Ed McBain - Downtown

“I don’t know his first name. I only know he’s Mr. Crandall.”

“How do you happen to know that?”

“Because of the phone call.”

“What phone call?”

“The phone call that came in the phone booth over there. For Mr. Crandall.”

“Who turned out to be the man in this picture, am I right?”

“Yes.”

“Arthur Crandall.”

“If that’s his first name.”

“That’s his first name.”

“Then that’s who it was.”

“What about this phone call?”

“Don’t rush me. That was later. Earlier, they were sitting at that table over there,” she said, and gestured vaguely, “which is when I heard them talking.”

“What time was this?”

“Around eight-fifteen.”

“And you’re sure this is the man?” Michael asked, and showed her the clipping again.

“Yeah, that’s him all right. Though he’s fatter now.”

“But you say he was with another man? Not a woman?”

“Not unless she had a thick black mustache,” Molly said. “Why’d you want to call the cops?” Connie asked.

“Who’s this?” Molly said, and looked her up and down.

“Connie Kee,” Michael said.

“Is she Chinese?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so,” Molly said. “Is it okay to talk in front of her?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“Because Chinese people are funny, you know,” Molly said.

“Funny how?” Connie asked, truly interested.

“They’re always yelling,” Molly said.

“That’s true,” Connie said. “But that’s because they’re not sure of the language. If they yell, they think you’ll understand them better.”

“Well, I wish they wouldn’t yell all the time.”

“Me, too,” Connie said.

“It makes me feel like I did something wrong.”

“Japanese people never yell, did you notice that?” O’Hare said.

“Excuse me,” Michael said, “but why did you...?”

“Yes, they’re very quiet and polite,” Molly said.

“Why did you want to...?”

“Well, they’re two very different cultures,” Connie said.

“Oh, certainly,” Molly said. “The Korean, too. And also the Vietna...”

“Excuse me,” Michael said, “but why did you want to call the police?”

“What?”

“Last night.”

“Oh. Well, because of what they were talking about, why do you think?”

“What were they talking about?”

“A body,” Molly said, lowering her voice. “A dead body.”

“Who?” Michael asked.

“The two of them in the booth. Mr. Crandall and the Spanish guy with the mustache.”

“I mean, the body. Who was it?”

“They didn’t say.”

“Well, what did you hear them...?”

“The Spanish guy was saying he already had the corpse. That’s when I almost called the police.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No. Because I figured the man had to be an embalmer.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Or one of those people who does autopsies at the hospital.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But then Mr. Crandall said if Charlie could de...”

“Charlie!” Michael shouted and almost leaped off the stool.

“Jesus, you scared the shit out of me,” Molly said, backing away.

“Did you say Charlie?”

“What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“What about Charlie?”

“I think this guy’s crazy,” Molly said to O’Hare.

“Nah, he’s okay,” O’Hare said, indicating with a shrug that in his lifetime as a bartender he had served many, many nutcases picking at the coverlet.

“Tell me about Charlie,” Michael said.

Molly sighed and rolled her eyes.

“He said if Charlie could deliver what they needed...”

“Crandall said?”

“Yes. Said if Charlie could deliver what they needed, then they could plant the stiff before midnight.”

“Plant the stiff.”

“He meant the corpse.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He meant they could bury the corpse before midnight.”

“That’s what you think,” Connie said knowingly.

“Which is when I almost called the cops again,” Molly said. “Because even if the man was an undertaker, why would he be burying anybody at midnight? On Christmas Eve, no less.”

“Before midnight,” O’Hare corrected.

“Right,” Molly said, “on Christmas Eve. But then the Spanish guy told Mr. Crandall there wasn’t any hurry, the body would keep, it was on ice, so I guessed he was a legitimate undertaker, after all.”

“Did you happen to catch his name?”

“No.”

“What this was,” O’Hare said, “this Spanish undertaker was waiting for Charlie to bring the dead man’s suit and underwear or whatever, his stuff, you know, so they could dress him all up before they buried him.”

“That’s what you think,” Connie said again.

“Which is another thing I don’t like about Chinese people,” Molly said.

“What’s that?” Connie asked, truly interested again.

“They think they’re so fucking smart,” Molly said.

“Yes, that’s true,” Connie said.

“That’s ’cause they are so fucking smart.” O’Hare said.

“That’s true, too,” Connie said.

“Excuse me,” Michael said, “but did either of them say what Charlie was supposed to deliver?”

“Your I.D., of course,” Connie said.

“So when they planted the corpse with Crandall’s I.D. on it...”

“They could also drop...”

“Do you know what these two are talking about?” Molly asked O’Hare.

“Sure,” O’Hare said.

“What?”

“The stiff’s dog tags.”

“What dog tags?”

“To put in his mouth. The stiff’s.”

“I think you’re crazy, too,” Molly said, shaking her head.

“What else did they say?” Michael asked.

“Mr. Crandall said he wanted to get moving on it, and he wished Charlie would hurry up and do what he had to do.”

“Did he mention Charlie’s last name?” Michael asked.

“No.”

“He didn’t say Charlie Nichols?”

“I just told you he didn’t mention his last name, so why are you asking me Charlie this or Charlie that? What’s the matter with this guy?” she asked O’Hare.

“He’s okay,” O’Hare said, indicating with a shrug that in his many, many years as a bartender he had encountered many a fruitcake who had escaped from this or that mental institution.

“It goes right back to Charlie again,” Michael said to Connie. “And the pair working with him. The phony cop and...”

“All cops are phonies, you want to know,” O’Hare said.

“Tell me about the phone call,” Michael said.

“The phone in the booth rang, I went to answer it, and a woman on the other end...”

“A woman!” Michael shouted.

“Listen, if you’re gonna keep yelling like that...”

“I’m sorry. Did she give you her name?”

“No.”

“Helen Parrish,” Michael said to Connie.

“I just told you she didn’t me give her name,” Molly said.

“Or Judy Jordan,” Connie said.

“Who’s Judy Jordan?” Molly asked.

“Tell me exactly what she said,” Michael said.

“She asked to talk to Mr. Crandall. So I yelled out was there a Mr. Crandall here, and the guy in your picture gets up and goes to the phone booth.”

“Then what?”

“Then the Spanish guy ordered another beer.”

“And then what?”

“Then Mr. Crandall comes back to the table all smiles and tells the Spanish guy everything’s okay, they got it.”

“Got what?” Michael asked.