Ed McBain - He Who Hesitates

The clerk looked at the address. "Supposed to," he said. "If you bring it in before five, it's supposed to get there by tomorrow. I can't vouch for the post office up there, though. They may let it lay around two, three days."

"No, they're very good," Roger said.

"Then it should get there tomorrow."

"Thank you." he said.

He came out of the post office and looked up at the sky, and figured there was just one more thing he had to do before going to the police station, and that was call his mother in Carey to tell her not to worry, that he wouldn't be home tonight the way he'd promised. A clock in a jeweler's window told him it still wasn't nine o'clock, but that was all right, his mother would have been up a long time already, just like he'd told Mrs. Dougherty. He wondered what Mrs. Dougherty would think when she got his valentine, he wished he could be around to see the look on her face when she opened it. Smiling he continued down the side street, looking for a phone booth. A bunch of teen-age boys and girls were standing on one of the front stoops, talking and laughing and smoking, all of them carrying schoolbooks, the girls clutching the books to their small high perfect breasts, the boys carrying them at arm's length or on straps. They'll be going to school any minute now, Roger thought, and remembered when he'd been going to school in Carey, and put the memory out of his mind, and saw the candy store some fifteen feet beyond where the kids were laughing and talking. He went into the store, saw the phone booth at the rear, and stopped at the counter to get change for a dollar bill. He waited until a fat Spanish woman came out of the booth. She smiled up at him as she went by. He sat in the booth smelling of her perfume and her sweat, and dialed the area code for Carey and then the number, Carey 7—3341, and waited while the phone rang on the other end.

"Hello?" his mother's voice said.

"Mom?"

"Roger? Is that you?"

"Yes, Mom."

"Where are you?"

"The city."

"Did you sell the stuff?"

"Yes, Mom."

"How much did you get?"

"A hundred and twenty-two dollars."

"That's more'n we figured, ain't it?" his mother said.

"It's forty-seven dollars more, Mom."

"That's right, it is," his mother said. "That's very good, son."

"It's because I went to that new place I was telling you about. The one I noticed in December, when I was in just before Christmas, do you remember?"

"Downtown there? In the Quarter?"

"That's the place. You know what he gave me for the salad bowls, Mom?"

"Which ones? The big ones?"

"Well, both."

"How much did he give you, Rog?"

"I sold him a dozen of the big ones for a dollar and a half each, Mom. That's more'n we get for them in the shop."

"I know it is. Is the man in his right mind?"

"Sure, he's going to mark them up quite a bit, Mom. I wouldn't be surprised he gets three, maybe even four dollars for those big ones."

"What about the little ones? How much did he pay for those?"

"He only took half a dozen of them."

"How much?"

"A dollar each." Roger paused. "We sell them for seventy-five at the shop, Mom."

"I know," his mother said, and laughed. "Makes me wonder if we're not selling ourselves cheap."

"Well, we don't get the crowd, you know."

"That's right," his mother said. "When are you coming home, son?"

"I sent you a money order for a hundred dollars, Mom, you look for it tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay, when are you coming home?"

"I'm not sure yet."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, there's—"

"What do you mean, you're not sure yet?"

"When I'll be home," Roger said, and the line went silent. He waited. "Mom?" he said.

"I'm here."

"How's ... uh ... how's Buddy?"

"He's fine."

"Mom?"

"Yes?"

"About ... uh ... coming home."

"Yes?"

"I don't know when."

"Yes, I heard you say that the first time."

"Well, there's something I've got to do, you see."

"What is it you have to do?" his mother asked.

"Well..." he said, and allowed his voice to trail into silence.

"Yes?"

"Actually," he said, "Buddy's there."

"Buddy's only a boy."

"Mom, he's twenty-two."

"That's a boy."

"I'm not much older than that myself, Mom." He paused. "I'm only twenty-seven, Mom. Not even."

"That's a man," she said.

"So I don't see—"

"That's a man," she said again.

"Anyway, I'm not sure what'll be. That's why I sent you the money order."

"Thank you," she said coldly.

"Mom?"

"What?"

"Are you sore?"

"No."

"You sound like you are."

"I'm not. My oldest son wants to leave me alone up here in the dead of winter—"

"Mom, you've got Buddy up there."

"Buddy is just a boy! Who's going to run the shop while you're gone? You know I haven't been feeling well, you know I—"

"Mom, this just can't be helped, that's all."

"What can't be helped?"

"This . . . thing I have to do."

"Which is what?"

"Mom, I guess if I wanted to tell you about it, I'd have done that already."

"Don't get fresh with me," she said. "You're still not too big to take down your pants and give you a good whipping."

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Now, what is it that's happened?"

"Nothing."

"Roger—"

"Nothing!" he said sharply. "I'm sorry, Mom, but it's nothing."

The line was silent again.

"You'll hear from me," he said, and before she could answer, he hung up.

3

The man huddled in the doorway of the building next to the candy store seemed to be about Roger's age, a tall thin man with a slight reddish-brown beard stubble. He was wearing a gray overcoat, the collar of which was turned up against his neck and held closed around his throat with one hand. He wore no hat and no gloves. His hand holding the coat collar was a deadly white. The other hand was in his pocket. He was watching the high school girls going up the street when Roger came out of the candy store. As Roger went past the building, he shifted his attention to him and came out of the doorway and down the steps.

"Hey!" he said.

Roger stopped and waited for the man, who walked up to him leisurely and without threat, smiling pleasantly.

"You looking for something?" the man said.

"No," Roger answered.

"I mean, you're not from the neighborhood, are you?"

"No."

"I thought maybe somebody sent you up here."

"For what?" Roger said.

"Anything you want," the man answered, falling into step as Roger began walking again. "You name it, we got it."

"There's nothing I want."

"You want a woman?"

"No, I—"

"What color? White, black, brown? Tan? Yellow even, you name it. We've got a whole streetful of women up here."

"No, I don't want a woman," Roger said.

"You prefer little girls maybe? How old? Nine, ten, eleven? Name it"

"No," Roger said.

"What then? Junk?"

"Junk?"

"Heroin, cocaine, morphine, opium, codeine, demerol, benzedrine, marijuana, phenobarb, goofballs, speedballs, you name it."

"Thanks, no," Roger said.

"What do you need then? A gun? A pad? An alibi? A fence? Name it."

"I'd like a cup of coffee," Roger said, and smiled.

"That's easy," the man said, and shrugged. "Here you meet a genie ready to give you three wishes, and all you want's a cup of coffee." He shrugged again. "Right around the corner there on the avenue," he said. "Coffee and. Best in the neighborhood."

"Good," Roger said.

"I'll join you," the man offered.

"How come everybody's so eager to join me this morning?" Roger asked.

"Who knows?" the man said, and shrugged. "Maybe it's national brotherhood week, huh? Who knows? What's your name?"

"Roger Broome."

"Pleased to know you, Roger," he said and relaxed his grip on the coat collar just long enough to extend his hand, take Roger's, and shake it briefly. The hand returned immediately to the open collar, pulling it tight around the throat. "I'm Ralph Stafford, pleased to know you."