Эд Макбейн - Learning to Kill - Stories

“He won’t see you, sir. We’ll put you behind a screen.”

“So long as he doesn’t see me. He knows what I look like, too, and I got a family. I won’t identify him if he knows I’m the one doing it.”

“You’ve got nothing to worry about.” I clicked down Magruder’s toggle on the intercom, and when he answered, I said, “Looks like we’ve got something here, Mac. Get the boys ready for a run-through, will you? And set up a screen for the witness.”

“Right. I’ll let the Chief know.”

“Buzz me back,” I said, and hung up.

“I won’t do it unless I’m behind that screen,” Struthers said.

“I’ve asked for a screen, sir.”

I was still waiting for Magruder to get back, when the door opened. A voice lined with anguish and fatigue said, “Mac tells me you’ve got a witness.”

I turned from the window, ready to say, “Yes, sir,” and Struthers turned to face the door at the same time.

His eyebrows lifted, and his eyes grew wide.

He stared at the figure in the doorway and I watched both men as their eyes met and locked for an instant.

“No!” Struthers said suddenly. “I... I’ve changed my mind. I... I can’t do it. I have to go. I have to go.”

He slammed his hat onto his head and ran out quickly, almost before I’d gotten to my feet.

“Now what the hell got into him all of a sudden?” I asked.

Chief Anderson shrugged wearily.

“I have no idea,” he said.

Two of the major characters in the 87th Precinct novels are Detective Arthur Brown and Deputy Chief Surgeon Sharyn Cooke. They’re both black. But long before these two characters were born, I was experimenting with writing from the viewpoint of blacks. In 1954, the same year I tried to become Gregory Miller in The Blackboard Jungle, this story by Richard Marsten appeared in Manhunt.

He sang softly to himself as he worked on the long white beach. He could see the pleasure craft scooting over the deep blue waters, could see the cottony clouds moving leisurely across the wide expanse of sky. There was a mild breeze in the air, and it touched the woolly skullcap that was his hair, caressed his brown skin. He worked with a long rake, pulling at the tangled sea vegetation that the norther had tossed onto the sand. The sun was strong, and the sound of the sea was good, and he was almost happy as he worked.

He watched the muscles ripple on his long brown arms as he pulled at the rake. She would not like it if the beach were dirty. She liked the beach to be sparkling white and clean... the way her skin was.

“Jonas!”

He heard the call, and he turned his head toward the big house. He felt the same panic he’d felt a hundred times before. He could feel the trembling start in his hands, and he turned back to the rake, wanting to stall as long as he could, hoping she would not call again, but knowing she would.

“Jonas! Jo-naaaas!”

The call came from the second floor of the house, and he knew it came from her bedroom, and he knew she was just rising, and he knew exactly what would happen if he went up there. He hated what was about to happen, but at the same time it excited him. He clutched the rake more tightly, telling himself he would not answer her call, lying to himself because he knew he would go if she called one more time.

“Jonas! Where the devil are you?”

“Coming, Mrs. Hicks,” he shouted.

He sighed deeply and put down the rake. He climbed the concrete steps leading from the beach, and then he walked past the barbecue pit and the beach house, moving under the Australian pines that lined the beach. The pine needles were soft under his feet, and though he knew the pines were planted to form a covering over the sand, to stop sand from being tracked into the house, he still enjoyed the soft feel under his shoes. For an instant, he wished he were barefoot, and then he scolded himself for having a thought that was strictly “native.”

He shook his head and climbed the steps to the screened back porch of the house. The hibiscus climbed the screen in a wild array of color, pinks and reds and orchids. The smaller bougainvillea reached up for the sun where it splashed down through the pines. He closed the door behind him and walked through the dim cool interior of the house, starting up the steps to her bedroom.

When he reached her door, he paused outside, and then he knocked discreetly.

“Is that you, Jonas?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hicks.”

“Well, come in.”

He opened the door and stepped into the bedroom. She was sitting in bed, the sheet reaching to her waist. Her long blonde hair spilled over her shoulders, trailing down her back. She wore a white nylon gown, and he could see the mounds of her breasts beneath the gown, could see the erect rosebuds of her nipples. Hastily, he lowered his eyes.

“Good morning, Jonas,” she said.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hicks.”

“My, it’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hicks.”

“Where were you when I called, Jonas?”

“On the beach, Mrs. Hicks.”

“Swimming, Jonas?” She lifted one eyebrow archly, and a tiny smile curled her mouth.

“Oh, no, Mrs. Hicks. I was raking up the...”

“Haven’t you ever felt like taking a swim at that beach, Jonas?”

He did not answer. He stared at his shoes, and he felt his hands clench at his sides.

“Jonas?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hicks?”

“Haven’t you ever felt like taking a swim at that beach?”

“There’s lots of places to swim, Mrs. Hicks.”

“Yes.” The smile expanded. Her green eyes were smiling now, too. She sat in bed like a slender cat, licking her chops. “That’s what I like about Nassau. There are lots of places to swim.” She continued smiling for a moment, and then she sat up straighter, as if she were ready for business now.

“Well,” she said, “what shall we have for breakfast? Has the cook come in, Jonas?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hicks.”

“Eggs, I think. Coddled. And some toast and marmalade. And a little juice.” He made a movement toward the door, and she stopped him with a wave of her hand. “Oh, there’s no rush, Jonas. Stay. I want you to help me.”

He swallowed, and he put his hands behind his back to hide the trembling. “Yes... Mrs. Hicks.”

She threw back the sheet, and he saw her long legs beneath the hem of the short nightgown. She reached for her slippers on the floor near her bed, squirmed her feet into them, and then stood up. Luxuriantly, she stretched her arms over her head and yawned. The nightgown tightened across her chest, lifting as she raised her arms, showing more of the long curve of her legs. She walked to the window and threw open the blinds, and the sun splashed through the gown, and he saw the full outline of her body, and he thought, Every morning, every morning the same thing.

He could feel the sweat beading his brow, and he wanted to get out of that room, wanted to get far away from her and her body, wanted to escape this labyrinth that led to one exit alone.

“Ahhhhhhhhh.”

She let out her breath and then walked across the room to her dressing table. She sat and crossed her legs, and he could see the whiter area on her thigh that the sun never reached. And looking at that whiter stretch of flesh, his own skin felt browner.

“Do you like working for me?” she asked suddenly.

“Yes, Mrs. Hicks,” he said quickly.

“You don’t really, though, do you?”

“I like it, Mrs. Hicks,” he said.

“I like you to work for me, Jonas. I wouldn’t have you leave for anything in the world. You know that, don’t you, Jonas?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hicks.”