Ed McBain - Ten Plus One

The “following acts” include anything from using threatening language, to causing a crowd to collect, to making insulting remarks to passing pedestrians, and, under Subdivision 9: “frequents or loiters about any public place soliciting men for the purpose of committing a crime against nature or any other lewdness.”

If one can call going to bed with a man “a crime against nature,” then that is prostitution. It is not called prostitution in this section. It is called “soliciting,” but in the section titled “Solicitation: Lewd or immoral purposes, solicitation for,” there is listed only the following: “Male persons living on proceeds of prostitution: Every male person who lives wholly or in part on the earnings of prostitution, or who in any public place solicits for immoral purposes, is guilty of a misdemeanor. A male person who lives with or is habitually in the company of a prostitute and has no visible means of support, shall be presumed to be living on the earnings of prostitution.”

So what is an honest, conscientious cop supposed to do when an obvious whore sidles up to him and asks, “Want some fun, honey?” Left to his own devices, he might accept the offer. Bound by the penal law, he might arrest her for disorderly conduct, the penalty for which can be a jail sentence not to exceed six months, or a fine not to exceed $50, or both. But the penal law is bolstered by the Code of Criminal Procedure, and every cop in the city knows Section 887, Subdivision 4, by heart. Every prostitute has committed it to memory, too, because this is where they get her by the codes. Section 887 describes, of all things, vagrants. “The following persons are vagrants,” it states, and then goes on to list everyone including your Uncle Max. When it comes to Subdivision 4, it pulls no punches.

4. A person ( a ) who offers to commit prostitution, or ( b ) who offers to secure for another for the purpose of prostitution or for any other lewd or indecent act; or ( c ) who loiters in or near any thoroughfare or public or private place for the

purpose of inducing, enticing or procuring another to commit lewdness, fornication, unlawful sexual intercourse or any other indecent act…

That would seem to cover it, man. But those puritan forefathers weren’t taking any chances. Section 887, Subdivision 4, goes on to state:

…or ( d ) who in any manner induces, entices or procures a person who is in any thoroughfare or public place or private place, to commit any such acts; or ( e ) who receives or offers or agrees to receive any person into any place, structure, house, building or conveyance for the purpose of prostitution, lewdness or assignation or knowingly permits any person to remain there for such purposes; or ( f ) who in any way, aids or abets or participates in the doing of any of the acts or things enumerated in Subdivision four of Section eight hundred and eighty-seven of the Code of Criminal Procedure; or ( g ) who is a common prostitute, who has no lawful employment whereby to maintain herself.

That’s a vagrant, sir, madam. And if that is what you are, you can under Section 891 ( a ) of the same code be sent to a reformatory for as long as three years, or a county jail, penitentiary, or other penal institution for as long as a year—so watch yourself!

The man named Harry Wallach was a male person who lived with or was habitually in the company of the prostitute named Blanche Lettiger, the woman who had been shot to death on the night of April 30. It did not take the police long to find him. Everybody knew who Blanche’s “old man” was. They picked him up the next morning in a poolroom on North Forty-first, and they brought him to the station house and sat him down in a chair and began asking their questions. He was a tall, well-dressed man, with hair graying at the temples, and penetrating green eyes. He asked the detectives if it was all right to smoke, and then he lit a 50¢ cigar and sat back calmly with a faint superior smile on his mouth as Carella opened the session.

“What do you do for a living, Wallach?”

“Investment,” Wallach said.

“What kind of investment?” Meyer asked.

“Stocks, bonds, real estate. You know.”

“What’s the current quotation on AT&T?” Carella asked.

“Not in my portfolio,” Wallach said.

“What is in your portfolio?”

“I don’t remember offhand.”

“Do you have a broker?”

“Yes.”

“What’s his name?”

“He’s in Miami right now on vacation.”

“We didn’t ask you where he was, we asked you what his name is.”

“Dave.”

“Dave what?”

“Dave Milias.”

“Where’s he staying in Miami?”

“Search me,” Wallach said.

“All right, Wallach,” Meyer said, “what do you know about this woman Blanche Lettiger?”

“Blanche who ?” Wallach said.

“Oh, you want to play this one cool, huh, Wallach? Is that it?”

“It’s just the name don’t seem to ring a bell.”

“It doesn’t, huh? Blanche Lettiger. You share an apartment with her on Culver and North Twelfth, apartment 6-B, rented under the name of Frank Wallace, and you’ve been living there with her for the past year and a half. Does the name ring a bell now, Wallach?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Wallach said.

“Maybe he’s the guy who plugged her, Steve.”

“I’m beginning to think so.”

“What do you mean?” Wallach asked, unruffled.

“Why the dodge, Wallach? You think we’re interested in a crummy pimp like you?”

“I’m not that,” Wallach said with dignity.

“No? What do you call it?”

“Not what you said.”

“Oh, how sweet,” Meyer said. “He doesn’t want to spoil his dainty little lips by saying the word pimp. Look, Wallach, don’t make this hard for us. You want us to throw the book, we’ve got it, and we know how to throw it. Make it easy for yourself. We’re only interested in knowing about the woman.”

“What woman?”

“You son of a bitch, she was shot down in cold blood last night. What the hell are you, a human being or what?”

“I don’t know any woman who was shot down in cold blood last night,” Wallach insisted. “You’re not going to get me involved in a goddamn homicide. I know you guys too good. You’re looking for a patsy, and it ain’t going to be me.”

“We weren’t looking for a patsy,” Carella said, “but now that you mention it, it’s not a bad idea. What do you think, Meyer?”

“Why not?” Meyer said. “He’s as good as anybody to pin it on. Take the heat off us.”

“Where were you last night, Wallach?”

“What time last night?” Wallach answered, still calm, still puffing gently on his cigar.

“The time the woman was killed.”

“I don’t know what time any woman was killed.”

“About five-thirty. Where were you?”

“Having dinner.”

“So early?”

“I eat early.”

“Where?”

“The Rambler.”

“Where’s that?”

“Downtown.”

“Downtown where? Look, Wallach, if you force us to pull teeth, we know some better ways of doing it.”

“Sure, get out your rubber hose,” Wallach said calmly.

“Meyer,” Carella said calmly, “get the rubber hose.”

Calmly Meyer walked to a desk on the far side of the room, opened the top drawer, took out a two-foot length of rubber hose, smacked it against his palm, and then walked back to where Wallach was watching him calmly.

“This what you mean, Wallach?”

“You think you’re surprising me or something?” Wallach asked.

“Who’d you eat with?” Carella said.