Ed McBain: The Big Bad City

"He killed a cop's father, you know that?" Ollie said. "No, I didn't know that.”

“That makes it very serious," Ollie said. "He maybe killed Juju, too, which is no great loss, but justice must be served, hm? I'm eager to talk to him. Find out where the two of them went when they left here. Find out what they talked about. Find out did Sonny shoot him in the head, what do you think?”

"About what?”

"About did Sonny shoot him?”

"I don't know what Sonny did. He never came back here since that Friday night. I don't know where he lives, or what he does for a living. You're pissing up the wrong tree.”

"Maybe so. Can I have another beer? This is very nice beer.”

Mendez opened another Heineken for him.

"You think he lives in the neighborhood?" he asked. "I'm pretty sure he don't.”

“How you suppose he got here?”

“He came looking for Juju.”

"I didn't say why, I said how.”

“I don't follow you.”

"Fransportation," Olllie said.

Mendez looked at him.

"Everybody has to have a means of transportation.

He comes all the way up here to Hightown, how did he get here? Did he walk? Did he take the subway? Did he ride a bus? Did he come in a tax ...”

“He drove here," Mendez said. Ollie put down the beer bottle. "How do you know that?”

“I saw his car.”

“What kind of car?”

“A Honda.”

“What color?”

“Green.”

"You didn't happen to see the license plate number, did you?”

"No. Why would I look at the license plate?”

"Anything peculiar about the car? Dented fender? Broken tail light, anything that might identify it?”

“Not that I saw.”

"When was this?”

“That I saw the car?”

“Yeah.”

"Friday night. When he came back to the club lookin for Tirana.”

"The hooker, yeah.”

"She's a manicurist.”

"I'm sure she does great nails. That's when you saw the car, huh?”

"Yeah. There was a parking ticket on the windshield. He tore it up and drove off.”

Bingo, Ollie thought.

1Sack at the preCllltst, t.lx." ,.,..,............. and asked for a kick-up on parking tickets written Friday night, August 28, targeting a green Honda parked in front of the Club Siesta. One of the sergeants there didn't get back to him until three o'clock. He informed Ollie that the green Honda was an Accord registered to a woman named Coralee Hilbert, who lived at 1114 Clarendon Avenue, in a better section of Diamondback, such as it was. Ollie took a cab uptown. He didn't like to drive because the steering wheel and his belly were always in contention. Besides, when he took a cab, he charged it to squad room petty cash, and if anybody questioned this, he told him where to go.

There was another benefit to taking taxis. It enabled him to enter into lively discussion with Pakistani drivers.

The first thing Ollie always did with a Pakistani cabdriver or for that matter, any cabdriver who looked like a fuckin foreigner, which was only every other cabdriver in the city was show his shield. This was so there'd be no heated arguments later on; some of these fuckin camel jockeys were very sensitive.

"Police officer," he said at once, flashing the tin.

"I' mgoing to 1114 Clarendon Avenue.”

The driver said nothing.

"If you heard me, blink," Ollie said.

"I heard you, sir.”

"Good. Do you know where Clarendon Avenue is?”

“I know where it is, sir.”

"Terrific, we're already ahead of the game. I'm in kind of a hurry, Abdul, but I wouldn't want you to speed.”

The driver's name was MunsafAzhar, displayed on a red card to the left of the yellow cab license, but Ollie called every Paki cabdriver Abdul.

Not only did it make life much simpler, it also provided the enjoyment of watching the slow burn when the cabbie realized he couldn't get pissed off at a cop.

"I see you got the bomb these days," Ollie said pleasantly.

"Yes, sir," the cabbie said.

"Does that mean you'll be declaring war on America soon?”

"America is our friend," the cabbie said. "Bullshit," Ollie said.

"Truly, sir.”

"Even though we ain't sending you no more money?”

"I suppose we'll have to get by somehow," the cabbie said.

Had Ollie detected a slight touch of sarcasm there? One thing he hated among everything else he hated was baggy-pantsed foreigners trying to be clever.

"How you gonna get the bomb to the launching pad?" he asked. "Carry it on a donkey cart?" The cabbie said nothing. "Pack it on a camel?”

"We have means of transportation, sir.”

"Oh, I'm sure you do. Must be yellow cabs all over the country, same as here. Big industrialized nation got the bomb now, can blow everybody to bits.”

"We live in a bad neighborhood, sir.”

"Bullshit," Ollie said. "Everybody lives in a bad neighborhood. This is a bad neighborhood right here. You see any nuclear bombs in this neighborhood?”

"we nave powetul ""-", .... "Ah, yes, m'boy, I'm certain you do, and what a pity it is. Are you in a hurry to get home now that your country's got the bomb? Go defend your nation against all these powerful enemies?”

"I am in no hurry, sir.”

"I'll bet you're not. What'd you live in there, a fuckin mud hut?”

"I had a proper apartment, sir.”

"I'll bet you made a fortune there, driving a yellow cab all over the place.”

"We are a poor country, sir, that is true.”

"But rich enough to build a fuckin bomb, huh?”

"We are only trying to protect ourselves, sir. America has the bomb, too, you know.”

"Oh, do we? But in America we don't marry off our six-year-old daughters, do we?”

"You're thinking of India, sir.”

"Gee, is that India? Where they marry off their six year-old daughters to their eight-year-old cousins? I thought it was Pakistan. Pakistan must be the place where you wipe your ass with your left hand, is that Pakistan? The unclean hand?”

"We are a proud nation, sir. And we are proud to have built the bomb, yes, sir.”

"Now all you got to do is use it, right? That should make you real proud. Two big industrialized nations in a hurry to blow up the world.

It's just ahead there, Abdul. Clarendon Avenue.”

"I know the street, sir.”

"Oh, I'm sure you do. I'll bet you could even get a job driving a cab in London, you know the streets so good.”

qlae cabbie pulled to the curb in front of 1114. The fare was six dollars and ten cents. Ollie gave him ten dollars and told him to take seven and give him a receipt. The cabbie gave him a receipt and three dollars in change. Ollie opened the door. There was not a word from the driver.

"What language do you speak in Pakistan?" Ollie asked.

"Urdu or Hindi," the cabbie said. "Why do you ask, sir?”

"Is there a word for "Thanks' in those languages?”

"Sir?”

"Because it's the custom with big nuclear powers to say thanks when somebody gives you a fuckin dollar tip on a six-dollar ride. Or are you too busy buildin bombs?”

"I said thank you, sir.”

"Bullshit," Ollie said, and got out, and left the door on the curb side open so the driver would have to get out of the cab to come around and close it.

1114 Clarendon was a six-story brick in a row of similar buildings.

Ollie checked the mailboxes in the entry, and found one for an L.

Hilbert in apartment 2A. He hit all the bell buttons under the mailboxes, heard a chorus of answering buzzers and pushed open the inside door. This was a nice quiet building, no cooking smells, no smells of piss in the halfway. He climbed to the second floor, found 2A at the top of the Stairs, looked for a bell button, found none, and knocked on the door.

"Yes?" a woman's voice called.

"Police," he said.