telephone rang.
Seated at her command desk, her brow hung with tiny globes of perspiration, Virginia Dodge nodded to King who picked up a receiver and waited for her to folloW suit. She nodded again.
"Eighty-seventh Squad, Detective Kung."
"Hello. Carella there?"
"Who's this?"
"Atchison at the lab. Where's Carella?"
"Out. Can I take a message?"
"Yeah, I suppose so. What'd you say your name was?"
"Bert Kung."
"I don't think I know you."
"What difference does it make?" Kung asked.
"I like to know who I'm dealing with.
Listen, on thi Scott kill?"
"Yeah?"
"Sam Grossman gave me some photos to study. Of th door jamb?"
"Yeah?"
"You familiar with the door jamb?"
"Carella's talked to me about it. Give me the information and I'll pass it on to him."
"What's your hurry? Don't you like conversation?"
"I dote on it. But we're a little busy here right now."
"I like conversation," Atchison said.
"Breaks the manotony You should have to sit here all day with tel tubes and photoeraphs and fluorescent light. You shoul' have to examine clothes that stink of blood and pus an' piss all day long. Then you wouldn't mind a little conversation."
"I bleed for you," Kung said.
"What about the door jamb?"
"I should be home right now. Instead, I've been blowing up pictures all day long, trying to help you mugs. That's the gratitude I get."
"I'll send you some of my old laundry so you can check for laundry marks. How's that?" Kung said.
"That's very funny. Be sure it's unwashed laundry, like the kind we always get. The kind that stinks of blood and pus and ..
"Yeah, I get the picture."
"What'd you say your name was?"
"Bert Ku
ng."
"You're a comedian, huh, Kung?"
"Kung and Cohen, haven't you heard of us?"
"No," Atchison said flatly.
"Bird calls, dance routines, and snappy patter. We play bar mitzvahs and Irish weddings. You've never heard of Kung and Cohen?"
"Never. Is that supposed to be another joke?"
"Fm making conversation. That's what you're hungry for, isn't it?"
"Don't be so damn obliging. Someday you'll come in here and want a favor, and I'll throw a bag of laundry at you."
"What about the door jamb?"