Hark!

by Ed McBain

  “According to a man named Eddie Cudahy,” he said, “who works for Chann…”

  “Yes, I know,” she said.

  “You know him…?”

  “Vaguely.”

  “…or you know the note I’m talking about?”

  “Both.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about it?”

  “Because Danny decided not to broadcast it.”

  “Who’s Danny?”

  “Di Lorenzo. Our Program Director.”

  “That was withholding evidence,” Hawes said.

  “Well, it certainly wasn’t truth in broadcasting,” she said, and smiled.

  “This isn’t funny,” he said. “The man was trying to kill me.”

  “Yes, well, me too, you know.”

  “No, not you too.

  “Well.”

  “He specifically wrote…”

  “I know.”

  “…that he didn’t know you were in that limo. He was after me, Honey. Me and me alone.”

  “Well, probably. Yes.”

  “So why’d you suppress that note?”

  “I didn’t. Danny suppressed it.”

  “But you went along with it. You went on the air every night…”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Why, Honey?”

  “Be good for my career,” she said, and shrugged.

  “But bad for my health,” he said.

  “Well, that too.”

  “Uh-huh,” he said.

  They looked at each other.

  “This note,” he said. “Was it handwritten?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is it now?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I’ll need it.”

  “Why?”

  “For evidence. We’ve charged Cudahy with attempted murder.”

  “That’s a shame. He seemed nice.”

  “Murder would’ve been a bigger shame,” Hawes said.

  They kept looking at each other.

  “Why don’t we go back to bed?” she asked.

  “No, I don’t think so,” he said.

  “Cotton…”

  “See you,” he said, and walked out.

  THEY WERE ON THE thin edge of ending it here, and they both knew it. Sharyn had lied to him, and Kling had followed her like the detective he was, and both transgressions were grounds for packing toothbrushes. So they sat together in his apartment, silent now, Sharyn having explained (sort of) and Kling having defended (sort of), each waiting for more because each still felt betrayed.

  Someone had to break the silence here.

  If this thing was going to work here.

  They both knew they had to make this thing work, because if it couldn’t work right here, between this white man named Bertram Alexander Kling and this black woman named Sharyn Everard Cooke, then maybe it would never work anywhere in America between any two people of different colors. It had got down to that between them; thinking of each other as two people of different colors. But someone had to break the silence here, someone had to reach across this widening chasm.

  So, reluctantly, but like the good detective he was, he weighed in his mind which had been the heavier offense, lying or following someone you were supposed to love, and he guessed his breach had been the greater one. So he cleared his throat and looked across the room to where she sat turned away from him in stony silence, arms folded across her chest, and he said, “Shar?”

  She did not answer.

  “Shar,” he said, “I’m sorry, but I still don’t quite understand.”

  “What is it you don’t quite understand, Bert?” she said.

  “If Jamie Hudson really wants to marry this Julie person…”

  “She’s not this Julie person. She’s a woman named Julia Curtis, who happens to be a physician, just like Jamie and…”

  “Oh, forgive me, a physician, please, do I need an appointment here?”

  “Go to hell, Bert.”

  “How was I supposed to know she’s a doctor? I see the three of you running around like spies in…”

  “Yes, go to hell.”

  “If he wants to marry her, why’s he meeting you?”

  “He asked me to talk to her.”

  “Why?”

  “Damn it, she’s not sure!”

  “Not sure of what, damn it!”

  “That she wants to marry a black man!”

  “So what are you, a marriage broker all of a sudden?”

  “No, I’m Jamie’s friend. The girl has serious doubts. She loves him, but her entire life…”

  “Oh, I get it. You’re the shining example, right? You and me. Black woman, white man, you’re supposed to show her it can work, is that it?”

  “You still don’t get it, do you?”

  “No, I’m sorry, I don’t. Are you sure that’s the only reason she won’t marry him? Because he’s black and she’s white? Or is there…?”

  “She’s black, too,” Sharyn said.

  “What?”

  “I said she’s black. We’re all three of us black. Jamie, Julie, and me. We’re all black. Get it now?”

  He let this sink in. She watched him letting it sink in.

  “She looks as white as…”

  “Yes, Bert?”

  “She looks white,” he said.

  “White enough to pass ever since she turned sixteen. She left home, left the south, went to Yale Med. She’s afraid if she marries Jamie, she’ll lose her white practice, lose everything she’s worked so hard for all these years.”

  The room went silent again.

  “You should have told me,” he said.

  “I’d have broken her trust.”

  “How about my trust?”

  “How about mine, Bert?”

  She said his name softly this time.

  “You shouldn’t have followed me,” she said.

  “You shouldn’t have lied to me.”

  “Here we go again,” she said.

  There was another silence.

  He wondered if they could ever again breach the silence.

  “Whatever happened to SHLEP?” he asked, and picked up the needlepointed pillow, and held it against his chest so she could read it:

  Share

  Help

  Love

  Encourage

  Protect

  “I should’ve had them put a T on the end,” she said. “For Trust.”

  “Sharyn…”

  “You don’t trust me, Bert. Maybe it’s because you don’t love me…”

  “I love you with all my…”

  “…or maybe it’s because I’m black…”

  “Sharyn, Sharyn…”

  “But whatever it is, the T’s missing, Bert. It should’ve been SHLEPT. Maybe that’s what it should be now,” she said, and took the pillow from his hands. “SHLEPT. Past tense.”

  He looked at her.

  “Should it?” he said.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Should it?”

  FOR EILEEN AND WILLIS, this was still the beginning, and this was still Saturday, the start of a weekend off for both of them, and so they were still in bed together.

  “What do you think?” he asked.

  “About?”

  “Us?”

  “Oh.”

  “You. Me.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Does that mean ‘Uh-huh, I think this will last forever, we’ll get married one day, and have kids, and…’ ”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Or does it mean ‘Uh-huh, I understand your question, and I’m thinking about it’?”

  “It means ‘We’ll see,’ ” she said. “But meanwhile,” she said, and rolled over into his arms, and kissed him on the mouth.

  Under her lips, Willis grinned.

  OLLIE SAW HER COMING UP the street in her tailored blues, the nine on her right hip, the weight of it giving her a sort of lopsided gait, long black hair tucked up under her cap, silver shield pinned just above her left
breast, eyes casually checking out the perimeter as she came sailing toward the diner, good cop, he thought, beautiful girl, he thought, woman. Her name tag, white letters on black plastic, read: P. GOMEZ. Who’d have thunk it? he thought. Gomez.

  Her eyes lit up when she saw him, who’d have thunk that, either? The sun was shining, her eyes sparkled in the sunlight. Beautiful brown eyes. Patricia Gomez. He almost shook his head in wonder.

  “Hey, Oll!” she said. “What’re you doing here?”

  Oll, he thought. Only person in the universe who calls me Oll. Not even my sister calls me Oll. Not even my mother called me Oll, may she rest in peace. Oll.

  “Thought we could have a late afternoon snack together, ah yes,” he said.

  “Hey, that’s terrific!” she said.

  He knew she’d just been relieved on post. Knew that before she headed back in to change out of uniform, she usually stopped for a cup of coffee either here or in the coffee shop up the street. He knew all this. He prided himself on being a good cop.

  She opened the door to the diner, holding it open for him to follow her inside. The proprietor knew her, of course, made a big fuss out of showing Officer Gomez to a fine booth in the corner. She took off her cap, hung it on one of the racks flanking the booth. Her hair was all pinned up, like.

  “Well, this is a nice surprise,” she said.

  “I was hoping you’d be here,” he said. “I’m glad I caught you.”

  “Me, too.”

  “How’s it going today?”

  “Quiet. How about you?”

  “I’m off today. Put in a long week, though.”

  “You working something big?”

  “Yeah, some pimp got aced.”

  “Lucky you,” she said.

  “Yeah. All day yesterday, I was sitting in that pocket park off River Place, you know the one?”

  “Sure. Gleason Park.”

  “Waiting for this girl to show up, but she never did. This woman.”

  “That’s too bad, Oll.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Kinda sad, these girls,” he said.

  She looked at him.

  “Which girls is that, Oll?”

  “These hookers, you know. I spent a lot of time in Ho Alley, too. These hookers. Standing out there, you know. Half naked.”

  She kept looking at him.

  “Raining, too,” he said.

  She put down the menu.

  “You okay, Oll?” she asked. “You seem kind of…”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” he said.

  “Oll?”

  He nodded. Waited a long time. Then he said, “Patricia, I have to ask you something, and I want you to tell me the God’s honest truth.”

  “You’re scaring me, Oll.”

  “No, no. I…”

  “Oll?”

  “Patricia…am I a person to be comforted and helped?”

  “You need a little comfort and help, Oll?” she asked, and smiled faintly. “Is that it, honey?”

  “Am I a person to be…pitied?” he asked.

  “Pitied?” she said. “No. What are you talking about, Oll? Pitied?” She almost reached across the table to grab both his hands, but then she remembered she was in uniform, and reached across with her eyes, instead, her eyes fastening to his. “What is it, Oll?” she asked. “For God’s sake, what is it?”

  He shook his head.

  “Oll, Ollie, please,” she said.

  “Am I a sorry fucked-up piece of shit?” he asked.

  “Ollie, Jesus, don’t say such…”

  “Am I a fat person?” he asked.

  She reached across the table, anyway, the hell with the uniform. Took both his hands in her own. Held them tight.

  “Tell me the truth,” he said.

  She almost said, No, you’re not fat, who’s been telling you that, Oll? She almost said, You’re a good dancer, Oll, very light on your feet.

  “Yes,” she said. “You’re fat.”

  He nodded.

  “But that’s just eating,” she said.

  He nodded again.

  “Cut back a little,” she said, and tried a smile. “Don’t order four burgers for an afternoon snack.”

  “How many are you going to have?” he asked.

  “You folks decided yet?” a waitress asked.

  “Just a glass of skim milk,” Patricia said.

  Ollie hadn’t even looked at the menu yet.

  “I’ll have what the lady’s having,” he said.

  “Thank you, folks,” the waitress said, and swiveled off in her pink uniform.

  “Remember that movie?” Patricia asked. “Where Meg Ryan fakes the orgasm? And the woman across the room says, ‘I’ll have whatever…‘?”

  “Yeah, that was funny,” Ollie said. He was silently thoughtful for a moment. Then he said, “I never tasted skim milk in my life.”

  “You’ll like it,” Patricia said.

  “I doubt it,” he said glumly.

  “But you know, Oll,” she said, “fat, thin, who cares? I don’t mind, really.”

  “You like going out with a fat person, huh?”

  “I like going out with you,” she said.

  “Wanna go out tonight?” he asked.

  “Yep.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I like you,” she said. “I find you creative, and…”

  “Creative? No, Patri…”

  “Yes, Oll! You wrote a book!”

  “Well…”

  “How many people can write a book? I can’t write a book!”

  “Well…”

  He almost said, “I caught the faggot spic hump who stole it,” but he didn’t say that out loud because Patricia probably’d had lots of people calling her a spic in her lifetime, and he didn’t think she’d appreciate the word coming from his mouth, although it probably was short for Hispanic, what writers called an elision, he supposed.

  “I caught the guy who stole it,” he said.

  “Get out!”

  “I did. He recited the whole thing for me. I taped it. I can start all over again, Patricia. I can listen to it, and find out what’s good or bad, and make it really work this time.”

  “You see what I mean? That’s so creative, Oll, and inquisitive, and…”

  “Come on, you’ll make me blush.”

  “So blush,” she said. “I’ll bet blushing burns calories. And lively and…and…yes, you are a good dancer!”

  “Who said I wasn’t?”

  “Well…nobody.”

  “So are you, Patricia.”

  “Thank you, Oll. I really do like the way we dance together, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Maybe we can go dancing again tonight. Burn some more calories.”

  “Better than exercise, that’s for sure,” he said.

  “But it is exercise. Dancing. You know what else you should do, Oll?”

  “No what?”

  “You should think about going down the police gym, run the track, lift some weights. Be good for you.”

  “I’d have a heart attack.”

  “Nah, come on, a heart attack! What’s the matter with you? A little exercise? Come on!”

  “Exercise is boring.”

  “Sure. So?”

  Ollie shrugged.

  “By the way,” she said, “tonight’s my treat. I owe you one.”

  “Okay, I accept,” he said.

  “Be a cheap date,” she said, and winked. “Now that you’re on a diet, right?”

  He hadn’t realized he was on a diet.

  “And, by the way, when are you gonna learn ‘Spanish Eyes’ for me?” she asked.

  “I almost have it down pat.”

  “The Al Martino version, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Not the Backstreet Boys.”

  “Right. My piano teacher says I’m almost there.”

  “I want you to play it for my mother.”

  “Maybe I should lose a few pou
nds first.”

  “Nah, she’s fat, too,” Patricia said, and burst out laughing.

  Ollie found himself laughing, too.

  “Two skim milks,” the waitress said, and set them down. “Anything else?” she asked, and looked at Ollie expectantly.

  “Thank you, no,” he said.

  “You know,” Patricia said, “fifty percent of all Americans want to lose twenty pounds, did you know that?”

  “Yeah, well not me,” he said.

  “I want to lose weight, too,” she said.

  “You do?”

  “Sure. Ten pounds or so. I would love to lose ten pounds or so.”

  “You think I should lose ten pounds or so?”

  “Well…to start.”

  “Then what? Twenty pounds? Like fifty percent of Americans want to lose?”

  “No, fifty pounds. Like twenty percent of Americans want to lose.”

  Ollie looked at her.

  She grinned, shrugged.

  “I made up that last statistic,” she said.

  “Good thing. Cause I don’t plan to lose no fifty damn pounds.”

  “Okay, start with ten.”

  “Ten, I could maybe manage.”

  “Good, we’ll both lose ten pounds.”

  “Both of us, huh?”

  Sure. We’ll lose ten together.”

  “Together,” he repeated.

  Somehow, together sounded good.

  This was all very strange.

  “Patricia?” he said.

  “Yes, Oll?”

  “If Report to the Commissioner is ever published…”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m gonna dedicate it to you.”

  Her eyes went suddenly moist.

  She squeezed his hands across the table.

  This was all so very strange.

  He sipped a little of the skim milk.

  It tasted like goat piss.

  MEYER WAS JUST ABOUT to sign out when the phone call came. He looked up at the wall clock. 3:43 P.M.

  “Eighty-seventh Squad,” he said. “Detective Meyer.”

  “May I speak to Detective Carella, please?”

  “Not in today. May I take a message?”

  “Yes. Will you tell him Adam Fen called…?”

  Meyer immediately looked at the caller ID number flashing on his screen. A 377 prefix. Right here in the precinct. He signaled to Parker across the room, waved him over to the desk. On a sheet of paper, he scribbled the single word:

  ADDRESS!

  Parker nodded, wrote down the caller ID number, and went back to his own desk.