Ed McBain - Give the Boys a Great Big Hand

“How do you mean serious?”

“Well, let’s say there could be a lot more involved here than just a Sullivan Act violation. Let’s put it that way.”

“You mean because I was banging Martha when you come in? Is that what you mean?”

“No, not that, either. Let’s say there is a very big juicy crime involved here maybe. And let’s say you could find yourself right in the middle of it. Okay? So level with us from the start, and things may go easier for you.”

“I don’t know what big juicy crime you’re talking about,” Cronin said.

“Well, you think about it a little,” Carella said.

“You mean the gat? Okay, I ain’t got a permit. Is that what you mean?”

“Well, that’s not too serious, Lennie,” Meyer said. “No, we’re not thinking about the pistol.”

“Then what? You mean like because Martha’s husband ain’t really croaked? You mean like because you got us on adultery?”

“Well, even that isn’t too serious, Lennie,” Carella said. “That we can talk about.”

“Then what? The junk?”

“The junk, Lennie?”

“Yeah, in the room.”

“Heroin, Lennie?”

“No, no, hey, no, nothing big like that. The mootah. Just a few sticks, though. Just for kicks. That ain’t so serious, now is it?”

“No, that could be very minor, Lennie. Depending on how much marijuana you had there in the room.”

“Oh, just a few sticks.”

“Well then, you’ve only got a possession rap to worry about. You weren’t planning on selling any of that stuff, were you, Lennie?”

“No, no, hey, no, it was just for kicks, just for me and Martha, like you know for kicks. We lit a few sticks before we hopped between the sheets.”

“Then that’s not too serious, Lennie.”

“So what’s so serious?”

“The boy.”

“What boy?”

“Martha’s son. Richard, that’s his name, isn’t it?”

“How do I know? I never even met the kid.”

“You never met him? How long have you known Martha?”

“I met her last night. In a bar. A joint called The Short-Snorter, you know it? It’s run by these two guys, they used to be in the China-Burma-India—”

“You only met her last night?”

“Sure.”

“She said you were the man she loved,” Carella said.

“Yeah, it was love at first sight.”

“And you never met her son?”

“Never.”

“You ever fly, Lennie?”

“Fly? How do you mean fly? You talking about the marijuana again?”

“No, fly. In an airplane.”

“Never. Just catch me dead in one of them things!”

“How long have you gone for black, Lennie?”

“Black? How do you mean black?”

“Your clothes. Your pants, your tie, your raincoat, your umbrella. Black.”

“I bought them for a funeral,” Cronin said.

“Whose funeral?”

“A buddy of mine. We used to run a crap game together.”

“You ran a crap game, too, Lennie? You’ve been a busy little man, haven’t you?”

“Oh, this wasn’t nothing illegal. We never played for money.”

“And your friend died recently, is that right?”

“Yeah. The other day. So I bought the black clothes. Out of respect. You can check. I can tell you the place where I bought them.”

“We’d appreciate that, Lennie. But you didn’t own these clothes on Wednesday, did you?”

“Wednesday. Now let me think a minute. What’s today?”

“Today is Saturday.”

“Yeah, that’s right, Saturday. No. I bought the clothes Thursday. You can check it. They probably got a record.”

“How about you, Lennie?”

“How about me? How do you mean how about me?”

“Have you got a record?”

“Well, a little one.”

“How little?”

“I done a little time once. A stickup. Nothing serious.”

“You may do a little more,” Carella said. “But nothing serious.”

In the Interrogation Room, Lieutenant Byrnes said, “You’re a pretty forthright woman, Mrs. Livingston, aren’t you?”

“I don’t like being dragged out of my house in the middle of the morning,” Martha said.

“Weren’t you embarrassed about going downstairs in your slip?”

“No. I keep my body good. I got a good body.”

“What were you and Mr. Cronin trying to hide, Mrs. Livingston?”

“Nothing. We’re in love. I’ll shout it from the rooftops.”

“Why did he try to get out of that room?”

“He wasn’t trying to get out. He told them what he was trying to do. He wanted to see if it was still raining.”

“So he was climbing out on the fire escape to do that, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you aware that your son Richard could be dead at this moment, Mrs. Livingston?”

“Who cares? Good riddance to bad rubbish. The people he was hanging around with, he’s better off dead. I raised a bum instead of a son.”

“What kind of people was he hanging around with?”

“A gang, a street gang, it’s the same story every place in this lousy city. You try to raise a kid right, and what happens? Please, don’t get me started.”

“Did your son tell you he was leaving home?”

“No. I already gave all this to another detective when I reported him missing. I don’t know where he is, and I don’t give a damn, as long as I get my relief checks. Now that’s that.”

“You told the arresting officers your husband was dead. Is that true?”

“He’s dead.”

“When did he die?”

“Three years ago.”

“Did he die, or did he leave?”

“It’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

“Not exactly.”

“He left.”

The room was suddenly very silent.

“Three years ago?”

“Three years ago. When Dickie was just sixteen. He packed up and left. It ain’t so easy to raise a boy alone. It ain’t so easy. And now he’s gone, too. Men stink. They all stink. They all want one thing. Okay, I’ll give it to them. But not here.” She tapped her chest. “Not here inside, where it counts. They all stink. Every single one of them.”

“Do you think your son might have run off with some of his friends?”

“I don’t know what he done, the little bastard, and I don’t care. Gratitude. I raised him alone after his father left. And this is what I get. He runs out on me. Quits his job and runs out. He’s just like all the rest of them, they all stink. You can’t trust any man alive. I hope he drops dead, wherever he is. I hope the little bastard drops... ”

And suddenly she was weeping.

She sat quite still in the chair, a woman of forty-five with ridiculously flaming red hair, a big-breasted woman who sat attired only in a silk slip, a fat woman with the faded eyes of a drunkard, and her shoulders did not move, and her face did not move, and her hands did not move, she sat quite still in the hardbacked wooden chair while the tears ran down her face and her nose got red and her teeth clamped into her lips.

“Running out on me,” she said, and then she didn’t say anything else. She sat stiffly in the chair, fighting the tears that coursed down her cheeks and her neck and stained the front of her slip.

“I’ll get you a coat or something, Mrs. Livingston,” Byrnes said.

“I don’t need a coat. I don’t care who sees me. I don’t care. Everybody can see what I am. One look, and everybody can see what I am. I don’t need a coat. A coat ain’t going to hide nothing.”

Byrnes left her alone in the room, weeping stiffly in the hardbacked chair.

They found exactly thirty-four ounces of marijuana in Martha Livingston’s apartment. Apparently, Leonard Cronin was not a very good mathematician. Apparently, too, he was in slightly more serious trouble than he had originally presumed. If, as he’d stated, there had only been a stick or two of marijuana in the room — enough to have made at least two ounces of the stuff — he’d have been charged with possession, which particular crime was punishable by imprisonment of from two to ten years. Now thirty-four ounces ain’t two ounces. And possession of sixteen ounces or more of narcotics other than heroin, morphine, or cocaine created a rebuttable presumption of intent to sell, the “rebuttable” meaning that Cronin could claim he hadn’t intended selling it at all, at all. And the maximum term of imprisonment for possession with intent to sell was ten years, the difference between the two charges being that a simple possession rap would usually draw a lesser prison term whereas an intent to sell rap usually drew the limit.