Ed McBain - The Mugger

Kling smiled, not knowing what to say.

“Yes, sir,” Bell went on, “and it certainly came as a shock to me and Molly when we read you got shot. I ran into your mother on Forrest Avenue a little while after that. She said her and your dad were very upset about it, but that’s to be expected.”

“Well, it was only a shoulder wound,” Kling said.

“Only a scratch, huh?” Bell said, grinning. “Well, I got to hand it to you, kid.”

“You said Forrest Avenue. Have you moved back to the old neighborhood?”

“Huh? Oh, no, no. I’m a hackie now. Got my own cab — medallion and everything. I usually operate in Isola, but I had a Riverhead call, and that’s how I happened to be on Forrest Avenue, and that’s how I happened to spot your mom. Yeah, sure.”

Kling looked at Bell again, realizing the “yachting cap” was simply his working headgear.

“I read in the papers where the hero cop got discharged from the hospital,” Bell said. “Gave your address and everything. You don’t live with the folks no more, huh?”

“No,” Kling said. “When I got back from Korea—”

“I missed that one,” Bell said. “Punctured eardrum — how’s that for a laugh? I think the real reason they rejected me was because of the schnoz.” He touched his nose. “So the papers said where your commanding officer ordered you to take another week’s rest.” Bell smiled. His teeth were very white and very even. There was an enviable cleft in his chin. It’s too bad about the nose, Kling thought. “How does it feel being a celebrity? Next thing you know, you’ll be on that television show, answering questions about Shakespeare.”

“Well…” Kling said weakly. He was beginning to wish that Peter Bell would go away. He had not asked for the intrusion, and he was finding it tiresome.

“Yep,” Bell said, “I certainly got to hand it to you, kid,” and then a heavy silence fell over the room.

Kling bore the silence as long as he was able. “Would you like a drink… or anything?” he asked.

“Never touch it,” Bell said.

The silence returned.

Bell touched his nose again. “The reason I’m here…” he said at last.

“Yes?” Kling prompted.

“Tell you the truth, I’m a little embarrassed, but Molly figured…” Bell stopped. “I’m married now, you know.”

“I didn’t know.”

“Yeah. Molly. Wonderful woman. Got two kids, another on the way.”

“That’s nice,” Kling said, his feeling of awkwardness increasing.

“Well, I might as well get right down to it, huh? Molly’s got a sister, nice kid. Her name is Jeannie. She’s seventeen. She’s been living with us ever since Molly’s mom died — two years now, it must be. Yeah.” Bell stopped.

“I see,” Kling said, wondering what Bell’s marital life had to do with him.

“The kid’s pretty. Look, I might as well level with you, she’s a knockout. Matter of fact, she looks just the way Molly looked when she was that age, and Molly’s no slouch — even now, pregnant and all.”

“I don’t understand, Peter.”

“Well, the kid’s been running around.”

“Running around?”

“Well, that’s what Molly thinks, anyway.” Bell seemed suddenly uncomfortable. “You know, she doesn’t see her dating any of the local kids or anything, and she knows the kid goes out, so she’s afraid she’s in with the wrong crowd, do you know what I mean? It wouldn’t be so bad if Jeannie wasn’t such a pretty kid, but she is. I mean, look, Bert, I’ll level with you. She’s my sister-in-law and all that, but she’s got it all over a lot of older dames you see around. Believe me, she’s a knockout.”

“Okay,” Kling said.

“So Jeannie won’t tell us anything. We talk to her until we’re blue in the face, and we don’t get a peep out of her. Molly got the idea of getting a private detective to follow her, see where she goes, that kind of thing. Bert, on the money I make, I can’t afford a private dick. Besides, I don’t really think the kid is doing anything wrong.”

“You want me to follow her?” Kling asked, suddenly getting the picture.

“No, no, nothing like that. God, would I come ask a favor like that after fifteen years? No, Bert, no.”

“What then?”

“I want you to talk to her. That way, Molly’ll be happy. Look, Bert, when a woman is carrying, she gets goofy ideas. Pickles and ice cream, you know? Okay, so this is the same thing. She’s got this nutty idea that Jeannie is a juvenile delinquent or something.”

“Me talk to her?” Kling was flabbergasted. “I don’t even know her. What good would it do for me to—”

“You’re a cop. Molly respects law and order. If I bring a cop around, she’ll be happy.”

“Hell, I’m practically still a rookie.”

“Sure, but that don’t matter. Molly’ll see the uniform and be happy. Besides, you really might help Jeannie. Who knows? I mean, if she is involved with some young toughs.”

“No, I couldn’t, Peter. I’m sorry, but—”

“You got a whole week ahead of you,” Bell said, “nothing to do. Look, Bert, I read the papers. Would I ask you to give up any spare time if I knew you were pounding a beat during the day? Bert, give me credit.”

“That’s not it, Peter. I wouldn’t know what to say to the girl. I just… I don’t think so.”

“Please, Bert. As a personal favor to me. For old time’s sake. What do you say?”

“No,” Kling answered.

“There’s a chance, too, she is in with some crumbs. What then? Ain’t a cop supposed to prevent crime, nip it in the bud? You’re a big disappointment to me, Bert.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Okay, okay, no hard feelings,” Bell said. He rose, seemingly ready to go. “If you should change your mind, though, I’ll leave my address with you.” He took his wallet out of his pocket and fished for a scrap of paper.

“There’s no sense—”

“Just in case you should change your mind,” Bell said. “Here, now.” He took a pencil stub from the pocket of the leather jacket and began scribbling on the paper scrap. “It’s on De Witt Street, the big house in the middle of the block. You can’t miss it. If you should change your mind, come around tomorrow night. I’ll keep Jeannie home until nine o’clock. Okay?”

“I don’t think I’ll change my mind,” Kling said.

“If you should,” Bell answered, “I’d appreciate it, Bert. That’s tomorrow night. Wednesday. Okay? Here’s the address.” He handed Bert the paper. “I put the telephone number down, too, in case you should get lost. You better put it in your wallet.”

Kling took the paper, and then, because Bell was watching him so closely, he put it into his wallet.

“I hope you come,” Bell said. He walked to the door. “Thanks for listening to me, anyway. It was good seeing you again, Bert.”

“Yes,” Kling said.

“So long now.” Bell closed the door behind him. The room was suddenly very quiet.

Kling went to the window. He saw Bell when he emerged from the building. He watched as Bell climbed into a green-and-yellow taxicab and then gunned away from the curb. The cab had been parked alongside a fire hydrant.

They write songs about Saturday night.

The songs all promote the idea that Saturday is a particularly lonely night. The myth has become a part of American culture, and everybody is familiar with it. Stop anybody, six to sixty, and ask, “What’s the loneliest night of the week?” and the answer you’ll get is “Saturday.”

Well, Tuesday’s not such a prize, either.

Tuesday hasn’t had the benefit of press agentry and promotion, and nobody’s written a song about Tuesday. But to a lot of people, the Saturday nights and the Tuesday nights are one and the same. You can’t estimate degrees of loneliness. Who is more lonely, a man on a desert island on a Saturday night or a woman carrying a torch in the biggest, noisiest nightclub on a Tuesday night? Loneliness doesn’t respect the calendar. Saturday, Tuesday, Friday, Thursday — they’re all the same, and they’re all gray.