Ed McBain: Give the Boys a Great Big Hand

“Can’t you fly when it rains?” Meyer asked.

“Oh, we can fly all right. We can fly in almost everything. But will the people fly, that’s the question. The minute it begins raining, we get more damn cancellations than you can shake a stick at. Afraid. They’re all afraid.” Piat shook his head and studied the photo of the bag again. It was an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven glossy print. The bag had been photographed against a white backdrop. It was an excellent picture, the company’s name and slogan leaping out of the print as if they were molded in neon. “Well, what about this bag, gentlemen?” Piat said. “Did some burglar use it for his tools or something?” He chuckled at his own little joke and looked first to Kling and then to Meyer.

Kling answered for both of them. “Well, not exactly, sir,” he said. “Some murderer used it for part of a corpse.”

“Part of a... ? Oh. I see. Well, that’s not too good. Bad for our operation.” He paused. “Or is it?” He paused again, calculating. “Will this case be getting into the newspapers?”

“I doubt it,” Meyer said. “It’s a little too gory for the public, and so far it doesn’t contain either a rape or a pretty girl in bloomers. It would make dull copy.”

“I was thinking... you know... a photo of the bag on the front pages of a mass circulation newspaper, that might not be bad for our operation. Hell, you can’t buy that kind of advertising space, now can you? It might be very good for our operation, who knows?”

“Yes, sir,” Meyer said patiently.

If there was one virtue Meyer Meyer possessed, that virtue was patience. And it was, in a sense, a virtue he was born with or, at the very least, a virtue he was named with. Meyer’s father, you see, was something of a practical joker, the kind of man who delighted in telling kosher dinner guests during the middle of a meat meal that they were eating off the dairy dishes. Oh, yes, he was a gasser, all right. Well, when this gasser was well past the age when changing diapers or wiping runny noses was a possibility, when his wife had in fact experienced that remarkable female phenomenon euphemistically known as change of life, they were both somewhat taken aback to learn that she was pregnant.

This was a surprising turn of events indeed, the practical joke supreme upon the king of the jesters. Meyer’s father fretted, pouted, and sulked about it. His jokes suffered while he planned his revenge against the vagaries of nature and birth control. The baby was born, a bouncing, blue-eyed boy delivered by a midwife and weighing in at seven pounds six ounces. And then Meyer’s pop delivered the final hilarious thrust. The baby’s first name would be Meyer, he decreed, and this handle when coupled with the family name would give the boy a title like a ditto mark: Meyer Meyer.

Well, that’s pretty funny. Meyer’s old man didn’t stop laughing for a week after the bris. Meyer, on the other hand, found it difficult to laugh through bleeding lips. The family was, you understand, practicing Orthodox Judaism and they lived in a neighborhood that housed a large Gentile population, and if the kids in the neighborhood needed another reason besides Meyer’s Jewishness for beating him up every day of the week, his name provided that reason. “Meyer Meyer, Jew on fire!” the kids would chant, and POW! Meyer got it in the kisser.

Over the years, he learned that it was impossible to fight twelve guys at once, but that it was sometimes possible to talk this even dozen out of administering a beating. Patiently, he talked. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t. But patience became a way of life. And patience is a virtue, we will all admit. But if Meyer Meyer had not been forced to sublimate, if he had for example just once, just once when he was a growing boy been called Charlie or Frank or Sam and been allowed to stand up against one other kid, not a dozen or more, and bash that kid squarely on the nose, well perhaps, just perhaps, Meyer Meyer would not have been completely bald at the tender age of thirty-seven.

On the other hand, who would have been so cruel as to deprive an aging comedian of a small practical joke?

Patiently, Meyer Meyer said, “How are these bags distributed, Mr. Piat?”

“Distributed? Well, they’re not exactly distributed. That is to say, they are given to people who fly with our airline. It’s good for the operation.”

“These bags are given to every one of your passengers, is that correct?”

“No, not exactly. We have several types of flights, you see.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. We have our Luxury flight, which gives more space between the seats, a big, big twenty inches to stretch those legs in, and drinks en route, and a choice of several dinners, and special baggage accommodations — in short, the finest service our operation can offer.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. And then we have our First-Class flight, which offers the same accommodations and the same seating arrangement except that drinks are not provided — you can buy them, of course, if you desire — and there is only one item on the dinner menu, usually roast beef, or ham, or something of the sort.”

“I see.”

“And then we have our Tourist flight.”

“Tourist flight, yes,” Meyer said.

“Our Tourist flight, which gives only sixteen inches of leg room, but the same accommodations otherwise, including the same dinner as on the First-Class flight.”

“I see. And this bag—”

“And then there is our Economy flight, same amount of leg room, but there are three seats on one side of the aisle, instead of two, and the dinner is not a hot meal, just sandwiches and, of course, no drinks.”

“And of all these flights, which—”

“Then there’s our Thrift flight, which is not too comfortable, I’m afraid, that is to say not as comfortable as the other flights, but certainly comfortable enough, with only twelve inches of leg room, and—”

“Is that the last flight?” Meyer asked patiently.

“We’re now working on one called the Piggy Bank flight, which will be even less expensive. What we’re trying to do, you see, we’re trying to put our operation within reach of people who wouldn’t ordinarily consider flying, who would take the oldfashioned means of conveyance, like trains, or cars, or boats. Our operation—”

“Who gets the bags?” Kling asked impatiently.

“What? Oh, yes, the bags. We give them to all passengers on the Luxury or First-Class flights.”

“ All passengers?”

“All.”

“And when did you start doing this?”

“At least six years ago,” Piat said.

“Then anyone who rode either Luxury or First-Class in the past six years could conceivably have one of these bags, is that right?” Meyer asked.

“That is correct.”

“And how many people would you say—”

“Oh, thousands and thousands and thousands,” Piat said. “You must remember, Detective Meyer... ”

“Yes?”

“We circle the globe.”

“Yes,” Meyer said. “Forgive me. With all those flights zooming around, I guess I lost sight of the destinations.”

“Is there any possibility this might get into the newspapers?”

“There’s always a possibility,” Meyer said, rising.

“If it does, would you contact me? I mean, if you know about it beforehand. I’d like to get our promotion department to work.”

“Sure thing,” Meyer said. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Piat.”

“Not at all,” Piat said, shaking hands with Meyer and Kling. “Not at all.” As they walked across the room to the door, he turned to the huge window and looked out over the rain-soaked runway. “Damn rain,” he said.