Ed McBain - Eighty Million Eyes

“She's about five-seven, Pete. Actually, that's pretty big. For a girl, I mean.”

“Still. If we’re not careful here, we may wind up with a homicide on our hands.”

“Well, that's projecting a little further than I think we have to, Pete.”

“Maybe, maybe not. I think we ought to smoke him out.”

“How?”

“Well, I’m not sure yet. What are you working on right now?”

“Those liquor-store holdups. And also an assault.”

“When was the last holdup?”

“Three nights ago.”

“What's your plan?”

“He seems to be hitting them in a line, Pete, straight up Culver Avenue. I thought I’d plant myself in the next store up the line.”

“You think he's going to hit again so soon?”

“They’ve been spaced about two weeks apart so far.”

“Then there's no hurry, right?”

“Well, he may change the timetable.”

“He may change the pattern, too. In which case, you’ll be sitting in the wrong store.”

“That's true. I just thought—”

“Let it wait. What's the assault?”

“Victim is a guy named Vinny Marino, he's a smalltime pusher, lives on Ainsley Avenue. About a week ago, two guys pulled up in a car and got out with baseball bats. They broke both his legs. The neighborhood rumble is that he was fooling around with one of their wives. That's why they went for his legs, you see, so he wouldn’t be able to chase around anymore. It's only coincidental that he's a pusher.”

“For my part, they could have killed him,” Byrnes said. He took his handkerchief from his back pocket, blew his nose, and then said, “Mr. Marino's case can wait, too. I want you to stay with this one, Bert.”

“I think we’d do better with another man. I doubt if I’ll be able to get any cooperation at all from her.”

“Who can I spare?” Byrnes asked. “Willis and Brown are on that knife murder, Hawes is on a planet of his own, Meyer and Carella are on this damn television thing, Andy Parker—”

‘Well, maybe I can switch with one of them.”

“I don’t like cases to change hands once they’ve been started.”

“I’ll do whatever you say, Pete, but—”

“I’d appreciate it,” Byrnes said.

“Yes, sir.”

“You can follow up the vendetta possibility if you like, but I agree with you. It’ll probably turn out to be a dead end.”

“I know. I just felt—”

“Sure, it was worth a try. See where it goes. Contact the rest of those survivors, and listen to what the Forrest girl has to say when she calls later on. But I wouldn’t bank on anything along those lines, if I were you.” Byrnes paused, puffed on his cigar, and then said, “She claims she doesn’t know him, huh?”

“That's right.”

“I thought maybe he was an old boyfriend.”

“No.”

“Rejected, you know, that kind of crap.”

“No, not according to her.”

“Maybe he just wants to get in her pants.”

“Maybe.”

“Is she good-looking?”

“She's attractive, yes. She's not a raving beauty, but I guess she's attractive.”

“Then maybe that's it.”

“Maybe, but why would he go after her in this way?”

“Maybe he doesn’t know any other way. He sounds like a hood, and hoods take what they want. He doesn’t know from candy or flowers. He sees a pretty girl he wants, so he goes after her—even if it means beating her up to get her. That's my guess.”

“Maybe.”

“And that's in our favor. Look what happened to Fairchild when he got in this guy's way. He knocked out his teeth and broke his ribs. Whatever he wants from this girl—and it's my guess all he wants is her tail—he's not going to let anybody stop him from getting it, law or otherwise. That's where you come in.”

“What do you mean?”

“That's how we smoke him out. I don’t want to do anything that’ll put this girl in danger. I want this punk to make his move against you , Bert.”

“Me?”

“You. He knows where she works, and chances are he knows where she lives, and I’ll bet my life he's watching her every minute of the day. Okay, let's give him something to watch.”

“Me?” Kling said again.

“You, that's right. Stay with that girl day and night. Let's—”

“Day and night ?”

“Well, within reason. Let's get this guy so goddamn sore at you that he comes after you and tries to do exactly what he did to Fairchild.”

Kling smiled. “Gee,” he said, “suppose he succeeds?”

“Fairchild is a new cop,” Byrnes said. “You told me so yourself.”

“Okay, Pete, but you’re forgetting something, aren’t you?”

“What's that?”

“The girl doesn’t like me. She's not going to take kindly to the idea of spending time with me.”

“Ask her if she’d rather get raped some night in the elevator after this guy has knocked out her teeth and broken some of her ribs. Ask her that.”

Kling smiled again. “She might prefer it.”

“I doubt it.”

“Pete, she hates me. She really …”

Byrnes smiled. “Win her over, boy,” he said. “Just win her over, that's all.”

David Krantz worked for a company named Major Broadcasting Associates, which had its offices downtown on Jefferson Street. Major Broadcasting, or MBA as it was familiarly called in the industry, devoted itself primarily to the making of filmed television programs, but every now and then it ventured into the production of a live show. The Stan Gifford Show was—or at least had been—one of the three shows they presented live from the city each week. A fourth live show was produced bimonthly on the Coast. MBA was undoubtedly the giant of the television business, and since success always breeds contempt, it had been given various nicknames by disgruntled and ungrateful industry wags. These ranged from mild jibes like Money Banks Anonymous, through gentle epithets like Mighty Bloody Assholes, to genuinely artistic creations like Master Bullshit Artists. Whatever you called the company, and however you sliced it, it was important and vast and accounted for more than sixty percent of the nation's television fare each week.

The building on Jefferson Street was owned by MBA, and featured floor after floor of wood-paneled offices, ravishing secretaries and receptionists exported from the Coast, and solemn-looking young men in dark suits and ties, white shirts, and black shoes and socks. David Krantz was a solemn-looking man wearing the company uniform, but he wasn’t as young as he used to be. His secretary showed Meyer and Carella into the office, and then closed the door gently behind them. “I’ve met Mr. Meyer,” Krantz said, a trace of sarcasm in his voice, “but I believe you and I have only had the pleasure on the telephone, Mr. Caretta.”

“Carella.”

“Carella, forgive me. Sit down, won’t you. I’m expecting a call on the tieline, so if I have to interrupt our chat, I know you’ll understand.”

“Certainly,” Carella said.

Krantz smoothed his mustache. “Well, what is it you want to know?”

“First, did you find out where Gifford went while he was off camera?”

“I haven’t been able to locate George Cooper. He's our AD, he's the man who’d know.”

“What's an AD?” Carella asked.

“Assistant director,” Meyer said. “I talked to him last night, Steve. He's the one who timed that tape for me.”

“Oh.”

“I tried to reach him at home,” Krantz said, “but no one answered the phone. I’ll try it again, if you like.”

“Where does he live?” Carella asked.

“Downtown, in The Quarter. It's his responsibility to see that everyone's in on cue. I’m sure he would know just where Stan went while the folk singers were on. Shall I have my secretary try him again?”