Ed McBain - Hark!

'That's amazing,' Carella said. 'Give me another one,' Mark said.

CARELLA REMEMBERED THE name of the course now. American Romantic Poetry.

And his term paper had been titled 'The Raven' and Roe's Philosophy of Composition.

What had fascinated him most about the poem was Poe's subsequent admission that he'd written it backwards. He could still remember the key passages from the author's explanation:

Here then the poem may be said to have had its beginning — at the end where all works of art should begin — for it was here at this point of my preconsiderations that I first put pen to paper in the composition of the stanza:

'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil! — prophet still, if bird or devil!'

I composed this stanza, at this point, first — by establishing the climax . . .

Carella had read the entire poem aloud to the class. Wowed the girls. Got an A on the paper, too. But only a B-plus for his final grade. It still rankled.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered

weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten

lore -

Still knew the entire poem by heart. Could recite it at the drop of a hat. Now, weak and weary after a long day in the salt mines, he pondered on his son's computer many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore. And because he'd once been a good student and was now a good cop, he composed a short list he would take to work with him tomorrow morning:

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May:

Sonnets XVIII shake off slumber, and beware: The Tempest: Act II.

Scene i

how he will shake me up: As You Like It: Act I.

Scene i

On the unsteadfast footing of a spear: King Henry IV. part I: Act 1. Scene iii

Shake plus spear equals Shakespeare. But he got no returns at all for any of the words or phrases in one of the earliest quotes they'd received:

We wondred that thou went'st so soon From the world's stage, to the grave's tiring room. We thought thee dead, but this thy printed worth, Tells thy spectators that thou went'st but forth To enter with applause.

An Actor's Art,

Can die, and live, to act a second part.

Nothing. Nada. Zero. Zilch.

BEFORE SHE'D LEFT Rankin Plaza that afternoon, Sharyn stopped in at Lorelie Records downstairs from her office, and bought Spit Shine's last CD. Titled after its hit song, 'Go Ask,' it was the final album they'd made before that fateful and fatal Cow Pasture Concert. The title song was on track number seven. In her bedroom that night, she played it for Kling. He listened intently.

'Can you understand what they're singing?' he asked.

'Sure,' she said.

'I can't,' he admitted.

'Guess you got to be black, sugah.'

'They ought to put subtitles on rap music,' he said, shaking his head.

'They already do, on TV,' she said. 'But here, read the liner notes. The lyrics should be there.'

'Play it again,' he said, and removed the little pamphlet from the CD's plastic jewel box, and opened it to the lyrics for 'Go Ask.'

Sharyn clicked back to band seven again.

'You dig vanilla? 'Now ain't that a killer! 'You say you hate chocolate? 'I say you juss thoughtless.

'Cause chocolate is the color 'Of the Lord's first children 'Juss go ask the diggers 'The men who find the bones 'Go ask them 'bout chocolate . . . 'Go ask them 'bout niggers . . .'

'Oops,' Kling said.

"Why you denyin

'Whut should senn you flyin?

"Why you find borin

'Whut should senn you soarin?

'You a black woman, woman

'Who you tryin'a sass?

You a black woman, woman,

'Why you tryin'a pass?'

'Juss go ask the diggers 'The men who find the bones

'Go ask them 'bout chocolate . . . 'Go ask them 'bout niggers, 'Go ask.'

The song ended. Sharyn turned off the player.

'That's kinda nice, actually,' Kling said. 'How'd you come across it?'

'Colleague suggested I give it a listen. I thought you might like it.'

"Well, it's not exactly Shakespeare . . .'

'Hey, what is?'

'But I like it. I really do.'

'Do you think I'm like that woman in the rap?' Sharyn asked, straight out of the blue.

Kling blinked.

'Do you think I dig vanilla?'

'Well, I certainly hope so,' Kling said, and she burst out laughing.

You think I've forgotten I'm black?'

'I hope not.'

You think I'm trying to pass?'

'No way. Who's been telling you such things?'

'Nobody,' she said, and went to him where he was sitting on the sofa, and curled up in his arms.

He turned the CD pamphlet over, looked at the picture on the back of it.

You think any of these guys are handsome?' he asked.

She hesitated.

A tick of an instant too long, he thought.

Then she said, 'No.'

She took the pamphlet from his hand, thumbed through it till she found the lyrics for another of the songs, something called 'Black Woman.'

'I like these last few couplets, don't you?' she said.

'Couplets,' he said. 'Now that's Shakespeare for you.' She began reading them aloud.

'In the night, in the night, 'All is black, all is white 'Love the black, love the white 'Love the woman tonight.'

She looked up into his face.

Batted her eyelashes like an ingenue.

'So what do you say, big boy?' she asked.

'DO YOU KNOW how much money was in that box?' the Deaf Man asked her.

Melissa debated lying. But she figured it might not be such a good idea to lie to this man.

'Yes,' she said.

He looked surprised. She did not think he was the sort of man a person could ever surprise, but he sure looked surprised now.

'How do you know?'

'I counted it,' she said.

'Why?'

She again debated lying. No, she thought. Always tell this man the truth. Or one day he'll kill you.

'I counted it so I'd know how much I should ask. For what I did. For walking that money out of the bank for

you.'

'I see. You felt you were entitled to some sort of reward, is that it?'

"Well. . . eighteen million,' she said, and raised her eyebrows. 'Don't you think that's worth a tip?'

Stop thinking like a hooker, she warned herself.

'How big a tip, would you say?' She knew better than to fall into this trap. 'I'll leave that entirely to your judgment,' she said. 'Does a hundred thousand sound okay?' he asked, and smiled.

She smiled back.

A bit low,' she said, 'but hey, you're the boss.'

SHE FIGURED HE thought of himself as some kind of mentor.

The last time she had a mentor was right here in the big bad city, the minute she got off the bus from L.A. Enter Ambrose Carter in his shiny pimp threads, Hey, li'l girlfriend, welcome to town. Got a place to stay? Introduced her to twelve of his homies that very night, cheaper by the dozen, right? Twelve of them who took her under their collective wing, a sort of pimp conglomerate that proceeded to fuck her day and night in a tiny room off the Stem, everywhere, anyplace she had an opening, day and night, twelve of them coming into the room one after the other to let her know she belonged to them, day and night. 'Turned her out,' as the expression went in the trade. Taught her she was nothing but a cheap two-bit hooker now, even though in L.A. she'd been getting a hundred bucks a throw for a mere blowjob.

Well, boys, you should see me now, she thought.

Adam wasn't kidding when he'd said a hundred K.

That's what he'd given her, cold cash, and he'd also taken her to a fur salon on Hall Avenue, where they were having what they called their Fall Preview Sale, when it wasn't even summer yet, and he bought her a sable coat that came right down to her ankles, and a mink stole she could wrap around her three times.

He also told her she could now leave anytime she wanted, but that if she stayed she might learn a thing or two.