by Ed McBain
They were here to talk to a sixteen-year-old white girl named Dolly Simms.
"No racial bullshit about old Dolly, huh?" Wade said.
"None a'tall. Jus' no taste is the problem," Bent said. "Shackin' up with two crackheads from DC."
"//Smiley was talkin' the Book."
Smiley was a sour-faced stoolie they sometimes used; they were holding over his head a five-and-dime for armed robbery. The Book was the Bible. Bent was wondering out loud if Smiley'd been telling them the truth when he said Dolly Simms was living with the two black dudes from Washington. Dolly was a hooker.
"You think she really comes in here to eat?" Bent asked.
"You heard Smiley. Every night before she heads out."
"I mean, / can hardly eat this shit, and I'm black."
Both men laughed.
"Fried chicken's pretty good, though," Wade said.
Bent looked over at his partner's plate.
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"Changed the name, shoulda changed the food, too," he said sourly.
"Shouldn'ta changed the name, either," Wade said. "Cost two-point-nine mill to throw the man a party, he tells us to rise up and kill Whitey."
"He didn't say that," Bent said.
"His wife did. Up there in Diamondback. Said all us black Americans should join their brothers in the bush when it comes time to fight the white man in South Africa. Now what kinda shit is that, Charlie?"
"We got ties to Africa," Bent said.
"Oh, yeah, must be millions of blacks in this city got brothers all over the South African bush."
"Well, there are ties," Bent said again.
"You identify with some African got flies in his eyes, drinkin' goat's milk and blood?"
"Well, no, but still. . . we're talkin' roots here."
"What roots? My roots are in South Carolina where my Mama and Daddy were born," Wade said, "and my Gran'daddy and Gran'ma before 'em. And you know where their roots were? You know where their Mamma and Daddy came from? Ghana - what used to be called the Gold Coast. And that ain't nowhere near South Africa."
"Plenty of slaves came from South Africa, though," Bent said.
"No, plenty of slaves did not come from South Africa, nossir. The slave trade was with West Africa, go look it up, Charlie. Places like Dahomey and the Ivory Coast and Ghana and Nigeria, all of them around the Gulf of Guinea, that's where the slave trade was. Or sometimes the Congo or Gambia, don't you know nothin' about Africa?"
"I know where those places are," Bent said, offended.
"Mandela wakes up after twenty-seven years in jail," Wade said, gathering steam, "he comes here walkin' in his sleep an' talkin' like a man who don't know the whole world's already thrown off Communism. An' he tells us to join hands with our black brothers in South Africa, where none of our brothers
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come from in the first place, what kind of dumb niggers does he think he's talkin' to?"
"I think he done some good here," Bent said.
"I think he made things worse," Wade said flatly. "We got serious problems of our own here, and parades for foreigners ain't gonna solve 'em."
"So how come you eatin' fried chicken?" Bent asked. "You so fuckin' white, whyn't you have a slice of Wonder Bread with cholesterol-free margarine on it?"
"I'm black," Wade said, nodding, "you can bet your ass on that. But I ain't South African, and you can bet your ass on that, too. Here she comes now."
He was facing the entrance door. Bent turned to look over his shoulder. What they both saw was a teenaged white girl who looked anorexic, standing some five feet six or seven inches tall and weighing maybe a hundred pounds. She was wearing fringed, purple suede boots with a black mini and a lavender silk blouse scooped low over tiny breasts and a narrow chest. Her frizzed hair was the color of the boots. She had hooker stamped on her forehead and junkie stamped all over her face. Both cops got up and swung toward the door. They weren't going to let this one get away.
"Miss Simms?" Wade said.
Moving in on her right and stepping slightly behind her so she wouldn't go right out the door again.
Bent was on her left. "Police officers," he said, and flashed the tin.
Didn't faze her a bit. Blinked at the shield, and then looked up into Bent's face and then turned to look at Wade. They figured she was stoned out of her mind. Little past seven o'clock, a long hard night ahead of her, and she was already completely out of it.
"Few questions we'd like to ask you," Wade said.
"What about?" she asked.
Pale eyes somewhat out of focus. Faint smile on her mouth. They wondered what she was on. Bent's eyes went automatically to her naked arms. He could not see any tracks on the
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pale white flesh. And her skirt was short enough to have revealed any hit marks on her thighs.
"Let's have a seat," he said.
"Sure," she said.
Nothing to hide here, all very open and casual, they figured she wasn't holding. This was merely a stoned-out hooker and two cops, all of them walking the same street but on opposite sides.
They sat at a table at the back of the place. There was a steady stream of traffic to the rest rooms. Wade and Bent figured people were going in there to snort a few lines, but they were after a killer here, they didn't give a damn about arresting any penny-ante noses. That was the trouble when a city started sliding south. You couldn't bother about the little things anymore. When people were getting killed, you couldn't go chasing kids spraying graffiti on walls. You couldn't ticket a truck driver for blowing his horn. You couldn't bust people who were jumping subway turnstiles. When you had murder and rape and armed robbery to worry about, the rest was merely civilization.
"Tell us all about Sonny and Dick," Wade said.
"I don't know them," Dolly said. "Can I get something to eat? I came in here to get something to eat."
"Sure. What would you like, Dolly?"
"Ice cream," she said. "Chocolate, please."
They ordered a dish of chocolate ice cream for her. At the last minute, she decided she wanted sprinkles on it. The waiter carried the dish of ice cream to the counter and put sprinkles on it. When he came back to the table, she picked up a spoon and began eating at once.
"Yum," she said.
"Sonny and Dick," Bent said. "Two men, both black."
"I like black men," she said, and winked at them and licked her lips.
"So we've been told."
"Yum," she said, and spooned up more ice cream.
"Where are they now?" Wade asked.
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"Don't know them," she said.
"Sonny what?" Bent said.
"Nope. Sorry," she said. Eating. Licking her lips. Licking the spoon.
"Dick what?" Wade asked.
"Don't know him, either."
"Remember Thursday night?"
"Nope."
"Remember where you were Thursday night?"
"Sorry, nope. Where was I?"
"Around ten o'clock, a little later?"
"Sorry."
"Remember Sloane Street?"
"Nope."
"3341 Sloane?"
"This is very good," she said. "You should try some. Want a taste?" she asked Bent and held out the spoon to him.
"Third floor," Wade said. "You and Sonny and Dick, cooking dope over a candle in a red holder."
"I don't do dope," she said. "I'm clean."
"Remember the shooting?"
"I don't remember anything like that. Could I have some more ice cream?"
They ordered another dish of chocolate ice cream with sprinkles on it.
"You really should try some of this," she told them, "it's yummy."
"One of your pals was packing a nine-millimeter auto," Wade said.
"Gee, what's that?" she said.
"It's a big pistol with a twenty-bullet clip in it. He fired down the stairs at us, remember?"
"I don't even know where Sloane Street is," Dolly said, and
shrugged.
"Dolly, listen carefully," Wade said. "Put down your spoon and listen."
"I can listen while I'm eating," she said.
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"Put down the spoon, honey."
"I told you, I can ..."
"Or I'll break your fucking arm," he said.
She put down the spoon.
"One of your pals killed somebody," he said.
She said nothing. Just kept watching him, a sullen, angry look on her face because he wouldn't let her eat her ice cream.
"Did you know that one of your pals killed somebody?"
"No, I didn't know that."
"We think it was Sonny, but it could have been Dick. Either way . . ."
"I don't know these people, so it don't mean a fuck to me," she said.
"He killed a cop's father," Wade said.
Dolly blinked.
He leaned in closer to her, giving her a good look at the knife scar that stretched tight and pink over his left eye. You dig black men, honey? Okay, how you feel about this one with his bad-ass scar?
"A cop's father," he repeated, coming down hard on the word.
She may have been stoned senseless not ten minutes ago, and maybe she was still flying, it was hard to tell. But now there was a faint flicker in those pale dead eyes. She was allowing the words to register, allowing the key words to penetrate, they were talking about a cop's father getting killed.
"You know what that means?" Bent asked. "Somebody killing a cop's father?"
"I don't know anybody named Sonny."
"It means every cop in this city's gonna be trackin' the man till they catch him. An' then he be lucky he makes it alive to jail."
"Don't matter shit to me," she said, "I don't know anybody named Sonny."
"That's good," Wade said, "because if you do know him . . ."
"I told you I don't."
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"... and it turns out you were protecting him ..."
"Nor Diz neither."
"Diz?" Wade asked at once. "Is that his name? Diz?"
Dolly still didn't realize she'd tripped herself.
"Diz what" Bent asked.
"If I don't know him, how would I know Diz what?"
"But you do know him, don't you, Dolly?"
"No, I..."
"You know both of them, don't you?"
And now they came at her from either side, hurling words at her, not waiting for answers, battering her with words, Wade on her right and Bent on her left, Dolly sitting between them with her spoon on the table and her chocolate ice cream melting fast.
"Sonny and Diz."
"Two black killers from DC."
"What're their last names, Dolly?"
"Tell us their last names."
"Sonny what?"
"Diz what?"
"They killed a cop's father!"
"You want to go down with them?"
"You want to keep on protecting two strangers?"
"Two killers?"
"You want every cop in this city on your ass?"
"You won't be-able to breathe."
"You'll go down with them, Dolly."
"A cop's father, Dolly!"
"You want that on your back for the rest of your life?"
"I. . ."
They both shut up.
Waiting.
She was staring down at the melting ice cream.
They kept waiting.
"I don't know anything about them," she said.
"Okay," Wade said, nodding.
"That's the only time I ever saw them, Thursday night."
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"Uh-huh."
"I haven't seen them since. I don't know any ..."
"Honey, you want big trouble, don't you?" Wade said.
"But I'm telling you the truthl"
"No, you're shitting us!" Bent said. "We know you're living with them ..."
"I'm not!"
"Okay, have it your way," Bent said, and shoved back his chair. "Let's go, Randy."
"Expect heat, baby," Wade said, and got up. "Lots of heat. From every cop walkin' this city. Heat till you die. This is cop business you're messin' with, this is a cop's father."
"Sleep tight," Bent said, and they started walking out.
"Hold it," she said.
They stopped, turned to her again.
"Could I have some more ice cream?" she said.
They were waiting for her when she got back to the shop that night. They were standing near a tankful of tropical fish. Water bubbling behind them. Fish gliding. They were talking about a James Bond movie where a tank of fish explodes or something. They were trying to remember the name of the movie.
They'd called first and spoken to Pauline Weed's assistant, a young girl who'd told them she was out getting something to eat, expected her back in half an hour or so. They'd driven directly downtown to Bide-A-Wee Pets on Jefferson, where they'd learned that the girl's name was Hannah Kemp, that she was sixteen years old and wanted to be a veterinarian when she grew up, and that she worked here after school every Tuesday and Friday, when the shop was open till eight o'clock. She was with a customer up front when Pauline walked in some five minutes later. She pointed to where the detectives were standing near the gliding tropical fish, and said something they couldn't hear. Pauline looked up the aisle at them in surprise, and then walked to where they stood trying to remember the name of that movie.
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"Hey, hi," she said.
"Hello, Miss Weed," Carella said.
"Can I sell you some fish?" she asked, and smiled.
Blonde and beautiful and blue-eyed, the type the man favored. Smile a bit wavering, though.
"Miss Weed," Carella said, "when we called here earlier tonight, your assistant..."
"Hannah," she said. "Great girl."
"Yes, she told us you were out getting something to eat . . ."
"Uh-huh."
"And you'd be back in half an hour or so."
"And here I am," she said, and grinned.
"Miss Weed, have you ever been married?" Brown asked.
"No, I haven't," she said, looking surprised.
"I thought the middle name might be ..."
"Oh. No, that was my mother's maiden name. It's where I got the name of the shop, actually. The Bide and the Wee. From my middle name and my last name."
"Byerly and Weed," Brown said.
"Yes. Bide-A-Wee."
"Miss Weed," Carella said, "when we called here, we asked to speak to you, and Hannah said ..."
"Great girl," she said again.
But she looked nervous now.
"She said . . . these are her exact words . . . she said, 'Bye's out getting something to eat.'"
"Uh-huh."
"She called you Bye."
"Uh-huh."
"Do a lot of people call you that?"
"Fair amount, I guess."
"Short for Byerly, is that it?"
"Well, my first name's Pauline, that's not such great shakes, is it?"
"Do you call yourself Bye?"
"Yes."
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"How do you sign yourself?"
"Pauline Byerly Weed."
"You sign all your . . .?"
"I sign everything Pauline Byerly Weed, yes."
"How about personal correspondence?" Brown asked.
She turned to him.
"Yes," she said. "That, too. Everything."
"You call yourself Bye, but you sign yourself Pauline Byerly Weed."
"Yes."
"Miss Weed," Carella said, "do you own a typewriter?"
Her eyes flashed. Danger. Careful. That's what her eyes were saying.
"We can get a search warrant," Brown said.
"I own a typewriter," she said, "yes."
"Did you own this same typewriter in June of last year?"
"Yes."
"July of last year?"
"Yes."
"May we see it, please?"
"Why?"
"Because we think you wrote some letters to Arthur Schumacher," Brown said.
"I may very well have written ..."
"Erotic letters," Carella said.
"Can we see that typewriter, please?" Brown said.
"I didn't kill him," she said.
"What it was," Dolly said, "they started out as tricks, you know? I was working Casper . . . you know Casper and the Fields, up there near the old cemetery? St Augustus Cemetery? Where there used to be like this little stone building got knocked down? Just inside the gates? Well, a lot of girls line up there at night because cars come through to pick up the Expressway, the Casper Avenue entrance, you know where I mean? Anyway, that's where I met them, they came walkin' up the street, lookin' over the merchandise, there's lot of girls
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along that cemetery stretch, well, I guess I don't have to tell you. I'm tryin' to explain I don't want to take a rap for a cop's old man got killed. I hardly know these guys, they started out as tricks."
"When was this?" Wade asked.
"Last Sunday night."
"Almost a week ago."
"Almost."
"What does that make it, Charlie?"
Bent took a little celluloid bank calendar from his notebook.
"The twenty-second," he said.
Five days after Carella's father got killed.
"So they came up to you ..."
"Yeah, and they told me they kind of liked my looks," she said, and shrugged modestly, "and would I be interested in a three-way. So I told them I usually get more for a three-way, and they asked me how much, and I told them a nun' fifty and they said that sounded okay, and we went to this little hot-bed place the girls use, it's near that big hall on Casper, where they cater weddings and things? Right next door to it? So that's how it started," she said, and shrugged again.
"How'd you end up in an abandoned building on Sloane?"
"Well, it turns out these guys were loaded ..."
There'd been twelve hundred dollars in Tony Carella's cash register.
"... and they liked crack as much as I do. Well, I mean, who don't? I had my way, I'd marry crack. So we had a nice little arrangement, you know what I mean? I'd do whatever they wanted me to do, and they supplied me with crack."