Ed McBain - Another Part of the City

“I never heard of such a gun,” Farmer said, and then turned at the sound of Hoffman’s voice in the corridor outside.

“This city.” Gianelli said, “you can pick up any gun you want for thirty-five cents.”

Three young Hispanics came into the squadroom. their hands cuffed behind them. Hoffman and Ruiz were directly behind them. In this precinct, the Hispanics could have been anything: Puerto Rican, Cuban. Dominican, Salvadoran, Colombian. To the cops, with the possible exception of Ruiz, they all looked alike. These Hispanics did, in fact, look alike. All of them light-skinned. Each of them sporting a sparse mustache over his upper lip. All in their mid-twenties. All wearing little black fedoras with narrow brims. One of them wore a brown leather jacket. The other two wore short cloth coats. They were all wearing pointed shoes; cockroach-kickers, the cops called them.

“Make yourselves comfortable, you bums,” Ruiz said.

“Don’t tell me I’ve actually got some working cops on this squad,” Farmer said.

“Caught them sticking up a jewelry store on Canal,” Hoffman said, and tossed three ski masks onto the desk. “This is what they were wearing.”

Reardon looked at the ski masks.

Sadie had seen three Puerto Ricans wearing ski masks on the night of the murder.

“But no Mercedes-Benz, your Honor,” Ruiz said.

“They don’t speak English,” Hoffman said.

“So they say,” Ruiz said. “ Habla inglés, maricón?” he asked the one in the brown leather jacket.

“No, seňor policia ,” the man replied.

“How about your pals here?” Ruiz said, and turned to the ones in the cloth coats. “ Alguno de ustedes vagabundos habla ingles?”

The other two answered almost in unison, shaking their heads.

“No, nosotros no hablamos inglés.”

“Sit down,” Hoffman said, pointing. “Over there, on the bench.”

The men sat, their eyes wide. The one in the leather jacket glanced at a Pimp Squad poster on the wall.

Hoffman beckoned Reardon and Ruiz to the other side of the room, where Farmer was standing.

“The guys who killed D’Annunzio were speaking English,” he said.

“With an accent,” Reardon said.

“But not a Spanish accent,” Farmer said. “Your report...”

“It’s worth a shot, anyway,” Hoffman said. “The family mighta been too excited to tell what kind of accent. You want to take it from here, Bry?”

“Don’t blow it,” Farmer warned.

Reardon walked to the bench where the three Hispanics were sitting.

“Which one of you guys speaks English?” he asked.

The three men looked at him, bewildered.

“Nobody, huh?” He turned to Hoffman. “This might be real meat, Chick,” he said.

“Looks that way,” Hoffman said.

“You’re sure you don’t speak English, huh?”

No answer. Eyes open wide in their faces.

“Because if you do, you’d better tell me right now. Otherwise you’re gonna be in hot water, believe me.”

“Que dice el?” the one in the brown jacket asked Ruiz.

“Keep out of this, Alex,” Reardon said. “Okay, listen,” he said, hands on his hips. “A restaurant on Mulberry Street was held up this past Monday night. The owner was killed. You understand that?”

Blank stares.

“You don’t understand it, huh? Okay, try to understand this. The guys who went in there spoke only Spanish. No English. Only Spanish, you got that?”

The men looked from one to the other.

The one in the brown jacket said, “ No entiendo. No hablo inglés .”

“You don’t entiendo, huh?” Reardon said. “Here’s what I’m telling you, so you better start entiende- ing fast. If you speak English, you got nothing to worry about. Otherwise, we’re gonna think you were the punks went in there shooting.”

Silence. Puzzled frowns.

“Okay? I’ll give you thirty seconds.”

“Que quiere el?” the one in the brown jacket asked Ruiz.

“He’s not gonna give you any help,” Reardon said. “The only thing’ll help you is to start talking English.”

One of the men in the cloth coats said, “ Nosotros no sabemos que dice usted. ”

“Twenty seconds,” Reardon said. “You guys have a possible murder rap hanging over your heads, never mind a two-bit holdup.” He looked at his watch. “Ten seconds,” he said.

The telephone rang. Gianelli picked up the receiver.

“Fifth Squad, Gianelli,” he said.

“Time’s up,” Reardon said, and turned to Hoffman. “They’re either clean or they’re stupid,” he said.

“For you, Bry,” Gianelli said. “On four. It’s Mark D’Annunzio.”

“Get Sadie in here,” Farmer said. “Run a private little lineup for her.” The one in the brown leather jacket said, “ Usted tiene que decirnos nuestras leyes en espaňol. ”

“ Cállate, pendejo!” Ruiz said.

Reardon picked up the receiver.

“Hello. Mr. D’Annunzio,” he said.

“He wants us to read him his rights in Spanish,” Ruiz said to Farmer. He turned to the three men sitting on the bench, and said, “Yo les voy a dar sus leyes, pendejos !”

“When was this?” Reardon said into the phone, and listened. “Uh-huh,” he said. “Where are you? Uh-huh. Wait for me, I’ll be right there.”

He hung up.

“Bobby Nardelli was just there to see the D’Annunzio kid,” he said. “Told him he wants the interest on the loan they made to his father.”

Robert Alfred Nardelli was a small-time hood with three priors, two for burglary and one for assault. He was a sometimes enforcer for the mob’s loan-sharking operation, and this bothered Reardon a lot. He had hoped the Monday night murder had nothing to do with the boys. Mark D’Annunzio had told him he couldn’t see any connection between his father’s death and the mob. “They used to come eat in the restaurant all the time,” he’d said. So now he’d been visited by Bobby Nardelli, and Bobby wanted the interest on the loan they’d made. It looked shitty.

He found Bobby in the back room of a furniture store on Baxter Street. The store was the target of a Narcotics Squad stakeout that had been in effect since early August. Reardon supposed the unmarked truck out front had a narc in it, listening on a court-ordered wire. He also supposed Bobby knew the truck was NYPD issue. Nothing much slipped by the thieves in this city. You could bet your ass that the only words going in and out of the store on that telephone were between Bobby and the legion of girls who allegedly swooned everytime he swaggered into sight, God knew why.

Bobby was a man in his late twenties, some six-feet four-inches tall and weighing at least two hundred and twenty pounds. If you were going to have an enforcer, you could do worse than to pick a man like Bobby. His hands on the desk in front of him were huge, with the oversized knuckles of a streetfighter. A small scar ran from the tip of his right eyebrow to a point on the temple. He had eyes that could freeze a desert.

“He owed money,” he said, and shrugged. “I went to collect it. Is that against the law? A man going to collect money that’s owed him?”

“Did you know he was dead?” Reardon asked.

“No. What difference does it make?” Bobby said. “Man borrows money, he don’t pay it, then his family pays it. Somebody pays it, Reardon. We don’t get stuck holding the bag.”

“Who’s we?” Reardon asked.

Bobby shrugged.

“How much did he borrow?”

“Seven K. And some change.”

“When?”

“Couple of weeks before he opened his joint. I’m cooperating, right, Reardon?”