Ed McBain - Poison

"What is it? What is what ?"

"I walk in here off the street…"

"Yes…"

"You spit fire the first time we meet…"

"That was the first time."

"So now…"

"So now sit down and talk to me."

"Your girlfriend's expecting you to…"

"Who'd you kill?" Marilyn said.

He kept looking at her.

"Sit down," she said. "Please."

He said nothing.

"Let me freshen that," she said, and took his nearly empty glass. He did not sit. Instead, he watched her again as she went to the bar, and half-filled two water tumblers, one with scotch, the other with gin.

He did not want to talk about who the hell he'd killed or didn't kill. He looked at her ass instead. He hoped she wouldn't ask again if he was looking at her ass, and was relieved when she didn't. She came back to him, handed him the scotch, and then sat again. Nylon-sleek knees again. No tug at the skirt this time. He did not sit beside her.

"Sit," she said, and patted the sofa. "Who'd you kill, Hal?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Honesty," she said, and shrugged.

He hesitated.

"Tell me," she said.

The fire crackled and spit. A log shifted on the grate.

"Tell me, Hal," she said.

He took a deep breath.

"A boy," he said.

"What?"

"He was a boy."

"How old?"

"Twelve."

"Jesus," she said softly.

"With a .357 Magnum in his fist."

"When was this?"

"Long ago."

"How long ago?"

"I was a rookie cop."

"Was he white or black?"

"Black."

"Which made it worse."

"Nothing could have made it worse," he said.

"I meant…"

"I know what you meant. There was that, yes, but… you see, that wasn't what mattered to me… I mean, what the newspapers were saying, white cop kills innocent black kid… he was coming off a robbery, he'd just killed three people inside a liquor store, but that wasn't… I had to shoot him, it would've been me in the next three seconds… he was twelve years old."

"God," she said.

Almost a whisper.

"Yeah," he said. "That was the thing."

"How awful for you," she said.

"Yeah," he said again.

Silence.

He wondered why he was telling her this.

Well, honesty, he thought.

"His mother… his mother came to the police station," he said, his voice very low now. "And she… she asked the sergeant where she could find Patrolman Willis… they called us patrolmen in those days, now they call the blues police officers… and I was just coming in from downtown where I'd been answering questions at Headquarters all morning, and the sergeant said, There he is, lady, not realizing, not knowing she was the boy's mother, and she came up to me and… and… spit in my face. Didn't say anything. Just spit in my face and walked out. I stood there… I… there were guys all around… a muster room is a busy place… and I… I guess I… I guess I began crying."

He shrugged.

And fell silent again.

She was watching his face.

Two shots in the chest, he thought.

Kept coming.

Another shot in the head.

Caught him between the eyes.

Questions afterward. Two big bulls from Homicide. Confusion and noise. Some guy from one of the local television stations trying to get a camera inside the liquor store there, take some pictures of the carnage. The owner and two women lying dead on the floor, smashed whiskey bottles all around them. The kid outside on the sidewalk with his brains blown out.

Ah, shit, he thought.

This city, he thought, this goddamn fucking city.

"Are you all right?" Marilyn asked.

"Yes," he said.

"You haven't touched your scotch."

"I guess I haven't."

She lifted her own glass. "Here's to golden days and purple nights," she said, and clinked the glass against his.

He nodded, said nothing.

"That was my father's favorite toast," she said. "How old are you, Hal?"

"Thirty-four," he said.

"How old were you when it happened?"

He took a swallow of scotch and then said, "Twenty-two." He shook his head. "He'd just killed three people inside that liquor store. The owner and two ladies."

"I would have done just what you did," Marilyn said.

"Well…" Willis said, and shrugged again. "If only he'd put down the gun…"

"But he didn't…"

"I told him to put it down, I warned him…" He shook his head again. "He just kept coming at me."

"So you shot him."

"Yes."

"How many times?"

"Three times," Willis said.

"That's a lot of times."

"Yes."

They both fell silent. Willis sipped at the scotch. Marilyn kept watching him.

"You're small for a cop," she said.

"I know. Five eight."

"Most cops are bigger. Detectives especially. Not that I ever met a detective before now. I mean in the movies. Most of them are very big."

"Well, the movies," Willis said.

"You never killed anybody before that, huh?"

"No."

"Wow," she said, and fell silent for several moments. At last, she said, "What time is it?"

He looked at his watch. "Almost nine," he said.

"I really have to call Mickey," she said. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to rush you out."

"That's okay," he said, "I've taken enough of your time."

"Well, finish your drink," she said. "And if you want my advice, you'll put the whole thing out of your mind, really. You killed a man, okay, but that's not such a big deal. Really. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

He nodded and said nothing.

He was thinking Not a man, a boy.

He drained the scotch. He was feeling warm and a bit light-headed. He put the empty glass down on the coffee table.

"Thanks for the drink," he said. "Drinks."

"So where do you go now?" she asked.

"Back to the office, type up the reports."

"Will I see you again?"

Still sitting, looking up at him, pale eyes studying his. He hesitated.

"I didn't kill Jerry," she said.

Eyes fastened to his.

"Call me," she said.

He said nothing.

"Will you?"

"If you want me to," he said.

"I want you to."

"Then I will," he said, and shrugged.

"Let me get your coat," she said, and rose, sleek knees flashing.

"I can find my way out," he said, "I know you're in a hurry."

"Don't be silly," she said.

She took his coat from the rack and helped him into it. Just before he went out, she said, "Call me, don't forget."

"I'll call," he said.

The wind hit him the minute he stepped outside, dispelling alcohol and cozy fire, yanking him back to reality. He walked across to where he'd parked the car, struggled with a frozen lock, held a match under the key and finally managed to open the door. He started the car and turned on the heater. He wiped his gloved hand over the frost-rimed windshield.

He did not know why he decided to sit there in the car, watching her building across the street.

Maybe he'd just been a detective for too long a time.

Twenty minutes later, a black 560 SL Mercedes-Benz pulled up to the curb in front of Marilyn's building. Willis watched as the door on the curb side opened.

Her girlfriend Mickey, he thought.

Better late than never.

Mickey—if that's who it was—locked the car door, walked the few steps to Marilyn's building, took off a glove, and pressed the bell button.

A moment later, Mickey—if that's who it was—opened the door and went inside.

Mickey—if that's who it was—was a six feet three inch tall, two-hundred-and-twenty-pound male white Caucasian wearing a bulky raccoon coat that made him look even bigger than he was.

Honesty, the lady had said.

Bullshit, Willis thought, and jotted down the license plate number and then drove back to the station house to type up his reports in triplicate.