Ed McBain: Eight Black Horses

‘They’re havin’ a fuckin’ party up here,’ Jackson said. ‘My wife’s dead, and they’re havin’...’

‘Shut up,’ Lefkowitz said.

In the supply closet Genero pulled the chain hanging from the naked light bulb. For a moment he forgot where he’d put the lieutenant’s present. Oh, yeah, the box there against the back wall, under the lowest shelf.

‘Okay, Steve,’ Byrnes said, ‘what’s this all about?’

‘Me?’ Carella said.

‘Teddy’s invitation said...’

‘Teddy’s?’

‘Harriet’s,’ Brown said.

‘What?’ Byrnes said.

Genero knelt down and reached for the present. The wrapped pajamas fell off the top of the wooden box and behind it. ‘Shit,’ Genero said under his breath and then quickly looked over his shoulder to check if the lieutenant had heard him using profanity in the squadroom.

“What’s the story, Loot?’ Willis said.

‘Where’s the sandwiches?’ Delgado said.

‘What’s going on here?’ Byrnes said.

Genero lifted the wooden box by its handle, planning to move it aside so he could get at the lieutenant’s present. Something was snagging. The box wouldn’t move more than six inches from the wall. He gave a tug. He gave another tug, stronger this time, almost falling over backward when the short cord attached to the box pulled out of the wall socket behind it. Flailing for balance, he banged his elbow against one of the shelves on his right. ‘Shit!’ he yelled, and lost his grip on the box’s handle. The box fell on his foot—the same foot he’d shot himself in a long time ago.

‘Ow!’ he yelled.

The detectives all turned at the sound of his voice.

‘Damn it!’ Genero yelled, and kicked at the box, hurting his foot again. ‘Ow!’ he yelled again.

Carella came to the supply closet.

He looked at the box.

‘What’ve you got there?’ he asked.

Genero had just become a hero.

* * * *

Nothing happened at eight-fifteen.

The Deaf Man looked at his watch again.

Nothing happened at eight sixteen.

And nothing happened at eight twenty.

By eight thirty-five the Deaf Man began to suspect that nothing would happen.

By eight-forty, when the Bomb Squad truck pulled in across the street, he was certain nothing would happen.

The Bomb Squad team rushed into the building.

The Deaf Man kept watching.

* * * *

They found the cartons of incendiaries in forty seconds flat.

That was after the detectives showed them the open wooden box with the timer and the dynamite inside it. It was Carella who’d unlatched the box. But it was Genero, the hero, who’d found it and yanked it out of the wall socket.

‘Lucky thing you pulled this loose when you did,’ one of the Bomb Squad detectives said to Genero.

‘I try to keep my eyes open,’ Genero said.

‘You guys woulda been cinders,’ the second Bomb Squad detective said. ‘I never seen so many different kinds of incendiaries in one place in my entire life. Look at all this shit, willya? A dozen fire bottles, six cakes of paraffin sawdust, a whole box full of flake aluminium thermite, eight bottles of mineral oil, five bottles of kerosene—you ever see anything like this, Lou?’

‘This timer here was set for eight-fifteen,’ the second detective said to Genero. ‘You unplugged it just in time. Very nice little timer here.’

‘I recognized it right off,’ Genero said. ‘Who gets to keep it?’

‘What?’ Byrnes said.

‘I found it, do I get to keep it?’

‘What?’ Willis said.

‘It might work like a VCR,’ Genero said. ‘To tape television shows.’

‘This city has endangered the safety and well-being of my client,’ Lefkowitz said.

Kling was thinking maybe something could happen to him or Eileen. Maybe it wouldn’t be forever.

Hawes was thinking Annie had come within an ace of wearing the black silk panties. To his funeral.

Carella was thinking that maybe the Deaf Man had played it fair after all. On the first day of Christmas he’d announced his intentions clearly and unequivocally; they’d be hearing from him on the eleven days to follow. On the second to the sixth days he’d sent them all that police paraphernalia to let them know he was planning something for cops. On the seventh day the wanted flyers arrived, a segue from the uniformed force to the plainclothes cops in that the posters could be found in a muster room as well as in a squadroom. On the eighth day he’d let them know he was dead serious, but he’d also told them he was moving into the Eight-Seven itself; the armory was right there on First and Saint Sebastian. On the ninth day he’d started zeroing in. Those nine cars were 87th Precinct cars, no question about it. And on the tenth and eleventh days he’d let them know he was coming into the squadroom itself—ten D.D. forms, which only detectives used, and eleven Colt Detective Specials, a detective’s pistol of choice. The twelve roast pigs—by Carella’s count, there were twelve detectives in the squadroom right this minute, and they’d just come pretty damn close to being incinerated. He never wanted to come this close again.

‘There’s a bottle of scotch in the bottom drawer of my desk,’ Byrnes said. ‘Go get it, Genero.’ He turned to Carella. ‘Also, I bought you a pair of cuff links.’

‘I bought you a shirt,’ Carella said.

‘I bought you a pair of pajamas, Pete,’ Genero said, and hurried into the lieutenant’s office.

‘What’d he call me?’ Byrnes asked.

‘Do you men plan to drink alcohol in this squadroom?’ Lefkowitz asked.

* * * *

The Bomb Squad detectives came out of the station house at a few minutes before nine.

The Deaf Man watched them as they drove off.

Oddly he was neither angry nor sad.

As he walked way into the falling snow, his only thought was Next time.