Ed McBain: See Them Die

Now, walking down the street, Carella still felt foolish. For if Pepe Miranda had not been inside a church since the day of his baptism, Carella hadn't been inside one — not to pray, at least — since shortly after his confirmation. That was a long, long time ago. Parading down the street now in a priest's long black apparel, feeling the cold hard snout of a .38 against his belly beneath the black cloth, trying to look pious as hell, he felt only foolish. A set of prayer beads was entwined around his right hand. He quickly shifted them to his left, so that his right would be free for a quick draw if it came to that.

"What's the plan?" he asked Byrnes.

"I'll tell Miranda we've got his priest. He'll probably check from the window. Then you go up."

"Then what?"

"If he wants to confess or something, let him confess. Watch for your chance, and slug him if he turns his back."

"But you told Father Donovan..."

"Yeah, I lied in church," Byrnes said. "Actually, Miranda isn't going to make any confession, Steve. He's going to grab you the minute you walk into that apartment, and he's going to use you as a shield when he walks out."

"What do I do? Wait for my chance and then..."

"You do nothing. Let him lead you out I'll have men on either side of the doorway. The minute he steps into the street, you'd better duck." Byrnes paused. "I'd feel a lot happier if I were doing this myself, Steve."

"Why?" Carella grinned. "Because I might get killed? My goodness, what a thing to be worrying about."

"You're not worried about it, huh?"

"Didn't you hear that reporter, Pete?"

"What do you mean?"

"Life is cheap," Carella answered.

They had come up to the squad car now. Byrnes reached into it for the megaphone. "You set, Steve?"

"As set as I'll ever be."

"Steve, we're going to begin blasting the minute he clears the front stoop. The shots will be coming from behind him, but I can't guarantee that all these bums learned anything at the police academy. When you clear the stoop, make a dive for the sidewalk."

"Okay."

"Good luck."

"Thanks." Carella paused. "Suppose he just wants to pray a little?"

Byrnes shrugged. "You've got a set of prayer beads. Use them." He paused. "Good luck," he said again.

"Let's get it moving," Carella said, "before I chicken out."

Byrnes picked up the megaphone and blew into it. "Miranda?" he called. There was no answer. "Miranda?" Still no answer.

"Maybe he slit his own throat," Carella whispered.

"Miranda, this is Lieutenant Byrnes. Can you hear me?"

"I hear you. What is it?"

"We've got your priest."

"Where is he? Get him out in the middle of the street. I want to see him."

Carella nodded at Byrnes, and then took a deep breath. Slowly, he walked to the center of the street.

"You can't see him if you don't look," Byrnes said.

There was a long silence. Suddenly, Miranda's head popped up above the window sill. He looked into the street for no longer than ten seconds, and then dropped from sight again. Even in that short a time, Byrnes and Carella saw that his eyes were puffed and his face was streaked.

"All right," Miranda shouted. "Send him up."

"Not so fast, Miranda," Byrnes said, thinking, I've got to make this look good. He knows we wouldn't send up a priest unless he makes some concession. He knows we're considering the idea that this may be a trap. He knows we're not stupid.

"What is it now?" Miranda said.

"The priest stays right where he is unless I get some promises from you," Byrnes said.

"Here we go," Miranda answered, and the people in the street began chuckling.

"Yes, here we go, Miranda. I'm not sending up a man you can use as a shield to get out of that apartment."

"What kind of a louse do you think I am?"

"Do I have to answer that one?" Byrnes said, and again the crowd chuckled. This was beginning to get good. None of that grim stuff any more. Just a plain old battle of wits, like a good television routine.

"All right, cop, what do you want from me?"

"Number one: we're sending up an unarmed man who insists he wants to see you alone as a representative of God. I want you to respect that, Miranda." God forgive me, Byrnes thought.

"All right, all right."

"Number two: I want you to talk to him. About coming out of there. I don't know why you want to see him, and I don't care. But I want your promise that you'll talk to him about coming out."

"Is that all?"

"Do I have your promise?"

"What makes you think I'll keep any promise I make?"

"This is a man of God, Miranda."

"Okay, okay, I promise."

"Did you hear him, Father?" Byrnes asked Carella.

"I heard him," Carella answered.

"You can enter the building any time you like."

Carella nodded, sucked in another deep breath, walked directly to the front stoop of the tenement, and entered the hallway.

Byrnes put down the megaphone, looked at his watch, and then told Captain Frick he wanted four of the best marksmen he could find. Then he began praying.

16

If you're God, you've got all these little things to take care of, you see. Oh, not the business of getting the sun to rise on time, or the stars to come out. And not riding herd on the seasons so that they arrive when they're supposed to, not things like that. Those are the big things, and the big things almost take care of themselves. It's those damn little things that get so bothersome. And if you're God, you can't just ignore them, you know. You can, of course, move in mysterious ways your wonders to perform. This means that you can leave a few loose ends here and there and nobody will question them because you are, after all, God. Maybe you've got a bigger design in mind which will not become apparent to us poor slobs until maybe decades from now. Or centuries. So who are we to question? Being God, you are perfectly entitled to occasional sloppiness.

Or maybe these things aren't even in your control, who knows? Maybe you just sort of set the universe every day, the way somebody sets a clock, and then let it run on its own, fast or slow, however it wants to, without touching it again until it's run down and needs another winding. Maybe that's the way you operate, and nobody's going to question that either, God, you can bet your life on that, God.

Only sometimes, no offense meant, you ought to work a thing out and not just let it happen, you know? Like take that Puerto Rican girl and that sailor, take them for example. Now, being God, you could fix them up real fine, couldn't you? Like, for example, Zip and Cooch could find her, you see, and Zip is dragging her down the street towards Alfie's pad when wham! who should appear? The sailor! How's that, huh? He didn't go off with the whore Marge, you see. He only started to, but then he changed his mind. And here he is back on the street, face to face with China. He looks at her, and she looks at him, and their eyes lock, and slowly they walk across that street to each other, and tolerance and understanding flash in the sailor's eyes, I love you, China, coupled with a little bit of honest lust, I love you, Jeff, wham they clinch, and we fade out on Zip who shrugs his shoulders and says, "Oh well, what the hell, easy come, easy go."

How's that, God?"

That's great.

But that isn't the way it happened.

The street was impossible. The crowd was anxious for the kill now, anxious for the die to be cast either way. They didn't much give a damn at this moment whether or not Miranda would kill the priest and the police lieutenant and the commissioner and the mayor and the governor and even the president. They didn't care whether or not a cop on one of the rooftops would fire a lucky shot and catch Miranda splank between the eyeballs. They only wanted it to be over and done with, either way. And so the crowd was restless, and a little mean, and hot, and uncomfortable. It was a crowd which was beginning to resent this tie game which had run into fourteen innings. The tenth inning had been a treat and the eleventh a distinct bonus and the twelfth a lovely dividend, but the thirteenth brought on thoughts of other things to be done. Watching a game was great fun — but life was real and life was earnest, and life was going on outside that ball park.