Ed McBain: Downtown

Everything looking so goddamn beautiful.

But they were saying he’d killed somebody.

The limousine was parked outside a Chinese restaurant on Elizabeth Street. Long and black and sleek, it looked like a Russian submarine that had surfaced somewhere on an Arctic glacier. There were Christmas decorations in both front windows of the restaurant, all red and green and tinselly. The building up the street seemed decorated for Christmas, too, with green globes flanking the—

“Hey,” Michael said, “that’s a...”

“I know,” Connie said, “the Fifth Precinct. Don’t worry about it. Just get in the back of the car the minute I unlock it.”

She hurried ahead of him on the sidewalk, struggling through the thick snow in her high-heeled pumps while up the street a Salvation Army band played “Adeste Fideles,” and a man with a microphone pleaded with passersby to be generous. It was a little past ten-fifteen by Michael’s watch, but the streets here in Chinatown were still crowded with Christmas Eve shoppers. He watched Connie as she stepped off the curb, walked around to the driver’s side of the car, and inserted a key in the lock. She opened the door, nodded to him, and immediately got into the car. He came up the street swiftly, stopped at the back door on the curb side, opened it. He got in at once, closed the door behind him, and said, “Where’s the chauffeur?”

“I’m the chauffeur,” she said.

“This is your car?”

“No, it’s a China Doll car.” She turned on the seat, looking back at him. “China Doll Executive Limousine Service,” she explained. “I’m one of the drivers.” To emphasize the point, she settled a little peaked chauffeur’s hat on her head. The rose seemed suddenly incongruous. She handed him a card. Everyone in this city had a card. The card read:

“Charlie Wong!” he said.

“You know him?”

“He tried to hold me up!”

“Charlie? No. He’s a respectable businessman. He has twelve limos.”

“I don’t care if he has a hundred limos. He stuck a gun in my face.”

“Charlie?”

“Well, a plastic gun. Yes, Charlie ! A big Chinese guy with...”

“No, you must be thinking of another Charlie Wong. Wong is a very common Chinese name. Sixty-two percent of all the people in China are named Wong.”

“Is that true?”

“I think so. My name isn’t that common. Kee. That’s my family name. Connie is my given name.”

“That’s a very nice name,” he said. “Connie Kee.”

“Yes, it’s illiterate.”

“Alliterative.”

“Yes. Although actually, it’s Kee Connie. The same as it’s really Wong Charlie. In China, they put the family name first.”

“Then what should I call you?”

“Connie Kee. Because this isn’t China, you know. This is America, you know.”

“Right now I’d rather be in China,” he said. “Would you like to drive me to Kennedy?”

“If you’re going to China, you’ll need a visa,” she said.

“In that case, I’ll go to Boston.”

“I’ve never been to Boston, so I don’t know. But when my uncle Benny went to Hong Kong — this wasn’t even mainland China — I know he needed a visa. Anyway, you don’t want to go to Kennedy,” she said, shaking her head.

“How about La Guardia?”

“No good, either. They’ll be watching all the bus stations, railroad terminals, and airports.”

“Then how would you like to drive me to Sarasota?” he asked.

“I’d love to,” she said, “but I have a twelve-thirty pickup. Why’d you kill that movie director?”

“I didn’t kill any goddamn movie director,” he said.

“The police think you did.”

“The police are wrong.”

“Right or wrong, everyone in this city knows what you look like.”

“How can they know what I...?”

“Because they showed your picture on television.”

“My picture ? Where’d...?”

“Right on the screen, just as you were running out.”

“Where’d they get...?”

“On your driver’s license. Nice big close-up of your face.”

“Oh shit.”

“Actually, it wasn’t that bad a picture.”

“Then they will be watching the airports.”

“Is what I said.”

“Because if they have my license...”

“Oh, they have it, all right.”

“Then they know I’m from Florida...”

“Oh, they know, all right.”

“And they have to be figuring I’ll be heading down there.”

“Is what anyone would figure.”

“So I can’t head down there.”

“Not if you killed this guy Randall.”

“Crandall,” Michael said.

“I’m sure they said Randall.”

“It was Arthur Crandall,” Michael said.

“Well, I won’t argue with you. I guess you know who you killed.”

“I didn’t kill him. And it was Crandall, damn it, I have his card right here.”

He fished into his jacket pocket.

“See?” he said, and showed her the card that looked like a strip of film. “Arthur Crandall, there’s his name in black and white.”

“There’s his address, too,” Connie said.

The entrance to the building on Bowery was a door with a plate-glass upper portion upon which the words CRANDALL FILMS, LTD. were lettered in big black block letters. Michael wondered what kind of film company would have its New York office here in this bedraggled part of the city; he guessed that War and Solitude had been a flop of even vaster dimensions than Crandall had described. He tried the doorknob. The door was locked. A dim light inside showed a steeply angled flight of steps leading upstairs. To the right of the door was a store selling plumbing appliances. To the left was a hotel that called itself the Bowery Palace. Michael stepped back and away from the door. He looked up at the second-story windows, where the name of Crandall’s company was positioned in yet larger block letters. Not a light was showing up there. Apparently, the police hadn’t got here yet. Either that, or they’d already come and gone.

A traffic signal was on the corner, and several enterprising Christmas Eve businessmen had set up shop there with buckets and chamois cloths, pouncing on the windshield of any car unfortunate enough to get caught by a red light. There was even less traffic in the streets now; the storm had frightened off all but a few hearty adventurers, and the rest were already home for Christmas. The windshield-washers on the corner kept looking up the avenue for signs of fresh customers. Meanwhile, they kept passing around a pint bottle of something that looked very dark and very poisonous. When one of them spotted the black limo, he started for it at once, bucket in his left hand, chamois cloth in his right. Connie waved him off. He kept coming.

“My windshield’s clean,” she said.

“I’m Freddie,” he said. “Clean your windshield?”

“I just told you it’s clean.”

“Clean your windshield for a dollar?”

“A dollar!” Connie said. “That’s outrageous!”

“So make it half a buck,” Freddie said, and shrugged.

“Now you’re talking,” Connie said, and Freddie dipped the chamois into the bucket and slapped the cloth onto the windshield. A greasy film of ice immediately formed on the glass.

“Terrific,” Connie said sourly.

“I want to find the backyard,” Michael whispered.

“Why?” Connie asked.

“See if there’s a fire escape.”

“I’ll come with you,” she said.

“Are you a movie star?” Freddie asked Michael.