Ed McBain - He Who Hesitates

He read the verse over again, and then read it a third time, pleased with the sentiment, appreciative of the way the lines scanned. He wondered how much the card cost. He liked it, but he didn't want to go spending too much for a card. He walked over to the cash register. A colored girl was sitting behind it, reading a magazine.

"How much is this card?" he asked.

"Let's see it," she said. She took the card from him, turned it over, and looked at the price on the back. "It's seventy-five cents," she said. She saw his expression, and smiled. "There are cheaper ones there, if you look."

"Well, I like this one," he said. "It is a nice one."

My Mother The. joy you Bring to me each day Cannot in mere words be. e^ressed. The. mittion things you do and say Confirm, you are the very Best. And even when the day is done, And weary waCf^ I up the stair, 'Who Waits for me? The only one To smite, to greet, to Cove, to care — mother.

"Yeah, I like the poem. Most of them have terrible poems."

"It's a nice poem," the girl said, glancing at it.

"Seventy-five, huh?"

"Yes, that's what it says on the back. See?" She turned the card over and held it out to him. She had very long nails. She pointed to some letters and numerals printed on the bottom of the card. "See where it says XM-75? that means seventy-five cents."

"Why don't they just mark it seventy-five cents?" he asked.

The girl giggled. "I don't know. They want to be mysterious, I guess."

"Yes, well, XM-75 is sure mysterious," he said, and smiled, and the girl smiled back. "Well, I guess I'll take it," he said.

"Your mother'll like it," the girl said.

"I think so. I need some stamps; do you sell stamps?"

"In the machine," the girl said.

"And, oh, wait a minute . . ."

"Yes?"

"I want to get another card."

"All right," she said.

"Don't ring that up yet."

"I won't."

He went back to the rack and bypassed the Mother and Wife and Sweetheart section, searching for a section labeled Friend or Acquaintance, and finding one marked General, and then looking over the cards there until he found one that said simply, To Someone Very Nice on Valentine's Day. There wasn't any poem inside the card. All it said was Have a Happy. He took the card back to the cash register and showed it to the colored girl.

"Do you like this one?" he asked.

"Who's it for? Your girl?"

"No, I don't have a girl," he answered.

"Oh, sure, come on," she said, "big handsome fellow like you."

"Really," he said, "I don't have a girl," and realized all at once she was flirting with him.

"Who's it for?" she asked archly.

"My landlady."

The girl laughed. "You must be the only man in this entire city who's sending a card to his landlady."

"Well, I am," he said, and laughed with her.

"She must be something, your landlady."

"She's very nice."

"A blonde, I'll bet."

"Well, no."

"What then? A readhead?"

"No, no, she's—"

"Or maybe you like darker girls," she said, and looked him square in the eye.

He looked back at her and said nothing.

"Do you like dark girls?" she said.

"I like dark girls," he said.

"I'll just bet you do," she said, very softly.

They were both silent for a moment.

"How much do I owe you?" he asked.

"Well, let me take a look at the one for your landlady," she said, and turned the card over. "Seventy-five and . . . twenty-five is a dollar."

He reached into his wallet and handed her a bill.

"Didn't you say you wanted stamps?"

"Yes?"

"Do you have change for the machine?"

"Yes, I think so," he said.

"Machine's right over there," she said, gesturing toward it with her head. She rang up his dollar bill, and then reached for a paper bag below the counter. "Are you from the neighborhood?"

"No."

She watched him as he put his money in the machine and then pulled the lever for the stamps.

"Out of town?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Carey, do you know it?"

"I don't think so."

"It's near Huddleston. Do you ski?"

"Me?" the girl said, and laughed.

He licked the stamps and put one in the corner of each envelope. "Do you have a pen?" he asked.

"Sure," she said, and handed him one from alongside the cash register. "Did you ever see a colored person skiing?"

"Tell you the truth," he said, "I've never been skiing, so I wouldn't know."

"Oh, I'm sure there's one or two," she said. "There must be one or two in the whole United States, don't you think?"

"I guess there must be."

"Yeah, but I don't know any of them," she said.

"Neither do I."

She glanced at the envelope he was addressing. "Who's Dorothy Broome?" she asked.

"My mother."

"What's your name?"

"Roger Broome."

"I'm Amelia," she said.

"Hello, Amelia."

"Amelia Perez." She paused. "My father's Spanish."

"All right, Amelia," he said, and looked up at her and smiled, and then began addressing the other envelope.

"This is the one to your landlady, huh, Roger?"

"That's right."

"Mrs . . . Agnes . . . Dougherty." Amelia grinned. "Some landlady."

"She really is," Roger said.

"Mmm."

"Well," he said, and looked up and smiled. "That's that."

"Mailbox right outside," Amelia said.

"Thank you," he said. They stared at each other for a moment. "Well." He shrugged. "Well, so long."

"So long, Roger," she said behind him.

He stopped at the phone booth on the way out and opened the directory, first looking up POLICE, and then turning to the CITY OF section and finding a listing there for POLICE DEPT. His finger skipped over the various headings, Alcoholic Unit, Bomb Squad, Central Motors Repr Shop, Hrbr Precinct, Homicide Squads, Narcotic, Safety, Traffic, Youth — where were all the individual precincts? What did a man do if he simply wanted a cop? He closed the directory and walked back to the cash register. Amelia looked up.

"Hi," she said. "Did you forget something?" "I'm supposed to meet a friend of mine outside the police station," he said, and shrugged. "Trouble is, I don't know where it is."

"Go across to the park," she said, "and start walking uptown on Graver Avenue. You can't miss it. It's got these big green globes out front."

2

The big green globes were each marked with the numerals "87." They flanked the closed brown entrance doors of the building, the building a soot-covered monotonous gray against the gray early-morning sky behind it. Roger stood across the street near the low stone wall marking the park's northern boundary on Grover Avenue, and looked at the building and wondered if anyone was inside; the doors were closed. Well, he thought, you can't expect them to leave the doors open in the middle of winter. Anyway, the police are always there, that's their job. They don't close on Saturdays, Sundays and holidays.

He looked at the building again.

It wasn't a very cheerful place sitting there across the street covered with the dirt of maybe half a century, its windows protected by wire-mesh grilles on the outside, the interior hidden by partially drawn and faded shades within. The only friendly thing about the place was the wisp of smoke that trailed up from a chimney hidden by the roofs parapets. He wondered how many policemen were inside there, and then he wondered if he should go in. Maybe it was too early to be bothering them. He walked up some fifty feet to where there was an entrance break in the low stone wall, and then walked into the park and onto the gravel path paralleling the stone wall. He looked across to the police station again, and then sat on a bench with his head partially turned so that he could watch the building.

As he watched, the front door opened, and a stream of uniformed policemen came down the steps chatting and laughing; it looked for a minute like all the cops in the city were pouring out of that door. They came down the low flat steps to the sidewalk and began walking off in different directions, some of them heading downtown and others heading uptown, some of them turning at the corner and heading north toward the river, and half a dozen of the rest crossing the street and coming directly to the wall entrance he himself had used not three, four minutes ago. Inside the park, two of them turned left and started heading up the gravel path in the opposite direction, and two of them cut across the grass and what looked like a bridle path and waved at the last two cops, who were coming right past the bench where Roger was sitting. He looked up at them as they went by, and he nodded at them briefly. One of the cops, as though he recognized Roger as somebody he greeted every morning (which was impossible since Roger had never been on this bench across from the police station in his life), sort of waved at him, and smiled, and said, "Hi, there," and then turned back to the other cop and picked up his conversation as both of them continued on the path heading downtown.