Ed McBain - Give the Boys a Great Big Hand

“She couldn’t have gone to Androvich’s apartment,” Carella said out loud.

“What was that?”

“There are hotels all over the city, Steve,” Hawes said.

“Yeah,” Carella said. “Miss Smith, did Barbara ever say anything that would lead you to believe she had another apartment?”

“Another one? Why would she need another one? Do you know how much apartments cost in this city?”

“Yes, I do. But did she ever mention anything like that?”

“Not to me, she didn’t. Why would she need another apartment?”

“Apparently, Miss Smith, Barbara was seeing a few men and was on... rather friendly terms with them. An apartment shared with two other girls might have... well, limited her activities somewhat.”

“Oh, I see what you mean,” Taffy said. She thought about this for a moment. Then she said, “You’re talking about Barbara? Bubbles?”

“Yes.”

Taffy shrugged. “I never got the idea she was man-crazy. She didn’t seem that interested in men.”

“She was ready to run off with one when she disappeared,” Carella said. “And it’s possible she disappeared with a second one.”

“Barbara?” Taffy said. “Bubbles?”

“Barbara, yes. Bubbles.” Carella paused for a moment. “I wonder if I could use your phone, Miss Smith?”

“Go right ahead. You can use this one, or the extension in the bedroom. Forgive the mess in there. My roommate is a slob.”

Carella went into the bedroom.

“Marla told me all about you,” Taffy said to Hawes in a whisper.

“She did?”

“Yes. Are you going to call her?”

“Well, I don’t know. We’ve got to wrap up this case first.”

“Oh, sure,” Taffy agreed. “She’s a nice girl. Very sweet.”

“Yes, she seemed nice,” Hawes said. He felt very uncomfortable all at once.

“Do you work nights?” Taffy asked.

“Sometimes, yes.”

“Well, when you’re off, why don’t you stop by for a cup of coffee?”

“All right, maybe I will.”

“Good,” Taffy said, and she grinned.

Carella came back into the room. “I just called Androvich’s apartment,” he said. “Thought he might be able to tell us whether or not Barbara was keeping another place.”

“Any luck?”

“He shipped out this morning,” Carella said. “For Japan.”

There is a certain look that all big cities take on as 5:00 claims the day. It is a look reserved exclusively for big cities. If you were raised in a small town or a hamlet, you have never seen the look. If you were raised in one of those places that pretend to be huge metropolitan centers but that are in reality only overgrown small towns, you have only seen an imitation of the 5:00 big city look.

The city is a woman, you understand. It could be nothing but a woman. A small town can be the girl next door or an old man creaking in a rocker or a gangly teenager growing out of his dungarees, but the city could be none of these things, the city is and can only be a woman. And, like a woman, the city generates love and hate, respect and disesteem, passion and indifference. She is always the same city, always the same woman, but oh the faces she wears, oh the magic guile of this strutting bitch. And if you were born in one of her buildings, and if you know her streets and know her moods, then you love her. Your loving her is not a thing you can control. She has been with you from the start, from the first breath of air you sucked into your lungs, the air mixing cherry blossoms with carbon monoxide, the air of cheap perfume and fresh spring rain, the something in the city air that comes from nothing you can visualize or imagine, the feel of city air, the feel of life that you take into your lungs and into your body, this is the city.

And the city is a maze of sidewalks upon which you learned to walk, cracked concrete and sticky asphalt and cobblestones, a hundred thousand corners to turn, a hundred million surprises around each and every one of those corners. This is the city, she grins, she beckons, she cries, her streets are clean sometimes, and sometimes they rustle with fleeing newspapers that rush along the curbstones in time to the beat of her heart. You look at her, and there are so many things to see, so many things to take into your mind and store there, so many things to remember, a myriad things to pile into a memory treasure chest, and you are in love with everything you see, the city can do no wrong, she is your lady love, and she is yours. You remember every subtle mood that crosses her face, you memorize her eyes, now startled, now tender, now weeping; you memorize her mouth in laughter, her windblown hair, the pulse in her throat. This is no casual love affair. She is as much a part of you as your fingerprints.

You are hooked.

You are hooked because she can change her face, this woman, and change her body, and all that was warm and tender can suddenly become cold and heartless — and still you are in love. You will be in love with her forever, no matter how she dresses, no matter how they change her, no matter who claims her, she is the same city you saw with the innocent eyes of youth, and she is yours.

And at 5:00, she puts on a different look and you love this look, too; you love everything about her, her rages, her sultry petulance, everything; this is total love that seeks no excuses and no reasons. At 5:00, her empty streets are suddenly alive with life. She has been puttering in a dusty drawing room all day long, this woman, this city, and now it is 5:00 and suddenly she emerges and you are waiting for her, waiting to clutch her in your arms. There is a jauntiness in her step, and yet it veils a weariness, and together they combine to form an image of past and present merged with a future promise. Dusk sits on the skyline, gently touching the saber-edged buildings. Starlight is waiting to bathe her streets in silver. The lights of the city, incandescent and fluorescent and neon, are waiting to bracelet her arms and necklace her throat, to hang her with a million gaudy trappings that she does not need. You listen to the hurried purposeful click of her high-heeled pumps and somewhere in the distance there is the growl of a tenor saxophone, far in the distance because this is still 5:00 and the music will not really begin until later, the growl is still deep in the throat. For now, for the moment, there are the cocktail glasses and the muted hum of conversation, the chatter, the light laughter that floats on the air like the sound of shattering glass. And you sit with her, and you watch her eyes, meaningful and deep, and you question her every word, you want to know who she is and what she is, but you will never know. You will love this woman until the day you die, and you will never know her, never come even close to knowing her. Your love is a rare thing bordering on patriotic fervor. For in this city, in this woman, in this big brawling wonderful glittering tender heartless gentle cruel dame of a lady, there is the roar of a nation. If you were born and raised in the city, you cannot think of your country as anything but a giant metropolis. There are no small towns in your nation, there are no waving fields of grain, no mountains, no lakes, no seashores. For you, there is only the city, and she is yours, and love is blind.

Two men in love with the city, Detective Carella and Detective Hawes, joined the throng that rushed along her pavements at 5:00 that afternoon. They did not speak to each other for they were rivals for the same hand, and honorable men do not discuss the woman they both love. They walked into the lobby of the Creo Building and they took the elevator up to the eighteenth floor, and they walked down the deserted corridor to the end of the hall, and then they entered the office of Charles Tudor.