Ed McBain: Give the Boys a Great Big Hand

It was raining.

It had been raining for three days now, an ugly March rain that washed the brilliance of near-spring with a monochromatic, unrelenting gray. The television forecasters had correctly predicted rain for today and estimated that it would rain tomorrow also. Beyond that, they would not venture an opinion.

But it seemed to Patrolman Richard Genero that it had been raining forever, and that it would continue to rain forever, and that eventually he would be washed away into the gutters and then carried into the sewers of Isola and dumped unceremoniously with the other garbage into either the River Harb or the River Dix. North or south, it didn’t make a damn bit of difference: both rivers were polluted; both stank of human waste.

Like a man up to his ankles in water in a rapidly sinking rowboat, Genero stood on the corner and surveyed the near-empty streets. His rubber rain cape was as black and as shining as the asphalt that stretched before him. It was still early afternoon, but there was hardly a soul in sight, and Genero felt lonely and deserted. He felt, too, as if he were the only human being in the entire city who didn’t know enough to come in out of the rain. I’m going to drown here in the goddamn streets, he thought, and he belched sourly, consoling himself with the fact that he would be relieved on post at 3:45. It would take him about five minutes to get back to the station house and no more than ten minutes to change into his street clothes. Figure a half hour on the subway to Riverhead, and he would be home at 4:30. He wouldn’t have to pick up Gilda until 7:30, so that gave him time for a little nap before dinner. Thinking of the nap, Genero yawned, tilting his head.

A drop of cold water ran down his neck, and he said, “Oh hell!” out loud, and then hurriedly glanced around him to make sure he hadn’t been overheard by any conscientious citizen of the city. Satisfied that the image of the pure American law-enforcer had not been destroyed, Genero began walking up the street, his rubber-encased shoes sloshing water every inch of the way.

Rain, rain, go away, he thought.

Oddly, the rain persisted.

Well, rain isn’t so bad, he thought. It’s better than snow, anyway. The thought made him shudder a little, partially because the very thought of snow was a chilling one, and partially because he could never think of snow or winter without forming an immediate association with the boy he had found in the basement so long ago.

Now cut that out, he thought. It’s bad enough it’s raining. We don’t have to start thinking of creepy cadavers.

The boy’s face had been blue, really blue, and he’d been leaning forward on the cot, and it had taken Genero several moments to realize that a rope was around the boy’s neck and that the boy was dead.

Listen, let’s not even think about it. It makes me itchy.

Well, listen, you’re a cop, he reminded himself. What do you think cops do? Turn off fire hydrants all the time? Break up stickball games? I mean, now let’s face it, every now and then a cop has got to find a stiff.

Listen, this makes me itchy.

I mean, that’s what you get paid for, man. I mean, let’s face it. A cop has every now and then got to come up against a little violence. And besides, that kid was a long time ago, all water under the...

Water. Jesus, ain’t it never going to stop raining?

I’m getting out of this rain, he thought. I’m going over to Max’s tailor shop and maybe I can get him to take out some of that sweet Passover wine, and we’ll drink a toast to Bermuda. Man, I wish I was in Bermuda. He walked down the street and opened the door to the tailor shop. A bell tinkled. The shop smelled of steam and clean garments. Genero felt better the moment he stepped inside.

“Hello, Max,” he said.

Max was a round-faced man with a fringe of white hair that clung to his balding pate like a halo. He looked up from his sewing machine and said, “I ain’t got no wine.”

“Who wants wine?” Genero answered, grinning a bit sheepishly. “Would you kick me out of your shop on a miserable day like this?”

“On any day, miserable or otherwise, I wouldn’t kick you out mine shop,” Max said, “so don’t make wisecracks. But I warn you, already, even before you begin, I ain’t got no wine.”

“So who wants wine?” Genero said. He moved closer to the radiator and pulled off his gloves. “What are you doing, Max?”

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m making a plan for the White House. I’m going to blow it up. What else would I be doing on a sewing machine?”

“I mean, what’s that thing you’re working on?”

“It’s a Salvation Army uniform,” Max said.

“Yeah? How about that?”

“There’s still a few tailors left in this city, you know,” Max said. “It ain’t by all of us a matter of cleaning and pressing. Cleaning and pressing is for machines. Tailoring is for men. Max Mandel is a tailor, not a pressing machine.”

“And a damn good tailor,” Genero said, and he watched for Max’s reaction.

“I still ain’t got no wine,” Max said. “Why ain’t you in the street stopping crime already?”

“On a day like this, nobody’s interested in crime,” Genero said. “The only crime going on today is prostitution.”

Genero watched Max’s face, saw the quick gleam of appreciation in the old man’s eyes and grinned. He was getting closer to that wine all the time. Max was beginning to enjoy his jokes, and that was a good sign. Now all he had to do was work up a little sympathy.

“A rain like today’s,” Genero said, “it seeps right into a man’s bones. Right into his bones.”

“So?”

“So nothing. I’m just saying. Right to the marrow. And the worst part is, a man can’t even stop off in a bar or something to get a shot. To warm him up, I mean. It ain’t allowed, you know.”

“So?”

“So nothing. I’m just saying.” Genero paused. “You’re sure doing a fine job with that uniform, Max.”

“Thanks.”

The shop went silent. Outside, the rain spattered against the sidewalk in continuous drumming monotony.

“Right to the marrow,” Genero said.

“All right already. Right to the marrow.”

“Chills a man.”

“All right, it chills a man.”

“Yes, sir,” Genero said, shaking his head.

“The wine is in the back near the pressing machine,” Max said without looking up. “Don’t drink too much, you’ll get drunk already and I’ll be arrested for corrupting an officer.”

“You mean you have wine, Max?” Genero asked innocently.

“Listen to Mr. Baby-Blue Eyes, he’s asking if I got wine. Go, go in the back. Drink, choke, but leave some in the bottle.”

“That’s awfully nice of you, Max,” Genero said, beaming. “I had no idea you—”

“Go, go before I change my mind.”

Genero went into the back room and found the bottle of wine on the table near the pressing machine. He uncapped it, rinsed a glass at the sink near the small grime-smeared window and poured it full to the brim. He tilted the glass to his mouth, drank until it was empty, and then licked his lips.

“You want some of this, Max?” he called.

“The Salvation Army doesn’t like I should drink when I’m sewing their uniforms.”

“It’s very good, Max,” Genero said teasingly.

“So have another glass and stop bothering me. You’re making my stitches go all fermisht.”

Genero drank another glassful, recapped the bottle, and came out into the shop again, rubbing his hands briskly.