by Ed McBain
Barlow returned at 3:17 P.M. Gleason pulled up a few minutes later, driving an unmarked sedan. Told me Barlow had only gone to do his weekly marketing, stopping at grocer’s, butcher’s, hardware store, etc. I thanked Gleason and took up
Whatever Barlow does with his weekends, he apparently doesn’t go out. This was Saturday night, but he didn’t leave that house again all day. At 11:00 P.M., all the lights went out. I hung around until one in the morning, and then called the 64th for relief.
April 16th:
I slept late than checked with Carella at home to find out where brother Tommy Barlow is buried. Con firmed Cedarcrest, I relieved Patrolman Gordley on post at 12:15 P.M. Gordley said Barlow had not been out of the house all morning. At 1:30 P.M., Barlow came out wearing slacks and sweater, carrying cane. He walked to garage, came out pushing power lawn mower, which he started. He mowed front lawn, put mower back in garage, went into house again, At 3:00 P.M., small red compact Chevy II pulled up in front of Barlow’s house. Young girl in her twenties, long black hair, got out of car, went up front walk, rang doorbell. I knew Barlow was inside because he hadn’t left since mowing the lawn, but the girl stood on the doorstep and rang the bell for a long time, and he didn’t answer the door. She finally gave up, walked back to the car, angrily slammed the door, and drove off. Checked immediately with Hawes for description of Martha Tamid, positive identification, asked for relief from 64th, drove to Miss Tamid’s apartment near the Oval. The red compact parked at the curb, but when I spoke to her, she denied having left the apartment, said she’d been in all day, said she had certainly not driven to Barlow’s house. She offered me drink, which I declined. She also asked me if I thought she looked like an Egyptian belly dancer, which I thought was a strange question, but I said yes, now that she mentioned it, I thought she did look like one. She seems like very aggressive and very female person. Can’t understand her lying about visit to Barlow.
I took up post again at 6:12 P.M., after dinner, Patrolman said Barlow had not been out. Occurred to me that perhaps Barlow had left house by foot, sneaking out back way, leaving his car in the garage. I called the house from a drugstore two blocks away, hung up when Barlow answered, took up post again. Lights went on at 11:00.
I left at 2:00 in the morning, Schwartz relieving. Schwartz wanted to know why we were sticking to this guy. I wish I could tell him.
April 17 th:
Monday morning.
Barlow up and off at 7:30 A.M. Identical weekday routine. Breakfast, office, lunch, office, home, lights out, goodnight. Time is now 1:30 A.M. I left Barlow house at 1:00 A.M., calling 64th for relief, and getting Gleason who also wanted to know why we were tailing Barlow.
Request permission to end surveillance.
Detective 3rd/Grade Bertram Kling
* * * *
On the morning of April 18th, which was a bright shining Tuesday with the temperature at sixty-three degrees, and the prevailing winds westerly at two miles per hour, Detective Steve Carella left his house in Riverhead and walked toward the elevated structure some five blocks away. He had been attacked on the twelfth of the month but time, as the ancient Arab saying goes, heals all wounds. He had not taken the beating lightly because nobody in his right mind takes a beating lightly. A beating hurts. It is not nice to have someone knock you about the head and the body with a stick or a cane or a baseball bat. It is not nice to be carted off to the hospital where interns calmly look at your bleeding face, and calmly swab the cuts, and calmly dress them as if they are above all this petty bleeding, as if you are a page out of a textbook, elementary stuff, we had this in first year med, give us something hard, like a duodenal ulcer of the Macedonian canal. It is even worse to have to come home and face your wife with all those bandages and chunks of adhesive plaster clinging to your fine masculine head. Your wife is a deaf-mute and doesn’t know how to scream, but the scream is there in her eyes, and you wish with all your might that you could erase that scream, that you hadn’t been ambushed by some lousy bastard and beaten to a pulp before you could even get your gun in firing position. You wonder how you are going to explain all this to the children in the morning. You don’t want them to start worrying about the fact that you are a cop. You don’t want them to begin building anxiety neuroses when they’re barely out of diapers.
But time heals all wounds-those Arabs knew how to put it all right-and Carella was aware of another old proverb, an ancient Syrian saying that simply stated, “Time wounds all heels.” He didn’t know who had pounced upon him in the driveway of Barlow’s house, but he had every reason to believe that the minions of the law, those stout defenders of the people, those stalwart protectors of the innocent, those relentless tracers of lost persons, those bulwarks of freedom, those citadels of truth and common decency, yeah, he had no doubt the bulls of the 87th would one day pick up some louse who would confess to every crime committed in the past ten years and who would also casually mention he’d happened to beat up a cop named Carella on the night of April twelfth. So Carella was content to bide his time, confident that the odds were on his side. Crime doesn’t pay. Everybody knows that. And time is a river.
Time, on that lovely April morning, happened to be a torrential flood, but Carella didn’t know that as yet. He was on his way to work, minding his own business on the way to the elevated station, and he hadn’t the faintest idea that time was about to reopen a couple of old healed wounds, or that he was about to receive-once again-a few knocks about the head and body. Who expects a beating on a lovely April morning? The beating came as he was climbing the steps to the elevated platform. The first blow came from behind, and it struck him at the base of the neck, sending him sprawling forward on to the steps. He felt the impact of the sudden shock, felt himself blacking out as he fell forward, and thought only, Jesus, broad daylight! and then grasped fumblingly for the steps as he fell. The man with the stick, or the cane, or the baseball bat, or whatever the hell he was using, decided to kick Carella because it was most convenient to kick a man when he was groveling on his knees, grasping for a hold on the steps. So he kicked him in the face, opening one of the cuts there and releasing a torrent of blood that spilled over Carella’s cheek and down his neck, and onto his nice white clean go-to-work shirt. A woman coming down the steps screamed and then ran up the steps again, screaming all the way to the change booth, where the Elevated Transit employee tried to calm her down and find out what had happened, while on the steps the man with the stick or the cane or the baseball bat was striking Carella blow after blow on the head and neck, trying his best, it seemed, to kill him. Carella was aware of the woman’s screams, and aware of pounding footsteps, and of a man’s voice yelling, “Stop that! You stop that, do you hear?” but he was mostly aware of blinding flashes of yellow erupting everywhere the goddamned stick fell, and especially aware of his own dizziness as he groped for his revolver, missing it, feeling the cartridges in his belt, groping again for the handle of the gun, feeling his fingers closing around the walnut stock as his attacker again struck him across the bridge of the nose, Hit me hard enough you bastard and you’ll kill me, hit me on the bridge of the nose and I’ll drop dead right here at your feet, the gun was free.
He swung the gun backhanded, clinging to the steps with one hand, swinging the gun without looking in a wide-armed blind swipe at whoever was behind him. The gun connected. Miraculously, he felt it colliding with flesh, and he heard someone grunt in pain, and he whirled instantly, his back to the steps, and he brought back both feet in an intuitive spring-coil action, unleashing them, the soles of his feet colliding with the man’s midriff, sending the man pitching back and down the steps; and all the while Carella was itching to pull the trigger of his gun, all the while he was dying to kill this rotten son of a bitch who was an expert at beating up cops. He got to his feet. The man had rolled to the bottom of the steps, and now he crawled to his knees and Carella leveled the .38 and said, “Stop or I’ll shoot!” and he thought, Go ahead, run. Run and you’re d
ead.
But the man didn’t run. He sat right where he was at the bottom of the steps while the woman at the top continued screaming and the man from the change booth kept asking over and over again, “Are you all right, are you all right?”
Carella went down the steps.
He grabbed the man by the chin, holding the gun muzzle against his chest, and he lifted the man’s head and looked into his face.
He had never seen him before in his life.
* * * *
12
Carella said “No hospital!” and the ambulance driver turned to the intern riding in the back, and the intern looked at Carella and said, “But, sir, you’re bleeding rather profusely,” and Carella pinned him with his sternest minion-of-the-law stare and said, “No goddamn hospital!” and the intern had the distinct impression that if he’d insisted on this going-to-the hospital routine, he himself might be the one who went. So he shrugged in his very calm, textbook, intern way, wishing they’d be called some morning to pick up a nice timid old lady with a traumatic subdural hemorrhage instead of a bleeding wildman with a gun in his fist, but those were the breaks, and anyway he’d had all this in first year med. It was better to go to the hospital as a part of the staff, rather than as a patient. So he went.
The man at the bottom of the steps who sat there somewhat sheepishly clutching the area below his stomach, which Carella had kicked with both big feet, wasn’t saying very much. His weapon, a sawed-off broom handle, had gone down the steps with him, and Carella picked it up and then bummed a ride from the precinct patrolmen, who had been called-together with the hospital- by the helpful change booth attendant. The patrolmen dropped Carella and his prisoner at the 87th Precinct. Carella, his gun still in his hand, shoved the man across the sidewalk, and up the front steps, and past the muster desk, and up the iron-runged stairway leading to the Detective Division, and down the corridor, and through the slatted rail divider, and then pushed him into a straight-backed chair which, it seemed, was immediately surrounded by detectives.
“You’re bleeding,” Meyer said to Carella “You know that?”
“I know it,” Carella said. To the man seated in the chair with his head bent, Carella said, “What’s your name, mister?”
The man didn’t answer.
Carella took the man’s jaw between the fingers of one hand, squeezing hard and lifting the man’s head, and looking directly into his eyes.
“Your name, mister,” he repeated.
The man didn’t answer.
“Get up.”
The man didn’t move.
“Get up!” Carella shouted angrily, and he seized the man by the front of the lightweight jacket he was wearing, and then hurled him halfway across the room to the wall alongside the filing cabinets.
“Take it easy, Steve,” Meyer cautioned.
Carella holstered his gun, and went through each of the man’s pockets. He found a wallet in one of them, and he turned the man around, shoved him into a chair again, and then sat on the edge of a desk as he went through the wallet. Hawes and Meyer stood on opposite sides of the prisoner, waiting. Meyer glanced at Carella, and then shook his head.
“Miscolo!” he yelled.
“Yo!” Miscolo yelled back from the Clerical Office.
“Bring in some iodine and some Band-Aids, will you?”
“Yo!” Miscolo answered.
Carella looked up from the wallet. “Richard Bandler,” he said. He looked at the man. “That your name?”
“You’re holding my driver’s license in your hand, who the hell’s name do you think it is?”
Carella flipped the license onto the desk and walked slowly to Bandler and said very slowly and very distinctly, “Bandler, I don’t like you very much. I didn’t like you the first time you cold-cocked me, and I don’t like you any better after the second time. It’s all I can do, Bandler, to keep myself from kicking you clear through next Sunday, so you’d better watch your mouth, Bandler, you dig? You’d just better answer everything I ask you nice and peaceful or you’re going to be a cripple before they take you to jail, you understand that, Bandler?”
“It seems plain enough,” Bandler said.
“It better be plain enough,” Carella warned. “Is your name Richard Bandler?”
“That’s my name.”
“Get that tone out of your voice!” Carella shouted.
“What tone?”
“Take it easy, Steve,” Hawes said.
Carella clenched his fists, unclenched them, walked back to the desk and picked up the driver’s license again. “Is this your correct address? 413 South Sixty-fifth, Isola?”
“No. I’ve moved since.”
“Where to?”
“I’m staying at the Hotel Culbertson downtown.”
“How long have you been staying there?”
“About ten days.”
“You moved from Sixty-fifth Street ten days ago?”
“No. I moved from Sixty-fifth last month.”
“Where to?”
Bandler paused.
“Where to, Bandler?”
“The Coast.”
“When did you leave?”
“On March twenty-seventh.”
“Why? Are you wanted in this city?”
“No.”
“Are you wanted anywhere?”
“No.”
“We’re going to check, you know. If you’re wanted…”
“I’m not wanted. I’m not a criminal.”
“Maybe you weren’t a criminal,” Hawes said, “but you are now, mister. First-degree assault happens to be a big fat felony.”
Bandler said nothing. Miscolo came in from the clerical office with the adhesive bandages and the iodine. He took a look at Carella’s face, shook his head, clucked his tongue, and then said, “Jesus, what’s the matter with you, anyway?” He took another look and said, “Go wash your face in the sink there.”
“My face is all right, Alf,” Carella said.
“Go wash your face,” Miscolo said sternly, and Carella sighed and went to the corner sink.
“Have you got a record, Bandler?” Hawes asked.
“No, I told you. I’m not a criminal.”
“All right, why’d you go to California?”
“I’ve got a job there.”
“What kind of a job?”
“In television.”
“Doing what?”
“I’m an assistant director.”
“What do you direct?” Carella said from the sink. He reached for the white towel hanging on a rack and Miscolo yelled, “You’ll get that all full of blood. Use the paper towels.”
“Assistant directors don’t direct very much,” Bandler said, “We maintain quiet on the set, we call actors, we…”
“We’re not interested in an industry survey,” Hawes said. “What show do you work on?”
“Well… well, you see, I don’t actually have a steady job with any one show.”
“Then why did you go to California?” Meyer said. “You just told us you had a job there.”
“Well, I did.”
“What job?”
“They were shooting a ninety-minute special. So a friend of mine who was directing the show called to see if I’d like to work with him. As assistant, you see. So I went to the Coast.”
Carella came back to the desk and sat on the edge of it. Miscolo picked up the iodine bottle and began swabbing the cuts. “You’re gonna need stitches here,” he said.
“I don’t think so.”
“It’s the same cut from last week,” Miscolo said. “It’s opened all over again.”
“Why’d you come back from the Coast?” Carella asked.
“The job ended. I looked around for a while, to see if I could get some kind of steady work, but nothing came up. So I came back here.”
“Are you working now?”
“No. I just got back about ten days ago.”
“When was that, Bandler?”
�
��The eighth.”
“Ow!” Carella said as Miscolo pressed a piece of adhesive in place. “Why’d you come after me, Bandler?”
