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

“Anything happen in the bar?”

“Well, like what?”

“Any trouble? Any words?”

“No, no, it was a real nice bar.”

“And you left there about three o’clock and started walking up The Stem.”

“That’s right.”

“Where were you going?”

“Oh, just for a little walk, that’s all. Before heading back to the ship. I’m on this battleship over to the Navy Yard. It’s in dry dock there.”

“Um-huh,” Kapek said. “So you were walking along and this man jumped you.”

“Mmm.”

“Just one man?”

“Yeah. One.”

“What’d he hit you with?”

“I don’t know.”

“And you came to just a little while ago, is that it?”

“Yeah. And found out the bastards had taken my wallet and watch.”

Kapek was silent for several seconds. Then he said, “I thought there was only one of them.”

“That’s right. Just one.”

“You said ‘bastards.’”

“Huh?”

“Plural.”

“Huh?”

“How many were there actually, Corporal?”

“Who hit me, you mean? Like I said. Just one.”

“Never mind who hit you or who didn’t. How many were there altogether?”

“Well... two.”

“All right, let’s get this straight now. It was two men who jumped you, not—”

“Well, no. Not exactly.”

“Look, Corporal,” Kapek said, “you want to tell me about this, or you want to forget it? We’re pretty busy around here right now, and I don’t have time for this kind of thing, I mean it. You want us to try to recover your stuff, then give us a little help, okay? Otherwise, so long, it was nice meeting you, I hope you get back to your ship all right.”

Miles was silent for several moments. Then he sighed deeply and said, “I feel like a goddamn jackass, is all.”

“Why? What happened?”

“There was this girl in the bar...”

“I figured,” Kapek said, and nodded.

“In a red dress. She kept wiggling her ass at me all night long, you know? So I finally started a conversation with her, and she was real friendly and all, I mean she didn’t seem to be after nothing, I think I maybe bought her only two drinks the whole night long.”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

“So a little before three, she tells me she’s awful tired and wants to go home to bed, and she says good night to everybody and then goes to the door and winks at me and gives me a kind of a little come-on move with her head, you know? Like this, you know? Like just this little movement of her head, you know? To tell me I should follow her. So I paid the check and hurried on outside, and there she was on the corner, and she starts walking the minute she sees me, looking back over her shoulder and giving me that same come-on again, trotting her little ass right up the avenue, and then turning off into one of the side streets. So I turned the corner after her and there’s this guy standing there, and wham, he clobbers me. Next thing I know, I wake up with this fucking thing over my eye, and my money gone, and my watch, too. Little bitch.”

“Was she black or white?”

“Black.”

“And the man?”

“White.”

“Would you recognize her if you saw her again?”

“I’ll never forget her long as I live.”

“What about the man?”

“I only got a quick look at him. He hit me the minute I come around that corner. Man, I saw stars. They musta moved me after I went out because I woke up in this hallway, you see. I mean, I was laying on the sidewalk when...” Miles stopped and looked down at his hands.

“Yes, Corporal?”

“What gets me is, I mean, she kicked me, the little bitch. When I was down on the sidewalk, she kicked me with this goddamn pointed shoe of hers. I mean, man, that’s what put me out, not the guy hitting me. It was her kicking me with that pointed shoe of hers.” Corporal Miles looked up plaintively. “Why’d she do that, huh? I was nice to her. I mean it. I was only nice.”

The ambulance had come and gone, carrying away the man who had been attacked as he was leaving his home to go to church. It was now nine o’clock and there was still blood on the front stoop of the building. Detective 3rd/Grade Alexiandre Delgado stood on the steps with the victim’s wife and two children, and tried to believe they were unaware of the blood drying in the early-morning sunshine. Mrs. Huerta was a black-haired woman with brown eyes filled now with tears. Her two daughters, dressed to go to church, wearing identical green wool coats and black patent leather shoes and white ankle socks, resembled their mother except for the tears. Their brown eyes were opened wide in curiosity and fright and incomprehension. But neither of the two was crying. A crowd of bystanders kept nudging toward the stoop, despite the efforts of the beat patrolman to disperse them.

“Can you tell me exactly what happened, Mrs. Huerta?” Delgado asked. Like the woman he was questioning, he was Puerto Rican. And like her, he had been raised in a ghetto. Not this one, but a similar one (when you’ve seen one slum, you’ve seen them all, according to certain observers) in the shadow of the Calm’s Point Bridge downtown. He could have spoken to her in fluent Spanish, but he was still slightly embarrassed by his accent when he was speaking English, and as a result he tried to speak it all the time. Mrs. Huerta, on the other hand, was not so sure she wanted to conduct the conversation in English. Her young daughters understood and spoke English, whereas their Spanish was spotty at best. At the same time, many of Mrs. Huerta’s neighbors (who were eagerly crowding the front stoop now) spoke only Spanish, and she recognized that talking to this detective in English might enable her to keep at least some of her business to herself. She silently debated the matter only a moment longer, and then decided to answer in English.

“We were going down to church,” she said, “the eight o’clock mass. The church is right up the street, it takes five minutes. We came out of the building, José and me and the two girls, and these men came at him.”

“How many men?”

“Four.”

“Did you recognize any of them?”

“No,” Mrs. Huerta said.

“What happened?”

“They hit him.”

“With what?”

“Broom handles. Short. You know, they take the broom and saw it off.”

“Did they say anything to your husband?”

“ Nada. Nothing.”

“Did he say anything to them?”

“No.”

“And you didn’t recognize any of them? They weren’t men from the barrio, the neighborhood?”

“I never saw them before.”

One of the little girls looked up at her mother and then turned quickly away.

“ Sí, qué hay ?” Delgado asked immediately.

“Nothing,” the little girl answered.

“What’s your name?” Delgado said.

“Paquita Huerta.”

“Did you see the men who attacked your father, Paquita?”

“Yes,” Paquita said, and nodded.

“Did you know any of those men?”

The little girl hesitated.

“Puede usted decirme?”

“No,” Paquita said. “I did not know any of them.”

“And you?” Delgado said, turning to the other girl.

“No. None of them.”

Delgado searched their eyes. The little girls watched him unblinkingly. He turned to Mrs. Huerta again. “Your husband’s full name is José Huerta?” he asked.

“José Vicente Huerta.”

“How old is he, señora ?”

“Forty-seven.”

“What does he do for a living?”

“He is a real estate agent.”

“Where is his place of business, Mrs. Huerta?”