87th Precinct 02 - The Mugger

by McBain, Ed

  “Glad to know you,” Tommy said. He watched Kling carefully.

  “Tommy’s president of Club Tempo,” Hud put in. “He gave me the okay to hire the place to you. Provided the price was right.”

  “I was in the john,” Tommy said. “Heard everything you said. Why’re you so interested in our chicks?”

  “I’m not interested,” Kling answered. “Just curious.”

  “Your curiosity, pal, should concern itself only with hiring the club. Am I right, Hud?”

  “Sure,” Hud answered.

  “What can you pay, pal?”

  “How often did Jeannie Paige come down here, pal?” Kling said. He watched Tommy’s face. The face did not change expression at all. A record slid from the stack Hud was holding, clattering to the floor.

  “Who’s Jeannie Paige?” Tommy said.

  “A girl who was killed last Thursday night.”

  “Never heard of her,” Tommy said.

  “Think,” Kling told him.

  “I am thinking.” Tommy paused. “You a cop?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “This is a clean club,” Tommy said. “We never had any trouble with the cops, and we don’t want none. We ain’t even had any trouble with the landlord, and he’s a louse from way back.”

  “Nobody’s looking for trouble,” Kling said. “I asked you how often Jeannie Paige came down here.”

  “Never,” Tommy said. “Ain’t that right, Hud?”

  Hud, reaching for the pieces of the broken record, looked up. “Yeah, that’s right, Tommy.”

  “Suppose I am a cop?” Kling said.

  “Cops have badges.”

  Kling reached into his back pocket, opened his wallet, and showed the tin.

  Tommy glanced at the shield. “Cop or no cop, this is still a clean club.”

  “Nobody said it was dirty. Stop bulging your weight-lifter muscles and answer my questions straight. When was Jeannie Paige down here last?”

  Tommy hesitated for a long time. “Nobody here had anything to do with killing her,” he said at last.

  “Then she did come down?”

  “Yes.”

  “How often?”

  “Every now and then.”

  “How often?”

  “Whenever there was socials. Sometimes during the week, too. We let her in ‘cause one of the girls…” Tommy stopped.

  “Go ahead, finish it.”

  “One of the girls knows her. Otherwise we wouldn’t’ve let her in except on social nights. That’s all I was gonna say.”

  “Yeah,” Hud said, placing the broken record pieces on the player cabinet. “I think this girl was gonna put her up for membership.”

  “Was she here last Thursday night?” Kling asked.

  “No,” Tommy answered quickly.

  “Try it again.”

  “No, she wasn’t here. Thursday night is Work Night. Six kids from the club get the duty each week—different kids, you understand. Three guys and three girls. The guys do the heavy work, and the girls do the curtains, the glasses, things like that. No outsiders are allowed on Work Night. In fact, no members except the kids who are working are allowed. That’s how I know Jeannie Paige wasn’t here.”

  “Were you here?”

  “Yeah,” Tommy said.

  “Who else was here?”

  “What difference does it make? Jeannie wasn’t here.”

  “What about her girlfriend? The one she knows?”

  “Yeah, she was here.”

  “What’s her name?”

  Tommy paused. When he answered, it had nothing whatsoever to do with Kling’s question. “This Jeannie kid, like you got to understand her. She never even danced with nobody down here. A real zombie. Pretty as sin, but an iceberg. Ten below, I’m not kidding.”

  “Why’d she come down then?”

  “Ask me an easy one. Listen, even when she did come down, she never stayed long. She’d just sit on the sidelines and watch. There wasn’t a guy in this club wouldn’ta liked to dump her in the hay, but what a terrifying creep she was.” Tommy paused. “Ain’t that right, Hud?”

  Hud nodded. “That’s right. Dead and all, I got to say it. She was a regular icicle. A real spook. After a while, none of the guys even bothered askin’ her to dance. We just let her sit.”

  “She was in another world,” Tommy said. “I thought for a while she was a dope addict or something. I mean it. You know, you read about them in the papers all the time.” He shrugged. “But it wasn’t that. She was just a Martian, that’s all.” He shook his head disconsolately. “Such a piece, too.”

  “A terrifying creep,” Hud said, shaking his head.

  “What’s her girlfriend’s name?” Kling asked again.

  A glance of muted understanding passed between Tommy and Hud. Kling didn’t miss it, but he bided his time.

  “You get a pretty girl like Jeannie was,” Tommy said, “and you figure. Here’s something. Pal, did you ever see her? I mean, they don’t make them like that any—”

  “What’s her girlfriend’s name?” Kling repeated, a little louder this time.

  “She’s an older girl,” Tommy said, his voice very low.

  “How old?”

  “Twenty,” Tommy said.

  “That almost makes her middle-aged like me,” Kling said.

  “Yeah,” Hud agreed seriously.

  “What’s her age got to do with it?”

  “Well…” Tommy hesitated.

  “For Christ’s sake, what is it?” Kling exploded.

  “She’s been around,” Tommy said.

  “So?”

  “So…so we don’t want any trouble down here. This is a clean club. No, really, I’m not snowing you. So…so if once in a while we fool around with Claire—”

  “Claire what?” Kling snapped.

  “Claire…” Tommy stopped.

  “Look,” Kling said tightly, “let’s just cut this short, okay? A seventeen-year-old kid had her head smashed in, and I don’t feel like playing around! Now, what the hell is this girl’s name? And say it damn fast!”

  “Claire Townsend.” Tommy wet his lips. “Look, if our mothers found out we were…well, you know…fooling around with Claire down here, well. Look, can’t we leave her out of this? What’s to gain? Is there anything wrong with a little fun?”

  “Nothing,” Kling said. “Do you find murder funny? Do you find it comical, you terrifying creep?”

  “No, but—”

  “Where does she live?”

  “Claire?”

  “Yes.”

  “Right on Peterson. What’s the address, Hud?”

  “728, I think,” Hud said.

  “Yeah, that sounds about right. But look, Officer, leave us out of it, will you?”

  “How many of you do I have to protect?” Kling said dryly.

  “Well…only Hud and me, actually,” Tommy said.

  “The Bobbsey Twins.”

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing.” Kling started for the door. “Stay away from big girls,” he said. “Go lift some weights.”

  “You’ll leave us out of it?” Tommy called.

  “I may be back,” Kling said, and then he left them standing by the record player.

  In Riverhead—and throughout the city, for that matter, but especially in Riverhead—the cave dwellers have thrown up a myriad number of dwellings, which they call middle-class apartment houses. These buildings are usually constructed of yellow brick, and they are carefully set on the street so that no wash is seen hanging on the lines, except when an inconsiderate city transit authority constructs an elevated structure that cuts through backyards.

  The fronts of the buildings are usually hung with a different kind of wash. Here is where the women gather. They sit on bridge chairs and stools, and they knit, and they sun themselves, and they talk, and their talk is the dirty wash of the apartment building. In three minutes flat, a reputation can be ruined by these Mesdames Defarge.
The ax drops with remarkable abruptness, whetted by a friendly discussion of last-night’s mah-jongg game. The head, with equally remarkable suddenness, rolls into the basket, and the discussion idles on to topics like, “Should birth control be practiced in the Virgin Isles?”

  Autumn was a bold seductress on that late Monday afternoon, September 18. The women lingered in front of the buildings, knowing their hungry men would soon be home for dinner, but lingering nonetheless, savoring the tantalizing bite of the air. When the tall, blond man stopped in front of 728 Peterson, paused to check the address over the arched doorway, and then stepped into the foyer, speculation ran rife among the women knitters. After a brief period of consultation, one of the women— a girl named Birdie—was chosen to sidle unobtrusively into the foyer and, if the opportunity were ripe, perhaps casually follow the good-looking stranger upstairs.

  Birdie, so carefully unobtrusive was she, missed her golden opportunity. By the time she had wormed her way into the inner foyer, Kling was nowhere in sight.

  He had checked the name Townsend in the long row of brass-plated mailboxes, pushed the bell button, and then leaned on the inner door until an answering buzz released its lock mechanism. He had then climbed to the fourth floor, found Apartment 47, and pushed another button.

  He was now waiting.

  He pushed the button again.

  The door opened suddenly. He had heard no approaching footsteps, and the sudden opening of the door surprised him. Unconsciously, he looked first to the girl’s feet. She was barefoot.

  “I was raised in the Ozarks,” she said, following his glance. “We own a vacuum cleaner, a carpet sweeper, a broiler, a set of encyclopedias, and subscriptions to most of the magazines. Whatever you’re selling, we’ve probably got it, and we’re not interested in putting you through college.”

  Kling smiled. “I’m selling an automatic apple corer,” he said.

  “We don’t eat apples,” the girl replied.

  “This one mulches the seeds and converts them to fiber. The corer comes complete with an instruction booklet telling you how to weave fiber mats.”

  The girl raised a speculative eyebrow.

  “It comes in six colors,” Kling went on. “Toast Brown, Melba Peach, Tart Red—”

  “Are you on the level?” the girl asked, puzzled now.

  “Proofreader Blue,” Kling continued, “Bilious Green and Midnight Dawn.” He paused. “Are you interested?”

  “Hell no,” she said, somewhat shocked.

  “My name is Bert Kling,” he said seriously. “I’m a cop.”

  “Now you sound like the opening to a television show.”

  “May I come in?”

  “Am I in trouble?” the girl asked. “Did I leave that damn shebang in front of a fire hydrant?”

  “No.”

  And then, as an afterthought, “Where’s your badge?”

  Kling showed her his shield.

  “You’re supposed to ask,” the girl said. “Even the man from the gas company. Everybody’s supposed to carry identification like that.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “So come in,” she said. “I’m Claire Townsend.”

  “I know.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The boys at Club Tempo sent me here.”

  Claire stared at Kling levelly. She was a tall girl. Even barefoot, she reached to Kling’s shoulders. In high heels, she would give the average American male trouble. Her hair was black. Not brunette, not brownette, but black, a total black, the black of a starless, moonless night. Her eyes were a deep brown, arched with black brows. Her nose was straight, and her cheeks were high, and there wasn’t a trace of makeup on her face, not a tint of lipstick on her wide mouth. She wore a white blouse and black toreador pants, which tapered down to her naked ankles and feet. Her toenails were painted a bright red.

  She kept staring at him. At last, she said, “Why’d they send you here?”

  “They said you knew Jeannie Paige.”

  “Oh.” The girl seemed ready to blush. She shook her head slightly, as if to clear it of an erroneous first impression, and then said, “Come in.”

  Kling followed her into the apartment. It was furnished with good middle-class taste.

  “Sit down,” she said.

  “Thank you.” He sat in a low easy chair. It was difficult to sit erect, but he managed it. Claire went to the coffee table, shoved the lid off a cigarette box, took one of the cigarettes for herself, and then asked, “Smoke?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Your name was Kling, did you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re a detective?”

  “No. A patrolman.”

  “Oh.” Claire lighted the cigarette, shook out the match, and then studied Kling. “What’s your connection with Jeannie?”

  “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

  Claire grinned. “I asked first.”

  “I know her sister. I’m doing a favor.”

  “Uh-huh.” Claire nodded, digesting this. She puffed on the cigarette, folded her arms across her breasts, and then said, “Well, go ahead. Ask the questions. You’re the cop.”

  “Why don’t you sit down?”

  “I’ve been sitting all day.”

  “You work?”

  “I’m a college girl,” Claire said. “I’m studying to be a social worker.”

  “Why that?”

  “Why not?”

  Kling smiled. “This time, I asked first.”

  “I want to get to people before you do,” she said.

  “That sounds reasonable,” Kling said. “Why do you belong to Club Tempo?”

  Her eyes grew suddenly wary. He could almost see a sudden film pass over the pupils, masking them. She turned her head and blew out a ball of smoke. “Why shouldn’t I?” she asked.

  “I can see where our conversation is going to run around in the why/why not rut,” Kling said.

  “Which is a damn sight better than the why/because rut, don’t you think?” There was an edge to her voice now.

  He wondered what had suddenly changed her earlier friendliness. He weighed her reaction for a moment and then decided to plunge onward.

  “The boys there are a little young for you, aren’t they?”

  “You’re getting a little personal, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Kling said, “I am.”

  “Our acquaintance is a little short for personal exchanges,” Claire said icily.

  “Hud can’t be more than eighteen—”

  “Listen—”

  “And what’s Tommy? Nineteen? They haven’t got an ounce of brains between them. Why do you belong to Tempo?”

  Claire squashed out her cigarette. “Maybe you’d better leave, Mr. Kling,” she said.

  “I just got here,” he answered.

  She turned. “Let’s set the record straight. So far as I know, I’m not obliged to answer any questions you ask about my personal affairs, unless I’m under suspicion for some foul crime. To bring the matter down to a fine technical point, I don’t have to answer any questions a patrolman asks me, unless he is operating in an official capacity, which you admitted you were not. I liked Jeannie Paige, and I’m willing to cooperate. But if you’re going to get snotty, this is still my home, and my home is my castle, and you can get the hell out.”

  “Okay,” Kling said, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Miss Townsend.”

  “Okay,” Claire said.

  A silence clung to the atmosphere. Claire looked at Kling. Kling looked back at her.

  “I’m sorry, too,” Claire said finally. “I shouldn’t be so goddamn touchy.”

  “No, you were perfectly right. It’s none of my business what you—”

  “Still, I shouldn’t have—”

  “No, really, it’s—”

  Claire burst out laughing, and Kling joined her. She sat, still chuckling, and said, “Would you like a drink, Mr. Kling?”

  Kling looked at h
is watch. “No, thanks,” he said.

  “Too early for you?”

  “Well—”

  “It’s never too early for cognac,” she said.

  “I’ve never tasted cognac,” he admitted.

  “You haven’t?” Her eyebrows shot up onto her forehead. “Ah, monsieur, you are meesing one of ze great treats of life. A little, oui? Non?”

  “A little,” he said.

  She crossed to a bar with green leatherette doors, opened them, and drew out a bottle with a warm, amber liquid showing within.

  “Cognac,” she announced grandly, “the king of brandies. You can drink it as a highball, cocktail, punch—or in coffee, tea, hot chocolate, and milk.”

  “Milk?” Kling asked, astonished.

  “Milk, yes indeed. But the best way to enjoy cognac is to sip it—neat.”

  “You sound like an expert,” Kling said.

  Again, quite suddenly, the veil passed over her eyes. “Someone taught me to drink it,” she said flatly, and then she poured some of the liquid into two medium-sized, tulip-shaped glasses. When she turned to face Kling again, the mask had dropped from her eyes. “Note that the glass is only half filled,” she said. “That’s so you can twirl it without spilling any of the drink.” She handed the glass to Kling. “The twirling motion mixes the cognac vapors with the air in the glass, bringing out the bouquet. Roll the glass in your palms, Mr. Kling. That warms the cognac and also brings out the aroma.”

  “Do you smell this stuff or drink it?” Kling wanted to know. He rolled the glass between his big hands.

  “Both,” Claire said. “That’s what makes it a good experience. Taste it. Go ahead.”

  Kling took a deep swallow, and Claire opened her mouth and made an abrupt “Stop!” signal with one outstretched hand. “Good God,” she said, “don’t gulp it! You’re committing an obscenity when you gulp cognac. Sip it; roll it around your tongue.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kling apologized. He sipped the cognac, rolled it on his tongue. “Good,” he said.

  “Virile,” she said.

  “Velvety,” he added.

  “End of commercial.”

  They sat silently, sipping the brandy. He felt very cozy and very warm and very comfortable. Claire Townsend was a pleasant person to look at and a pleasant person to talk to. Outside the apartment, the shadowy grays of autumn dusk were washing the sky.