Ed McBain - The Mugger

“I’m looking to mind my own business,” the bartender said.

“I’d hate like hell to have a judge decide on whose word to take in a ‘resisting an officer’ case,” Havilland persisted.

“I ain’t fighting, and I ain’t resisting nothing,” the bartender replied. “So cool off. You want a beer?”

“I’ll have a scotch,” Havilland said.

“That figures,” the bartender drawled. “How about you?” he asked Willis.

“Nothing,” Willis said.

“Come on,” the bartender egged. “It’s just like grabbing an apple from the pushcart.”

“When you’re ready for that fight,” Willis said, “you’ve got two of us now.”

“Whenever I fought, I got paid for it,” the bartender said. “I don’t believe in exhibition bouts.”

“Especially when you know your face’ll be spread over six counties,” Havilland said.

“Sure,” the bartender said. He poured a hooker of scotch and then slid the glass to Havilland.

“You know most of your customers?” Willis asked.

“The steadies, sure.”

The door opened, and a woman in a faded green sweater walked into the bar, looked around, and then sat at a table near the door. The bartender glanced at her.

“She’s a lush,” he said. “She’ll sit there until somebody offers to buy her a drink. I’d kick her out, but I feel Christian on Sunday.”

“It shows all over you,” Havilland said.

“What is it you guys want, anyway?” the bartender asked. “The fight? Is that what this is all about?”

“What fight?” Willis asked.

“We had a rhubarb here week or so ago. Listen, don’t snow me. What have you got up your sleeve? Disorderly conduct? You figure on yanking my license?”

“You’re doing all the talking so far,” Willis said.

The bartender sighed wearily. “All right, what’ll it cost?”

“Oh, this man lives dangerously,” Havilland said. “Are you attempting to bribe us?”

“I was talking about the price of the new Lincoln Continental,” the bartender said. “I asked what it’ll cost.” He paused. “A hundred, two hundred? How much?”

“Do I look like a two-hundred-dollar cop?” Havilland asked.

“I’m a two-hundred-dollar bartender,” the bartender said. “That’s the limit. The goddamn fight was over in about two seconds flat.”

“What kind of a fight?” Willis asked.

“You mean, you didn’t know?”

“Put your money back in your sock,” Willis said. “This isn’t a shakedown. Tell us about the fight.”

The bartender seemed relieved. “You sure you don’t want a drink, Officer?” he asked.

“The fight,” Willis said.

“It was nothing,” the bartender said. “Couple of guys got hot-headed, and wham! One took a swing at the other, the other swung back, and I came over and busted it up. That’s all.”

“Who swung at who?” Willis asked.

“These two characters. What the hell’s the name of the little guy? I don’t remember. The bigger guy is called Jack. He comes in here a lot.”

“Jack, huh?”

“Yeah. Nice guy, except he’s a little weird. So him and this little guy were watching the rassling on TV, and I guess Jack said something the little guy didn’t like — about one of the rasslers, you know? So the little guy hauls off and pops Jack. So Jack takes a swing at the little guy, and that’s when I came over. Big fight, huh?”

“And you broke it up?”

“Sure. I tell you, the funny thing about this whole business was that the little guy come out of it better than Jack.” The bartender chuckled. “He really gave him a shot, I swear. You wouldn’t think a little guy could pack such a wallop.”

“I’ll bet Jack was surprised,” Willis said, losing interest.

“Surprised? I’ll say he was. Especially when he took a gander in the mirror. That little son of a bitch gave him a shiner like I never saw in my life.”

“Too bad for Jack,” Willis said. “About your other customers. Have you ever heard any of them talking about—”

“Boy, that shiner was a beaut! Hell, Jack had to wear sunglasses for about a week afterward.”

The lush sitting at the table near the door coughed. Willis kept staring at the bartender.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“Jack,” the bartender said, “had to wear these sunglasses. To hide the shiner, you know. It was a beautiful shiner. I mean it. Like a rainbow.”

“This Jack,” Willis said. He could feel the tenseness of Havilland alongside him. “Does he smoke?”

“Jack? Yeah, sure. He smokes.”

“What brand?”

“Brand? You must think I’m a… Wait a minute, the red package. What’s the red package?”

“Pall Mall?”

“Yep. That’s his brand.”

“You’re sure?”

“I think so. Listen, I don’t go around taking a picture of what he smokes. I think it’s Pall Mall. Why?”

“You’re sure his name is Jack?” Havilland asked. “It isn’t something else?”

“Jack,” the bartender said, nodding.

“Think. Are you sure his name is Jack?”

“I’m positive. Listen, don’t I know him? For God’s sake, he’s been coming in here for years. Don’t you think I know Jack Clifford?”

Jack Clifford came into the Three Aces at 3:15 that afternoon. The woman in the green sweater still sat at the table near the door. The bartender nodded when he entered, and Willis and Havilland moved off their stools quickly and intercepted him as he walked toward the bar.

“Jack Clifford?” Willis asked.

“Yeah?”

“Police officers,” Havilland said. “You’re coming with us.”

“Hey, what for?” Clifford said. He pulled his arm away from Havilland.

“Assault and suspicion of murder,” Willis snapped. He was running his hands over Clifford’s body, frisking him quickly and efficiently.

“He’s clea—” he started, and Clifford broke for the door.

“Get him!” Willis shouted. Havilland was reaching for his gun. Clifford didn’t look back. He kept his eyes glued to the entrance doorway, and he ran like a bat out of hell, and then he fell flat on his face.

He looked up from the floor instantly, startled. The lush still sat at the table, one leg spread out in front of her. Clifford looked at the leg that had tripped him, looked at it as if he wanted to cut it off at the hipbone. He was scrambling to his feet when Havilland reached him. He kicked out at Havilland, but Havilland was a cop with big hands, and Havilland enjoyed using those hands. He scooped Clifford off the floor and rammed his fist into Clifford’s face. Clifford staggered back against the door and then collapsed on the floor. He sat there shaking his head while Havilland put the cuffs on him.

“Did you enjoy your trip?” Havilland asked pleasantly.

“Go to hell,” Clifford said. “If it wasn’t for that old drunken bag, you’d never have got me.”

“Ah, but we did,” Havilland said. “Get up!”

Clifford got to his feet.

Willis came over and took his arm. He turned to the bartender. “Thanks,” he said.

Together, the three men started out of the bar. Havilland stopped just inside the doorway, at the table with the lush. The woman raised her head and studied him with alcohol-soaked eyes.

Havilland smiled, bowed, and swept one gorilla-like arm across his waist.

“Havilland thanks you, madam,” he said.

He admitted he had committed a total of thirty-four muggings in the past year. Fourteen of his victims had complained to the police. His last victim had turned out to be, of all goddamn things, a policewoman.

He denied flatly that he had assaulted and murdered Jeannie Paige.

They booked, mugged, and printed him — and then they sat with him in the interrogation room at the 87th and tried to break down his story. There were four cops in the room with him. Willis, Havilland, Meyer, and Lieutenant Byrnes. Were it not for the presence of the lieutenant, Havilland would have been practicing his favorite indoor sport. As it was, his barrage was confined to words alone.