Эд Макбейн - Barking at Butterflies and other stories

“Next case,” the Chief of Detectives said.

Stevie watched as Assisi walked across the stage and down the steps on the other side, where the uniformed cop met him. He’d handled himself well, Assisi had. They’d rattled him a little at the end there, but on the whole he’d done a good job. So the guy was lugging a gun around. So what? He was right, wasn’t he? He didn’t shoot nobody, so what was all the fuss about? Cops! They had nothing else to do, they went around hauling in guys who were carrying guns. Poor bastard was a veteran, too; that was really rubbing it in. But he did a good job up there, even though he was nervous, you could see he was very nervous.

A man and a woman walked past him and onto the stage. The man was very tall, topping the six-foot marker. The woman was shorter, a bleached blonde turning to fat.

“They picked them up together,” Skinner whispered. “So they show them together. They figure a pair’ll always work as a pair, usually.”

“How’d you like that Assisi?” Stevie whispered back. “He really had them bulls on the run, didn’t he?” Skinner didn’t answer.

The Chief of Detectives cleared his throat. “MacGregor, Peter, aged forty-five, and Anderson, Marcia, aged forty-two, Bronx one. Got them in a parked car on the Grand Concourse. Backseat of the car was loaded with goods, including luggage, a typewriter, a portable sewing machine, and a fur coat. No statements. What about all that stuff, Pete?”

“It’s mine.”

“The fur coat, too?”

“No, that’s Marcia’s.”

“You’re not married, are you?”

“No.”

“Living together?”

“Well, you know,” Pete said.

“What about the stuff?” the Chief of Detectives said again.

“I told you,” Pete said. “It’s ours.”

“What was it doing in the car?”

“Oh. Well, we were... uh...” The man paused for a long time. “We were going on a trip.”

“Where to?”

“Where? Oh. To... uh...”

Again he paused, frowning, and Stevie smiled, thinking what a clown this guy was. This guy was better than a sideshow at Coney. This guy couldn’t tell a lie without having to think about it for an hour. And the dumpy broad with him was a hot sketch, too. This act alone was worth the price of admission.

“Uh...” Pete said, still fumbling for words. “Oh... we were going to... uh... Denver.”

“What for?”

“Oh, just a little pleasure trip, you know,” he said, attempting a smile.

“How much money were you carrying when we picked you up?”

“Forty dollars.”

“You were going to Denver on forty dollars?”

“Well, it was fifty dollars. Yeah, it was more like fifty dollars.”

“Come on, Pete, what were you doing with all that stuff in the car?”

“I told you. We were taking a trip.”

“With a sewing machine, huh? You do a lot of sewing, Pete?”

“Marcia does.”

“That right, Marcia?”

The blonde spoke in a high, reedy voice. “Yeah, I do a lot of sewing.”

“That fur coat, Marcia. Is it yours?”

“Sure.”

“It has the initials G. D. on the lining. Those aren’t your initials, are they, Marcia?”

“No.”

“Whose are they?”

“Search me. We bought that coat in a hockshop.”

“Where?”

“Myrtle Avenue, Brooklyn. You know where that is?”

“Yes, I know where it is. What about that luggage? It had initials on it, too. And they weren’t yours or Pete’s. How about it?”

“We got that in a hockshop, too.”

“And the typewriter?”

“That’s Pete’s.”

“Are you a typist, Pete?”

“Well, I fool around a little, you know.”

“We’re going to check all this stuff against our stolen goods list. You know that, don’t you?”

“We got all that stuff in hockshops,” Pete said. “If it’s stolen, we don’t know nothing about it.”

“Were you going to Denver with him, Marcia?”

“Oh sure.”

“When did you both decide to go? A few minutes ago?”

“We decided last week sometime.”

“Were you going to Denver by way of the Grand Concourse?”

“Huh?” Pete said.

“Your car was parked on the Grand Concourse. What were you doing there with a carload of stolen goods?”

“It wasn’t stolen,” Pete said.

“We were on our way to Yonkers,” the woman said.

“I thought you were going to Denver.”

“Yeah, but we had to get the car fixed first. There was something wrong with the...” She paused, turning to Pete. “What was it, Pete? That thing that was wrong?”

Pete waited a long time before answering. “Uh... the... uh... the flywheel, yeah. There’s a garage up in Yonkers fixes them good, we heard. Flywheels, I mean.”

“If you were going to Yonkers, why were you parked on the Concourse?”

“Well, we were having an argument.”

“What kind of an argument?”

“Not an argument, really. Just a discussion, sort of.”

“About what?”

“About what to eat.”

“What!”

“About what to eat. I wanted to eat Chink’s, but Marcia wanted a glass of milk and a piece of pie. So we were trying to decide whether we should go to the Chink’s or the cafeteria. That’s why we were parked on the Concourse.”

“We found a wallet in your coat, Pete. It wasn’t yours, was it?”

“No.”

“Whose was it?”

“I don’t know.” He paused, then added hastily, “There wasn’t no money in it.”

“No, but there was identification. A Mr. Simon Granger. Where’d you get it, Pete?”

“I found it in the subway. There wasn’t no money in it.”

“Did you find all that other stuff in the subway, too?”

“No, sir, I bought that.” He paused. “I was going to return the wallet, but I forgot to stick it in the mail.”

“Too busy planning for the Denver trip, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“When’s the last time you earned an honest dollar, Pete?”

Pete grinned. “Oh, about two, three years ago. I guess.”

“Here’re their records,” the Chief of Detectives said. “Marcia, 1938, Sullivan Law; 1939, Concealing Birth of Issue; 1940, Possession of Narcotics — you still on the stuff, Marcia?”

“No.”

“1942, Dis Cond; 1943, Narcotics again; 1947 — you had enough, Marcia?”

Marcia didn’t answer.

“Pete,” the Chief of Detectives said, “1940, Attempted Rape; 1941, Selective Service Act; 1942, Dis Cond; 1943, Attempted Burglary; 1945, Living on Proceeds of Prostitution; 1947, Assault and Battery, did two years at Ossining.”

“I never done no time,” Pete said.

“According to this, you did.”

“I never done no time,” he insisted.

“1950,” the Chief of Detectives went on, “Carnal Abuse of a Child.” He paused. “Want to tell us about that one, Pete?”

“I... uh...” Pete swallowed. “I got nothing to say.”

“You’re ashamed of some things, that it?”

Pete didn’t answer.

“Get them out of here,” the Chief of Detectives said.

“See how long he kept them up there?” Skinner whispered. “He knows what they are, wants every bull in the city to recognize them if they...”

“Come on,” a detective said, taking Skinner’s arm.

Stevie watched as Skinner climbed the steps to the stage. Those two had really been something, all right. And just looking at them, you’d never know they were such operators. You’d never know they...

“Skinner, James, Manhattan two. Aged fifty-one. Threw a garbage can through the plate-glass window of a clothing shop on Third Avenue. Arresting officer found him inside the shop with a bundle of overcoats. No statement. That right, James?”