Ed McBain - The Last Brief

‘Sure, I was. There’s a law against being on Ashley Avenue?’

‘Were you in an alleyway near number four sixty-seven Ashley?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Semmers, there was a sixteen-year-old kid in that alleyway, too. He was stabbed four times, and we already took him to the hospital, and that kid’s liable to die. You know what homicide is, Semmers?’

‘That’s when somebody gets killed.’

‘You know what Homicide cops are like?’

‘No. What?’

‘You’d be laying on the floor almost dead by now if you was up at Homicide, Just thank God you’re here, Semmers, and don’t try my patience.’

‘I never seen no kid in the alley. I never cut up nobody.’

Without warning, Boglio drew back his fist and smashed it into Semmers’ face. Semmers lurched back against the wall, bounced off it like a handball, and then clasped his shattered lip with his hand.

‘Why’d you—’

‘Shut up!’ Boglio yelled.

From where he sat, Randolph could see the blood spurting from Semmers’ mouth. Dispassionately, he watched.

‘Tell me about the kid,’ Boglio said.

‘There ain’t nothing to—’

Again, Boglio hit him, harder this time.

‘Tell me about the kid,’ he repeated.

‘I—’

The fist lashed out again. Randolph watched.

‘You going to need me any more?’ he asked Boglio.

‘No,’ Boglio said, drawing back his fist.

From across the room, Fields said, ‘For Christ’s sake, lay off, Rudy. You want to kill the poor bastard?’

‘I don’t like punks,’ Boglio said. He turned again to the bloody figure against the wall.

Randolph rose, ripped the pages of notes from the black book, and put them on Boglio’s desk. He was going through the gate in the railing when Fields stopped him.

‘How does it feel?’ Fields asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Being an accomplice.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Randolph said.

‘Don’t you?’

‘No.’

‘You beginning to think the way Boglio docs? About punks, I mean?’

‘My thoughts are my business, Dave,’ Randolph said. ‘Keep out of them.’

‘Boglio’s thoughts are his business, too.’

‘He’s questioning a punk who knifed somebody. What the hell do you want him to do?’

‘He’s questioning a human being who maybe did and maybe didn’t knife somebody.’

‘What’s the matter, Dave? You in love with this precinct?’

‘I think it stinks,’ Fields said. ‘I think it’s a big, stinking prison.’

‘All right. So do I.’

‘But for Christ’s sake, Frank, learn who the prisoners are! Don’t become—’

‘I can take care of myself,’ Randolph said.

Fields sighed. ‘What are your plans for the little girl outside?’

‘She’s trash,’ Randolph said.

‘So?’

‘So what do you want? Go back to the D.D. report you were typing, Dave. I’ll handle my own prisoners.’

‘Sure,’ Fields said, and turned and walked to his desk.

Randolph watched his retreating back. Casually, he lighted a cigarette and then walked out into the corridor. The girl looked up as he approached. Her eyes looked very blue in the dimness of the corridor. Very blue and very frightened.

‘What’s your name?’ Randolph asked.

‘Betty,’ the girl said.

‘You’re in trouble, Betty,’ Randolph said flatly.

‘I... I know.’

‘How old are you, Betty?’

‘Twenty-four.’

‘You look younger.’

The girl hesitated. ‘That’s... that’s because I’m so skinny,’ she said.

‘You’re not that skinny,’ Randolph said harshly. ‘Don’t play the poor little slum kid with me.’

‘I wasn’t playing anything,’ Betty said. ‘I am skinny. I know I am. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

Her voice was very soft, the voice of a young girl, a frightened young girl. He looked at her, and he told himself, She’s a tramp, and his mind clicked shut like a trap.

‘Lots of girls are skinny,’ Betty said. ‘I know lots of girls who—’

‘Let’s lay off the skinny routine,’ Randolph said drily. ‘We already made that point.’ He paused. ‘You’re twenty-four, huh?’

‘Yes,’ She nodded and a quiet smile formed on her painted mouth. ‘How old are you?’

‘I’m thirty-two,’ Randolph said before he could catch himself, and then he dropped his cigarette angrily to the floor and stepped on it. ‘You mind if I ask the questions?’

‘I was only curious. You seem... never mind.’

‘What do I seem?’

‘Nothing.’

‘All right, let’s get down to business. How long have you been a hooker?’

The girl looked at him blankly. ‘What?’

‘Don’t you hear good?’

‘Yes, but what does hooker mean?’

Randolph sighed heavily. ‘Honey,’ he said, ‘the sooner we drop the wide-eyed innocence, the better off we’ll both be.’

‘But I don’t—’

‘A hooker is a prostitute!’ Randolph said, his voice rising. ‘Now come off it!’

‘Oh,’ the girl said.

‘Oh,’ Randolph repeated sarcastically. ‘Now how long?’

‘This... this was my first time.’

‘Sure.’

‘Really,’ she said eagerly. ‘I’d... I’d never gone out looking for... for men before. This was my first time.’

‘And you picked me, huh?’ Randolph asked, unbelievingly. ‘Well, honey, you picked the wrong man for your first one.’

‘I didn’t know you were a cop.’

‘Now you know.’

‘Yes. Now I know.’

‘And you also know you’re in pretty big trouble.’

‘Yes,’ the girl said.

‘Good,’ Randolph answered, grinning.

Actually, the girl wasn’t in as much trouble as she imagined herself to be — and Randolph knew it. She had indeed stopped him on the street and asked, ‘Want some fun, mister?’ and Randolph had immediately put the collar on her. But in the city for which Randolph worked, it would have been next to impossible to make a prostitution charge stick. Randolph conceivably had a Dis Cond case, but disorderly conduct was a dime-a-dozen misdemeanor and was hardly worth bothering with in a precinct where felonies ran wild. So Randolph knew all this, and he had known it when he collared the girl, and sat now with a grin on his face and watched her, pleased by her troubled expression, pleased with the way her hands fluttered aimlessly in her lap.

‘You can get out of it,’ he said softly.

‘How?’ the girl asked eagerly.

His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘If you know the right cop,’ he said.

The girl stared at him blankly for a moment. ‘I haven’t any money,’ she said at last. ‘I... I wouldn’t have done this if I had money.’

‘There are other ways,’ Randolph said.

‘Oh.’ She stared at him and then nodded slightly. ‘I see.’

‘Well?’

‘Yes,’ she said, still nodding. ‘All right. Whatever you say.’

‘Let’s go,’ Randolph said.

He walked briskly to the railing and leaned on it. To no one in particular, he said, ‘I’ll be back in an hour or so.’ Before he turned, he noticed the curiously sour expression on Dave Fields’ face. Briskly, he walked to the girl. ‘Come on,’ he said.

They went down the steps to the ground floor. At the desk, a patrolman was booking a seventeen-year-old kid who was bleeding from a large cut behind his car. The blood had trailed down his neck and stained his tee-shirt a bright red. The girl gasped when she saw the boy, and then turned quickly away, heading for the steps.

‘If he’s the one they’re booking,’ Randolph said, ‘I hate to think what the other guy must look like.’

The girl didn’t answer. She began walking quickly, and Randolph fell in beside her. ‘Where to?’ he asked.