Ed McBain - He Who Hesitates

"How are you, Ralph?" Roger said.

They turned the corner now, and were walking toward a small luncheonette in the middle of the block. A vent blew condensing vapor out onto the sidewalk in an enormous white billow. There was the smell of frying food on the air, heavy and greasy. Roger hesitated outside the door, and Ralph said, "Come on, it's good."

"Well, all right," Roger said, and they went in.

The place was small and warm, with eight or nine stools covered in red leatherette and ranged before a plastic-topped counter. A fat man with hardly any hair was behind the counter, his sleeves rolled up over muscular forearms.

"Yeah?" he said as they sat down.

"Coffee for my friend," Ralph said. "Hot chocolate for me." He turned to Roger and lowered his voice confidentially. "Chocolate makes my back break out in pimples," he said, "but who gives a damn, huh? What is it you're up here for? You're not a bull, are you?"

"What's that?" Roger asked.

"A cop."

"No."

"What then? A T-man?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure."

"We had a guy around here two, three months ago — wait a minute, it must've been just before Christmas, that's right — he was a T-man, trying to smell out some junk. He had some case." Ralph paused. "You don't look like a fed to me, I guess I can take a chance."

"What kind of chance?"

"I mean, man, suppose you're a fed, what then?"

"What then?"

"Suppose I'm holding?"

"Holding what?"

"Some junk."

"Oh."

"It could be bad for me, you know."

"Sure," Roger said.

"I'm taking a big chance just being nice to you."

"Yes, I know." Roger said, and smiled.

"You're not, are you?"

"No."

"The Law, I mean."

"That's right."

"Good."

There was a pause as the man behind the counter brought their beverages and put them down. Ralph picked up his hot chocolate, sipped at it, and then turned to Roger again.

"What are you?" he said. "If not The Law?"

"Just a person. Ordinary person, that's all."

"What are you doing around here?"

"I took a room up here a few nights ago." ' "What for?"

"I came to the city to take care of some business."

"What kind of business?"

"Some stuff I had to sell."

"Hot bills?"

"No."

"You're not pushing, are you?"

"What do you mean?"

"No, I guess you're not." Ralph shrugged. "What did you come to sell?"

"Bowls. And spoons. And benches. Things like that."

"Yeah?" Ralph said skeptically.

"That's right. We've got a little woodworking shop upstate, my brother and me."

"Oh," Ralph said. He seemed disappointed.

"So I brought the stuff in to try to sell it."

"How'd you get here?"

"In the truck. We've got a little pickup truck, my brother and me."

"What kind of truck?"

"A '59 Chevy."

"Can you carry a lot in it?"

"I guess so. Why?"

"Well, I mean how big a load can it carry?"

"I don't know exactly. It's not too big, but I suppose—"

"Could a piano fit in it?"

"I guess so. Why? Do you want to move a piano?"

"No, I'm just trying to get an idea. There are times when guys I know could use a truck, you follow?"

"For what?"

"To move stuff."

"What kind of stuff?"

"Stolen," Ralph said conversationally, and took another sip at the chocolate.

"Oh," Roger said.

"What do you think?"

"I don't think I could let you have the truck to move stolen goods."

"Mmm," Ralph said, and studied him for a moment, and then sipped at the chocolate again.

The door to the luncheonette opened. A tall heavy man wearing a brown overcoat came into the room, closed the door noisily, took off his coat, hung it on a wall hook, rubbed his hands together briskly, and came over to the counter.

"Coffee and a French cruller," he said to the counterman, and then turned to glance at Roger, and noticed Ralph sitting at the end of the counter. "Well, well," the man said, "look what crawled out from under the rocks."

Ralph looked up from his chocolate, nodded briefly, and said, "Good morning."

"I thought you hibernated from Christmas to Easter, Ralphie."

"No, only bears hibernate," Ralph said.

"I thought what you did was hole up in that apartment of yours with enough heroin to last you through the whole winter, that's what I thought you did."

"I don't know what you mean by heroin," Ralph said.

"Who's your friend here?" the man asked. "One of your junkie playmates?"

"Neither one of us are junkies," Ralph said. "You know I kicked the habit, what are you making a big fuss about?"

"Yeah, sure," the man said. He turned to the counterman. "You see this guy, Chip?" he said. "This guy is the biggest junkie in the neighborhood. He'd steal his grandmother's glass eye to hock it for a fix. Am I right, Ralphie?"

"Wrong," Ralph said. "Wrong as usual."

"Sure. How many crooked deals do you get involved in every day, I mean besides the normal criminal act of possessing narcotics."

"I'm not involved in any criminal activity," Ralph said, with dignity. "And if you care to shake me down right now, I'd be happy to have you do so. Voluntarily. If you think I'm holding."

"You hear that, Chip?" the man said to the counterman. "He wants me to shake him down. I've got half a mind to do it. When they're so eager for a shakedown, it usually means they've got something to hide."

"Argh, leave him alone, Andy," the counterman said.

"Sure, leave him alone, Andy," Ralph said.

"To you, pal, it's Detective Parker. And don't forget it."

"Excuse me, Detective Parker. Pardon me for living."

"Yeah," Parker said. "Thanks," he said to the counterman as he put down the coffee and cruller. He took a huge bite of the cruller, almost demolishing it with the single bite, and then picked up his coffee cup and took a quick noisy gulp and put the cup down on the saucer again, sloshing coffee over the sides. He belched and then turned to look at Ralph briefly, and then said to Roger, "Is he a friend of yours?"

"We just met," Ralph answered.

"Who asked you?" Parker said.

"We're friends," Roger said.

"What's your name?" Parker asked. He picked up the coffee and sipped at it without looking at Roger. When Roger did not answer, he turned toward him and said again, "What's your name?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"You're consorting with a known criminal. I have a right to ask you questions."

"Are you a policeman?"

"I'm a detective, and I work out of the 87th Squad, and here's my identification," Parker said. He threw his shield, pinned to a leather tab, on to the counter. "Now what's your name?"

Roger looked at the shield. "Roger Broome," he said.

"Where do you live, Roger?"

"Upstate. In Carey."

"Where's that?"

"Near Huddleston."

"Where the hell is Huddleston? I never heard of it."

Roger shrugged. "About a hundred and eighty miles from here."

"You got an address in the city?"

"Yes, I'm staying in a place about four or five blocks from—"

"The address."

"I don't know the address offhand. A woman named—"

"What street is it on?"

"Twelfth."

"And where?"

"Off Culver."

"You staying in Mrs. Dougherty's place?"

"That's right," Roger said. "Agnes Dougherty."

"What are you doing here in the city?"

"I came in to sell the woodenware my brother and I make in our shop."

"And did you sell it?"

"Yes "

"When?"

"Yesterday."

"When are you leaving the city?"

"I'm not sure."

"What are you doing with this junkie here?"

"Come on, Parker," Ralph said. "I told you we just—"

"Detective Parker."

"All right, Detective Parker, Detective Parker, all right? We just met. Why don't you leave the guy alone?"