Ed McBain: Downtown

“All right, all right...”

“He has his credit cards and his money and his driver’s license stolen, and all you can think of...”

“I said all right already!”

“We’ve got to report this to the police,” Crandall said, taking out his own wallet, looking at the check, and then putting a twenty-dollar bill on the bar. “What precinct are we in?”

“The First,” the bartender said.

“Where is that?”

“On Ericsson Place.”

“Where?”

“Ericsson Place. You gotta go all the way over the West Side from here. It’s just off Varick and Canal.”

“Do you know how to get there?” Crandall asked Michael.

“No,” Michael said. “This is the first time I’ve been down in this part of the city.”

“Last time, too, I’ll bet,” the bartender said.

“I’ll show you the way,” Crandall said.

“Well, look, I have to catch an eleven-oh-five plane to Boston. What I thought...”

“That gives you over three hours,” Crandall said.

“Well, I thought I’d leave the city by...”

“Even so. You don’t want these people...”

“I thought I’d call from Boston, report it...”

“No, no, you can’t do that,” Crandall said. “You have to go to the police in person. That’s the way it works. Otherwise nothing’ll get done. Don’t worry. I’ll go with you. I have a photographic memory, I can give them a good description of that fake cop.”

“Well, thanks but...”

“Where’d you park your car?”

“But you see, I thought it might be simpler...”

“Come on, this won’t take a minute,” Crandall said. “It’s your duty as a citizen.”

“He’s right,” the bartender said.

Michael looked at him.

“Really,” the bartender said.

“Well, okay,” Michael said, and nodded.

“So where’s the car?” Crandall asked.

“Right around the corner.”

“Probably be a parking ticket on it,” the bartender said. Crandall gave him a look.

“Sorry,” he said, and went to the cash register.

“Do you remember what name he gave you?” Crandall asked.

“Yes. Detective Daniel Cahill.”

“Good. Although the name was probably as phony as he was.”

“Here’s your change,” the bartender said.

“Thank you,” Crandall said. He looked at the check again, left a tip on the bar, and then said, “Let’s go.”

They walked out of the bar into a raging snowstorm.

What had earlier been a Charles Dickens sort of Christmas Carol -ish snowfall — with fat, gentle flakes swirling and dipping on the air, and little puffy white hats on the street lamps, and people hurrying by with long mufflers trailing, their footsteps hushed on sidewalks and streets covered with a thin dusting of white — had now turned into a blustery blizzard blowing wind and tiny sharp snowflakes into every crack and crevice, covering the entire city with a fine, glistening, slippery coat of white already an inch thick.

“This we definitely do not need,” Crandall said. “Where’d you say the car was?”

“Around the corner,” Michael said.

They walked together to the corner, their heads ducked against the needle-sharp flakes driven by the wind, turned right, and then walked to the middle of the street where the rented car was parked under a street lamp. Michael unlocked the car on the driver’s side, got in, and started it.

“If you’ll flick open the trunk,” Crandall said, “I’ll see if we’ve got a scraper.”

Michael reached for the trunk-release lever, close to the floor, and pulled on it.

“That’s got it,” Crandall said.

“Anything in there?” Michael called.

“Just a valise.”

“Yes, that’s mine.”

“Nothing we can use,” Crandall said, and slammed the trunk shut and came around the car to where Michael was sitting behind the wheel, the door open.

“One of those nights, huh?” he said.

“At least the defroster’s working,” Michael said.

“Good thing I wore gloves,” Crandall said, and went around to the back of the car again, and began scraping at the rear window with the flat of his hand. It took them about five minutes to clear the windshield, the side windows, and the rear window. The car was toasty warm by then. Michael took off his glasses, wiped the lenses clear of condensation, and put them on again.

“You don’t plan to drive, do you?” Crandall asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well... he stole your license, didn’t he?”

Michael said nothing.

He sat with his hands on the steering wheel, staring forlornly through the windshield, nodding.

At last he sighed and said, “Do you know how to drive?”

“Well, sure.”

“Do you have a license?”

“Sure, but...”

“Would you please drive?”

“If you want me to, sure.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Michael said.

“I’ll come around,” Crandall said.

Both men got out of the car and walked around the front of it, through the snow, changing places. Behind the wheel now, Crandall familiarized himself with the dashboard instrumentation...

“Is this the headlight switch?”

“No, the one above it.”

... and the gear-shift lever...

“Automatic transmission, huh?”

“Yes.”

... and the brake and accelerator pedals.

“Shall I give it a whirl?” he asked.

“I’m ready when you are.”

“I’ll lake it real slow,” Crandall said, “make sure we don’t get into any accidents.”

He eased the car out of its space and into the street. The digital dashboard clock read 8:01, still early for a big-city night. But this was Christmas Eve, and there was not much traffic in the streets. Besides, news of the impending storm had probably driven everyone home even earlier than usual.

“How does the road feel?” Michael asked.

“Not too bad.”

Crandall drove knowledgeably through the narrow twisting streets of downtown Manhattan, a mysterious maze to Michael, inching the car along until finally they came to Canal Street, where Crandall waited out a red light and then made a left turn.

“They usually clear the main thoroughfares first,” he said. “Here comes a snowplow now. We should have pretty clear sailing over to Varick. Why don’t you put on the radio, see if we can get a forecast?”

Michael fiddled with the radio dial.

“Ten-ten is all news, all the time,” Crandall said.

He was still driving slowly, although the road ahead was clear of snow. Wet but clear.

“... Arab leaders maintaining that the proposed oil hikes were more than adequately...”

“Pain in the ass, the Arab leaders,” Crandall said.

“...justified by recent...”

“What the hell is that?” Crandall said.

“... developments in the Persian Gulf. Should OPEC decide...”

“Turn that off,” Crandall said.

Michael turned off the radio.

“Did you feel that?” Crandall said.

“No. Feel what?”

“Listen.”

Michael listened.

“I think we’ve got a flat,” Crandall said.

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish I were, my friend.”

He glanced into the rearview mirror, rolled down the window on his side, and hand-signaled that he was pulling over to the curb. He double-parked alongside a laundry truck, looked into the rearview mirror again, and sighed deeply. “It’s a horror movie, am I right?” he said, and shook his head. “You want to check that right rear tire?”

Michael opened the door on the passenger side and stepped out into Nanook of the North. He closed the door behind him and sidled back between the laundry truck and the car, his coat flapping around his knees, his hair dancing wildly on top of his head, snow beginning to cake on his eyeglasses. He stopped before the right rear tire, kicked at it perfunctorily, and was kneeling to study it more closely when the car pulled away.