Эд Макбейн: Hail, Hail, the Gang’s All Here

“Yes?”

“There’s a meat cleaver I keep on the sink. I hit him with it.”

“Why did you do that, Mrs. Martin?”

“Because I wanted to.”

“Were you arguing with him, is that it?”

“No. He was locking the door, and I just went over to the sink and picked up the cleaver, and then I hit him with it.”

“Where did you hit him, Mrs. Martin?”

“On his head and on his neck and I think on his shoulder.”

“You hit him three times with the cleaver?”

“I hit him a lot of times, I don’t know how many times.”

“Were you aware that you were hitting him?”

“Yes, I was aware.”

“You knew you were striking him with a cleaver.”

“Yes, I knew.”

“Did you intend to kill him with the cleaver?”

“I intended to kill him with the cleaver.”

“And afterwards, did you know you had killed him?”

“I knew he was dead, yes, the son of a bitch.”

“What did you do then?”

“My oldest child came into the kitchen. Peter. My son. He yelled at me, he wanted to know what I’d done, he kept yelling at me. I hit him, too, to get him to shut up. I hit him only once, across the throat.”

“Did you know what you were doing at the time?”

“I knew what I was doing. He was another one, that Peter. Little bastard.”

“What happened next, Mrs. Martin?”

“I went in the back bedroom where the two girls sleep, and I hit Annie with the cleaver first, and then I hit Abigail.”

“Where did you hit them, Mrs. Martin?”

“On the face. Their faces.”

“How many times?”

“I think I hit Annie twice, and Abigail only once.”

“Why did you do that, Mrs. Martin?”

“Who would take care of them after I was gone?” Mrs. Martin asked of no one.

“Is there anything else you want to tell us?” Kling asked.

“There’s nothing more to tell. I done the right thing.”

The detectives walked away from the desk. They were both pale. “Man,” O’Brien whispered.

“Yeah,” Kling said. “We’d better call the night DA right away, get him to take a full confession from her.”

“Killed four of them without batting an eyelash,” O’Brien said, and shook his head, and went back to where the stenographer was typing up Mrs. Martin’s statement.

The telephone was ringing. Kling walked to the nearest desk and lifted the receiver. “Eighty-seventh Squad, Detective Kling,” he said.

“This is Donner.”

“Yeah, Fats.”

“I think I got a lead on one of those heaps.”

“Shoot.”

“This would be the one heisted on Fourteenth Street. According to the dope I’ve got, it happened yesterday morning. Does that check out?”

“I’ll have to look at the bulletin again. Go ahead, Fats.”

“It’s already been ditched,” Donner said. “If you’re looking for it, try outside the electric company on the River Road.”

“Thanks, I’ll make a note of that. Who stole it, Fats?”

“This is strictly entre nous, ” Donner said “I don’t want no tie-in with it never. The guy who done it is a mean little bastard, rip out his mother’s heart for a dime. He hates niggers, killed two of them in a street rumble four years ago, and managed to beat the rap. I think maybe some officer was on the take, huh, Kling?”

“You can’t square homicide in this city, and you know it, Fats.”

“Yeah? I’m surprised. You can square damn near anything else for a couple of bills.”

“What’s his name?”

“Danny Ryder. 3541 Grover Avenue, near the park. You won’t find him there now, though.”

“Where will I find him now?”

“Ten minutes ago, he was in an all-night bar on Mason, place called Felicia’s. You going in after him?”

“I am.”

“Take your gun,” Donner said.

There were seven people in Felicia’s when Kling got there at 4:45. He cased the bar through the plateglass window fronting the place, unbuttoned the third button of his overcoat, reached in to clutch the butt of his revolver, worked it out of the holster once and then back again, and went in through the front door.

There was the immediate smell of stale cigarette smoke and beer and sweat and cheap perfume. A Puerto Rican girl was in whispered consultation with a sailor in one of the leatherette booths. Another sailor was hunched over the jukebox, thoughtfully considering his next selection, his face tinted orange and red and green from the colored tubing. A tired, fat, fifty-year-old blonde sat at the far end of the bar, watching the sailor as though the next button he pushed might destroy the entire world. The bartender was polishing glasses. He looked up when Kling walked in and immediately smelled the law.

Two men were seated at the opposite end of the bar.

One of them was wearing a blue turtleneck sweater, gray slacks, and desert boots. His brown hair was cut close to his scalp in a military cut. The other man was wearing a bright-orange team jacket, almost luminous, with the words Orioles, SAC lettered across its back in Old English script. The one with the crew cut said something softly, and the other one chuckled. Behind the bar, a glass clinked as the bartender replaced it on the shelf. The jukebox erupted in sound, Jimi Hendrix rendering “All Along the Watchtower.”

Kling walked over to the two men.

“Which one of you is Danny Ryder?” he asked.

The one with the short hair said, “Who wants to know?”

“Police officer,” Kling said, and the one in the orange jacket whirled with a pistol in his hand, and Kling’s eyes opened wide in surprise, and the gun went off.

There was no time to think, there was hardly any time to breathe. The explosion of the gun was shockingly close, the acrid stink of cordite rushed into his nostrils. The knowledge that he was still alive, the sweet rushing clean awareness that the bullet had somehow missed him was only a fleeting click of intelligence accompanying what was essentially a reflexive act. The .38 came free of its holster, his finger was inside the trigger guard and around the trigger, he squeezed off his shot almost before the gun had cleared the flap of his overcoat, fired into the orange jacket, and threw his shoulder simultaneously against the chest of the man with the short hair, knocking him backward off his stool. The man in the orange jacket, his face twisted in pain, was leveling the gun for another shot. Kling fired again, squeezing the trigger without thought or rancor and then whirling on the man with the short hair, who was crouched on the floor against the bar.

“Get up!” he yelled.

“Don’t shoot.”

“Get up, you son of a bitch!”

He yanked the man to his feet, hurled him against the bar, thrust the muzzle of his pistol at the blue turtleneck sweater, ran his hands under the armpits and between the legs while the man kept saying over and over again, “Don’t shoot, please don’t shoot.”

He backed away from him and leaned over the one in the orange jacket.

“Is this Ryder?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Who’re you?”

“Frank... Frank Pasquale. Look, I—”

“Shut up, Frank,” Kling said. “Put your hands behind your back! Move!”

He had already taken his handcuffs from his belt. He snapped them onto Pasquale’s wrists now, and only then became aware that Jimi Hendrix was still singing, the sailors were watching with pale white faces, the Puerto Rican girl was screaming, the fat faded blonde had her mouth open, the bartender was frozen in mid-motion, the tip of his bar towel inside a glass.

“All right,” Kling said. He was breathing harshly. “All right,” he said again, and wiped his forehead.