Ed McBain - Long Time No See

His hands are all over her. He unbuttons her blouse, he touches her breasts, he slides his hands under her skirt and up over her thighs, he grabs her ass tight in nylon panties, she is getting dizzy standing there in the middle of the room. She falls limp against the post, and he does it to her standing there against the post. Rips her panties. Tears them in his hands, rips them away from where she’s wet and waiting, unzips his fly and sticks it in her. He comes almost the minute he’s inside her, and she screams and comes with him, the hell with the Hawks, the hell with Lloyd, the hell with the whole world. They grab each other like it’s the weekend ending, they cling to each other there against the post in the middle of the basement, the lightning and thunder crashing around them. She begins crying. He begins crying, too, and then makes her promise she won’t ever tell anybody in the world that he cried

Monday morning came at last.

The telephone on Carella’s desk was ringing. He picked up the receiver and said, “87th Squad, Carella.”

“This is Maloney, Canine Unit.”

“Yes, Maloney.”

“You were supposed to call me,” Maloney said.

“I just got here this minute,” Carella said, and looked up at the clock. “It’s only a quarter to nine, Maloney.”

“I told you to call first thing in the morning.”

“This is first thing in the morning,” Carella said.

“I don’t want to get in no argument about whether it’s first thing in the morning,” Maloney said. “I been here since eight o’clock, that's first thing in the morning, I don’t want to get in no argument. All I want to know is what disposition is to be taken with this dog here.”

“Yeah,” Carella said.

“What does that mean, yeah?”

“It means, give me a minute, okay?”

“This dog is not a nice dog here,” Maloney said. “He won’t let nobody go near him. He won’t eat nothin we put in his dish, he’s a fuckin ungrateful mutt, you want to know.”

“That’s how he was trained,” Carella said.

“To be ungrateful?”

“No, no. To take food only from his master. He’s a seeing-eye dog.”

“I know what he is. We don’t need no seeing-eye dogs down here. Down here, we need dogs who sniff out dope, that’s what we need down here. So what do you want me to do with him? You don’t want him, he goes to the shelter. You know what they do at the shelter?”

“I know what they do.”

“They keep the mutt three weeks, then they put him away. It’s painless. They put him in a container, they draw all the air out of it. It’s like going to sleep. What do you say, Coppola?”

“Carella.”

“Yeah, what do you say?”

“I’ll send someone down for him.”

“When?”

“Right away.”

“When is right away?”

“Right away is right away,” Carella said.

“Sure,” Maloney said. “The same way first thing ill the morning is quarter to nine, right?”

“I’ll have somebody there by ten o’clock.”

“It’s the Headquarters Building, eighth floor. Tell him to ask for Detective Maloney. What do you guys do up there, work half a day?”

“Only when we’re busy,” Carella said, and hung up. Detective Richard Genero was at his desk, studying his dictionary. Carella walked over to him and said, “What’s the good word, Genero?”

“What?” Genero said. “Oh,” he said, “I get it. The good word.”

He did not smile. He rarely smiled. Carella imagined he was constipated a lot. He wondered suddenly why no one on the squad called Genero “Richard” or “Richie” or “Dick” or anything but “Genero.” Everyone else on the squad called everyone else by his first name. But Genero was Genero. Moreover, he wondered why Genero had never noticed this. Was it possible that people outside the squadroom also called him Genero? Was it possible that his mother called him Genero? Did she phone him on Fridays and say, “Genero. this is Mama. How come you never call?”

“How would you like to do me a favor?” Carella said.

“What favor?” Genero asked suspiciously.

“How would you like to go downtown to pick up a dog?”

“What dog?” Genero asked suspiciously.

“A seeing-eye dog.”

“This is a gag, right?”

“No.”

“Then what dog?”

“I told you. A seeing-eye dog down at Canine.”

“This is a gag about when I got shot in the foot that time, right?”

“No, no.”

“When I was on that stakeout in the park, right?”

“No, Genero, wrong.”

“When I was making believe I was a blind man, and I got shot in the foot, am I right?”

“No. This is a real job. There’s a black Labrador that has to be picked up at Canine.”

“So why are you sending me?”

“I’m not sending you, Genero, I’m asking if you’d like to go.”

“Send a patrolman,” Genero said. “What the hell is this? Every time there’s a shit job to be done on this squad, I’m the one who gets sent. Fuck that,” Genero said.

“I thought you might like some air,” Carella said.

“I’ve got cases to take care of here,” Genero said. “You think I’ve got nothing to do here?”

“Forget it,” Carella said.

“Send a goddamn patrolman.”

“I’ll send a patrolman,” Carella said.

“Anyway, it’s a gag, you think I don’t know it?” Genero said. “You’re making fun of that time I got shot in the park.”

“I thought you got shot in the foot.”

“In the foot in the park,” Genero said unsmilingly. Carella went back to his own desk and dialed 24 for the muster room downstairs. When Sergeant Murchison picked up, he said, “Dave, this is Steve. Can you send a car to the Headquarters Building for me? Eighth floor, ask for Detective Maloney, he’ll turn over a black Labrador retriever.”

“Is the dog vicious?” Murchison asked.

“No, he’s a seeing-eye dog, he’s not vicious.”

“There are some seeing-eye dogs will bite you soon as look at you,” Murchison said.

“In that case, tell your man to use a muzzle. They carry muzzles in the cars, don’t they?”

“Yeah, but it’s hard to get a muzzle on a vicious dog.”

“This dog isn’t vicious,” Carella said. “And, Dave, could you send somebody right away? If the dog isn’t picked up by ten, they’ll send him to the shelter and they’ll kill him iu three weeks.”

“So what’s the hurry?” Murchison said, and hung up.

Carella blinked. He put the receiver back on the cradle and looked at it. He looked at it so hard that it rang, startling him. He picked up the receiver again.

“87th Squad, Carella,” he said.

“Steve, this is Sam Grossman.”

“Hello, Sam, how are you?”

“Comme ci, comme ça,” Grossman said. “Was it you who sent this soil sample to the lab? It’s only marked ‘87th Squad.’ ”

“Meyer did. How does it look?”

“It matches what we got from under Harris’ fingernails, if that’s what you’re looking for. But I’ve got to tell you, Steve, this is a fairly common composition. I wouldn’t consider this a positive make unless you’ve got corroborating evidence.”

“Corroborating supposition, let’s say.”

“Okay, then.”

“Anything on the Harris apartment?”

“Nothing. No alien latents, footprints, hairs or fibers. Nothing.”

“Okay, thanks. I’ll talk to you.”

“So long,” Grossman said, and hung up.

Carella put the receiver back on its cradle. An Army corporal was standing just outside the slatted rail divider, looking tentatively into the squadroom. Carella got up and walked to the divider. “Help you?” he said.