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

“You using the computer?”

“Not only for the three,” Annie said, nodding. “We’re running a check on every rape reported since the beginning of the year. If there are other victims who were serially raped…”

“When do I get the printouts?” Eileen asked.

“As soon as I get them.”

“And when’s that?”

“I know it’s your ass out there,” Annie said softly.

Eileen said nothing.

“I know he has a knife,” Annie said.

Eileen still said nothing.

“I’d no more risk your life than I would my own,” Annie said, and Eileen thought of her facing down two armed robbers in the marbled lobby in a midtown bank.

“When do I start?” she asked.

A musician roamed from table to table, strumming his guitar and singing Mexican songs. When he got to Eileen’s table, he played “Cielito Lindo” for her, optimistically, she thought; the sky outside had been bloated with threatening black clouds when she’d entered the restaurant. The rain had stopped entirely at about four in the afternoon, but the clouds had begun building again at dusk, piling up massively and ominously overhead. By six-fifteen, when she’d left the apartment to walk here, she could already hear the sound of distant thunder in the next state, beyond the river.

She was having her coffee — the wall clock read twenty minutes past seven — when the first lightning flash came, illuminating the curtained window facing the street. The following boom of thunder was ear-shattering; she hunched her shoulders in anticipation, and even so its volume shocked her. The rain came then, unleashed in fury, enforced by a keening wind, battering the window and pelting the sidewalk outside. She lighted a cigarette and smoked it while she finished her coffee. It was almost seven-thirty when she paid her bill and went to the checkroom for the raincoat and umbrella she’d left there.

The raincoat was Mary’s. It fit her a bit too snugly, but she thought it might be recognizable to him, and if the rain came — as it most certainly had — visibility might be poor; she did not want to lose him because he couldn’t see her. The umbrella was Mary’s, too, a delicate little red plaid thing that was more stylish than protective, especially against what was raging outside just now. The rain boots were Eileen’s. Rubber with floppy tops. She had chosen them exactly because the tops were floppy. Strapped to her ankle inside the right boot was a holster containing a lightweight Browning .380 automatic pistol, her spare. Her regulation pistol was a .38 Detective’s Special, and she was carrying that in a shoulder bag slung over her left shoulder for an easy cross-body draw.

She tipped the checkroom girl a dollar (wondering if this was too much), put on the raincoat, reslung the shoulder bag, and then walked out into the small entry alcove. A pair of glass doors, with the word Ocho engraved on one and Rios on the other, faced the street outside, lashed with rain now. Lightning flashed as she pushed open one of the doors. She backed inside again, waited for the boom of thunder to fade, and then stepped out into the rain, opening the umbrella.

A gust of wind almost tore the umbrella from her grasp. She turned into the wind, fighting it, refusing to allow it to turn the umbrella inside out. Angling it over her face and shoulders, using it as a shield to bully her way through the driving rain, she started for the corner. The route she had traced out this afternoon would take her one block west on a brightly lighted avenue — deserted now because of the storm — and then two blocks north on less well lighted streets to Mary’s apartment. She did not expect him to make his move while she was on the avenue. But on that two-block walk to the apartment—

She suddenly wished she’d asked for a backup.

Stupid, playing it this way.

And yet, if she’d planted her backups, say, on the other side of the street, one walking fifty feet ahead of her, the other fifty feet behind, he’d be sure to spot them, wouldn’t he? Three women walking out here in the rain in the classic triangle pattern? Sure to spot them. Or suppose she’d planted them in any one of the darkened doorways or alley ways along the route she’d walked this afternoon, and suppose he checked out that same route, saw two ladies lurking in doorways — not many hookers up here, and certainly none on the side streets where there wasn’t any business — no, he’d tip, he’d run, they’d lose him. Better without any backups. And still, she wished she had one.

She took a deep breath as she turned the corner off the avenue.

The blocks would be longer now.

Your side streets were always longer than your streets on the avenue. Maybe twice as long. Plenty of opportunity for him in there. Two long blocks.

It was raining inside the floppy tops of the boots. She could feel the backup pistol inside the right boot, the butt cold against the nylon of her panty hose. She was wearing panties under the panty hose, great protection against a knife, oh, sure, great big chastity belt he could slash open in a minute. She was holding the umbrella with both hands now, trying to keep it from being carried away by the wind. She wondered suddenly if she shouldn’t just throw the damn thing away, put her right hand onto the butt of the .38 in her bag — He pulls that knife, don’t ask questions, just blow him away. Annie’s advice. Not that she needed it.

Alley coming up on her right. Narrow space between two of the buildings, stacked with garbage cans when she’d passed it this afternoon. Too narrow for action? The guy wasn’t looking to dance, he was looking to rape, and the width of the alley seemed to preclude the space for that. Ever get raped on top of a garbage can? she asked herself. Don’t ask questions, just blow him away. Dark doorway in the building beyond the alley. Lights in the next building and the one after that. Lamppost on the corner. The sky suddenly split by a streak of lightning. Thunder booming on the night. A gust of wind turned the umbrella inside out. She threw it into the garbage can on the corner and felt the immediate onslaught of the rain on her naked head. Should have worn a hat, she thought. Or one of those plastic things you tie under your chin. Her hand found the butt of the .38 in her shoulder bag.

She crossed the street.

Another lamppost on the corner opposite.

Darkness beyond that.

An alley coming up, she knew. Wider than the first had been, a car’s width across, at least. Nice place to tango. Plenty of room. Her hand tightened on the gun butt. Nothing. Nobody in the alley that she could see, no footsteps behind her after she passed it. Lighted buildings ahead now, looking potbelly warm in the rain. Another alley way up ahead, two buildings down from Mary’s. What if they’d been wrong? What if he didn’t plan to hit tonight? She kept walking, her hand on the gun butt. She skirted a puddle on the sidewalk. More lightning, she winced; more thunder, she winced again. Passing the only other alley now, dark and wide, but not as wide as the last one had been. Garbage cans. A scraggly wet cat sitting on one of the cans, peering out at the falling rain. Cat would’ve bolted if somebody was in there, no? She was passing the alley when he grabbed her.

He grabbed her from behind, his left arm looping around her neck and yanking her off her feet. She fell back against him, her right hand already yanking the pistol out of her bag. The cat shrieked and leaped off the garbage can, skittering underfoot as it streaked out into the rain.

“Hello, Mary,” he whispered, and she pulled the gun free.

“This is a knife, Mary,” he said, and his right hand came up suddenly, and she felt the sharp tip of the blade against her ribs, just below her heart.