Уильям Макгиверн - Collected Fiction - 1940-1963

“What have you got?” he said, glancing with impersonal disgust at the slender graying man between the two cops.

“A drunk,” the fresh-faced cop named Wilson said. He grinned. “But there was an odd angle about him, so we decided to turn it over to the high-priced help. Meaning you hawkshaws, of course. I—”

“Don’t be cute about it,” Ryan said, looking steadily at Wilson. “Just give me the facts.”

The cop, Wilson, nodded and wet his lips. The impact of Ryan’s deep pitiless eyes left him slightly breathless. “Sure, sure,” he said. “We found him in the gutter at the intersection of Sixth and Market. He was laying about twenty feet from a jeweler’s store that had the window knocked in. There was no robbery report from there, but the protection service boys were out on it, of, course. Nothing missing from the jewelry shop, it turned out, but this character was on the scene, and so—” Wilson shrugged, glad to get his story over, unwilling to add any irrelevant details which might irritate Ryan.

“Okay, any identification?” Ryan said.

“Nothing.”

“Money, social security card, clothing labels?”

“There was nothing. He don’t even have a cigarette butt on him.”

Ryan stared at the slender little man for a moment or so, noting his pale intelligent face, his mild, oddly, bewildered eyes, his silvery hair. Possibly a dopey, he thought. There was something about him slightly off-key.

“Bring him in over to my desk,” he said, at last. “I’ll have a talk with him.”

“That’s another thing,” Wilson said. “He don’t talk.”

Ryan grinned, and something glittered deep in his merciless eyes. “He’ll talk, all right.”

“Want us to stick around in case he goes off his nut, or something like that?” Wilson said.

Ryan took his time lighting a cigarette. He stared over the flame at Wilson. “Thanks,” he said finally. “Thanks a lot. But I’d like it better if you’d do as you’re told and get the hell back to your car. That okay with you?”

There was no more conversation. The cops did as they were told, dumped the graying little man beside Ryan’s desk, and left. Outside, in the bleak dark street, the fresh-faced cop named Wilson swore savagely and looked up at the green-shaded windows of the detective division. “Who the hell does he think he is?” he said, his voice low and bitter.

Wilson’s partner, an old-timer named Flannigan, shrugged briefly. “Don’t try to warm up to Joe Ryan,” he said. “He’s got about the same kind of heart you’d find in a rattlesnake. Just keep your mouth shut around him, that’s the best bet.” Flannigan looked up at the green-shaded windows. “I feel a little sorry for that fellow we brought in,” he said.

“Yeah, so do I,” Wilson said slowly.

They both shrugged then and walked down to their squad car, which waited for them gleaming and black under chilling winter rain.

“Let’s start with your name,” Ryan said, facing the slender man with the silvery hair.

There was no answer. The little man stared back at him, bewildered, uneasy, confused.

“Now get this straight,” Ryan said in a low hard voice. “We’re going to find out all about you, name, address, family, what you’re doing in town, everything. We’ll get it, believe me. We can do it nice and fast, or we can do it tough and slow. You make the choice, buddy.”

Again, there was no answer.

Ryan felt a savage anger building up in him, swiftly, dangerously. This was always the way it went, he thought. You offered them the break, the out, and they sneered at you, called you a fool in the silent depths of their minds. Ryan’s philosophy was a bleak and lonely one: the world, his world, was crowded with thugs, hoodlums, whores, racketmen, chiselers, rapists, deadbeats of all varieties and sorts. That decent people might exist was an academic point to Ryan; he never met them. The sort who made up his world were dangerous, implacable enemies; they would get him if he didn’t hit them first, and hit them hard. He knew no other way of doing his job.

“Okay, we’ll try once more,” he said slowly. “What’s your name?”

There was no answer.

Ryan stood, tipping his chair over backward. Before it struck the floor he had jerked the little man to his feet and struck him savagely across the mouth. The chair crashed to the floor, and the sound of it obliterated the shocked desperate shriek that forced itself through the little man’s lips.

“Now we’re in business,” Ryan said, breathing heavily. “you can make noises. Now make some sense. What’s your name?”

There was no answer. Swearing, Ryan slapped him again, and dropped him back in his chair. The little man stared at Ryan as he might stare at some prehistoric monster come to life. There was no longer bewilderment in his eyes; his expression was one of numb, desperate disbelief. His lips moved. “Why?” he asked. “Why?” The single word was spoken haltingly.

“Oh, you want to ask questions now,” Ryan said. “This is good. Well, I’ll play along. I hit you because you’re a little slow to talk, buddy. If you don’t want another sample, keep talking, and talk fast. What’s your name?”

“I— I can tell you nothing,” the little man said. He seemed stunned. Almost as an afterthought, he added, “I have never been struck before.”

“You’re going to talk, get it?” Ryan said. He was breathing harder now, and he felt the reins he kept on his temper slipping through his hands. They pushed him to it, he thought, almost desperately. These deadbeats, bums, hoodlums — the responsibility was theirs, not his. “What’s your name?” he shouted, jerking the little man to his feet...

Five minutes later Ryan called downstairs to the House Sergeant. “Send up a couple of men,” he said. “This drunk I got here just passed out. Dump a bucket of water over him and lock him up for a few hours.”

“Okay. You got his name?”

Ryan slammed the receiver down without answering. He paced the floor, drawing deeply on his cigarette. Occasionally he glanced at the small huddled body of the little man lying on the floor. Stupid, stubborn, ignorant jerk, he thought. What was he trying to hide? Did he think he could get away with it by just keeping his mouth shut?

The turnkey and the House Sergeant’s clerk came in and carted the little man out, carrying his frail slender form as easily as they would that of a child. When they were gone Ryan threw his cigarette away and rubbed his forehead tiredly. He sighed finally and went to the basin in the corner of the room and began to wash his hands. This was a ritual of his, unexplained and unexplainable, but it was one he never varied. After using his hands on a man, Ryan scrubbed them thoroughly, painstakingly, with strong soap and hot water. Sometimes a newcomer to the division kidded him about this peculiarity, but no one was likely to make that mistake twice. Ryan didn’t know why he washed his hands after striking a man; but he didn’t like to be kidded about it. He didn’t even like to think about it.

Twenty minutes later, as Ryan was looking over a report on one of his cases, the phone rang. It was the House Sergeant. “Ryan, I just got a tip-off from the Hall that we’re getting some visitors. It’s big stuff. The Superintendent and the Mayor, and a few carloads of brass.”

“What’s up?” Ryan said.

“Damned if I know. But you’d better wake up those sleeping beauties of yours.”

“Okay, thanks.” Ryan replaced the phone, rubbed his forehead for a few seconds, and then shrugged.

He stood and snapped on the strong white overhead lights. He shook the detective sleeping in the chair, and walked over and kicked the bench the other man was lying on.