Ed McBain - Another Part of the City

“Tell the truth, Mom,” Mark said, and turned to Reardon. “My father panicked. There were cops all over the place, the man’s chest was covered with blood, my father didn’t want to get involved.” He paused and then said, “This is New York, you know.”

“Why didn’t you tell me all this before?” Reardon said.

“I guess... I don’t know... I didn’t see any connection between something that happened...”

“Let me figure out the goddamn connections, okay?” Reardon said angrily, and then turned immediately to Mrs. D’Annunzio and said, “ Scusi, signora. ”

“I’m sorry,” Mark said. “I should have realized.”

“Did your father bring the briefcase home with him?”

“Yes.”

“You saw it?”

“Yes.”

“Where is it now?”

“I don’t know,” Mark said.

Canned music blared through the crowded room. Colored lights bounced off revolving mirrored balls, splintering reds and blues and ambers, sprinkling the faces and the gyrating bodies of the dancers. Mirrored walls multiplied the dancers by a hundred, speakers everywhere created an unimaginable din. You can’t even hear yourself think in here, Sarge thought, and tried to steady Jessica, who’d had too much to drink and who was having trouble keeping her footing. He hated when she drank too much. Hated this place. Didn’t know what to do to this damn music.

She went into a turn, solo-dancing, swinging out from him, her silver-sequined dress reflecting color, reflecting itself again in the mirrors, those damn mirrors were making him dizzy.

“Ooops,” she said, and grinned a silly grin.

“Come on, let’s sit down,” Sarge said.

“Wanna dance, ” Jessica said.

“Later, Jess.”

“Now.” she said.

“Come on. Jess.”

He took her elbow, leading her through the crowd, Jessica trying to pull away from him, jiggling her behind in time to the frantic beat, shaking her breasts. When they got back to the table, she picked up her drink immediately. and took a long swallow.

“Better go easy on the sauce,” Sarge said.

“What for?” Jessica said. “In St. Moritz on a Saturday night, I’d be dancing and drinking and dancing and...”

“Excuse me,” someone said.

Sarge turned to his right. A tall young man was standing there.

“Arthur Trevor,” he said, “ New York Post. I wonder if...”

“Buzz off, New York Post, ” Sarge said.

“Come out, Mr. Kidd,” Trevor said, “you guys are news.”

“It’s the Captain who’s the news,” Jessica said.

“Jessie!” Sarge said sharply.

“That sterling leader of American industry...” Jessica said.

“What about him. Miss Kidd?” Trevor asked.

“Nothing,” Sarge said. “Leave us alone, will you please?”

“I just want to know...”

“Do you want me to call the manager?”

“Hey, give me a break, okay? I’m a working stiff...”

“Give him a break. Sarge,” Jessica said, and giggled.

“What kind of news has your father made now, Miss Kidd?” Trevor asked, leaning in on her.

“Listen, mister,” Sarge said, “you want me to...?”

“Went and had himself...”

“Shut...”

“... a big old stroke out there in Arizona.”

“Damn you, Jessie!”

“A stroke?” Trevor said. “Your father had a stroke?”

“Get the hell away from us!” Sarge said. He was on his feet now, hulking over Trevor. “You hear me? Move ill”

Trevor backed away from the table.

Jessica looked up at her brother.

“Did I say something wrong?” she asked.

Sunday morning, December 21. was bright, and clear, and extraordinarily mild. Nobody in New York could believe that Christmas was only four days away. Everyone began talking about the Hothouse Effect. Everyone started saying the polar ice cap was melting. Everyone began reconsidering plans made to spend the holidays in the Caribbean. New York was suddenly a nicer place to live in than it was to visit.

Except for cops.

There was only one thing worse than having to work on a Sunday, and that was having to work when the Sunday was a glorious one. Outside the old Fifth Precinct building on Elizabeth Street, men were strolling in shirtsleeves and women were wearing cotton dresses. In the squadroom upstairs, Gianelli stood at one of the grilled windows — open wide to admit air that was almost intoxicatingly balmy — and looked down into the street.

“When I was with the band,” he said to Hoffman, “I didn’t have to work on Sundays.”

“Unless there was a parade,” Hoffman said.

Reardon was sitting at his desk, the telephone receiver to his ear.

“Well, could you check the manifest for me?” he said, and listened. “What do you mean, there’s no manifest? Every airline has a manifest.”

“Parades ain’t work,” Gianelli said. “Parades are fun. ”

“Would you hold it down?” Reardon said, and then, into the phone, “I’m sorry, what was that?”

“People on the sidewalk cheering, and throwing confetti...”

“And throwing up,” Hoffman said.

“Uh-huh,” Reardon said into the phone.

“That wasn’t work,” Gianelli said. “This is work. This shitty squadroom is work. On a Sunday, no less.”

“Okay, thanks,” Reardon said, and put the receiver back on its cradle. “They don’t keep a manifest for the shuttle,” he said. “People just walk on and off, pay for their tickets right on the plane.”

“What’s so important about this Arab, anyway?” Gianelli said.

“Maybe nothing,” Reardon said. “Except he got shot. And I can’t find anyone who knows who the fuck he was. ”

“So he shared a cab with D’Annunzio. So what?”

“You figure it was the nine o’clock shuttle, huh?” Hoffman said. “Must’ve been,” Reardon said. “They left the restaurant at eight-thirty, takes ten minutes to the airport, the last plane’s at nine.”

“And both of them got out of the cab at National, huh?”

“National Airlines?” Gianelli asked.

“No, National Airport.”

“So what airline?”

“Eastern.”

“They both got off at Eastern?”

“That’s what the cabbie told me.”

“And we know the Arab came to New York, ’cause this is where he got shot.”

“And he left his briefcase on the plane,” Reardon said.

“Which D’Annunzio picked up, and now nobody knows where it is.”

“Terrific,” Hoffman said.

“Feel like taking a ride out to La Guardia?” Reardon asked.

La Guardia Airport was thronged with traffic that Sunday morning. Sunday was a good day to see people off.

“You get a Puerto Rican going back to the island,” Hoffman said, “he takes the whole family to the airport for the big farewell scene. Grandma, Grandpa, all the aunts and uncles, the cousins, the screaming babies, they’re all outside the gate kissing this cane-cutter carrying a cardboard suitcase. You’d think the dumb fuck was goin’ off to fight the fuckin’ Russians.”

“Don’t let Ruiz hear you say that,” Reardon said.

“Fuck Ruiz, too. He prob’ly has his whole family seein’ him off at the subway station every morning.”

They parked the car in the short-term parking lot, and began walking toward the terminal.

“Place is a fuckin’ madhouse today,” Hoffman said. “I’ll bet you got people here today just came to see the planes takin’ off and landin’, you know that? Something free to do on a nice Sunday. This city, you tell a guy it’s free to jump under a subway car, he’ll do it. ’Cause it’s free. Look at all these fuckin’ people, willya?”