Ed McBain - Another Part of the City

“I... uh... was taking a nap,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“That’s okay, it’s just... uh...”

Their eyes met. It’s just there’s somebody with me, her eyes said. It’s just I was in bed with somebody, and this is a very inconvenient time for you to come knocking on my door. It’s just go away, Charlie.

“Well, I...” He kept looking into her eyes, thinking maybe he was reading them wrong. But the night chain didn’t move from its slot on the door, the night chain was as formidable as a moat. “I’ll see you some other time, okay?” he said.

“Call me at the office, okay?” she said.

“ Forbes, right,” he said.

“Bry, I’m really sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know you’d be coming here, I...”

“No, no, hey,” he said, “come on.”

He looked at her a moment longer.

“Goodnight. Sandy,” he said.

“Goodnight,” she said.

He turned away from the door. He heard the door closing behind him. He heard the small oiled click of the lock tumblers falling.

The precinct was in Chinatown.

Chinatown was where he lived.

Chinatown was home.

A hundred thousand Chinese here, more or less, no one had an accurate count, and more of them arriving every day of the week. Cost an immigrant five thousand bucks for “key money” to a one-room apartment in a sleazy tenement. Twenty years ago, all your Chinese here were from only two counties in Guangdong province. Today, you had maybe twenty provinces represented here. Not to mention all the Chinese immigrants from Southeast Asia. Chinatown had itself become a distant province of China. A third-world city right here in New York. A city unto itself, spilling over into southeast Manhattan, bursting its long-ago boundaries, displacing the Puerto Ricans, spreading like a vaporous cloud over Little Italy and what used to be the Jewish tenements on Henry Street, drifting all the way to Houston Street, moving restlessly, growing all the time. Another part of the city, rarely understood by anyone who didn’t work here. Home.

He wandered the streets.

Well, he shouldn’t have gone there. What the hell. Young, attractive woman, had he expected her to be alone on a Saturday night? Would’ve called first if she had a phone. Shit, why didn’t she have a phone? Dumb.

Wandered the streets.

Crowded with tourists, the streets. Well, close to Christmas, lots of out-of-towners in the city, doing their Christmas shopping before they went back home to Iowa, wherever the hell that was.

Home.

He’d be alone this Christmas.

Well, fuck it.

He walked into Little Italy.

Only two blocks left of it now, the Chinese encroachment evident everywhere. Vegetable stands selling all kinds of exotic roots and herbs. Tea rooms with old bearded Chinese men sipping from cups they held in both hands. Dry-goods stores displaying lavish silks in their windows — the Chinese hooker in red silk, skirt slit to her ass. He stopped in front of the D’Annunzio building on Broome Street. He looked at his watch. He hesitated.

Well, shit, I don’t want to bother them, he thought.

He looked up the street.

Well, he thought, and went into the building.

Mark D’Annunzio opened the door for him.

“Mr. Reardon, hey!” he said. “Come in, come in.”

“I don’t want to disturb you,” Reardon said. “I was just...”

“What disturb?” Mark said. “Come on in.”

He followed Mark into the apartment. There were dinner dishes on the kitchen table. Coffee cups. Mrs. D’Annunzio rose at once.

“Mr. Reardon,” she said, “hello,” and came around the table, both hands extended. “How nice to see you.”

He took her hands.

“I was just passing by,” he said, “thought I’d... uh... see how you’re doing.”

“Take off your coat,” she said, “sit down.”

“Well, no, I don’t want to interrupt your meal.”

“We’re finished already, we were just having coffee. You can’t take off your coat? Sit down for a minute?”

“Well...”

“Did you have supper yet?”

“Well, no, I was...”

“Mark, get Mr. Reardon a plate,” she said, and went immediately to the stove. “The chicken’s still hot,” she said. “Do you like chicken?”

“Yes, I do,” he said.

“ Cacciatore?”

“Any which way.”

“So take off your coat. What’s the matter with you. standing there with your coat on?”

“Thank you,” he said.

He took off his coat.

“Just throw it over one of the chairs.” Mrs. D’Annunzio said.

“Thank you,” he said again.

“Mark, get the wine,” she said. “Red wine okay?” she asked Reardon.

“Si, va bene, signora,” he said. “ Grazie.”

“Ah, lei parla italiano,” she said.

“Solo un poco. signora.”

“Ma lei parla mol to bene!”

“I picked up a little when I was walking a beat here,” Reardon said. “Years ago.”

“Here you go.” Mark said, pouring from a bottle of Chianti.

“Thank you.”

Mrs. D’Annunzio took his plate to the stove, and heaped it high with chicken.

“That’s enough for an army,” Reardon said.

“Chicken is good for you,” she said, putting the plate down before him. “Low cholesterol.”

She sat down at the table beside him. When he did not pick up his fork at once, she said, “ Ma che cosa? Mangia! ”

He began eating. “Good.” he said.

“What do you eat there at the station house?” she asked.

“Well... usually a sandwich. A hamburger. Some fries.”

“You should eat better,” she said, fussing at him. “And in this weather, you should wear a hat. Why don’t you wear a hat, Mr. Reardon?”

“Never got in the habit, I guess.”

“Because the heat escapes from your ears, you know.”

“Come on, Mom,” Mark said, laughing.

“È vero. it’s true, don’t laugh. How’s the chicken?”

“Delicious,” Reardon said.

“Sure,” she said. “Come to the restaurant sometime, we make all kinds of chicken. Cacciatore, valdostana, parmigiana ...”

“We’re opening again on Monday, you know,” Mark said.

“Is that wrong?” Mrs. D’Annunzio said, and sighed. “Is that too soon, Mr. Reardon?”

“No, signora. I don’t think so.”

“Life has to go on, Mom,” Mark said.

“Yes,” Reardon said.

Mrs. D’Annunzio sighed again. There was a long silence. Mark poured more wine for Reardon, and then said, “I don’t suppose... you’ve learned anything yet.”

“We’re working on it,” Reardon said. “We’ll find them, don’t worry.” He took a sip of wine, and then said, “I didn’t come here to ask you any more questions, believe me, but I just got back from Washington...”

“You went to Washington?” Mrs. D’Annunzio said, surprised.

“Yes, to talk to your brother-in-law. Actually to some other people, too, as it turned out. Tell me,” he said, “when your husband came back from Washington, did he mention anything about an Arab?”

“Cosa?”

“L’arabo,” Mark said. “The one who left his briefcase on the plane.”

“What briefcase?” Reardon asked immediately.

“ La sua cartella da viaggio, ” Mrs. D’Annunzio said, nodding. “He rushed off the airplane, he forgot it on the rack. Ralph chased after him, but then... when the man got shot... all the confusion...”

“Hold it, please, ” Reardon said. “What do you mean, he got shot?”

“In the terminal,” Mrs. D’Annunzio said. “He got shot, you didn’t read about it? The man who was sitting next to Ralph on the plane. Ralph tried to give the briefcase back to him, but...”