Эд Макбейн - Let’s Hear It For The Deaf Man

The man clinging to the patrolman’s arm had an arrow in his chest. They had called for a meat wagon, but in the meantime they didn’t know what the hell to do with him. They had never before had a man up here with an arrow sticking in his chest and protruding from his back.

“Why’d you bring him up here?” Willis whispered to the patrolman.

“What’d you want me to do? Leave him wandering around in the park?”

“Yeah, that’s what you should have done,” Willis whispered. “Let the Department of Hospitals worry about him. This guy can sue us, did you know that? For bringing him up here?”

“He can?” the patrolman whispered, and went immediately pale.

“All right, sit down,” Willis said to the man. “Can you hear me? Sit down.”

“I got shot,” the man said.

“Yeah, yeah, we know that. Now sit down. Will you please sit down? What the hell’s the matter with you?”

“I got shot,” the man said.

“Who did it?”

“I don’t know. Are there Indians in this city?”

“The ambulance is coming,” Willis said. “Sit down.”

“I want to stand up.”

“Why?”

“It hurts more when I sit.”

“You’re not bleeding much,” Willis said softly.

“I know. But it hurts. Did you call the ambulance?”

“I just told you we called the ambulance.”

“What time is it?”

“Almost eleven.”

“I was taking a walk in the park,” the man said. “I felt this sharp pain in my chest, I thought I was having a heart attack. I look down, there’s an arrow in me.”

“All right, sit down, will you, you’re making me nervous.”

“Is the ambulance coming?”

“It’s coming, it’s coming.”

In the detention cage across the room, a tall blond girl wearing a white blouse and a short tan skirt paced nervously and angrily, and then stepped up to the grilled metal and shouted, “I didn’t do nothing, let me out of here.”

“The patrolman says you did plenty,” Carella said. “You slashed your boyfriend across the face and throat with a razor blade.”

“He deserved it,” the girl shouted. “Let me out of here.”

“We’re booking you for first-degree assault,” Carella said. “As soon as you calm down, I’m going to take your fingerprints.”

“I ain’t never calming down,” the girl shouted.

“We’ve got all the time in the world.”

“You know what I’m going to do?”

“You’re going to calm down, and then we’re going to take your fingerprints. And then, if you’ve got any sense, you’re going to start praying your boyfriend doesn’t die.”

“I hope he dies. Let me out of here!”

“Nobody’s letting you out. Stop yelling, you’re busting my ears.”

“I’m going to rip off all my clothes and say you tried to rape me.”

“Go ahead, we’ll enjoy the show.”

“You think I’m kidding?”

“Hey, Hal, the girl here’s going to take off her clothes.”

“Good, let her,” Willis said.

“You mother-fuckers,” the girl said.

“Nice talk,” Carella said.

“You think I won’t do it?”

“Do it, who cares?” Carella said, and turned away from the cage to walk toward a patrolman who stood behind two teenage boys handcuffed to each other and to the heavy wooden leg of the fingerprinting table. “What’ve we got here, Fred?” Carella asked the patrolman.

“Smashed a Cadillac into the window of a grocery store on the Stem. They’re both stoned,” the patrolman said. “The Caddy was stolen two days ago on the South Side. I’ve got it on my hot-car list.”

“Take off your blouse, honey,” one of the boys yelled across the room. “Show us your tits.”

“We’ll say they jumped you,” the other boy yelled, giggling. “Go ahead, baby, do it.”

“Anybody injured?” Carella asked the patrolman.

“Nobody in the store but the owner, and he was behind the counter.”

“How about it?” Carella asked the boys.

“How about what?” the first boy said. He had long black curly hair and a thick black beard. He was wearing blue jeans and a striped polo shirt over which was a tan windbreaker. He kept looking toward the detention cage, where the girl had begun pacing again.

“You crash that car into the window?”

“What car?” he said.

“The blue Caddy that was stolen from in front of 1604 Stewart Place Wednesday night,” the patrolman said.

“You’re dreaming,” the boy answered.

“Rip off your blouse, honey!” the second boy shouted. He was shorter than his companion, with long stringy brown hair and pale blue eyes. He was wearing tan chinos and a Mexican poncho. He did not have a shirt on under the poncho. He, too, kept watching the detention cage, where the girl had approached the locked door again and was peering owlishly into the room, as though contemplating her next move. “ Do it!” he shouted to her. “Are you chicken?”

“Shut up, punk,” she answered.

“Did you steal that car?” Carella asked.

“I don’t know what car you’re talking about,” the boy said.

“The car you drove through the grocery-store window.”

“We weren’t driving no car, man,” the first boy said.

“We were flying , man,” the second boy said, and both of them began giggling.

“Better not book them till they know what’s going on,” Carella said. “Take them down, Fred. Tell Sergeant Murchison they’re stoned and won’t understand their rights.” He turned to the nearest boy and said, “How old are you?”

“Fifty-eight,” the boy answered.

“Sixty-five,” the second boy said, and again they giggled.

“Take them down,” Carella said. “Keep them away from anybody, they may be juveniles.”

The patrolman unlocked the cuff holding them to the leg of the table. As he led them toward the slatted railing that divided the squadroom from the corridor, the bearded boy turned toward the detention cage again and shouted, “You got nothing to show, anyway!” and then burst into laughter as the patrolman prodded him from behind with his nightstick.

“You think I won’t do it?” the girl again said to Carella.

“Sweetheart, we don’t care what you do,” Carella answered, and walked to Kling’s desk, where an old woman sat in a long black overcoat, her hands folded demurely in her lap.

“ Che vergogna ,” the woman said, nodding her head in disapproval of the girl in the cage.

“Yes,” Carella answered. “Do you speak English, signora ?”

“I have been in America forty years.”

“Would you like to tell me what happened?”

“Someone steal my pocketbook.”

Carella moved a pad into place before him. “What’s your name, signora ?”

“Caterina Di Paolo.”

“And your address?”

“Hey, is this a gag?” somebody called from the railing. Carella looked up. A white-suited ambulance attendant was standing there, looking disbelievingly into the squadroom. “Did somebody really get shot with an arrow?”

“There he is,” Willis said.

“That’s an arrow, all right,” the attendant said, his eyes bugging.

“Rape, rape!” the girl in the detention cage suddenly shouted, and Carella turned and saw that she had removed her blouse and brassiere.

“Oh, Jesus,” he muttered, and then said, “Excuse me, signora ,” and was walking toward the cage when the telephone on his own desk rang.

He lifted the receiver.

“Come on, mister,” the ambulance attendant said.

“They ripped off my clothes!” the girl shouted. “Look at me!”

“ Che vergogna ,” the old lady said, and began clucking her tongue.