Ричард Деминг - Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 2, February, 1953

Goudy stared at Wiley and tears welled up. “I shall never forget that the kid was smiling at the girl. He just opened his hands and said to her, ‘It’s all right, Miss. It’s just us. We want to pass by.’ He took a step forward when this man made a quick motion to the kid’s belly and Eddie screamed and fell down to the pavement. I couldn’t believe it. Then I looked up and smashed him as hard as I could. I hit him three times, I think, then he and the woman ran off. I shouted ahead, ‘Cartright! Barrow! Stop that man! He’s hurt the kid!’ They cut him off and just at that moment the police came.

“I came back to the kid and I got sick. He was holding in his guts and asking like a baby, ‘What made him do it, Alex? What happened?’ Then the ambulance came and took him away and that was all. Except that I don’t know what I shall tell Mrs. Porter if he dies, sir. Indeed I don’t.”

The little group was silent while Wiley studied the family picture. He knew England and he fancied he could see the little shop Mrs. Porter kept. The mother seemed tired and her children carefree and thoughtless. Wiley rubbed his eyes and said, “Your girl’s pretty.”

Goudy’s body was shaking violently. “Thank you, sir.”

Wiley frowned. “For a man with a clear conscience, you seem nervous.”

The witness considered this seriously. “I caught that off Murmansk, sir, shellshock. I was torpedoed twice and strafed after. Couldn’t sleep mainly. Kept hearing those awful bombs. This thing’s brought it back.” He was silent and the bitter tears returned. “I almost wish I’d had it then. What did I fight for? What good did the whole bloody mess bring me?”

Wiley handed back the photograph. “All right, Goudy, wait outside. It won’t be long.”

Goudy went out, sniffling and blowing his nose.

Wiley drummed the table dubiously. “Well?”

Ricca raised his shoulders. “The others tell the same identical story. I guess we got the facts.”

Corbin said, “Three witnesses is pretty good.”

“What about getting some sort of confession?” Wiley said.

Ricca scratched his jaw. “Well, you know, we got nothing yet, not from the girl, not from Figueroa. We’re trying to get a Spanish cop down to translate, but we may not need him. This Blasco, the owner, he’ll tell us when he comes in.”

Wiley noticed the light of dawn. He stretched and stalked into the waiting room. The witnesses were dozing. He stood above the prisoner. “All right, Figueroa, do you want to tell your side now while you have a chance?”

The prisoner pointed to abrasions in his scalp. He unwrapped a hand-kerchief to show his gashed fingers.

“I know all about that,” Wiley said impatiently. “You talk English!”

“He’s scared, mister!” Jenny Ortega got up angrily. “Let him alone! Why not be fair about this?”

“Well!” Wiley looked her over. “Since you talk English, suppose you come inside.” She looked Wiley over with her self-contained manner still intact and said coolly, “If that’s what you want, mister.”

Wiley held the door aside as she entered the inner office and took a seat. Wiley placed the yellow form before him and considered the girl. She was small-boned but her carriage was proud. He invited her to begin. “Cigarette?”

The girl threw back the raincoat calmly. “I smoke my own.”

“All right.” Wiley lit up and began. “What made this man stab the English kid?”

“Who says he did?”

“I’ve got three witnesses.”

“Then why ask me?”

Ricca said, “This is no way, Jenny. Here’s your chance to tell your side. This is the district attorney. If you help him, he helps you. If you make trouble, he makes trouble.” He waited, then said strongly, “For God’s sake, Jenny, he can throw you in jail for a material witness! Fifty thousand dollars bail! You want that?”

“Jail?” She tossed her hair and said harshly, “What about my baby? You going to put him in jail too?”

Ricca said strongly, “This is Mr. Wiley, Jenny, a square shooter.”

Wiley said, “That’s up to you. I need the truth. If you have a side to tell, now is the time.”

“You’ll listen?” she asked cynically. “You’ll take our side? You’ll believe us?”

“You’ve been saying that all night. Why shouldn’t I believe you?”

“Why should you? We’re just dirt to you, me and my kind.”

“You don’t know what I think at all, Jenny,” Wiley said quietly. “But I’ll tell you this, if you hold out on me, I’ll have to hold you and the baby goes to the Foundling Home. But if you tell the truth, I’ll believe you. Now suppose you drop this act and think of that baby a minute.”

There was a long moment of silence.

The girl put out her hand. “I’ll take that cigarette.” She smoked thoughtfully while the white plumes curled from her nostrils, and Wiley saw that she was quite beautiful. Finally she looked up. “I’ve been telling these cops they got the wrong party. But no! They arrest poor Figueroa. The funny thing is he’s a citizen and they believe those foreigners against him.”

“Tell me something about Figueroa?”

“He’s a good man,” she said simply. “He runs a little business in the neighborhood, a grocery store. He keeps to himself, just a hardworking man trying to get along. He’s no criminal.”

“What was he doing in this bar?”

“He’s been coming these couple of months. He wants me to stop singing there and to marry him.”

“What did you say?”

“I wouldn’t do it. I said I’d just live with him. He didn’t want it that way on account of his mother. She’s very religious and he respects her. He’s like a baby, that way.”

“Why not marry him?”

She said in a low voice, “It wouldn’t be right.”

“Why not?” She said nothing, and Wiley went on. “What happened tonight?”

“Figueroa came in while I was singing. He had good news and he smiled to me. When he wants to, he’s got a nice smile. I saw him ask for whiskey, though normally he drinks beer. I smiled back. He’s the one man never treated me like an animal. Meanwhile these four walked in like they thought to take over, loud voices and everything, troublemakers.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“The regular thing. They give me the eye but I paid it no mind. I was just interested in Figueroa’s news.”

“What was that?”

“Figueroa had fixed it to send his mother to San Juan with his relatives. That meant I could move in. Then when we finally got to arguing and talking about it, Blasco horned in. He knew the deal. That’s because Figueroa’s got a loose tongue in the neighborhood. Can’t keep a thing to himself. He never could. He’s too excitable.”

“Were you going to take that deal?”

She shrugged. “Why not? That way I could get my kid to live with me. He’s only four and he’s staying with my grandmother now.” She added bitterly, “My mother don’t talk to me, my own mother.”

“Are you married?”

“No,” she said.

Ricca said, “Tell Mr. Wiley about Blasco.”

She said, “Blasco didn’t want me to go. When he came over, he was looking mean. He knows my line isn’t singing but I draw a certain steady trade and how many singers can claim that? He told Figueroa to forget about me and he said, ‘You take this girl away, and I ruin you! Now you got your warning!’ He made the sign for death and walked away.”

“What’s the sign?”

She paused to draw a finger across her throat. “Now, Figueroa’s got a few drinks in him at this time and he kept getting excited. Then Blasco said in a mean way, ‘Figueroa, I hear all about you and Esteban!’

“Figueroa said, ‘What about Esteban?’