Ed McBain - Killer's Choice

'Four thousand dollars worth of stock!' he shouted. 'Who's supposed to pay for that? Me? Am I supposed to take the loss?'

'Would you like the police department to send you a cheque, Mr Phelps?' Meyer asked. He asked the question patiently, and with guileless blue eyes, for Meyer Meyer was a very patient man. His father, you see, had considered himself something of a homegrown comedian and had thought it would be sidesplittingly humorous to give his son a given name which would match his surname. The result was Meyer Meyer, a truly hilarious master piece, a very funny bit of nomenclature. Meyer happened to be an Orthodox Jew who was raised in a predominantly Gentile neighbourhood. If the kids in the streets needed any further provocation for beating him up whenever the opportunity presented itself, Meyer's double-barrelled name provided it. He had, over the years, developed an almost supernatural patience concerning the accidents of birth and the vagaries of funny fathers. The patience had left almost no physical scars—except a completely bald head before Meyer had reached the age of thirty. He was now thirty-seven, and he was missing a bar mitzvah, and he leaned across the desk with utmost patience and waited for Mr Phelps's answer.

'Well, who is supposed to pay for it?' Phelps wanted to know. 'Me? Who pays for the salary of policemen in this city, if not me? So what do I get in return? Do I get protection? Does four thousand dollars worth of destruction…?'

'A girl was killed,' Meyer said patiently.

'Yes, yes, I know,' Phelps said. 'Do you know how long it's taken me to build that spot? It's not on the main drag, you know, it's not in a brightly lighted area. People come there because of the reputation I've built, and that's the only reason. There are more liquor stores in this precinct than…'

'What time did you leave the shop last night, Mr Phelps?' Meyer asked.

'What difference does it make? Did you see the place? Did you see all those broken bottles? Almost my entire stock! Where was the cop on the beat? How could anyone break all those bottles without attracting…?'

'And fire four shots. Whoever broke the bottles fired four shots, Mr Phelps.'

'Yes, yes, I know. All right, there aren't many apartment buildings in the block, no people to hear. But isn't a cop supposed to hear? Where was the cop on the beat? In some damn bar drinking himself silly?'

'He was, as a matter of fact, answering another call.'

'What's more important? My stock, or another damn call?'

'Your stock is very important, Mr Phelps,' Meyer said. 'Without your stock, the people of this precinct might very well shrivel up and die. The police department never underestimated the value of your stock. But a man was being held up approximately twelve blocks away. A cop can handle only one crime at a time.'

'Suppose my store was being held up? What then, huh?'

'Your store wasn't being held up. As I understand it, none of the money in the cash register was touched.'

'Thank God I'd only left about fifty dollars for Annie. Just to wind up the night.'

'Had Annie worked for you a long time?'

'About a year.'

'Would you say…?'

'God, all that stock. It'll cost a fortune to replace.'

'What about Annie?' Meyer said, and his patience seemed suddenly to wear very thin.

'Annie?'

'The girl who was killed. The girl who was laying with her broken body and her pretty face in the goddamn remains of your stock !'

'Oh. Annie.'

'Can we talk about her for a few minutes? Would that be all right with you, Mr Phelps?'

'Yes, of course. Certainly.'

'Annie Boone. Is that her name as you knew it?'

'Yes.'

'And she worked for you for a year, is that right?'

'Yes. Just about a year.'

'Was she married?'

'Yes.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes.'

'We have her listed as divorced.'

'Oh. Well, yes, I suppose she was.'

'One child, is that right? Left the child with her mother when she was working.'

'Yes, that's right. A boy, I believe.'

'No,' Meyer said. 'A girl.'

'Oh. Was it a girl? Well, then I suppose so.'

'Thirty-two years old, right, Mr Phelps?'

'Yes. Thirty-two or thirty-three.'

'Are you married, Mr Phelps?'

'Me?'

'Yes.'

'I thought we were talking about Annie?'

'We were. Now we're talking about you.'

'Yes, I'm married.'

'How long?'

'Fourteen years.'

'Children?'

'No. No children.'

'How old are you, Mr Phelps?'

'I'm forty-one.'

'Get along?'

'What?'

'Do you get along with your wife?'

'What!'

'I said, 'Meyer repeated patiently, 'do you get along with your wife?'

'Well, of course I do! What the hell kind of a question is that to ask?'

'Don't get excited, Mr Phelps. Lots of men don't.'

'Well, I do! And I don't see how this line of questioning is going to find the person who wrecked my store.'

'We're primarily interested in the person who did murder, Mr Phelps.'

'Then I suppose I should be delighted that Annie was killed. Otherwise the police would be happy to pass off the wreckage as just one of those unfortunate breaks.'

'I think you're oversimplifying it, Mr Phelps,' Meyer said. He looked up suddenly. 'Do you own a revolver?'

'What?'

'A revolver? A pistol? A gun?'

'No.'

'Are you sure?'

'Of course, I'm sure.'

'We can check, you know.'

'Of course I know you can ch…' Phelps stopped talking. Slow recognition crossed his face. He studied Meyer, and then a scowl brought his eyebrows into sharp angry wings. 'What are you saying?'

'Hmh?' Meyer asked.

'I'm not a suspect, am I? You're not saying that I'm a suspect?'

Meyer nodded sadly. 'Yes, Mr Phelps,' he said. 'I'm afraid you are.'

The man in Lieutenant Byrnes's office was six feet two inches tall, and he weighed one hundred and ninety pounds. He had blue eyes and a square jaw with a cleft chin. His hair was red, except for a streak over his left temple where he had once been knifed and where the hair had curiously grown in white after the wound had healed. He had a straight unbroken nose, and a good mouth with a wide lower lip. There was something of arrogance on his face, as if he did not approve of the lieutenant, or of Carella who stood alongside the lieutenant's desk, or even in fact of the lieutenant's office.

'Steve,' Byrnes said, 'this is… ah…' Byrnes consulted the sheet of paper in his right hand. '… ah… Cotton Hawes.' He looked at the redhead curiously. 'Is that right? Cotton Hawes?'

'Yes, sir. Cotton.'

Byrnes cleared his throat. 'Cotton Hawes,' he said again, and he stole a somewhat surreptitious glance at Carella, and then was silent for a moment as if he were allowing the name to penetrate the layers of his mind. 'Detective 2nd Grade,' he said at last, 'be working out of this squad from now on. Transfer from the 30th.'

Carella nodded.

'This is Steve Carella,' Byrnes said.

Carella extended his hand. 'Glad to know you.'

'Carella,' Hawes answered, and he took Carella's hand in a firm grip. There were red hairs curling on the backs of Hawes's hands, and the hands were big. But Carella noticed that he did not try a bonecrusher handshake, the way some big men did. He gripped Carella's hand firmly and briefly, and then let it drop.

'I thought Steve might show you the ropes,' Byrnes said.

'How did you mean, sir?' Hawes asked.

'Huh?'

'How did you mean, sir?'

'Show you around,' Byrnes said. 'The squad, and the house, and maybe the streets. Won't hurt to get to know the precinct.'

'No, sir.'

'In the meantime, Cotton…' Byrnes paused. 'Is… ah… that what people call you? Cotton?'

'Yes, sir. Cotton.'

'Well… ah… in the meantime, Hawes, we're happy to have you aboard. You won't find the 87th to be a garden spot, not after working in the 30th. But it's not such a bad dump.'