Эд Макбейн - Happy New Year, Herbie and other stories

For a moment, Randolph was silent. Then he said, “I haven’t had any complaints.”

“Frank,” Fields said softly, “your best friends won’t tell you.”

“Then they’re not my best...”

“All right, get in there!” a voice in the corridor shouted.

Randolph turned. He saw Boglio first, and then he saw the man with Boglio. The man was small and thin with a narrow moustache. He had brown eyes and lank brown hair, and he wet his moustache nervously with his tongue.

“Over there!” Boglio shouted. “Against the wall!”

“What’ve you got, Rudy?” Randolph asked.

“I got a punk,” Boglio said. He turned to the man and bellowed, “You hear me? Get the hell over against that wall!”

“What’d he do?” Fields asked.

Boglio didn’t answer. He shoved out at the man, slamming him against the wall alongside the filing cabinets. “What’s your name?” he shouted.

“Arthur,” the man said.

“Arthur what? ”

“Arthur Semmers.”

“You drunk, Semmers?”

“No.”

“Are you high?”

“What?”

“Are you on junk?”

“What’s — I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Narcotics. Answer me, Semmers’.

“Narcotics? Me? No, I ain’t never touched it, I swear.”

“I’m gonna ask you some questions, Semmers,” Boglio said. “You want to get this, Frank?”

“I’ve got a prisoner outside,” Randolph said.

“The little girl on the bench?” Boglio asked. His eyes locked with Randolph’s for a moment. “That can wait. This is business.”

“Okay,” Randolph said. He took a pad from his back pocket and sat in a straight-backed chair near where Semmers stood crouched against the wall.

“Name’s Arthur Semmers,” Boglio said. “You got that, Frank?”

“Spell it,” Randolph said.

“S-E-M-M-E-R-S,” Semmers said.

“How old are you, Semmers?” Boglio asked.

“Thirty-one.”

“Born in this country?”

“Sure. Hey, what do you take me for, a greenhorn? Sure, I was born right here.”

“Where do you live?”

“Eighteen-twelve South Fourth.”

“You getting this, Frank?”

“I’m getting it,” Randolph said.

“All right, Semmers, tell me about it.”

“What do you want to know?”

“I want to know why you cut up that kid.”

“I didn’t cut up nobody.”

“Semmers, let’s get something straight. You’re in a squadroom now, you dig me? You ain’t out in the street where we play the game by your rules. This is my ball park, Semmers. You don’t play the game my way, and you’re gonna wind up with the bat rammed down your throat.”

“I still didn’t cut up nobody.”

“Okay, Semmers,” Boglio said. “Let’s start it this way. Were you on Ashley Avenue, or weren’t you?”

“Sure, I was. There’s a law against being on Ashley Avenue?”

“Were you in an alleyway near number four sixty-seven Ashley?”

“Yeah.”

“Semmers, there was a sixteen-year-old kid in that alleyway, too. He was stabbed four times, and we already took him to the hospital, and that kid’s liable to die. You know what homicide is, Semmers?”

“That’s when somebody gets killed.”

“You know what Homicide cops are like?”

“No. What?”

“You’d be laying on the floor almost dead by now if you was up at Homicide, Just thank God you’re here, Semmers, and don’t try my patience.”

“I never seen no kid in the alley. I never cut up nobody.”

Without warning, Boglio drew back his fist and smashed it into Semmers’ face. Semmers lurched back against the wall, bounced off it like a handball, and then clasped his shattered lip with his hand.

“Why’d you—”

“Shut up!” Boglio yelled.

From where he sat, Randolph could see the blood spurting from Semmers’ mouth. Dispassionately, he watched.

“Tell me about the kid,” Boglio said.

“There ain’t nothing to—”

Again, Boglio hit him, harder this time.

“Tell me about the kid,” he repeated.

“I...”

The fist lashed out again. Randolph watched.

“You going to need me any more?” he asked Boglio.

“No,” Boglio said, drawing back his fist.

From across the room, Fields said, “For Christ’s sake, lay off, Rudy. You want to kill the poor bastard?”

“I don’t like punks,” Boglio said. He turned again to the bloody figure against the wall.

Randolph rose, ripped the pages of notes from the black book, and put them on Boglio’s desk. He was going through the gate in the railing when Fields stopped him.

“How does it feel?” Fields asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Being an accomplice.”

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

“Don’t you?”

“No.”

“You beginning to think the way Boglio docs? About punks, I mean?”

“My thoughts are my business, Gene,” Randolph said. “Keep out of them.”

“Boglio’s thoughts are his business, too.”

“He’s questioning a punk who knifed somebody. What the hell do you want him to do?”

“He’s questioning a human being who maybe did and maybe didn’t knife somebody.”

“What’s the matter, Gene? You in love with this precinct?”

“I think it stinks,” Fields said. “I think it’s a big, stinking prison.”

“All right. So do I.”

“But for Christ’s sake, Frank, learn who the prisoners are! Don’t become—”

“I can take care of myself,” Randolph said.

Fields sighed. “What are your plans for the little girl outside?”

“She’s trash,” Randolph said.

“So?”

“So what do you want? Go back to the D.D. report you were typing, Gene. I’ll handle my own prisoners.”

“Sure,” Fields said, and turned and walked to his desk.

Randolph watched his retreating back. Casually, he lighted a cigarette and then walked out into the corridor. The girl looked up as he approached. Her eyes looked very blue in the dimness of the corridor. Very blue and very frightened.

“What’s your name?” Randolph asked.

“Betty,” the girl said.

“You’re in trouble, Betty,” Randolph said flatly.

“I... I know.”

“How old are you, Betty?”

“Twenty-four.”

“You look younger.”

The girl hesitated. “That’s... that’s because I’m so skinny,” she said.

“You’re not that skinny,” Randolph said harshly. “Don’t play the poor little slum kid with me.”

“I wasn’t playing anything,” Betty said. “I am skinny. I know I am. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Her voice was very soft, the voice of a young girl, a frightened young girl. He looked at her, and he told himself, She’s a tramp, and his mind clicked shut like a trap.

“Lots of girls are skinny,” Betty said. “I know lots of girls who—”

“Let’s lay off the skinny routine,” Randolph said drily. “We already made that point.” He paused. “You’re twenty-four, huh?”

“Yes,” She nodded and a quiet smile formed on her painted mouth. “How old are you?”

“I’m thirty-two,” Randolph said before he could catch himself, and then he dropped his cigarette angrily to the floor and stepped on it. “You mind if I ask the questions?”

“I was only curious. You seem... never mind.”

“What do I seem?”

“Nothing.”

“All right, let’s get down to business. How long have you been a hooker?”

The girl looked at him blankly. “What?”

“Don’t you hear good?”

“Yes, but what does hooker mean?”

Randolph sighed heavily. “Honey,” he said, “the sooner we drop the wide-eyed innocence, the better off we’ll both be.”