Ed McBain - Lady Killer

'I'm not married.'

'Okay, but suppose. You going to send me to jail for protecting my home?'

'That's up to the judge,' Hawes said.

Begley's voice went even lower. 'Let's judge it ourselves, huh?'

'What?'

'What'll it cost? Three bills? Half a century?'

'You've got the wrong cop,' Hawes said.

'Come on, come on,' Begley said, smiling.

Hawes picked up the phone and buzzed the desk. Artie Rnowles, the sergeant who'd relieved Murchison at 4.00 p.m., answered.

'Artie, this is Cotton Hawes. You can book this bum. Make it second-degree assault. Send somebody up for him, will you?'

'Right!' Knowles said.

'You kidding?' Begley asked.

'I'm serious,' Hawes said.

'You're turning down five hundred bucks?'

'Are you offering it? We can add that to the charge.'

'Never mind, never mind,' Begley said hastily. 'I ain't offering nothing. Boy!'

He was still 'Boy'-ing when the patrolman led him downstairs, passing Bert Kling in the hallway. Kling was a tall and youthful blond detective. He was wearing a leather jacket and dungarees. His denim shirt under the jacket was stained with sweat.

'Hi,' he said to Hawes. 'What's up?'

'Assault,' Hawes said. 'You finished for the day?'

'Yeah,' Kling said. 'This waterfront plant is for the birds. I'll never learn anything. There isn't a guy on the docks who doesn't know I'm a cop.'

'Have they really tipped to you?'

'I guess not, but nobody's talking about heroin, that's for sure. Why the hell doesn't Pete leave this to the Narcotics Squad?'

'He's trying to get a jump on the precinct pushers. Wants to know where the stuff's coming in. You know how Pete feels about dope.'

'Whose hand is Steve holding, outside?'

'Hysterical mother,' Hawes said, and then he heard Meyer's voice coming up the stairway. Kling took off his jacket.

'Brother, I'm hot,' he said. 'You ever try unloading a ship?'

'Nope,' Hawes said.

'Get in there, you rotten hood,' Meyer said, 'and don't give me any back talk.' He glanced at the woman on the bench only cursorily, and then shoved at his prisoner. The man he shoved was wearing handcuffs. The cuffs were tight on his wrists.

A pair of police handcuffs resembles the five-and-dime stuff purchased for kids, except the police stuff is for real. They are made out of steel, forged into a slender, narrow, impervious, portable jail. The movable arm is bolted into the body of the cuff. The movable arm has a saw-tooth edge that, when engaged with the body, catches and holds there. Like blood travelling through a vein, the saw-tooth edge cannot reverse its course; it can only move forward. It can, in fact, move completely through the body of the cuff itself, completing a full circle, so that a key is not necessary to open the wristlet before it is clamped on to the wrist. The arresting officer simply squeezes the movable arm into and through the body of the cuff until the arm emerges on the other side. He then clamps it on to the wrist and wedges it shut again. The wrist prevents the movable arm from making the full circle again. To take the cuff off the wrist, a key is necessary.

A trio of metal links attaches one wrist cuff to the other. The cuffs are not at all comfortable. If they are placed on the wrists with care, it is possible to keep them from biting into the flesh. But the average arresting officer squeezes the cuff to snap the movable arm into its open position, and then hastily clamps the cuff on to the wrist and squeezes again until the metal collides with flesh and bone. When a pair of handcuffs is taken off a prisoner, the prisoner's wrists are usually raw and lacerated—and sometimes bleeding.

Not very much delicacy had been used on the man Meyer led into the squad-room. He had just been shooting it out with a gang of policemen, and when they had finally collared him, they'd clamped the cuffs on to his wrists with barely controlled ferocity. The metal was biting into his flesh and paining him. Meyer shoved him into the room, and the metal cuffs bit further as he moved his arms trying to maintain his balance.

'Here's a big man,' Meyer said to Hawes. 'Tried to hold off half the precinct, didn't you, big man?'

The prisoner did not answer.

'The jewellery store on Tenth and Culver,' Meyer said. 'He was inside with a gun when the beat patrolman spotted him. Brave man. A daylight hold-up. You're a brave man, aren't you?'

The prisoner did not answer.

'He started shooting the minute he saw the patrolman. A cruising squad car heard the shots and joined the battle, and then radioed for another car. The second car called back here for help. A regular hero's siege, huh, big man?' Meyer asked.

The prisoner did not answer.

'Sit down, big man,' Meyer said.

The prisoner sat.

'What's your name?'

'Louis Gallagher.'

'You been in trouble before, Gallagher?'

'No.'

'We'll check it, so don't start with a snow job.'

'I've never been in trouble before,' Gallagher said.

'Miscolo got any coffee?' Kling asked, and he started down the corridor. Carella was just returning from the steps. 'Get rid of her, Steve?'

'Yeah,' Carella said. 'How were the docks?'

'Hot.'

'You plan on going home?'

'Yeah. Soon as I have some coffee.'

'You'd better stick around. We've got a nut loose.'

'What do you mean?'

'A letter. Going to kill a dame at eight tonight. Stick around. Pete may need you.'

'I'm bushed, Steve.'

'No kidding?' Carella said, and he walked into the squad-room.

'You've got a record, haven't you, Gallagher?' Meyer asked.

'No. I told you once already.'

'Gallagher, we've got a lot of unsolved hold-ups in this neighbourhood.'

'That's your problem. You're the cops.'

'You do them?'

'I held up the store today because I need dough. That's all. This is the first time I ever did anything like this. How about taking the cuffs off and letting me go?'

'Oh, brother, you slay me,' Willis said. He turned to Hawes. 'He tries to shoot us, and then he cops a plea.'

'Who's copping a plea?' Gallagher said. 'I'm asking you to forget the whole thing.'

Willis stared at the man as if he were a dangerous lunatic ready to begin slashing passers-by with a razor. 'It must be the heat,' he said unblinkingly.

'Come on,' Gallagher said. 'How about it? How about giving me a break?'

'Look—'

'What the hell did I do? Shoot a little? Did I hurt anybody? Hell, I gave you a little excitement. Come on, be good guys. Take off these cuffs and send me on my way.'

Willis mopped his brow. 'He isn't kidding, you know that, don't you, Meyer?'

'Come on, Meyer,' Gallagher said, 'be a sp—' and Meyer slapped him across the face.

'Don't talk to me, big man. Don't use my name, or I'll ram it down your throat. This your first hold-up?'

Gallagher looked at Meyer with hooded eyes, nursing his hurt cheek. 'You I wouldn't give the sweat off my—' he started, and Meyer hit him again.

'How many other hold-ups you pull in this precinct?'

Gallagher was silent.

'Somebody asked you a question,' Willis said.

Gallagher looked up at Willis, including him in his hatred.

Carella walked over to the group. 'Well, well, hello, Louie,' he said.

Gallagher looked at him blankly. 'I don't know you,' he said.

'Why, Louie,' Carella said, 'your memory is getting bad. Don't you remember me? Steve Carella. Think, Louie.'

'Is this guy a bull?' Gallagher asked. 'I never seen him before in my life.'

'The bakery, Louie? Nineteen forty-nine? South Third? Remember, Louie?'

'I don't eat cake,' Gallagher said.

'You weren't there buying cake, Louie. You were sticking up the joint. I happened to be walking by. Remember now?'

'Oh,' Gallagher said. 'That.'