Ed McBain - Lullaby

The way she'd done when he was six and she was fifteen and he woke up crying in the middle of the night.

She'd kissed the top of his head.

Comforting him.

And next thing she knew . . .

Well, one thing just sort of led to another.

His hands were all over her.

Under the short red skirt, down the front of the green silk blouse.

Christmas colors.

Falling away under his rough, manly hands.

That was on the twenty-eighth.

He'd been living here since. Today was the sixth of January. Not five minutes ago, he'd told her what he'd said to Annie the last time he'd seen her. Annie Flynn, that was the girl's name. About killing them both. Annie and her new boyfriend, whoever he was. And now someone had really killed Annie and he was afraid the police might think it was him.

'Which is why you have to go to them,' she said.

'No,' he said.

Nibbling at his lower lip. Handsome as the devil. She got damp just looking at him. Wanted him desperately, just looking at him. She wondered if he knew what effect he had on her.

'Unless, of course, you did kill her,' she said.

'No, no,' he said.

He wasn't looking at her.

'Did you?' she asked again.

'I told you no.'

But he still wasn't looking at her.

She went to him.

Twisted her hand in his hair. Pulled his head back.

'Tell me the truth,' she said.

'I didn't kill her,' he said.

She brought her mouth down to his. God, such sweet lips. She kissed him fiercely.

And wondered if he was telling the truth. Somehow, the idea was exciting. That maybe he had killed that girl.

* * * *

José Herrera was sitting on a bench in the second-floor corridor when Kling came in that night. Head still bandaged, face still puffy and bruised, right arm in a cast.

'Buenas noches, he said, and grinned like one of the Mexican bandits in Treasure of the Sierra Madre. Kling wanted to go hide the silver.

'You waiting for me?' Kling asked.

'Who else?' Herrera said. Still grinning. Kling wanted to punch him right in the mouth - for the way he was grinning, for the way he'd behaved at the hospital the other day. Finish off what those black guys had started. He went to the railing, opened the gate, and walked into the squadroom. Herrera came in behind him.

Kling went to his desk and sat.

Herrera came over and took a chair alongside the desk.

'My head still hurts,' he said.

'Good,' Kling said.

Herrera clucked his tongue.

'What do you want here?' Kling asked.

'They let me out this afternoon,' Herrera said. 'I think they let me out too soon, I may sue them.'

'Good, go sue them.'

'I think I may have a good case. My head still hurts.'

Kling glanced at a Ballistics report he had requested on a shooting that had taken place during the four-to-midnight on Christmas Eve. A family dispute. Man shot his own brother on Christmas Eve.

'I decided to help you,' Herrera said.

'Thanks, I don't need your help,' Kling said.

'You told me at the hospital . . .'

'That was then, this is now.'

'I can get you a big drug bust,' Herrera said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, glancing over to where Andy Parker was on the telephone at his own desk.

'I don't want a big drug bust,' Kling said.

'These guys who were trying to dust me? I'll bet you thought they were just regular niggers, am I right? Wrong. They were Jamaicans.'

'So?'

'You familiar with Jamaican posses?'

'Yes,' Kling said.

'You are?'

'Yes.'

The Jamaican gangs called themselves posses, God knew why, since traditionally a posse was a group of people deputized by a sheriff to assist in preserving the public peace. Kling figured a little bit of Orwellian doublethink was in play here. If War was Peace, then surely Bad Guys could be Good Guys and a Gang could be a Posse, no? The Jamaicans couldn't even pronounce the word correctly. Rhyming it with Lassie, they called it passee. Then again, when they wanted to say 'man,' they said 'mon.' Either way, mon, they would break your head as soon as look at you. Which they had successfully but not fatally done to Herrera.

And now he was ready to blow the whistle.

Or so it seemed.

'We're talking here a posse that's maybe the biggest one in America,' he said.

'Right here in our own little precinct, huh?' Kling said.

'Bigger than Spangler.'

'Uh-huh.'

'Bigger than Waterhouse.'

'Uh-huh.'

'You know Shower?'

'I know Shower.'

'Bigger even than Shower,' Herrera said. 'I'm talking about dope, white slavery, and gun-running. Which this posse is muscling in on all over the city.'

'Uh-huh,' Kling said.

'I'm talking about a big dope deal about to go down.'

'Really? Where?'

'Right here in this precinct.'

'So what's this big posse called?'

'Not so fast,' Herrera said.

'If you've got something to tell me, tell me,' Kling said. 'You're the one who came here, I didn't come knocking on your door.'

'You're the one who wanted me to back your story about . . .'

'That's a thing of the past. They're convinced downtown that I acted within the . . .'

'Anyway, it don't matter. You owe me.'

Kling looked at him.

'I owe you? he said.

'Correct.'

'For what?'

'For saving my life.'

'I owe you for saving your life?'

'Is what I said.'

'I think those baseball bats scrambled your brains, Herrera. If I'm hearing you correctly . . .'

'You're hearing me. You owe me.'

'What do I owe you?'

'Protection. And I'm not gonna let you forget it.'

'Why don't you take a walk?' Kling said, and picked up the Ballistics report.

'I ain't even talking cultures,' Herrera said.

'That's good, 'cause I'm not even listening.'

'Where if you save a person's life, you are responsible for that person's life forever.'

'And which cultures might those be?' Kling asked.

'Certain Asian cultures.'

'Like which?'

'Or North American Indian, I'm not sure.'

'Uh-huh,' Kling said. 'But not Hispanic'

'No, not Hispanic'

'You're just muscling in on these cultures, correct? The way this Jamaican posse is muscling in on dope and prosti . . .'

'I told you I ain't talking cultures here.'

'Then what the fuck are you talking, Herrera? You're wasting my time here.'

'I'm talking human decency and responsibility,' Herrera said.

'Oh, dear God, spare me,' Kling said, and rolled his eyes heavenward.

'Because if you hadn't stopped them Jakies . . .'

'Jakies?'

"Them Jamaicans.'

Kling had never heard this expression before. He had the feeling Herrera had just made it up. The way he'd made up his cockamamie Asian or North American Indian cultures that held a man responsible for saving another man's life.

'If you'd have let them Jakies kill me,' Herrera said, 'then I wouldn't have to be worrying they would kill me now.'

'Makes perfect sense,' Kling said, shaking his head.

'Of course it makes sense.'

'Of course.'

'This way I'll probably have a nervous breakdown. Waiting for them to kill me all over again. You want me to have a nervous breakdown?'

'I think you already had one,' Kling said.

'You want them Jakies to kill me?' Herrera asked.

'No,' Kling said honestly. If he'd wanted them to kill Herrera, he'd have let them do it the first time around. Instead of getting a tooth knocked out of his mouth. Which he still hadn't gone to the dentist to see about.

'Good, I'm glad you realize you owe me,' Herrera said.

Kling was neither a Buddhist monk nor a Hindu priest nor an Indian shaman; he didn't think he owed Herrera a goddamn thing.