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

“What do you want to know?” Castañeda asked.

“Your brother’s got a partner named José Huerta,” Delgado said.

“That’s right.”

“Do you know him?”

“Yeah, I know Joe.”

“Do you know he was beaten up this morning?”

“He was? No, I didn’t know that. You got a cigarette? I left mine on the table back there.”

“I don’t smoke,” Delgado said.

“I didn’t used to smoke, either,” Castañeda said. “But, you know...” He shrugged. “You break one habit, you pick up another, huh?” He grinned. The grin was wide and infectious. He was perhaps three or four years younger than Delgado, but he suddenly looked like a teenager. “I used to be a junkie, you know. Did you know that?”

“Yes, I’ve heard it.”

“I kicked it.”

“I’ve heard that, too.”

“Ain’t you impressed?”

“I’m impressed,” Delgado said.

“So am I,” Castañeda said, and grinned again. Delgado grinned with him. “So, I still don’t know what you want from me,” Castañeda said.

“He got beat up pretty badly,” Delgado said. “Broke both his legs, chopped his face up like hamburger.”

“Gee, that’s too bad,” Castañeda said. “Who done it?”

“Four men.”

“Boy,” Castañeda said, and shook his head.

“They got him on the front stoop of his building. He was on his way to church.”

“Yeah? Where does he live?”

“On South Sixth.”

“Oh yeah, that’s right,” Castañeda said. “Across the street from the candy store, right?”

“Yes. The reason I wanted to talk to you,” Delgado said, “is that your brother seemed to think the four men who beat up Huerta were asked to beat him up.”

“I don’t follow you,” Castañeda said.

“When I asked your brother who disliked Huerta, he said, ‘No one dislikes him enough to have him beaten up.’”

“So? What does that mean?”

“It means—”

“It don’t mean nothing,” Castañeda said, and shrugged.

“It means your brother thinks the men who beat up Huerta were doing it for somebody else, not themselves.”

“I don’t see where you get that,” Castañeda said. “That was just a way of speaking, that’s all. My brother didn’t mean nothing by it.”

“Let’s say he did. Let’s say for the moment that somebody wanted Huerta beaten up. And let’s say he asked four men to do the favor for him.”

“Okay, let’s say that.”

“Would you happen to know who those four men might be?”

“Nope,” Castañeda said. “I really could use a cigarette, you know? You mind if I go back to the table for them?”

“The cigarette can wait, Pepe. There’s a man in the hospital with two broken legs and a busted face.”

“Gee, that’s too bad,” Castañeda said, “but maybe the man should’ve been more careful, you know? Then maybe nobody would’ve wanted him beaten up, and nobody would’ve talked to anybody about beating him up.”

“Who wanted him hurt, Pepe?”

“You interested in some guesses?”

“I’m interested.”

“Joe’s a pusher, did you know that?”

“I know that.”

“Grass. For now. But I never yet met a guy selling grass who didn’t later figure there was more profit in the hard stuff. It’s just a matter of time, that’s all.”

“So?”

“So maybe somebody didn’t like the idea of him poisoning the neighborhood, you dig? I’m only saying. But it’s something to consider, right?”

“Yes, it’s something to consider.”

“And maybe Joe was chasing after somebody’s wife, too. Maybe somebody’s got a real pretty wife, and maybe Joe’s been making it with her, you dig? That’s another thing to consider. So maybe somebody decided to break both his legs so he couldn’t run around no more balling somebody else’s wife and selling poison to the kids in the barrio. And maybe they decided to mess up his face for good measure, you dig? So he wouldn’t look so pretty to other guys’ wives, and so maybe when he come up to a kid in the neighborhood and tried to get him hooked, the kid might not want to deal with somebody who had a face looked like it hit a meat grinder.” Castañeda paused. “Those are all things to consider, right?”

“Yes, they’re all things to consider,” Delgado said.

“I don’t think you’re ever gonna find those guys who beat him up,” Castañeda said. “But what difference does it make?”

“What do you mean?”

“He got what he deserved. That’s justice, ain’t it? That’s what you guys are interested in, ain’t it? Justice?”

“Yes, we’re interested in justice.”

“So this was justice,” Castañeda said,

Delgado looked at him.

“Wasn’t it?” Castañeda asked.

“Yes, I think it was,” Delgado said. He nodded, rose from the table suddenly, pushed his chair back under it, and said, “Nice talking to you. See you around.”

“Buy you a drink or something?” Castañeda asked.

“Thanks, I’ve still got an hour before I’m off duty,” Delgado answered, and walked away from the table.

Behind him, Castañeda raised his hand in farewell.

It was 7 P.M. by the time Brown finally got around to Mary Ellingham, the lady who had called in twelve hours before to report that her husband was missing. Full darkness was upon the city now, but it was not yet nighttime; it was still that time of day called “evening,” a poetic word that always stirred something deep inside Brown, perhaps because he had never heard the word as a child and only admitted it to his vocabulary after he met Connie, his wife-to-be, when things stopped being merely night and day, or black and white; Connie had brought shadings to his life, and for that he would love her forever.

North Trinity was a two-block-long street off Silvermine Oval, adjacent to fancy Silvermine Road, which bordered on the River Harb and formed the northern frontier of the precinct. From where Brown had parked the car, he could see the waters of the river, and uptown the scattered lights of the estates in Smoke Rise, the brighter illumination on the Hamilton Bridge. The lights were on along Trinity, too, beckoning warmly from windows in the rows of brownstones that faced the secluded street. Brown knew that behind most of those windows, the occupants were enjoying their cocktail hour. One could always determine the socioeconomic standing of anybody in this city by asking him what time he ate his dinner. In a slum like Diamondback, the dinner hour had already come and gone. On Trinity Street, the residents were having their before-dinner drinks. Farther uptown in Smoke Rise, the dinner hour would not start until nine or nine-thirty — although the cocktail hour may have started at noon.

Brown was hungry.

There were no lights burning at 742 North Trinity. Brown looked at his watch, shrugged, and rang the front doorbell. He waited, rang the doorbell a second time, and then stepped down off the front stoop to look up at the second story of the building, where a light had suddenly come on. He went back up the steps and waited. He heard someone approaching the door. A peephole flap was thrown back.

“Yes?” a woman’s voice asked.

“Mrs. Ellingham?”

“Yes?”

“Detective Brown, Eighty-seventh Squad.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Ellingham said. “Oh, just a minute, please.” The peephole flap fell back into place. He heard the door being unlocked.

Mary Ellingham was about forty years old. She was wearing a man’s flannel robe. Her hair was disarrayed. Her face was flushed.

“I’m sorry I got here so late,” Brown said. “We had a sort of busy day.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Ellingham said. “Yes.”