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

A man’s yellow sheet (so called because the record actually was duplicated on a yellow sheet of paper; bar owners were not the only imaginative people in this city) was perhaps not as entertaining, say, as a good novel, but it did have a shorthand narrative power all its own. Goldenthal’s record had the added interest of a rising dramatic line, a climax of sorts, and then a slackening of tension just before the denouement — which was presumably yet to come.

His first arrest had been at the age of sixteen, for burglary and juvenile delinquency, and he had been remanded to the Jewish Home for Boys, a correctional institution. Less than a year later, apparently back on the streets again, he had been arrested again for burglary, with the charge reduced to unlawful entry, and (the record was incomplete here) the courts had apparently shown leniency in consideration of his age — he was barely seventeen at the time — and let him off scot-free. Progressing to bigger and better things during the next year, he was arrested first on a robbery charge and then on a robbery with a gun charge, and again the courts showed mercy and let him go. Thus emboldened and encouraged, he moved on to grand larceny first and burglary third, was again busted, and this time was sent to prison. He had probably served both terms concurrently and was released on parole sometime before 1959, when apparently he decided to knock over a truck crossing state lines, thereby inviting the Federal Bureau of Investigation to step in. Carella and Brown figured the “3 yrs to serve” were the three years remaining from his prior conviction; the courts were again being lenient.

And perhaps this leniency was finally paying off. The violations he’d been convicted of since his second release from prison were not too terribly serious, especially when compared to grand larceny or interstate theft. Section 974 of the Penal Law was defined as “keeping a place for or transferring money in the game of policy” and was a misdemeanor. Section 974a was a bit heavier — ”Operating a policy business” — and was a felony punishable by imprisonment for a term not exceeding five years. In either case, Goldenthal seemed to have moved into a more respectable line of work, employing himself in the “policy” or “numbers game,” which many hardworking citizens felt was a perfectly harmless recreation and hardly anything for the Law to get all excited about. The Law had not, in fact, got too terribly excited about Goldenthal’s most recent offenses. He could have got five years on his last little adventure, when in fact all he had drawn was a fine of a hundred and fifty dollars or sixty days, on a reduced charge of unlawful possession of policy slips, Section 975 of the Penal Law.

Goldenthal had begun his criminal career at the age of sixteen. He was now almost forty years old and had spent something better than ten years of his adult life in prison. If they found him, and busted him again, and convicted him of the grocery store holdup and murder, he would be sent away forever.

There were several other pieces of information in the packet the IS had sent uptown — a copy of Goldenthal’s fingerprint card, with a complete description of him on the reverse side; a final report from his probation officer back in ’69; a copy of the Detective Division report on his most recent arrest — but the item of chief interest to Carella and Brown was Goldenthal’s lastknown address. He had apparently been living in uptown Isola with his mother, a Mrs. Minnie Goldenthal, until the time of her death three months ago. He had then moved to an apartment downtown and was presumably still living there.

They decided to hit it together.

They were no fools.

Goldenthal had once been arrested on a gun charge, and either he or his partner had put three bullets into two men not seven hours before.

The show began ten minutes after Carella and Brown left the squadroom. It had a cast of four and was titled Hookers’ Parade. It starred two young streetwalkers who billed themselves as Rebecca and Sally Good.

“Those are not your real names,” Kapek insisted.

“Those are our real names,” Sally answered, “and you can all go to hell.”

The other two performers in the show were the patrolman who had answered the complaint and made the arrest, and a portly gentleman in a pinstriped suit who looked mortally offended though not at all embarrassed, rather like a person who had wet his pajamas in a hospital bed, where illness is expected and annoying but certainly nothing to be ashamed of.

“All right, what’s the story, Phil?” Kapek asked the patrolman.

“Well, what happened—”

“If you don’t mind,” the portly gentleman said, “ I am the injured party here.”

“Who the hell injured you, would you mind telling me?” Rebecca said.

“All right, let’s calm down here,” Kapek said. He had finished with the Known Muggers File and was anxious to get to the Modus Operandi File, and he found all this tumult distracting. The girls, one black and one white, were both wearing tan sweaters, suede miniskirts, and brown boots. Sally, the white one, had long blonde hair. Rebecca, the black one, had her hair done in an Afro cut and bleached blonde. They were both in their early twenties, both quite attractive, long and leggy and busty and brazen and cheap as a bottle of ninety-cent wine. The portly gentleman sat some distance away from them, on the opposite side of Kapek’s desk, as though afraid of contracting some dread disease. His face was screwed into an offended frown, his eyes sparked with indignation.

“I wish these young ladies arrested,” he said. “I am the man who made the complaint, the injured party, and I am willing to press charges, and I wish them arrested at once.”

“Fine, Mr....” Kapek consulted his pad. “Mr. Searle,” he said. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“I am from Independence, Missouri,” Searle said. “The home of Harry S. Truman.”

“Yes, sir,” Kapek said.

“Big deal,” Sally said.

“I am here in the city on business,” Searle said. “I usually stay midtown, but I have several appointments in this area tomorrow morning, and I thought it would be more convenient to find lodgings in the neighborhood.” He paused and cleared his throat. “There is a rather nice hotel overlooking the park. The Grover.”

“Yes, sir,” Kapek said.

“Or at least I thought it was a rather nice hotel.”

“It’s a fleabag,” Rebecca said.

“How about knocking it off?” Kapek said.

“What the hell for? This hick blows the whistle for no reason at all, and we’re supposed—”

“Let’s hear what the man has to say, okay?” Kapek said sharply.

“Okay,” Rebecca said.

“ Whatever he has to say,” Sally said, “he’s full of crap.”

“Listen, sister,” Kapek warned.

“Okay, okay,” Sally said, and tossed her long blonde hair. Rebecca crossed her legs and lighted a cigarette. She blew the stream of smoke in Searle’s direction, and he waved it away with his hands.

“Mr. Searle?” Kapek prompted.

“I was sitting in my room reading the Times, ” Searle said, “when a knock sounded on the door.”

“When was this, Mr. Searle?”

“An hour ago? I’m not sure.”

“What time did you catch the squeal, Phil?”

“One-twenty.”

“Just about an hour ago,” Kapek said.

“Then it must have been a little earlier than that,” Searle said. “They must have arrived at about one-ten or thereabouts.”