Эд Макбейн: Learning to Kill: Stories

“Really? You mean a boxer? No kidding?”

“Why would I kid you?”

“What’s your last name?”

“Blake.”

“Frank Blake? I don’t think I’ve heard it before. Of course, I didn’t follow the fights much.”

“Tiger Blake, they called me. That was my ring name.”

“Tiger Blake. Well, we didn’t have fights in Whiting Center. Had to go over to Waterloo if we wanted to see a bout. I guess that’s why I never heard of you.”

“Sure,” Frank said.

“Why’d you quit fighting?”

“They made me.”

“Why?”

“I killed a guy in 1947.”

Pete’s eyes widened. “In the ring?”

“Of course in the ring. What the hell kind of a moron are you, anyway? You think I’d be walking around if it wasn’t in the ring? Jesus!”

“Is that what’s troubling you?”

“There ain’t nothing troubling me. I’m fine.”

“Are you going home for Christmas?”

“I got no home.”

“You must have a home,” Pete said gently. “ Everybody’s got a home.”

“Yeah? Where’s your home? Whiting Center or wherever the hell you said?”

“Nope. This is my home now. New York City. New York, New York. The greatest goddamn city in the whole world.”

“Sure,” Frank said sourly.

“My folks are dead,” Pete said. “I’m an only child. Nothing for me in Whiting Center anymore. But in New York, well, I get the feeling that I’m here to stay. That I’ll meet a nice girl here, and marry her, and raise a family here and... and this’ll be home.”

“Great,” Frank said.

“How’d you happen to kill this fellow?” Pete asked suddenly.

“I hit him.”

“And killed him?”

“I hit him on the Adam’s apple. Accidentally.”

“Were you sore at him?”

“We were in the ring. I already told you that.”

“Sure, but were you sore?”

“A fighter don’t have to be sore. He’s paid to fight.”

“Did you like fighting?”

“I loved it,” Frank said flatly.

“How about the night you killed that fellow?”

Frank was silent for a long time.

Then he said, “Get lost, huh?”

“I could never fight for money,” Pete said. “I got a quick temper, and I get mad as hell, but I could never do it for money. Besides, I’m too happy right now to...”

“Get lost,” Frank said again, and he turned his back. Pete sat silently for a moment.

“Frank?” he said at last.

“You back again?”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have talked to you about something that’s painful to you. Look, it’s Christmas Eve. Let’s...”

“Forget it.”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“No. I told you no a hundred times. I buy my own damn drinks!”

“This is Christmas E...”

“I don’t care what it is. You happy jokers give me the creeps. Get off my back, will you?”

“I’m sorry. I just...”

“Happy, happy, happy. Grinning like a damn fool. What the hell is there to be so happy about? You got an oil well someplace? A gold mine? What is it with you?”

“I’m just...”

“You’re just a jerk! I probably pegged you right the minute I laid eyes on you. You’re probably a damn queer.”

“No, no,” Pete said mildly. “You’re mistaken, Frank. Honestly, I just feel...”

“Your old man was probably a queer, too. Your old lady probably took on every sailor in town.”;

The smile left Pete’s face, and then tentatively reappeared.

“You don’t mean that, Frank,” he said.

“I mean everything I ever say,” Frank said. There was a strange gleam in his eyes. He studied Pete carefully.

“About my mother, I meant,” Pete said.

“I know what you’re talking about. And I’ll say it again. She probably took on every sailor in town.”

“Don’t say that, Frank,” Pete said, the smile gone now, a perplexed frown teasing his forehead, appearing, vanishing, reappearing.

“You’re a queer, and your old lady was a...”

“Stop it, Frank.”

“Stop what? If your old lady was...”

Pete leaped off the barstool.

“Cut it out!” he yelled.

From the end of the bar, the bartender turned. Frank caught the movement with the corner of his eye. In a cold whisper, he said, “Your mother was a slut,” and Pete swung at him. Frank ducked, and the blow grazed the top of his head. The bartender was coming toward them now. He could not see the strange light in Frank’s eyes, nor did he hear Frank whisper again, “A slut, a slut.”

Pete pushed himself off the bar wildly. He saw the beer bottle then, picked it up, and lunged at Frank.

The patrolman knelt near his body.

“He’s dead, all right,” he said. He stood up and dusted off his trousers. “What happened?”

Frank looked bewildered and dazed.

“He went berserk,” he said. “We were sitting and talking. Quiet. All of a sudden, he swings at me.” He turned to the bartender. “Am I right?”

“He was drinking,” the bartender said. “Maybe he was drunk.”

“I didn’t even swing back,” Frank said, “not until he picked up the beer bottle. Hell, this is Christmas Eve. I didn’t want no trouble.”

“What happened when he picked up the bottle?”

“He swung it at me. So I... I put up my hands to defend myself. I only gave him a push, so help me.”

“Where’d you hit him?”

Frank paused. “In... in the throat, I think.” He paused again. “It was self-defense, believe me. This guy just went berserk. He musta been a maniac.”

“He was talking kind of queer,” the bartender agreed.

The patrolman nodded sympathetically.

“There’s more nuts outside than there is in,” he said.

He turned to Frank. “Don’t take this so bad, Mac. You’ll get off. It looks open and shut to me. Just tell them the story downtown, that’s all.”

“Berserk,” Frank said. “He just went berserk.”

“Well...” The patrolman shrugged. “My partner’ll take care of the meat wagon when it gets here. You and me better get downtown. I’m sorry I got to ruin your Christmas, but...”

“It’s him that ruined it,” Frank said, shaking his head and looking down at the body on the floor.

Together, they started out of the bar.

At the door, the patrolman waved to the bartender and said, “Merry Christmas, Mac.”

“First Offense,” the Manhunt story that opened this collection, was published in 1955. “The Last Spin” was published in that same magazine a year later. “On the Sidewalk, Bleeding,” which immediately follows, was first published in Manhunt in 1957. These three stories remain the most anthologized of all the short stories I’ve ever written.

The boy lay bleeding in the rain.

He was sixteen years old, and he wore a bright purple silk jacket, and the lettering across the back of the jacket read THE ROYALS. The boy’s name was Andy, and the name was delicately scripted in black thread on the front of the jacket, just over the heart. Andy.

He had been stabbed ten minutes ago.

The knife had entered just below his rib cage and had been drawn across his body violently, tearing a wide gap in his flesh. He lay on the sidewalk with the March rain drilling his jacket and drilling his body and washing away the blood that poured from his open wound. He had known excruciating pain when the knife ripped §cross his body, and then sudden comparative relief when the blade was pulled away. He had heard the voice saying, “That’s for you, Royal!”, and then the sound of footsteps hurrying into the rain, and then he had fallen to the sidewalk, clutching his stomach, trying to stop the flow of blood.