Ed McBain: The Mugger

On Tuesday night, September 12, a black Mercury sedan was parked on one of the city’s loneliest streets, and the two men sitting on the front seat were doing one of the world’s loneliest jobs.

In Los Angeles, they call this job “stakeout.” In the city for which these two men worked, the job was known as “a plant.”

A plant requires a certain immunity to sleepiness, a definite immunity to loneliness, and a good deal of patience.

Of the two men sitting in the Mercury sedan, Detective 2nd/Grade Meyer was the more patient. He was, in fact, the most patient cop in the 87th Precinct, if not the entire city. Meyer had a father who considered himself a very humorous man. His father’s name was Max. When Meyer was born, Max named him Meyer. This was considered convulsively comic, a kid named Meyer Meyer. You have to be very patient if you’re born a Jew to begin with. You have to be supernaturally patient if your hilarious old man tags you with a handle like Meyer Meyer. He was patient. But a lifelong devotion to patience often provides a strain, and as the saying goes, something’s got to give. Meyer Meyer was as bald as a cue ball, even though he was only thirty-seven years old.

Detective 3rd/Grade Temple was falling asleep. Meyer could always tell when Temple was ready to cork off. Temple was a giant of a man, and big men needed more sleep, Meyer supposed.

“Hey!” he said.

Temple’s shaggy brows shot up onto his forehead. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. What do you think of a mugger who calls himself Clifford?”

“I think he should be shot,” Temple said. He turned and faced the penetrating stare of Meyer’s mild blue eyes.

“I think so, too,” Meyer said, smiling. “You awake?”

“I’m awake.” Temple scratched his chin. “I’ve had this damn itch for the past three days. Drives me nuts.” He scratched himself again.

“If I were a mugger,” Meyer said, figuring the only way to keep Temple awake was to talk to him, “I wouldn’t pick a name like Clifford.”

“Clifford sounds like a pansy,” Temple agreed.

“Steve is a good name for a mugger,” Meyer said.

“Don’t let Carella hear you say that.”

“But Clifford. I don’t know. You think it’s his real name?”

“It could be. Why bother giving it if it’s not his real name?”

“That’s a point,” Meyer said.

“I got him tabbed as a psycho, anyway,” Temple said. “Who else would take a deep bow and then thank his victim? He’s a screwball. He’s knocked over thirteen so far. Did Willis tell you about the dame who came in this afternoon?”

Meyer glanced at his watch. “Yesterday afternoon,” he corrected. “Yes, he told me. Maybe thirteen’ll be Cliff’s unlucky number, huh?”

“Yeah, maybe. I don’t like muggers, you know? They give me a pain.” He scratched himself. “I like gentlemen thieves.”

“Like what?”

“Like murderers, even. Murderers, it seems to me, have more class than muggers.”

“Give Cliff time,” Meyer said. “He’s still warming up.”

Both men fell silent. Meyer seemed to be getting something straight in his mind. At last, he said, “I’ve been following this case in the papers. One of the other precincts. 33rd, I think.”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Some guy’s going around stealing cats.”

“Yeah?” Temple asked. “You mean cats?”

“Yeah,” Meyer said, watching Temple closely. “You know, house pets. So far, they’ve had eighteen squeals on it in the past week. Something, huh?”

“I’ll say,” Temple said.

“I’ve been following it,” Meyer said. “I’ll let you know how it turns out.” He kept watching Temple, a twinkle in his blue eyes. Meyer was a very patient man. If he’d told Temple about the kidnapped cats, he’d done so for a very good reason. He was still watching Temple when he saw him sit suddenly erect.

“What?” he said.

“Shhh!” Temple said.

They listened together. From far off down the darkened street, they could hear the steady clatter of a woman’s high-heeled shoes on the pavement. The city was silent around them, like an immense cathedral closed for the night. Only the hollow, piercing chatter of the wooden heels broke the stillness. They sat in silence, waiting, watching.

The girl went past the car, not turning her head to look at it. She walked quickly, her head high. She was in her early thirties, a tall girl with long blonde hair. She swept past the car, and the sound of her heels faded, and still the men were silent, listening.

The even cadence of a second pair of heels came to them. Not the light, empty chatter a woman’s feet make. This was heavy conversation. These were the footsteps of a man.

“Clifford?” Temple asked.

“Maybe.”

They waited. The footsteps came closer. They watched the man approaching in the rearview mirror. Then, simultaneously, both Temple and Meyer stepped out of the car from opposite sides.

The man stopped, fright darting into his eyes.

“What…” he said. “What is this? A holdup?”

Meyer cut around behind the car and came up alongside of the man. Temple was already blocking his path.

“Your name Clifford?” Temple asked.

“Wah?”

“Clifford.”

“No,” the man said, shaking his head violently. “You got the wrong party. Look, I—”

“Police,” Temple said tersely, and he flashed the tin.

“P-p-police? What’d I do?”

“Where’re you going?” Meyer asked.

“Home. I just come from a movie.”

“Little late to be getting out of a movie, isn’t it?”

“Wah? Oh, yeah, we stopped in a bar.”

“Where do you live?”

“Right down the street.” The man pointed, perplexed, frightened.

“What’s your name?”

“Frankie’s my name.” He paused. “Ask anybody.”

“Frankie what?”

“Oroglio. With a g.”

“What were you doing following that girl?” Meyer shot.

“Wah? Girl? Hey, whatta you nuts or something?”

“You were following a girl!” Temple said. “Why?”

“Me?” Oroglio pointed both hands at his chest. “Me? Hey, listen, you made a mistake, fellers. I mean it. You got the wrong guy.”

“A blonde just walked down this street,” Temple said, “and you came along behind her. If you weren’t following—”

“A blonde?” Oroglio said.

“Yes, a blonde,” Temple said, his voice rising. “Now how about it, mister?”

“In a blue coat?” Oroglio asked. “Like in a little blue coat? Is that who you mean?”

“That’s who we mean,” Temple said.

“Oh my God,” Oroglio said.

“HOW ABOUT IT?” Temple shouted.

“That’s my wife!”

“What?”

“My wife, my wife, Conchetta.” Oroglio was wagging his head wildly now. “My wife, Conchetta. She ain’t no blonde. She bleaches it.”

“Look, mister.”

“I swear. We went to the show together, and then we stopped for a few beers. We had a fight in the bar. So she walked out alone. She always does that. She’s nuts.”

“Yeah?” Meyer said.

“I swear on my Aunt Christina’s hair. She blows up, and she takes off, and I give her four, five minutes. Then I follow her. That’s all there is to it. Lord, I wouldn’t follow no blonde.”

Temple looked at Meyer.

“I’ll take you up to the house,” Oroglio said, plunging on. “I’ll introduce you. She’s my wife! Listen, what do you want? She’s my wife!”

“I’ll bet she is,” Meyer said resignedly. Patiently, he turned to Temple. “Go back to the car, George,” he said. “I’ll check this out.”

Oroglio sighed. “Gee, this is kind of funny, you know that?” he said, relieved. “I mean being accused of following my own wife. It’s kind of funny.”