Эд Макбейн - Ice

“What happened?” one of the drunks asked breathlessly and with sincere interest. This was really turning into a marvelous morning! First the topless dancer, then the stand-up comic, who was now becoming a very fine dramatic actor with a good sense of timing and a wonderful supporting cast of actors in masks as in the Japanese traditional No theater.

“Do I need an attempted armed robbery at nine in the morning?” Willis asked the cageful of drunks. “Do I need an armed robbery at any time of day?” he asked the pregnant hooker. “I stop in a garage to get my tires changed and to take a leak, and I run into these two punks.”

“So what’d you do?” the drunk insisted. The suspense was unbearable, and all this talk about taking a leak was making him want to pee, too.

“I almost ran out of there,” Willis said. “What would you have done?” he asked Hawes. “You’re zipping up your fly and suddenly there are two punks with .45s in their hands?”

“I’d have run,” Hawes said, and nodded solemnly.

“Of course,” Willis said. “Any cop in his right mind would’ve run.”

“I’d have run, too,” Carella said, nodding.

“Me, too,” Meyer said.

“No question,” Willis said.

He was beginning to enjoy this. He was hoping the drunk would ask him again about what had happened back there at the garage. Like any good actor, he was beginning to thrive on audience feedback. At five feet eight inches tall, Willis had minimally cleared the height requirement for policemen in this city — at least when he had joined the force. Things had changed since; there were now uniformed cops, and even some detectives, who resembled fire hydrants more than they did law enforcers. But until recently, Willis had most certainly been the smallest detective anyone in this city had ever seen, with narrow bones and an alert cocker-spaniel look on his thin face, a sort of younger Fred Astaire look-alike carrying a .38 Detective’s Special instead of a cane, and kicking down doors instead of dancing up staircases. Willis knew judo the way he knew the Penal Code, and he could lay a thief on his back faster than any six men using fists. He wondered now if he should toss one of the masked men over his shoulder, just to liven up the action a bit. He decided instead to tell what had happened back there at the garage.

“I pulled my gun,” he said, and to demonstrate, pulled the .38 from its shoulder holster and fanned the air with it. “These two heroes here immediately yell, ‘Don’t shoot!’ You want to know why? Because their own guns aren’t loaded! Can you imagine that? They go in for a stickup, and they’re carrying empty guns!”

“That ain’t such a good story,” the previously interested drunk said.

“So go ask for your money back,” Willis said. “Sit down, punks,” he said to the masked men.

“We’re handcuffed together. How can we sit?” one of them said.

“On two chairs,” Willis said, “like Siamese twins. And take off those stupid masks.”

“Don’t,” one of them said to the other.

“Why not?” the other one said.

“We don’t have to,” the first one said. “We know our constitutional rights,” he said to Willis.

“I’ll give you rights,” Willis said. “I could’ve got shot, you realize that?”

“How?” Meyer said. “You just told us the guns—”

“I mean if they’d been loaded,” he said, and just then Genero came up the hall from the men’s room. He said, “Who turned off my radio?” looked around for the pregnant hooker, the only one of his prisoners who wasn’t in the detention cage, spotted her sitting on the edge of Hawes’s desk, walked swiftly toward her, and was saying, “Okay, sister, let’s...” when suddenly she began screaming at him. The scream scared Genero half out of his wits. He ducked and covered his head as if he’d suddenly been caught in a mortar attack. The scream scared all the drunks in the cage, too. In defense, they all began screaming as well, as if they’d just seen mice coming out of the walls and bats flying across the room to eat them.

The woman’s strenuous effort, her penetrating, persistent, high-pitched angry scream — aside from probably breaking every window within an eight-mile radius — also broke something else. As the detectives and the drunks and the two masked men watched in male astonishment, they saw a huge splash of water cascade from between the pregnant hooker’s legs. The drunks thought she had wet her pants. Willis and Hawes, both bachelors, thought so, too. Carella and Meyer, who were experienced married men, knew that the woman had broken water, and that she might go into labor at any moment. Genero, his hands over his head, thought he had done something to provoke the lady to pee on the floor, and he was sure he would get sent to his room without dinner.

“Madre de Dios!” the woman said, shocked, and clutched her belly.

“Get an ambulance!” Meyer yelled to Hawes.

Hawes picked up the phone receiver and jiggled the hook.

“My baby’s comin’,” the woman said, very softly, almost reverently, and then very quietly lay down on the floor near Meyer’s desk.

“Dave,” Hawes said into the phone, “we need a meat wagon, fast! We got a pregnant lady up here about to give birth!”

“You know how to do this?” Meyer asked Carella.

“No. Do you?”

“Help me,” the woman said with quiet dignity.

“For Christ’s sake, help her!” Hawes said, hanging up the phone.

“Me?” Willis said.

“Somebody!” Hawes said.

The woman moaned. Pain shot from her contracting belly into her face.

“Get some hot water or something,” Carella said.

“Where?” Willis said.

“The Clerical Office,” Carella said. “Steal some of Miscolo’s hot water.”

“Help me,” the woman said again, and Meyer knelt beside her just as the phone on Carella’s desk rang. He picked up the receiver.

“87th Squad, Carella,” he said.

“Just a second,” the voice on the other end said. “Ralph, will you please pick up that other phone, please!”

In the detention cage, the drunks were suddenly very still. They pressed against the mesh. They watched as Meyer leaned over the pregnant woman. They tried to hear his whispered words. The woman screamed again, but this time they did not echo her scream with their own screams. This was not a scream of anger. This was something quite different. They listened to the scream in awe, and were hushed by it.

“Sorry,” the voice on the phone said, “they’re ringing it off the hook today. This is Levine, Midtown East. We had a shooting around midnight, DOA, girl named—”

“Listen,” Carella said, “can you call back a little later? We’ve got a sort of emergency up here.”

“This is a homicide,” Levine said, as if that single word would clear all the decks for action, cause whoever heard it to drop whatever else he was doing and heed the call to arms. Levine was right.

“Shoot,” Carella said.

“Girl’s name was Sally Anderson,” Levine said. “That mean anything to you?”

“Nothing,” Carella said, and looked across the room. Willis had come back from the Clerical Office not only with Miscolo’s boiling water, but with Miscolo himself. Miscolo was now kneeling on the other side of the woman on the floor. Carella realized all at once that Miscolo and Meyer were going to try delivering the baby.

“Reason I’m calling,” Levine said, “it looks like this may be related to something you’re working.”

Carella moved his desk pad into place and picked up a pencil. He could not take his eyes off what was happening across the room.