Cop Hater

by Ed McBain

  The girl finished her beer and left, but the boy did not vacate the booth. He turned slightly, and that was when Savage saw the lettering, and that was when the insistent idea at the back of his mind began to take full shape and form.

  The lettering on the jacket read: The Grovers.

  The name had undoubtedly been taken from the name of the park that hemmed in the 87th Precinct, but it was a name that rang a bell in Savage's head, and it didn't take long for that bell to begin echoing and re-echoing. The Grovers had been responsible for a good many of the street rumbles in the area, including an almost titanic struggle in one section of the park, a struggle featuring knives, broken bottles, guns, and sawed-off stickball bats. The Grovers had made their peace with the cops, or so the story went, but the persistent idea that one of the gangs was responsible for the deaths of Reardon and Foster would not leave Savage's mind.

  And here was a Grover.

  Here was a boy to talk to.

  Savage finished his gin and tonic, left his stool, and walked over to where the boy was sitting alone in the booth.

  "Hi," he said.

  The boy did not move his head. He raised only his eyes. He said nothing.

  "Mind if I sit down?" Savage asked.

  "Beat it, mister," the boy said.

  Savage reached into his jacket pocket. The boy watched him silently. He took out a package of cigarettes, offered one to the boy and, facing the silent refusal, hung one on his own lip.

  "My name's Savage," he said.

  "Who cares?" the boy answered.

  "I'd like to talk to you."

  "Yeah? What about?"

  "The Grovers."

  "Mister, you don't live around here, do you?"

  "No."

  "Then, Dad, go home."

  "I told you. I want to talk."

  "I don't. I'm waitin' for a deb. Take off while you still got legs."

  "I'm not scared of you, kid, so knock off the rough talk."

  The boy appraised Savage coolly.

  "What's your name?" Savage asked.

  "Guess, Blondie."

  "You want a beer?"

  "You buying?"

  "Sure," Savage said.

  "Then make it a rum-coke." -

  Savage turned toward the bar. "Rum-coke," he called, "and another gin and tonic."

  "You drink gin, huh?" the boy said. "Yes. What's your name, son?"

  "Rafael," the boy said, still studying Savage closely. "The guys call me Rip."

  "Rip. That's a good name."

  "Good as any. What's the matter, you don't like it?" "I like it," Savage sard. "You a nab?" "A what?" "A cop." "No."

  "What then?" "I'm a reporter." "Yeah?" "Yes."

  "So whattya want from me?" "I only want to talk." "What about?" "Your gang."

  "What gang?" Rip said. "I don't belong to no gang." The waiter brought the drinks. Rip tasted his and said, "That bartender's a crook. He cuts the juice here. This tastes like cream soda." "Here's luck," Savage said. "You're gonna need it," Rip replied. "About the Grovers ..." "The Grovers are a club." "Not a gang?"

  "Whatta we need a gang for? We're a club, that's all." "Who's president?" Savage asked.

  'That's for me to know and you to find out," Rip answered.

  "What's the matter? You ashamed of the club?" "Hell, no."

  "Don't you want to see it publicized in a newspaper? There isn't another club in the neighborhood that ever got a newspaper's full treatment."

  "We don't need no treatment. We got a big rep as it is. Ain't nobody in this city who ain't heard of The Grovers. Who you tryin' to snow, mister?"

  "Nobody. I just thought you'd like some public relations work."

  "What the hell's that?"

  "A favorable press."

  "You mean . . ." Rip furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"

  "An article telling about your club."

  "We don't need no articles. You better cut out, Dad."

  "Rip, I'm trying to be your friend."

  "I got plenty friends in The Grovers."

  "How many?"

  "There must be at least . . ." Rip stopped short. "You're a wise bastard, ain't you?"

  "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, Rip. Why do the boys call you 'Rip'?"

  "We all got nicknames. That's mine."

  "But why?"

  "Because I can handle a blade good."

  "Did you ever have to?"

  "Handle one? You kidding? In this neighborhood, you don't carry a knife or a piece, you're dead. Dead, man."

  "What's a piece, Rip?"

  "A gun." Rip opened his eyes wide. "You don't know what a piece is? Man, you ain't been."

  "Do The Grovers have many pieces?"

  "Enough."

  "What kind?"

  "All kinds. What do you want? We got it."

  ".45's?"

  "Why do you ask?"

  "Nice gun, a .45."

  "Yeah, it's big," Rip said.

  "Do you ever use these pieces?"

  "You got to use them. Man, you think these diddlebops are for fun? You got to use whatever you can get your hands on. Otherwise, you wind up with a tag on your toe." Rip drank a little more of the rum. "This neighborhood ain't a cream puff, Dad. You got to watch yourself all the time. That's why it helps to belong to The Gravers. They see this jacket comin' down the street, they got respect. They know if they mess with me, they got all The Grovers to mess with."

  "The police, you mean?"

  "Naw, who wants Law trouble? We steer away from them. Unless they bother us." "Any cops bother you lately?"

  "We got a thing on with the cops. They don't bother us, we don't bother them. Man, there ain't been a rumble in months. Things are very quiet" "You like it that way?"

  "Sure, why not? Who wants his skull busted? The Grovers want peace. We never punk out, but we never go lookin' for trouble, either. Only time we get involved is when we're challenged, or when a stud from another club tries to make it with one of our debs. We don't go for that kind of crap." "So you've had no trouble with the police lately?" "Few little skirmishes. Nothing to speak of." "What kind of skirmishes?"

  "Agh, one of the guys was on mootah. So he got a little high, you know. So he busted a store window, for kicks, you know? So one of the cops put the arm on him. He got a suspended sentence."

  "Who put the arm on him?" "Why you want to know?" "I'm just curious."

  "One of the bulls, I don't remember who." "A detective?" "I said a bull, didn't I?"

  "How'd the rest of The Grovers feel about this?" "How do you mean?"

  "About this detective pulling in one of your boys?" "Agh, the kid was a Junior, didn't know his ass from his elbow. Nobody shoulda given him a reefer to begin with. You don't handle a reefer right. . . well, you know, the guy was just a kid."

  "And you felt no resentment for the cop who'd pulled him in?"

  "Huh?"

  "You had nothing against the cop who pulled him in?"

  Rip's eyes grew suddenly wary. "What're you drivin' at, mister?"

  "Nothing, really."

  "What'd you say your name was?"

  "Savage."

  "Why you askin' about how we feel about cops?"

  "No reason."

  "Then why you askin'?"

  "I was just curious."

  "Yeah," Rip said flatly. "Well, I got to go now. I guess that deb ain't comin' back."

  "Listen, stick around a while," Savage said. "I'd like to talk some more."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yes, I would."

  "That's tough, pal," Rip said. "I wouldn't." He got out of the booth. "Thanks for the drink. I see you around."

  "Sure," Savage said.

  He watched the boy's shuffling walk as he moved out of the bar. The door closed behind him, and he was gone.

  Savage studied his drink. There had been trouble between The Grovers and a cop—a detective, in fact. So his theory was not quite as far-fetched as the good lieutenant tried to make i
t.

  He sipped at his drink, thinking, and when he'd finished it, he ordered another. He walked out of the bar about ten minutes later, passing two neatly dressed men on his way out.

  The two men were Steve Carella and a patrolman in street clothes—a patrolman named Bert Kling.

  Chapter ELEVEN

  bush was limp when he reached the apartment.

  He hated difficult cases, but only because he felt curiously inadequate to cope with them. He had not been joking when he told Carella he felt detectives weren't particularly brilliant men. He thoroughly believed this, and whenever a difficult case popped up, his faith in his own theory was reaffirmed.

  Legwork and stubbornness, that was all it amounted to.

  So far, the legwork they'd done had brought them no closer to the killer than they originally were. The stubbornness? Well, that was another thing again. They would keep at it, of course. Until the break came. When would the break come? Today? Tomorrow? Never?

  The hell with the case, he thought. I'm home. A man is entitled to the luxury of leaving his goddamn job at the office. A man is entitled to a few peaceful hours with his wife.

  He pushed his key into the lock, twisted it, and then threw the door open.

  "Hank?" Alice called.

  "Yes." Her voice sounded cool. Alice always sounded cool. Alice was a remarkable woman.

  "Do you want a drink?"

  "Yes. Where are you?"

  "In the bedroom. Come on in, there's a nice breeze here."

  "A breeze? You're kidding."

  "No, seriously."

  He took off his jacket and threw it over the back of a chair. He was pulling off his shirt as he went into the bedroom. Bush never wore undershirts. He did not believe in the theory of sweat absorption. An undershirt, he held, was simply an additional piece of wearing apparel, and hi this weather the idea was to get as close to the nude as possible. He ripped off his shirt with almost savage intensity. He had a broad chest matted with curling red hair that matched the thatch on his head. The knife scar ran its crooked path down his right arm.

  Alice lay in a chaise near the open window. She wore a white blouse and a straight black skirt. She was barefoot, and her legs were propped up on the window sill, and the black skirt rustled mildly with the faint breeze that came through the window. She had drawn her blond hair back into a pony tail. He went to her, and she lifted her face for his kiss, and he noticed the thin film of perspiration on her upper lip.

  "Where's that drink?" he asked.

  "I'll mix it," she said. She swung her feet off the window sill, and the skirt pulled back for an instant, her thigh winking at him. He watched her silently, wondering what it was about this woman that was so exciting, wondering if all married men felt this way about their wives even after ten years of marriage.

  "Get that gleam out of your eyes," she said, reading his face.

  "Why?"

  "It's too damn hot."

  "I know a fellow who claims the best way..."

  "I know about that fellow."

  "Is in a locked room on the hottest day of the year with the windows closed under four blankets."

  "Gin and tonic?"

  "Good."

  "I heard that vodka and tonic is better."

  "We'll have to get some."

  "Busy day at the mine?"

  "Yes. You?"

  "Sat around and worried about you," Alice said.

  "I see all those grey hairs sprouting."

  "He belittles my concern," Alice said to the air. "Did you find that killer yet?"

  "No."

  "Do you want a lime in this?"

  "If you like."

  "Means going into the kitchen. Be a doll and drink it this way."

  "I'm a doll," Bush said.

  She handed him the drink. Bush sat on the edge of the bed. He sipped at the drink, and then leaned forward, the glass dangling at the ends of his long muscular arms.

  "Tired?"

  "Pooped."

  "You don't look very tired."

  "I'm so pooped, I'm peeped."

  "You always say that," Alice said. "I wish you wouldn't always say that. There are things you always say."

  "Like what?"

  "Well, like that, for one."

  "Name another."

  "When we're driving in the car and there are fixed traffic signals. Whenever you begin hitting the lights right, you say 'We're in with the boys'."

  "So what's wrong with that?"

  "Nothing, the first hundred times."

  "Oh, hell."

  "Well, it's true."

  "All right, all right. I'm not peeped. I'm not even pooped."

  "I'm hot," Alice said. "So am I."

  She began unbuttoning her blouse, and even before he looked up, she said, "Don't get ideas."

  She took off the blouse and draped it over the back of the chaise. She owned large breasts, and they were crowded into a filmy white brassiere. The front slope of the cups was covered with a sheer nylon inset, and he could see the insistent pucker of her nipples. It reminded him of pictures he had seen in National Geographic at the dentist's office, the time he'd had that periodontal work done. The girls on Bali. Nobody had breasts like the girls on Bali. Except maybe Alice.

  "What'd you do all day?" he asked.

  "Nothing much."

  "Were you in?"

  "Most of the time."

  "So what'd you do?"

  "Sat around, mostly."

  "Mmmm." He could not take his eyes from the brassiere. "Did you miss me?"

  "I always miss you," she said flatly.

  "I missed you."

  "Drink your drink."

  "No, really."

  "Well, good," she said, and she smiled fleetingly. He studied the smile. It was gone almost instantly, and he had the peculiar feeling that it had been nothing more than a duty smile.

  "Why don't you get some sleep?" she asked.

  "Not yet," he said, watching her.

  "Hank, if you think ..."

  "What?"

  "Nothing."

  "I've got to go in again later," he said.

  "They're really pushing on this one, aren't they?"

  "Lots of pressure," he said. "I think the Old Man is scared he's next."

  "I'll bet it's all over," Alice said. "I don't think there'll be another killing."

  "You can never tell," Bush said.

  "Do you want something to eat before you turn in?" she asked.

  "I'm not turning in yet."

  Alice sighed. "You can't escape this damn heat," she said. "No matter what you do, it's always with you." Her hand went to the button at the side of her skirt. She undid it, and then pulled down the zipper. The skirt slid to her feet, and she stepped out of it. She was wearing white nylon panties frilled with a gossamer web of puffed nylon at each leg. She walked to the window, and he watched her. Her legs were long and clean.

  "Come here," he said.

  "No. I don't want to, Hank."

  "All right," he said.

  "Do you think it'll cool off tonight?"

  "I doubt it." He watched her "closely. He had the distinct impression that she was undressing for him, and yet she'd said ... He tweaked his nose, puzzled.

  She turned from the window. Her skin was very white against the white of her underwear. Her breasts bulged over the edges of the inadequate bra. "You need a haircut," she said.

  "I'll try to get one tomorrow. We haven't had a minute."

  "Oh, goddamn this heat, anyway," she said, and she reached behind her to unclasp the bra. He watched her breasts spill free, watched as she tossed the bra across the room. She walked to mix herself another drink, and he could not take his eyes from her. What's she trying to do? he wondered. What the hell is she trying to do to me?

  He rose swiftly, walking to where she stood. He put his arms around her, and his hands cupped her breasts.

  "Don't," she said.

  "Baby..."

  "Don't." Her voice was fir
m, a cold edge to it.

  "Why not?"

  "Because I say so."

  "Well, then why the hell are you parading around like . . ."

  "Take your hands off me, Hank. Let me go."

  "Aw, baby..."

  She broke away from him. "Get some sleep," she said. "You're tired." There was something strange in her eyes, an almost malicious gleam.

  "Can't..."

  "No."

  "For Christ's sake, Alice..."

  "No!"

  "All right."

  She smiled quickly. "All right," she repeated.

  "Well . . ." Bush paused. "I'd ... I'd better get to bed."

  "Yes. You'd better."

  "What I can't understand is why..."

  "You won't even need a sheet in this weather," Alice interrupted.

  "No, I guess not."

  He went to the bed and took off his shoes and socks. He didn't want to undress because he didn't want to give her the satisfaction, now that he'd been denied, of knowing how she'd affected him. He took off his trousers and quickly got into the bed, pulling the sheet to his throat.

  Alice watched him, smiling. "I'm reading Anapurna," she said.

  "So?"

  "I just happened to think of it."

  Bush rolled over onto his side.

  "I'm still hot," Alice said. "I think I'll take a shower. And then maybe I'll catch an air-conditioned movie. You don't mind, do you?"

  "No," Bush mumbled.

  She walked to the side of the bed and stood there for a moment, looking down at him. "Yes, I think I'll take a shower." Her hands went to her hips. Slowly, she rolled the panties down over the flatness of her stomach, past the hard jut of her crotch, over the whiteness of her thighs. The panties dropped to the floor, and she stepped out of them and stood by the bed looking down at Bush smiling.

  He did not move. He kept his eyes on the floor, but he could see her feet and her legs, but he did not move.

  "Sleep tight, darling," she whispered, and then she went into the bathroom.

  He heard the shower when it began running. He lay on the soggy sheet and listened to the steady machine-gunning of the water. Then, over the sound of the shower, came the sound of the telephone, splitting the silence of the room.

  He sat up and reached for the instrument.

  "Hello?"

  "Bush?"

  "Yes?"

  "This is Havilland. You better get down here right away."

  "What's the matter?" Bush asked.

  "You know that young rookie Kling?"