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

“In Riverhead. 1345 Harrison Avenue. It is called J-R Realty.”

“Does he own the business?”

“Yes.”

“No partners?”

“Yes, he has a partner.”

“What’s his partner’s name?”

“Ramon Castañeda. That’s how they got the J-R. From José and Ramon.”

“And where does Mr. Castañeda live?”

“Two blocks from here. On Fourth Street.”

“The address?”

“112 South 4th.”

“All right, thank you,” Delgado said. “I’ll let you know if we come up with anything.”

“Por favor,” Mrs. Huerta said, and took both her daughters by their hands and led them into the building.

The black blouse found in Lewis Scott’s bathroom had come from a clothing store called The Monkey Wrench, on Culver Avenue. Since this was a Sunday, the store was closed. The patrolman on the beat spotted Willis and Genero peering through the plateglass window and casually ambled over to them.

“Help you fellows?” he asked.

Both Genero and Willis looked at him. Neither of them recognized him. “You new on the beat, kid?” Genero said. The patrolman was perhaps three or four years older than Genero, but since his rank was lower, Genero felt perfectly free to address him in this manner. The patrolman could not decide whether he was dealing with hoods or fellow law enforcers; the distinction was sometimes difficult to make. He debated whether he should answer smartass or subservient. While he was deciding, Willis said, “I’m Detective Willis. This is my partner, Detective Genero.”

“Oh,” the patrolman said, managing to make the single word sound eloquent.

“How long you been on the beat, kid?” Genero asked.

“Just this past week. They flew me in from Majesta.”

“Special assignment?”

“Yeah. This is a glass post, you know, there’s been lots of breakage and looting lately. They almost doubled the force here, from what I understand.”

“Where’s the regular beat man?”

“He’s catching a cup of coffee at the diner up the street. Anything I can help you with?”

“What’s his name?”

“Haskins. You know him?”

“Yeah,” Willis said. “Diner on the corner there?”

“Right.”

“See you later, kid,” Genero said, and both detectives walked off toward the diner. Behind them, the patrolman shrugged in a manner clearly indicating that he thought all detectives were no-good rotten bastards who were always pulling rank.

The diner at fifteen minutes before ten was empty save for Patrolman Haskins and a man behind the counter. Haskins was hunched over a cup of coffee. He looked as though he had not had much sleep the night before. Genero and Willis walked to the counter and took stools on either side of him.

“Hello, Bill,” Willis said.

Haskins looked up from his coffee. “Hey, hi,” he said.

“Two coffees,” Genero said to the counterman.

“You looking for me,” Haskins asked, “or you just happen in?”

“We’re looking for you.”

“What’s up?”

“How you want those coffees?” the counterman asked.

“Regular,” Willis said.

“One regular, one black,” Genero said.

“Two regulars, one black,” the counterman said.

“ One regular, one black,” Genero said.

“He wants a regular,” the counterman insisted, “and you want a regular and a black.”

“What are you, a comedian?” Genero said.

“It’s all on the arm anyway, ain’t it?” the counterman answered.

“Who says?”

“The day a cop pays for a cup of coffee in here, that’s the day they give me a parade up Hall Avenue.”

None of the policemen answered him. They were not, as a matter of fact, in the habit of paying for coffee in local eateries. Neither did they enjoy being reminded of it.

“Bill, we’re looking for a kid about eighteen, nineteen,” Willis said. “Long blond hair, handlebar mustache. See anybody around like that?”

“I seen a hundred of them,” Haskins said. “Are you kidding?”

“This one was wearing a jacket with the fur side inside, the skin side out.”

Haskins shrugged.

“Big sun painted on the back of it,” Willis said.

“Yeah, that rings a bell. I think I seen that jacket around.”

“Remember the kid wearing it?”

“Where the hell did I see that jacket?” Haskins asked aloud.

“He might have been with another kid his age, black beard, black hair.”

“No,” Haskins said, and shook his head. “An orange sun, right? Like an orange sun with rays coming out of it, right?”

“That’s right, orange.”

“Yeah, I seen that jacket,” Haskins said. “Just the other day. Where the hell did I see it?”

“Two coffees, one regular, one black,” the counterman said, and put them down.

“Jerry, you ever see a kid in here wearing a fur jacket with a sun painted on the back of it?” Haskins asked.

“No,” the counterman said flatly, and walked back into the kitchen.

“White fur, right?” Haskins said to Willis. “On the inside, right? Like white fur?”

“That’s right”

“Sure, I seen that goddamn jacket. Just give me a minute, okay?”

“Sure, take your time,” Willis said.

Haskins turned to Genero and conversationally said, “I see you got the gold tin. Who’s your rabbi?”

“I was promoted a long time ago,” Genero said, somewhat offended. “Where the hell have you been?”

“I guess I don’t keep up with what’s happening around the station house,” Haskins said, and grinned.

“You know I was promoted.”

“Yeah, I guess it just slipped my mind,” Haskins said. “How you like the good life, Genero?”

“Beats laying bricks all to hell,” Genero answered.

“What doesn’t? ” Haskins said.

“About that jacket...” Willis interrupted.

“Yeah, yeah, just give me a minute, it’ll come to me,” Haskins said, and lifted his coffee cup in both hands, and sipped at it, and said, “That new kid covering out there?”

“He’s doing fine, don’t worry about him.”

“The Monkey Wrench!” Haskins said, snapping his fingers. “ That’s where I seen the damn thing. In the window of The Monkey Wrench. Right up the street.”

“Good,” Willis said, and nodded. “Got any idea who runs that shop?”

“Yeah, these two dykes who live over on Eighth. Just around the corner from the store.”

“What’re their names?”

“Flora Schneider and Frieda something, I don’t know what. Flora and Frieda, everybody calls them.”

“What’s the address on Eighth?”

“327 North. The brownstone right around the corner.”

“Thanks,” Willis said.

“Thanks for the coffee,” Genero yelled to the kitchen.

The counterman did not answer.

Detective Arthur Brown was a black man with a very dark complexion, kinky hair, large nostrils, and thick lips. He was impressively good-looking, though unfortunately not cast in the Negro mold acceptable to most white people, including liberals. In short, he did not resemble Harry Belafonte, Sidney Poitier, or Adam Clayton Powell. He resembled only himself, which was quite a lot since he was six feet four inches tall and weighed two hundred and twenty pounds. Arthur Brown was the sort of black man who caused white men to cross the street when he approached, on the theory that this mean-looking son of a bitch (mean-looking only because he was big and black) would undoubtedly mug them or knife them or do something possibly worse, God knew what. Even after Brown identified himself as a police detective, there were many white people who still harbored the suspicion that he was really some kind of desperate criminal impersonating an officer.