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

Ramon Castañeda was in his undershirt when he opened the door for Delgado.

“Sí, quí quiere usted?” he asked.

“I’m Detective Delgado, Eighty-seventh Squad,” Delgado said, and flipped his wallet open to show his shield. Castañeda looked at it closely.

“What’s the trouble?” he asked.

“May I come in, please?” Delgado said.

“Who is it, Ray?” a woman called from somewhere in the apartment.

“Policeman,” Castañeda said over his shoulder. “Come in,” he said to Delgado.

Delgado went into the apartment. There was a kitchen on his right, a living room dead ahead, two bedrooms beyond that. The woman who came out of the closest bedroom was wearing a brightly flowered nylon robe and carrying a hairbrush in her right hand. She was quite beautiful, with long black hair and a pale complexion, gray-green eyes, a full bosom, ripely curving hips. She was barefoot, and she moved soundlessly into the living room and stood with her legs slightly apart, the hairbrush held just above her hip, somewhat like a hatchet she had just unsheathed.

“Sorry to bother you this way,” Delgado said.

“What is it?” the woman said.

“This is my wife,” Castañeda said. “Rita, this is Detective... What’s your name again?”

“Delgado.”

“You Spanish?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” Castañeda said.

“What is it?” Rita said again.

“Your partner José Huerta...”

“What’s the matter with him?” Castañeda asked immediately. “Is something the matter with him?”

“Yes. He was attacked by four men this morning...”

“Oh my God!” Rita said, and brought the hand holding the hairbrush to her mouth, pressing the back of it to her lips as though stifling a scream.

“Who?” Castañeda said. “Who did it?”

“We don’t know. He’s at Buenavista Hospital now.” Delgado paused. “Both his legs were broken.”

“Oh my God!” Rita said again.

“We’ll go to him at once,” Castañeda said, and turned away, ready to leave the room, seemingly anxious to dress and leave for the hospital immediately.

“If I may...” Delgado said, and Castañeda remembered he was there, and paused, still on the verge of departure, and impatiently said to his wife, “Get dressed, Rita,” and then said to Delgado, “Yes, what is it? We want to see Joe as soon as possible.”

“I’d like to ask some questions before you go,” Delgado said.

“Yes, certainly.”

“How long have you and Mr. Huerta been partners?”

The woman had not left the room. She stood standing slightly apart from the two men, the hairbrush bristles cradled on the palm of one hand, the other hand clutched tightly around the handle, her eyes wide as she listened.

“I told you to get dressed,” Castañeda said to her.

She seemed about to answer him. Then she gave a brief complying nod, wheeled, and went into the bedroom, closing the door only partially behind her.

“We have been partners for two years,” Castañeda said.

“Get along with each other?”

“Of course. Why?” Castañeda put his hands on his hips. He was a small man, perhaps five feet seven inches tall, and not particularly good looking, with a pockmarked face and a longish nose and a mustache that sat just beneath it and somehow emphasized its length. He leaned toward Delgado belligerently now, defying him to explain that last question, his brown eyes burning as fiercely as had his partner’s through the hospital bandages.

“A man has been assaulted, Mr. Castañeda. It’s routine to question his relatives and associates. I meant no—”

“It sounded like you meant plenty,” Castañeda said. His hands were still on his hips. He looked like a fighting rooster Delgado had once seen in a cockfight in the town of Vega Baja, when he had gone back to the island to visit his dying grandmother.

“Let’s not get excited,” Delgado said. There was a note of warning in his voice. The note informed Castañeda that whereas both men were Puerto Ricans, one of them was a cop entitled to ask questions about a third Puerto Rican who had been badly beaten up. The note further informed Castañeda that however mild Delgado’s manner might appear, he wasn’t about to take any crap, and Castañeda had better understand that right from go. Castañeda took his hands from his hips. Delgado stared at him a moment longer.

“Would you happen to know whether or not your partner had any enemies?” he asked. His voice was flat. Through the partially open door of the bedroom, he saw Rita Castañeda move toward the dresser and then away from it, out of sight.

“No enemies that I know of,” Castañeda replied.

“Would you know if he’d ever received any threatening letters or phone calls?”

“Never.”

The flowered robe flashed into view again. Delgado’s eyes flicked momentarily toward the open door. Castañeda frowned.

“Would you have had any business deals recently that caused any hard feelings with anyone?”

“None,” Castañeda said. He moved toward the open bedroom door, took the knob in his hand, and pulled the door firmly shut. “We’re real estate agents for apartment buildings. We rent apartments. It’s as simple as that.”

“No trouble with any of the tenants?”

“We hardly ever come into contact with them. Once in a while we have trouble collecting rents. But that’s normal in this business, and nobody bears a grudge.”

“Would you say your partner is well liked?”

Castañeda shrugged.

“What does that mean, Mr. Castañeda?”

“Well liked, who knows? He’s a man like any other man. He is liked by some and disliked by others.”

“Who dislikes him?” Delgado asked immediately.

“No one dislikes him enough to have him beaten up,” Castañeda said.

“I see,” Delgado answered. He smiled pleasantly. “Well,” he said, “thank you for your information. I won’t keep you any longer.”

“Fine, fine,” Castañeda said. He went to the front door and opened it. “Let me know if you find the men who did it,” he said.

“I will,” Delgado answered, and found himself in the hallway. The door closed behind him. In the apartment, he heard Castañeda shout, “Rita, esta lista? ”

He put his ear to the door.

He could hear Castañeda and his wife talking very quietly inside the apartment, their voices rumbling distantly, but he could not tell what they were saying. Only once, when Rita raised her voice, did Delgado catch a word.

The word was hermano, which in Spanish meant “brother.”

It was close to 2 P.M., and things were pretty quiet in the squadroom.

Kapek was looking through the Known Muggers File, trying to get a lead on the black girl known only as “Belinda.” Carella had arrived in time to have lunch with Brown, and both men sat at a long table near one of the windows, one end of it burdened with fingerprinting equipment, eating tuna fish sandwiches and drinking coffee in cardboard containers. As they ate, Brown filled him in on what he had so far. Marshall Davies at the lab, true to his word, had gone to work on the Snow White mask the moment he received it and had reported back not a half hour later. He had been able to recover only one good print, that being a thumbprint on the inside surface, presumably left there when the wearer was adjusting the mask to his face. He had sent this immediately to the Identification Section, where the men on Sunday duty had searched their Single-Fingerprint File, tracking through a maze of arches, loops, whorls, scars, and accidentals to come up with a positive identification for a man named Bernard Goldenthal.

His yellow sheet was now on Brown’s desk, and both detectives studied it carefully: