Ed McBain - He Who Hesitates

Roger watched them until they were out of sight.

He turned on the bench again and busied himself with looking at the police station across the street.

He supposed he would have to talk to a detective. That was probably the thing. You probably went in and said you wanted to talk to a detective, and they probably asked you what it was in reference to, something like a bank or a business office, he supposed.

He didn't like the idea of talking it over with somebody before they let him see a detective. That bothered him a little. He wanted to see a detective right out and clean, get it over with, instead of a lot of talk with a uniformed cop.

"That's what they are in there, all right," the voice said.

He turned, startled. He had been so absorbed with watching the building that he hadn't heard footsteps on the gravel path, and was surprised now to see a man sitting on the bench opposite him. It was still maybe quarter of nine in the morning, maybe a little earlier, and the temperature was, oh, he would guess somewhere in the twenties or even the upper teens, and the two of them were the only ones sitting in the park, facing each other on opposite benches.

"What?"he said.

"That's what they are in there, all right," the other man said.

"That's what who is in where?" he asked.

"Cops," the other man said. He was a small dapper man of about fifty, wearing a black overcoat with black velveteen collar and cuffs and wearing a gray fedora pulled rakishly over one eye. He had a small pencil-line black mustache and a black bow tie with yellow polka dots, the tie showing in the opening of his coat like the gaily painted propeller of an airplane. He gave a small meaningful contemptuous jerk of his head toward the police station across the street. "Cops," he repeated.

"That's right," Roger said.

"Yeah, sure that's right," the man said.

Roger looked at him, and nodded, and then dismissed him with a brief shrug and turned back to study the police station again.

"Have they got somebody in there?" the man asked.

"What?" Roger said, and turned again.

"In there."

"What do you mean?"

"Are they holding somebody?"

"I don't think I know what you mean."

"Of yours," the man said.

"Of mine?"

"In there."

"What?"

"Are they holding somebody of yours in there?" the man said, impatiently.

"Oh. No. No, they're not."

"Then why are you watching the building?"

Roger shrugged.

"Look, you don't have to put on airs with me," the man said. "I've been in and out of that place more times than you can count on your fingers and toes."

"Mm?" Roger said, and was about to get up and move out of the park, when the man rose and crossed the gravel path and sat on the bench alongside him.

"They've had me in there on a lot of little things," the man said. "My name's Clyde."

"How do you do?" Roger said.

"Clyde Warren, what's yours?"

"Roger. Broome."

"Roger Broome, well, a new broom sweeps clean, eh?" Clyde said, and burst out laughing. His teeth were very white. His breath plumed vigorously from his mouth as he laughed. He lifted one hand to brush away a frozen laughter tear from the corner of his eye. His fingers were stained with nicotine. "Yessir," he said, still laughing, "a new broom sweeps clean, they've had me in there on a lot of little things, Roger, oh yes, a lot of little things."

"Well, I guess I'd better be getting along," Roger said, and again made a move to rise, but Clyde put his hand gently on his shoulder, and then removed it immediately, as though suddenly aware of Roger's size and potential power and not wishing to provoke him in any way. The sudden retreat was not wasted on Roger, who felt himself subtly flattered and hesitated on the bench a moment longer. After all, he thought, this man's been inside there, he knows what it's like inside there.

"What do they do?" he asked. "When you go in?"

"When you go in?" Clyde said. "When you go in? You mean when they take you in, don't you?"

"Well, I suppose so."

"They book you, if they've got anything to book you on, and then they take you back to the detention cells on the first floor there and keep you locked up until it's time to go downtown for lineup and arraignment, that's if your offense was a felony."

"What's a felony?" Roger asked.

"Death or a state prison," Clyde answered.

"What do you mean?"

"The punishment."

"Oh."

"Sure."

"Well, what sort of crimes would that be?"

"Burglary is a felony, murder is a felony, armed robbery is a felony, you get the idea?"

"Yes," Roger said, nodding.

"Indecent exposure," Clyde said, "is only a misdemeanor."

"I see."

"Yes sir, only a misdemeanor," Clyde said, and grinned. His teeth were dazzlingly white. "They're false," he said, following Roger's gaze, and clicked the teeth in his mouth to prove it. Roger nodded. "Sodomy, on the other hand, is a felony," Clyde said. "You can get twenty years for sodomy."

"Is that right?" Roger said.

"Absolutely. They've never had me in there on sodomy," Clyde said.

"Well, that's good," Roger said, not knowing what sodomy was, and really not terribly interested in what they had had Clyde in there on, but only interested in what it was like once they got you inside there.

"For them to have a case of sodomy," Clyde said, "it's got to be against the other person's will, or by force, or under age, you know what I mean? They've never had me in there on that."

"Do they take your fingerprints?"

"I just told you I've never been in there on sodomy."

"I meant for anything."

"Well, sure they take your fingerprints, that's their job. Their job is to take your fingerprints and get your hands dirty and make life miserable for you whatever chance they can get. That's what being a cop means."

"Mm," Roger said, and both men fell silent. Roger glanced over his shoulder at the police station again.

"I've got a place near here," Clyde said.

"Mm," Roger said.

"Few blocks east."

"Mm."

"Nice apartment," Clyde said.

"Do they let you make a phone call?" Roger said.

"What?"

"The police."

"Oh, sure. Listen, would you like to come up?"

"Up where?" Roger said.

"My place."

"What for?"

Clyde shrugged. "I thought you might like to."

"Well, thanks a lot," Roger said, "but I've got some things to do."

"Maybe you could come up later."

"Thanks, but—"

"It's a nice place," Clyde said, and shrugged.

"Well, the thing is—"

"They've never had me in there on anything big, if that's what's bothering you."

"That's not—"

"I'd have told you if it was anything worse than a misdemeanor."

"I know, but—"

"They just think it's fun to pick me up every now and then, that's all." He made a contemptuous face, and then said, "Cops."

"Well, thank you very much," Roger said, standing, "but—"

"Will you come up later?"

"No, I don't think so."

"I have a poodle," Clyde said.

"That's—"

"His name is Shatzie, he's a nice dog, you'd like him."

"I'm sorry," Roger said.

"Please," Clyde said, and looked up at him.

Roger shook his head.

"No," he said.

He kept shaking his head.

"No," he said again, and then walked away from the bench and out of the park.

He found the post office on Culver Avenue and he went in and made out a postal money order for one hundred dollars, made payable to Dorothy Broome. The money order cost him thirty-five cents, and he spent another six cents for a stamped envelope, which he addressed to his mother on Terminal Street in Carey. He put the money order in the envelope, sealed it and then took it directly to the window and handed it to the clerk.

"Will that get there by tomorrow?" he asked.