Ed Mcbain - Cop Hater

"Well . . ." Bush paused. "I'd ... I'd better get to bed."

"Yes. You'd better."

"What I can't understand is why..."

"You won't even need a sheet in this weather," Alice interrupted.

"No, I guess not."

He went to the bed and took off his shoes and socks. He didn't want to undress because he didn't want to give her the satisfaction, now that he'd been denied, of knowing how she'd affected him. He took off his trousers and quickly got into the bed, pulling the sheet to his throat.

Alice watched him, smiling. "I'm reading Anapurna," she said.

"So?"

"I just happened to think of it."

Bush rolled over onto his side.

"I'm still hot," Alice said. "I think I'll take a shower. And then maybe I'll catch an air-conditioned movie. You don't mind, do you?"

"No," Bush mumbled.

She walked to the side of the bed and stood there for a moment, looking down at him. "Yes, I think I'll take a shower." Her hands went to her hips. Slowly, she rolled the panties down over the flatness of her stomach, past the hard jut of her crotch, over the whiteness of her thighs. The panties dropped to the floor, and she stepped out of them and stood by the bed looking down at Bush smiling.

He did not move. He kept his eyes on the floor, but he could see her feet and her legs, but he did not move.

"Sleep tight, darling," she whispered, and then she went into the bathroom.

He heard the shower when it began running. He lay on the soggy sheet and listened to the steady machine-gunning of the water. Then, over the sound of the shower, came the sound of the telephone, splitting the silence of the room.

He sat up and reached for the instrument.

"Hello?"

"Bush?"

"Yes?"

"This is Havilland. You better get down here right away."

"What's the matter?" Bush asked.

"You know that young rookie Kling?"

"Yeah?"

"He was just shot in a bar on Culver."

Chapter TWELVE

the squad room of the 87th resembled nothing so much as the locker room of the Boys' Club when Bush arrived. There must have been at least two dozen teen-agers crammed in behind the dividing rail and the desks beyond it. Add to this a dozen or so detectives who were firing questions, the answers to which were coming in two languages, and the bedlam was equivalent to the hush of a hydrogen bomb explosion.

The boys were all wearing brilliantly contrasting purple and gold jackets, and the words "The Grovers" decorated the back of each jacket. Bush, looked for Carella in the crowded room, spotted him, and walked over toward him quickly. Havilland, a tough cop with a cherubic face, shouted at one of the boys, "Don't give me any guff, you little punk, or I'll break your goddamn arm."

"You try it, dick," the kid answered, and Havilland cuffed him across the mouth. The boy staggered back, slamming into Bush as he went by. Bush shrugged his shoulders, and the boy flew back into Havilland's arms, as if he'd been brushed aside by a rhinoceros.

Carella was talking to two boys when Bush approached him.

"Who fired the gun?" he asked.

The boys shrugged.

"We'll throw you all in jail as accessories," Carella promised.

"What the hell happened?" Bush wanted to know.

"I was having a beer with Kling. Nice, peaceful off-duty beer. I left him there, and ten minutes later, when he's leaving the joint, he gets jumped by these punks. One of them put a slug in him."

"How is he?"

"He's at the hospital. The slug was a .22, went through his right shoulder. We figure a zip gun."

"You think this ties with the other kills?"

"I doubt it. The m.o.'s 'way off."

"Then why?"

"How the hell do I know? Looks like the whole city figures it's open season on cops." Carella turned back to the boys. "Were you with the gang when the cop was jumped?"

The boys would not answer.

"Okay, fellas," Carella said, "play it smart. See what that gets you. See how long The Grovers are gonna last under a rap like this one."

"We din' shoot no cop," one of the boys said.

"No? What happened, he shoot himself?"

"You ting we crazy?" the other boy said. "Shoot a bull?"

"This was a patrolman," Carella said, "not a detective."

"He wass wear a suit," the first boy said.

"Cops wear suits off-duty," Bush said. "Now how about it?"

"Nobody shoot a cop," the first boy said.

"No, except somebody did."

Lieutenant Byrnes came out of his office and shouted, "All right, knock it off! KNOCK IT OFF!"

The room fell immediately silent.

"Who's your talk man?" Byrnes asked.

"I am," a tall boy answered.

"What's your name?"

"Do-Do."

"What's your full name?"

"Salvador Jesus Santez."

"All right, come here, Salvador."

"The guys call me Do-Do."

"Okay, come here."

Santez walked over to where Byrnes was standing. He walked with a shuffle which was considered both hip and cool. The boys in the room visibly relaxed. This was their talk man, and Do-Do was a real gone stud. Do-Do would know how to handle this jive.

"What happened?" Byrnes asked.

"Little skirmish, that's all," Santez said.

"Why?"

"Jus' like that. We got the word passed down, so we joined the fray."

"What word?"

"You know, like a scout was out."

"No, I don't know. What the hell are you talking about?"

"Look, Dad . . ." Santez started.

"You call me 'Dad' again," Byrnes warned, "and I'll beat you black and blue."

"Well, gee, Da . . ." Santez stopped dead. "What you want to know?"

"I want to know why you jumped a cop."

"What cop? What're you talkin' about?"

"Look, Santez, don't play this too goddamn cute. You jumped one of our patrolmen as he came out of a bar. You beat him up, and one of your boys put a bullet in his shoulder. Now what the hell's the story?"

Santez considered Byrnes' question gravely.

"Well?"

"He's a cop?"

"What the hell did you think he was?"

"He was wearing a light blue summer suit!" Santez said, his eyes opening wide.

"What the hell's that got to do with it? Why'd you jump him? Why'd you shoot him?"

A mumbling was starting behind Santez. Byrnes heard the mumble and shouted, "Shut up! You've got your talk man, let him talk!"

Santez was still silent.

"What about it, Santez?"

"A mistake," Santez said.

"That's for damn sure."

"I mean, we didn't know he was a cop."

"Why'd you jump him?"

"A mistake, I tell you."

"Start from the beginning."

"Okay," Santez said. "We been giving you trouble lately?"

"No."

"Okay. We been minding our own business, right? You never hear from The Grovers, except when we protectin' our own, right? The last rumble you get is over there in The Silver Culvers' territory when they pick on one of our Juniors. Am I right?"

"Go ahead, Santez."

"Okay. Early today, there's a guy snooping around. He grabs one of our Seniors in a bar, and he starts pumpin' him."

"Which Senior?"

"I forget," Santez said.

"Who was the guy?"

"Said he was from a newspaper."

"What?"

"Yeah. Said his name was Savage, you know him?"

"I know him," Byrnes said tightly.

"Okay, so he starts askin' like how many pieces we got, and whether we got .45's, and whether we don't like the Law, things like that. This Senior, he's real hip. He tips right off this guy is trying to mix in The Grovers with the two bulls got knocked off around here. So he's on a newspaper, and we got a rep to protect. We don't want Law trouble. If this jerk goes back to his paper and starts printing lies about how we're mixed in, that ain't good for our rep."

"So what'd you do, Santez?" Byrnes asked wearily, thinking of Savage, and thinking of how he'd like to wring the reporter's neck.