Ed McBain - McBain's Ladies - The Women of the 87th Precinct

“About this girl,” Carella said to Chen. “When did she come in for the tattoo?”

“Oh, long, lime ago,” Chen said. “Maybe five months, maybe six. Nice lady. Not so pretty like your lady, but very nice.”

“Was she alone?”

“No. She with tall man.” Chen scrutinized Carella’s face. “Prettier than you, detective.”

Carella grinned. “What did he look like?”

“Tall. Movie star. Very handsome. Muscles.”

“What color was his hair?”

“Yellow,” Chen said.

“His eyes?”

Chen shrugged.

“Anything you remember about him?”

“He smile all the time,” Chen said. “Big white teeth. Very pretty teeth. Very handsome man. Movie star.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“They come in together. She hold his arm. She look at him, stars in her eyes.” Chen paused. “Like your lady. But not so pretty.”

“Were they married?”

Chen shrugged.

“Did you see an engagement ring or a wedding band on her finger?”

“I don’t see,” Chen said. He grinned at Teddy. Teddy grinned back. “You like black butterfly? Pretty black wings? Come, I show you.” He led them into the shop. A beaded curtain led to the back room. The walls of the shop were covered with tattoo designs. A calendar with a nude girl on it hung on the wall near the beaded curtain. Someone had jokingly inked tattoos onto her entire body. The tattooer had drawn a pair of clutching hands on the girl’s full breasts. Chen pointed to a butterfly design on one of the walls.

“This butterfly. You like? You pick color. Any color. I do. I put on your shoulder. Very pretty.”

“Tell me what happened with the girl,” Carella said, gently insistent. Teddy looked at him curiously. Her husband was enjoying the byplay between herself and Chen, but he was not losing sight of his objective. He was here in this shop for a possible lead to the man who had killed Mary Louise Proschek. She suddenly felt that if the byplay got too involved, her husband would call a screaming halt to it.

“They come in shop. He say the girl want tattoo. I show them the signs on wall. I try to sell her butterfly. Nobody like butterfly. Butterfly my own design. Very pretty. Good for shoulder. I do butterfly for one lady’s back, near base of spine. Very pretty, only nobody see. Good for shoulder. I try to sell her butterfly, but man say he wants heart. She say she wants heart, too. Stars in eyes, you know? Big love, big thing, shining all over. I show them big hearts. Very pretty hearts, very complicated, many colors.”

“They didn’t want a big heart?”

“Man wants small heart. He show me where.” Chen spread his thumb and forefinger. “Here. Very difficult. Skinny flesh, needle could go through. Very painful. Very difficult. He say he wants it there. She say if he wants it there, she wants it there. Crazy.”

“Who suggested what lettering to put into the heart?”

“Man. He say you put M, A, C in heart.”

“he said to put the name Mac into that heart?”

“He no say name Mac. He say put M, A, C.”

“And what did she say?”

“She say yes, M, A, C.”

“Go on.”

“I do. Very painful. Girl scream. He hold her shoulders. Very painful. Tender spot.” Chen shrugged. “Butterfly on shoulder better.”

“Did she mention his name while she was here?”

“No.”

“Did she call him Mac?”

“She call him nothing.” Chen thought a moment. “Yes, she call him darling, dear, sweetheart. Love words. No name.”

Carella sighed. He lifted the flap of the manila envelope in his hands and drew out the glossy prints that were inside it. “Is this the girl?” he asked Chen.

Chen looked at the pictures. “That she,” he said. “She dead, huh?”

“Yes, she’s dead.”

“He kill her?”

“We don’t know.”

“She love him,” Chen said, wagging his head. “Love very special. Nobody should kill love.”

Teddy looked at the little round Chinese, and she suddenly felt very much like allowing him to tattoo his prize butterfly design on her shoulder. Carella took the pictures back and put them into the envelope.

“Has this man ever come into your shop again?” Carella asked. “With another woman perhaps?”

“No, never,” Chen said.

“Well,” Carella said, “thanks a lot, Mr. Chen. If you remember anything more about him, give me a call, won’t you?” He opened his wallet. “Here’s my card. Just ask for Detective Carella.”

“You come back,” Chen said, “you ask for Charlie Chan, big detective with stupid sons. You bring wife. I make pretty butterfly on shoulder.” He extended his hand and Carella took it. For a moment, Chen’s eyes went serious. “You lucky,” he said. “You not so pretty, have very pretty lady. Love very special.” He turned to Teddy. “Someday, if you want butterfly, you come back. I make very pretty.” He winked. “Detective husband like. I promise. Any color. Ask for Charlie Chan. That’s me.”

He grinned and wagged his head, and Carella and Teddy left the shop, heading for the police sedan up the street.

“Nice guy, wasn’t he?” Carella said.

Teddy nodded.

“I wish they were all like him. A lot of them aren’t. With many people, the presence of a cop automatically produces a feeling of guilt. That’s the truth, Teddy. They instantly feel that they’re under suspicion, and everything they say becomes defensive. I guess that’s because there are skeletons in the cleanest closets. Are you very hungry?”

Teddy made a face which indicated she was famished.

“Shall we find a place in the neighborhood, or do you want to wait until we get uptown?”

Teddy pointed to the ground.

“Here?”

Yes, she nodded.

“Chinese?”

No.

“Italian?”

Yes.

“You shouldn’t have married a guy of Italian descent,” Carella said. “Whenever such a guy eats in an Italian restaurant, he can’t help comparing his spaghetti with what his mother used to cook. He then becomes dissatisfied with what he’s eating, and the dissatisfaction spreads to include his wife. The next thing you know, he’s suing for divorce.”

Teddy put her forefingers to her eyes, stretching the skin so that her ryes became slitted.

“Right,” Carella said. “You should have married a Chinese. But then, of course, you wouldn’t be able to eat in Chinese restaurants.” He paused and grinned. “All this eating talk is making me hungry. How about that place up the street?”

They walked to it rapidly, and Carella looked through the plate-glass window.

“Not too crowded,” he said, “and it looks clean. You game?”

Teddy took his arm, and he led her into the place.

It was, perhaps, not the cleanest place in the world. As sharp as Carella’s eyes were, a cursory glance through a plate-glass window is not always a good evaluation of cleanliness. And, perhaps, the reason it wasn’t too crowded was that the food wasn’t too good. Not that it mattered very much, since both Carella and Teddy were really very hungry and probably would have eaten sautéed grasshoppers if they were served.

The place did have nice checkered tablecloths and candles stuck into the necks of old wine bottles, the wax frozen to the glass. The place did have a long bar which ran the length of the wall opposite the dining room, bottles stacked behind it, amber lights illuminating the bottles. The place did have a phone booth, and Carella still had to make his call back to the squad.

The waiter who came over to their table seemed happy to see them.

“Something to drink before you order?” he asked.

“Two martinis,” Carella said. “Olives.”

“Would you care to see a menu now or later, sir?”