Evan Hunter - Every Little Crook and Nanny

“How about just DID YOU SEND US THIS HERE CABLE?”

“That’s shorter,” Azzecca agreed, “but how about IS THIS HERE CABLE YOURS? That’s even shorter.”

“Yes, but it don’t necessarily mean that this here cable is this here cable here .”

“Hold it a minute,” Azzecca said. “I think I’ve got it.” He began typing. Garbugli opened his jacket and allowed the sunshine to strike the Phi Beta Kappa key he had earned at City College. Once, in this very office, Carmine Ganucci had said to him, “What the hell is that thing?” and he had proudly answered, “Why, that’s my Phi Bete key, Ganooch.”

“Yeah?” Ganooch had said.

“Why, yes.”

“What does he mean?” Ganooch asked Azzecca.

“Phi Beta Kappa.”

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“An honor society.”

“Italian?” Ganooch had asked.

That had been a long time ago, of course, long before Nanny had begun bringing culture to the big old house in Larchmont. Ganooch now knew what a Phi Beta Kappa key was. He had only recently, in fact, asked Garbugli where he’d stolen it, as he admired it greatly and desired one of his own. His fingers laced across his expansive middle, Garbugli looked down at the key now and luxuriated in the afternoon sunshine that streamed through the window. Azzecca typed furiously and swiftly for perhaps thirty seconds, stopped abruptly, shouted, “There!” and pulled the sheet from the machine.

“Let’s see it, Counselor,” Garbugli said, and his partner handed him the typewritten sheet:

“I put our names together like one name,” Azzecca said. “Save twenty-six and a half cents that way.” He paused. Garbugli was studying the message intently. “What do you think?” Azzecca asked.

“I think we should call him on the telephone,” Garbugli answered.

Alexander Bozzaris was not a crook. He was a cop. In his mind, there was a big difference. Only once in his lifetime had he suffered through an identity crisis, and that was when he tried to rape his wife. He had just for the fun of it dressed up as a bum one night, sneaked into his own house (he had to smile just thinking of it), and tried to violate his own wife. He was arrested for this, and held for three hours in a Bronx precinct even though he had shown all the detectives his badge and warned that he would bring them up on charges unless they released him immediately. His wife, however, insisted to the detectives that she had never before seen him in her life, and that he had broken into her bedroom shouting “Rape!” and so it was the word of a nice Jewish lady against that of an obvious Greek pervert. Bozzaris was not released until Captain O’Rourke, who ran the precinct, came up himself and verified that Bozzaris was a cop.

He was reaching for a ringing telephone on his desk when Snitch walked into his office that afternoon. “Hello, Snitch,” he said, and motioned him to a straight-backed chair across the room, and lifted the receiver from its cradle.

“Bozzaris here,” he said into the mouthpiece. “Just a second, let me get a piece of paper.” He opened the top drawer of his desk, pulled out a blank sheet of Police Department stationery, pinned it to the desk with his elbow, picked up a pencil, and said, “Shoot!” into the mouthpiece. Across the room, Snitch crossed his legs, and then uncrossed them again. He had had to go to the bathroom ever since he’d stumbled across his priceless information. He resented the telephone intrusion now because he was very anxious to begin bargaining with Bozzaris. Impatiently, he listened as Bozzaris spoke into the phone.

“Right,” Bozzaris said. “Where? Oh, I see, our man downtown at Western Union. What? Well, be that as it may, what does the cable read? Just a minute, let me write this down. Addressed to who ? Right, right, I’ve got it. Go ahead.”

Snitch uncrossed his legs again.

“Right,” Bozzaris said. “From Capri, right. What’s the message?”

Snitch crossed his legs.

“Essential and urgent,” Bozzaris said, “raise fifty delivery Saturday August 21. Advise.”

Snitch opened his mouth, uncrossed his legs, and leaned forward in his chair.

“What’s the signature?” Bozzaris asked.

“Carmine Ganucci,” Snitch said glumly.

“What?” Bozzaris said.

“Nothing,” Snitch said, and started out of the office.

“Just a minute there!” Bozzaris yelled. Into the mouthpiece, he said, “I’ll call you back later.” He hung up, rose from his desk, and intercepted Snitch in the squadroom outside, where Bozzaris’ various fellows were busy at work typing up Detective Division reports. The squadroom had about it the air of a soggy, used, cardboard coffee container. It had been painted Institutional Apple Green circa 1919, and had since been repainted some two dozen times, always the same apple green, a color peculiarly vulnerable to grime. It was reasonable to estimate that there were more fingerprints on those dingy squadroom walls than there were in the filing cabinets lining them. Some of the cabinets were made of wood; the remainder were metal, painted a dark green for decorative contrast. Similarly, the detectives’ desks were a chic combination of scarred wood and battered metal. A matching metal detention cage for obstreperous prisoners dominated one corner of the room. A bulletin board with various departmental flyers (including an announcement for the Annual Departmental Golf Meet) was on the wall adjacent to the lieutenant’s office. It was alongside this bulletin board that Bozzaris grabbed Snitch by the elbow and said, “What’s your hurry, Snitch?”

“Well,” Snitch said, “I see that you’re busy and all, so there’s no sense hanging around.”

“Never too busy for you, Snitch,” Bozzaris said, and grinned. “What was it you wished to see me about?”

His expansive welcome was not at all feigned. Detective Lieutenant Alexander Bozzaris considered Snitch a very good adviser, one of the best the department had. His admiration was based on the fact that Snitch had delivered an excellent tip to the Chicago police back in 1929, on St. Valentine’s Day to be exact. Snitch had told the minions of the law that a little get-together was being planned for a garage on North Wells Street. The only thing that had been wrong about Snitch’s information was the address; the blowout was being held on North Clark. But everyone makes mistakes from time to time. The fellows in Chicago, willing to forgive Snitch for both his errors, quickly promoted a quiet beer party, the proceeds of which went to pay Snitch’s hospital expenses and to buy him a fine set of crutches besides. Shortly thereafter, Snitch decided to move to New York.

The fellows in New York had heard of Snitch’s near coup, and decided there was no sense repeating anything to him because then there would be all the trouble afterwards of transporting him out to some Godforsaken potato patch on Long Island. At first, the fellows talked to him about nothing but the weather. Later, they rarely said anything at all to him. Eventually, as folklore became myth, Snitch came to be considered a very dull conversationalist, all the more reason to avoid discussion with him. These days, the only people who talked to Snitch were the police, who were still filled with admiration for his Chicago derring-do, who still offered him money for information, and who sometimes squared raps for him — which raps were generally bum raps invented by the police themselves to keep Snitch forever in their debt so that he would continue to pass on valuable underworld secrets nobody in his right mind ever told him.