Эд Макбейн - Bread

“Where were you this afternoon, a little before twelve?” Hawes asked.

“Man, you guys sure expect a person to pinpoint his whereabouts, don’t you?”

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to,” Hawes said.

“I got nothing to hide,” Avery said. “I was probably down at the clubhouse.”

“Anybody see you there?”

“Oh sure, lots of the guys...”

“ Besides members of the gang.”

“Only club members are allowed in the clubhouse.”

“By the clubhouse, do you mean the basement we found you in tonight?” Ollie asked.

“That’s the clubhouse,” Avery said.

The three detectives had moved closer to him, and they now formed a somewhat claustrophobic circle around his chair. They began to interrogate him more rapidly now, firing their questions one after the other, Avery at first turning to look at each of them in turn, and then finally directing all of his answers to Ollie, who stood directly in front of him.

“You got an annex to that clubhouse?” Ollie asked.

“No.”

“Where do you keep your arsenal?” Carella asked.

“We don’t have no arsenal, man. We’re a peace-loving club.”

“No guns?” Hawes asked.

“No knives?” Carella asked.

“No ball bats?” Ollie asked.

“None of that stuff.”

“You wouldn’t keep a stash of guns someplace else, huh?”

“No.”

“Someplace other than the clubhouse?”

“No.”

“Or knives?”

“No.”

“Charlie Harrod was stabbed today.”

“Didn’t know him.”

“He was also beaten to death.”

“Still don’t know him.”

“You familiar with that Kruger Street area?”

“Just a bit.”

“You just told us you shoot pool in Ace Billiards.”

“That’s right, I do. Every now and then.”

“That’s next door to where Charlie lived.”

“That a fact?”

“Apartment 6A, 1512 Kruger.”

“What about it?”

“Ever in that apartment?”

“Never.”

“Ever see Elizabeth Benjamin in the neighborhood?”

“Nope.”

“Did you know Charlie Harrod was a junkie?”

“Didn’t know what he was. Didn’t know the man, you dig?”

“Ever beat up a junkie?”

“Never.”

“That’s a lie,” Ollie said. “We had you punks in here six months ago for beating up a pusher named Shoemouth Kendricks.”

“That was a pusher, man. That wasn’t no junkie. Junkies are sick people. Pushers are what makes them sick.” Avery paused. “How come you know about that, anyway? You weren’t the cop who handled it.”

Ollie reached behind him, lifted a manila folder from the desk, and threw it into Avery’s lap. “This is the file on your little club, Mr. President. It gets thicker every day. We know all about you punks, and we know you stink.”

“Well now, I wouldn’t say exactly that, Mr. Weeks,” Avery said, and grinned, and handed the folder back to Ollie.

“We know, for example,” Ollie said, “that you keep your arsenal in the apartment of one Melissa Beam at 211 North 23rd, and that it consists of fourteen handguns, two dozen hand grenades, six World War Two bayonets and sheaths, and any number of switchblades, baseball bats, and sawed-off broom handles.”

“That’s a lie, man,” Avery said. “Who told you that jive?”

“A member of another little club called The Royal Savages.”

“ Those jerks?” Avery said disdainfully. “They wouldn’t know an arsenal from their own assholes. Anyway, if you thought all that stuff was over there on Twenty-third, how come you didn’t raid it?”

“Because the last time you were up here, Mr. President, you made all kinds of law-abiding promises to a detective named Thomas Boyd, and in return he made a deal not to hassle you or your club.”

“That’s right, we are law-abiding,” Avery said. “We keep the peace.”

“Detective Boyd is over on Twenty-third right this minute,” Ollie said, “busting into that apartment. I hope he doesn’t find any weapons we can trace back to you and your gang. Like, for example, the knife that was used on Charlie Harrod.”

“He won’t, don’t worry,” Avery said, but he seemed a trifle shaken now. He cleared his throat.

“What do you call Jamie Holder?” Carella said.

“I call him Holder.”

“You call him by his last name?”

“That’s right.”

“How come?”

“Jamie sounds like a pansy. He likes being called Holder. It’s a strong name. He’s a big man, and a proud man. Holder fits him good.”

“Ever hear of voiceprints?” Hawes asked.

“Nope.”

“They’re like fingerprints,” Carella said.

“We can compare them. We can make positive identifications of voices.”

“Ain’t that interesting,” Avery said.

“We’ve got your voice on tape,” Ollie said.

“You been taping this?” Avery said, and looked quickly around for a hidden recorder. “I didn’t give you permission to do that.”

“No, no, we haven’t taped this,” Ollie said, and smiled.

“We’ve got a tape, though,” Carella said, and smiled.

“You and Holder are the stars on it,” Hawes said, and smiled.

“Want to hear it, Avery?”

“Sure, why not?” Avery said, and shrugged, and folded his arms across his chest.

Ollie immediately left the squadroom. The tape recorder was in the Clerical Office down the hall, and he could have picked it up in thirty seconds flat, but he dallied for a full five minutes before returning to where Avery was sitting in his straight-backed chair, arms folded. Neither of the other two detectives had said a word to him while Ollie was gone. Now Ollie put the recorder on the desk, gave Avery a sympathetic look that translated as “Man, are you in trouble,” and stabbed at the PLAY button. Casually, the detectives stood around Avery Evans and watched him as he listened to the tape.

— Hawes? You better get here fast. The apartment. I did what you said, I stayed here. And now they’ve come to get me. The ones who killed Charlie. They’re outside on the fire escape. They’re gonna smash in here as soon as they work up the courage.

Avery blinked when he heard the sound of glass shattering. His arms still folded across his chest, he leaned forward only slightly when he heard the next voices:

— Get away from that phone!

— Holder, watch it!

— She’s...

— I’ve got her!

Elizabeth screamed, and Avery began to sweat. The perspiration popped out on his forehead and ran down over his temples and cheeks as he heard the click of the phone being replaced on its cradle, the sounds of the chair being overturned, the tattoo of feet on linoleum, Elizabeth sobbing, the brutal sounds of flesh yielding to weapons.

— Oh, please, no.

— Shut up, bitch!

— Holder, get her legs!

— Please, please.

There was another scream, and the sweat rolled over Avery’s jaw and into his beard, moved inexorably in rivulets down the corded muscles of his neck, and was sopped up by the white T-shirt under the blue denim gang jacket. He listened to the beating, blinked when he heard the voices again:

— Come on, that’s enough.

— Holder, lay off, you’re gonna kill her!

— Let’s go, let’s go.

— What’s that?

— Let’s get the hell out of here, man.

He listened to the running footsteps and the tinkle of the broken window shards, and turned his head away when Elizabeth moaned. The tape went silent.

Ollie cut off the machine. “Recognize any of those voices?”

Avery did not answer.

“The girl’s alive,” Hawes said. “She’ll identify you.”