Ed McBain - Long Time No See

“What happened?”

“An L-shaped ambush. The first fire team was fully contained in the short side of the L. Bravo was just entering the long side. There was nothing we could do. They’d closed the trail and lined it with rifles and machine guns, and we were caught in the crossfire. We hit the bushes, hoping they hadn’t been lined with punji stakes, and we just lay there returning fire and hoping Bravo would get to us before we all were killed. Bravo came in with the 3rd Squad right behind them, a machine-gun squad. It was a pretty hairy ten minutes, though. I was amazed we got through it with only Harris getting hurt. A grenade got him, almost tore his head off.”

“No other casualties?”

“Not in Alpha. Two men in Bravo were killed, and the 3rd Squad suffered some wounded. But that was it. We were really lucky. They had us cold.”

“Would you remember which of the men Harris was closest to?”

“What do you mean? In the action? When he was hit?”

“No, no. Who were his friends? Was there anyone he was particularly close to?”

“I really couldn’t say. I’m not sure if you understand how this works. There are forty-four men in a platoon, plus the commanding officer and the platoon sergeant. The lieutenant will usually set up his command post where he can best direct the action. I was with that particular fire team on that particular day because they were first in the line of march.”

“Then you didn’t know the men in Alpha too well.”

“Not as individuals.”

“Even though the operation had started at the beginning of the month?”

“I knew them by name, I knew their faces. All I’m saying is that I had very little personal contact with them. I was an officer, they were—”

“Yes, but you’d only recently been promoted.”

“That’s true,” Tataglia said, and smiled. “But there’s not much love lost between top sergeants and the men under them. I was an E-7 before Lieutenant Blake got killed.”

“How did he get killed?” Meyer asked.

“Mortar fire,” Tataglia said.

“And this was?”

“Beginning of the month sometime. Two or three days after the drop, I’m not certain of the date.”

“Would you know if Harris kept in touch with any of the men after his discharge?”

“I have no idea.”

“Have you been in contact with any of them?”

“The men in Alpha, do you mean?”

“Yes.”

“No. I correspond regularly with the man who commanded D Company’s 1st Platoon, but that’s about it. He’s a career soldier like myself, stationed in Germany just now, got sent over shortly after the reunion.”

“What reunion is that, Major?”

“D Company had a big reunion in August. Tenth anniversary of the company’s arrival overseas.”

“Where’d the reunion take place?”

“Fort Monmouth. In New Jersey.”

“Did you attend the reunion?”

“No, I did not.”

“Did your friend?”

“Yes, he did. He mentioned it in one of his letters to me. Actually, I’m sorry I missed it.”

“Well,” Carella said, and looked at Meyer. “Anything else you can think of?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Meyer said.

“Thank you very much,” Carella said, rising and extending his hand.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful,” Tataglia said.

The D.D. report was on Carella’s desk when they got back to the squadroom. Meyer asked him if he wanted a cup of coffee, and then went down the corridor to Clerical. The clock on the wall read 3:37. The shadows were lengthening; Carella switched on his desk lamp and picked up the report. A handwritten note was fastened to it with a paper clip.

Carella took the paper clip from the report, crumpled Hawes’ note, and threw it in the wastbasket. Hawes was a better typist than most of the men on the squad The report looked relatively neat:

Majesta, of course, had been named when the British owned America. It had been named after His Majesty King George. Lots of things were named after King George in those days. Georgetown was named after King George. In those days, when the British were dancing quadrilles and even common soldiers sounded like noblemen, Majesta was hilly and elegant. “Oh, yes, Majesta,” the British would say. “Quite elegant.” Majesta nowadays was still hilly but it was not elegant. It was, in fact, inelegant. In fact, it was what you might call crappy.

There were some people in Majesta who lived all the way out on the tongue of land that jutted into the Atlantic, within the city limits but far from the city proper and also the madding crowd. These people felt that Washington and the Continental Congress had been misguided zealots. These people were of the opinion that Majesta would have fared better as a British colony. A case in point was neighboring Sand’s Spit, which even today seemed very much like a British colony. That was because the people out there drank Pimms Cups during the summer months and talked through their noses a lot. The people on Sand’s Spit were enormously rich, most of them. Some of them were only terribly rich. The people in Majesta were miserably poor, most of them. Some of them were only dreadfully poor. Russell Poole was pretty goddamn poor.

He lived with his mother in a row of houses that resembled those one might have found in England along Victoria Street or Gladstone Road — the apple does not fall far from the tree. Russell Poole was black. He had never been to England, but often dreamt of going there. He did not know that England had its own problems with people of a darker hue — the tree does not grow far from the fallen apple. Poole only knew that he was poor and living in a dump. He did not like the looks of Cotton Hawes. Cotton Hawes looked like a mean motherfucking cop. Poole told his mother to go in the other room.

Hawes didn’t much like the looks of Russell Poole, either.

Actually, the men looked a lot alike, except that one was white and the other was black. Maybe that made all the difference. Poole was about Hawes’ height and weight, a good six feet two inches tall and a hundred and ninety pounds. Both men were broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted. Poole did not have red hair like Hawes — but then again, who did? Poole closed the door on the bedroom his mother had just entered, and then said, “Okay, what’s this about?”

“I told you on the phone,” Hawes said. “James Harris was murdered.”

“So?”

“You were in his squad overseas, weren’t you?”

“Yes. I say again — so?”

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

“In August.”

“This past August?”

"Yes.”

“Where was that?”

“The company reunion in New Jersey.”

“What’d you talk about?”

“Old times.”

“How about new times?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did he mention any plans he might have had?”

“Plans for what?”

“Plans involving Alpha.”

“What kind of plans?”

“You tell me,” Hawes said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Did he mention needing Alpha’s help with anything?”

“Nothing.”

“Some kind of business deal maybe?”

“I told you. Nothing.”

“Who else was there? From Alpha, I mean.”

“Just four of us.”

“Who?”

“Me and Jimmy, and Karl Fiersen who was on his way to Amsterdam, and Rudy Tanner who flew in from California.”