by Ed McBain
Praise for Ed McBain & the 87th Precinct
“Raw and realistic…The bad guys are very bad, and the good guys are better.”—Detroit Free Press
“Ed McBain’s 87th Precinct series…simply the best police procedurals being written in the United States.”—Washington Post
“The best crime writer in the business.”—Houston Post
“Ed McBain is a national treasure.”—Mystery News
“It’s hard to think of anyone better at what he does. In fact, it’s impossible.”—Robert B. Parker
“I never read Ed McBain without the awful thought that I still have a lot to learn. And when you think you’re catching up, he gets better.”
—Tony Hillerman
“McBain is the unquestioned king…light years ahead of anyone else in the field.”—San Diego Union-Tribune
“McBain tells great stories.”—Elmore Leonard
“Pure prose poetry…It is such writers as McBain who bring the great American urban mythology to life.”—The London Times
“The McBain stamp: sharp dialogue and crisp plotting.”
—Miami Herald
“You’ll be engrossed by McBain’s fast, lean prose.”—Chicago Tribune
“McBain redefines the American police novel…he can stop you dead in your tracks with a line of dialogue.”—Cleveland Plain Dealer
“The wit, the pacing, his relish for the drama of human diversity [are] what you remember about McBain novels.”—Philadelphia Inquirer
“McBain is a top pro, at the top of his game.”—Los Angeles Daily News
Give The Boys A Great Big Hand
AN 87TH PRECINCT NOVEL
Ed McBain
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright (c)1960 Hui Corporation
Republished in 2011
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN-13: 9781612181622
ISBN-10: 1612181627
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
This is Phyllis and Rick
The city in these pages is imaginary.
The people, the places are all fictitious.
Only the police routine is based on established investigatory technique.
It was raining.
It had been raining for three days now, an ugly March rain that washed the brilliance of near-spring with a monochromatic, unrelenting gray. The television forecasters had correctly predicted rain for today and estimated that it would rain tomorrow also. Beyond that, they would not venture an opinion.
But it seemed to Patrolman Richard Genero that it had been raining forever, and that it would continue to rain forever, and that eventually he would be washed away into the gutters and then carried into the sewers of Isola and dumped unceremoniously with the other garbage into either the River Harb or the River Dix. North or south, it didn’t make a damn bit of difference: both rivers were polluted; both stank of human waste.
Like a man up to his ankles in water in a rapidly sinking rowboat, Genero stood on the corner and surveyed the near-empty streets. His rubber rain cape was as black and as shining as the asphalt that stretched before him. It was still early afternoon, but there was hardly a soul in sight, and Genero felt lonely and deserted. He felt, too, as if he were the only human being in the entire city who didn’t know enough to come in out of the rain. I’m going to drown here in the goddamn streets, he thought, and he belched sourly, consoling himself with the fact that he would be relieved on post at 3:45. It would take him about five minutes to get back to the station house and no more than ten minutes to change into his street clothes. Figure a half hour on the subway to Riverhead, and he would be home at 4:30. He wouldn’t have to pick up Gilda until 7:30, so that gave him time for a little nap before dinner. Thinking of the nap, Genero yawned, tilting his head.
A drop of cold water ran down his neck, and he said, “Oh hell!” out loud, and then hurriedly glanced around him to make sure he hadn’t been overheard by any conscientious citizen of the city. Satisfied that the image of the pure American law-enforcer had not been destroyed, Genero began walking up the street, his rubber-encased shoes sloshing water every inch of the way.
Rain, rain, go away, he thought.
Oddly, the rain persisted.
Well, rain isn’t so bad, he thought. It’s better than snow, anyway. The thought made him shudder a little, partially because the very thought of snow was a chilling one, and partially because he could never think of snow or winter without forming an immediate association with the boy he had found in the basement so long ago.
Now cut that out, he thought. It’s bad enough it’s raining. We don’t have to start thinking of creepy cadavers.
The boy’s face had been blue, really blue, and he’d been leaning forward on the cot, and it had taken Genero several moments to realize that a rope was around the boy’s neck and that the boy was dead.
Listen, let’s not even think about it. It makes me itchy.
Well, listen, you’re a cop, he reminded himself. What do you think cops do? Turn off fire hydrants all the time? Break up stickball games? I mean, now let’s face it, every now and then a cop has got to find a stiff.
Listen, this makes me itchy.
I mean, that’s what you get paid for, man. I mean, let’s face it. A cop has every now and then got to come up against a little violence. And besides, that kid was a long time ago, all water under the…
Water. Jesus, ain’t it never going to stop raining?
I’m getting out of this rain, he thought. I’m going over to Max’s tailor shop and maybe I can get him to take out some of that sweet Passover wine, and we’ll drink a toast to Bermuda. Man, I wish I was in Bermuda. He walked down the street and opened the door to the tailor shop. A bell tinkled. The shop smelled of steam and clean garments. Genero felt better the moment he stepped inside.
“Hello, Max,” he said.
Max was a round-faced man with a fringe of white hair that clung to his balding pate like a halo. He looked up from his sewing machine and said, “I ain’t got no wine.”
“Who wants wine?” Genero answered, grinning a bit sheepishly. “Would you kick me out of your shop on a miserable day like this?”
“On any day, miserable or otherwise, I wouldn’t kick you out mine shop,” Max said, “so don’t make wisecracks. But I warn you, already, even before you begin, I ain’t got no wine.”
“So who wants wine?” Genero said. He moved closer to the radiator and pulled off his gloves. “What are you doing, Max?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m making a plan for the White House. I’m going to blow it up. What else would I be doing on a sewing machine?”
“I mean, what’s that thing you’re w
orking on?”
“It’s a Salvation Army uniform,” Max said.
“Yeah? How about that?”
“There’s still a few tailors left in this city, you know,” Max said. “It ain’t by all of us a matter of cleaning and pressing. Cleaning and pressing is for machines. Tailoring is for men. Max Mandel is a tailor, not a pressing machine.”
“And a damn good tailor,” Genero said, and he watched for Max’s reaction.
“I still ain’t got no wine,” Max said. “Why ain’t you in the street stopping crime already?”
“On a day like this, nobody’s interested in crime,” Genero said. “The only crime going on today is prostitution.”
Genero watched Max’s face, saw the quick gleam of appreciation in the old man’s eyes and grinned. He was getting closer to that wine all the time. Max was beginning to enjoy his jokes, and that was a good sign. Now all he had to do was work up a little sympathy.
“A rain like today’s,” Genero said, “it seeps right into a man’s bones. Right into his bones.”
“So?”
“So nothing. I’m just saying. Right to the marrow. And the worst part is, a man can’t even stop off in a bar or something to get a shot. To warm him up, I mean. It ain’t allowed, you know.”
“So?”
“So nothing. I’m just saying.” Genero paused. “You’re sure doing a fine job with that uniform, Max.”
“Thanks.”
The shop went silent. Outside, the rain spattered against the sidewalk in continuous drumming monotony.
“Right to the marrow,” Genero said.
“All right already. Right to the marrow.”
“Chills a man.”
“All right, it chills a man.”
“Yes, sir,” Genero said, shaking his head.
“The wine is in the back near the pressing machine,” Max said without looking up. “Don’t drink too much, you’ll get drunk already and I’ll be arrested for corrupting an officer.”
“You mean you have wine, Max?” Genero asked innocently.
“Listen to Mr. Baby-Blue Eyes, he’s asking if I got wine. Go, go in the back. Drink, choke, but leave some in the bottle.”
“That’s awfully nice of you, Max,” Genero said, beaming. “I had no idea you—”
“Go, go before I change my mind.”
Genero went into the back room and found the bottle of wine on the table near the pressing machine. He uncapped it, rinsed a glass at the sink near the small grime-smeared window and poured it full to the brim. He tilted the glass to his mouth, drank until it was empty, and then licked his lips.
“You want some of this, Max?” he called.
“The Salvation Army doesn’t like I should drink when I’m sewing their uniforms.”
“It’s very good, Max,” Genero said teasingly.
“So have another glass and stop bothering me. You’re making my stiches go all fermisht.”
Genero drank another glassful, recapped the bottle, and came out into the shop again, rubbing his hands briskly.
“Now I’m ready for anything,” he said, grinning.
“What is there to be ready for? On a day like this, you already said there’s nothing but prostitution.”
“I’m ready for that, too,” Genero answered. “Come on, Max. Close up the shop, and we’ll go find two delicious broads. What do you say?”
“Stop giving an old man ideas. My wife should only find me with a delicious broad. A knife she’ll stick in my back. Get out, get out, go walk your beat. Go arrest the other drunkards and vagrants. Leave me in peace. I’m running here a bar and grill instead of a tailor shop. Every drunkard cop on the beat, he stops in for wine. The government should allow me to deduct the wine as part of my overhead. One day, in the wine bottle, I’m going to put poison instead of wine. Then maybe the fercockteh cops of the 87th will leave me alone, already. Go. Get lost. Go.”
“Ahhh, you know you love us, Max.”
“I love you like cockroaches.”
“Better than cockroaches.”
“That’s right. I love you like water rats.”
Genero pulled on his gloves. “Well, back to the bridge,” he said.
“What bridge?”
“The bridge of the ship. That’s a joke, Max. The rain, get it? Water. A ship. Get it?”
“Already the television world lost a great comic when you decided to be a cop,” Max said, shaking his head. “Back to the bridge.” He shook his head again. “Do me a favor, will you?”
“What’s that?” Genero asked, opening the door.
“From the bridge of this ship…”
“Yeah?”
“Jump!”
Genero grinned and closed the door behind him. It was still pouring outside, but he felt a lot better now. The sweet wine fumed in his stomach, and he could feel a warm lassitude seeping through his limbs. He sloshed through the puddles in an almost carefree manner, squinting through the driving rain, whistling tunelessly.
The man—or perhaps the tall woman, it was difficult to tell— was standing at the bus stop. The tall woman—or perhaps the man, it was impossible to see clearly in the rain—was dressed entirely in black. Black raincoat, black slacks, black shoes, black umbrella, which effectively hid the head and hair. The bus pulled to the curb, spreading a huge canopy of water. The doors snapped open. The person—man or woman—boarded the bus and the rain-streaked doors closed again, hiding the black-shrouded figure from view. The bus pulled away from the curb, spreading another canopy of water that soaked Genero’s trouser legs.
“You stupid…” he shouted, and he began brushing water from his trousers, and that was when he saw the bag resting on the sidewalk alongside the bus stop sign.
“Hey! Hey!” He yelled after the bus. “You forgot your bag!”
His words were drowned in the gunning roar of the bus’s engine and the steady drumming of the rain.
“Damnit,” he muttered, and he walked to the sign and picked up the bag. It was a small, blue overnight bag, obviously issued by an airline. In a white circle on the side of the bag, stenciled there in red letters, were the words: CIRCLE AIRLINES.
Beneath that, in white script lettering, was the slogan: We circle the globe.
Genero studied the bag. It was not very heavy. A small leather fob was attached to the carrying straps, and an identification tag showed behind a celluloid panel. But whoever owned the bag had neglected to fill in the NAME and ADDRESS spaces. The identification tag was blank.
Sourly, Genero unzipped the bag and reached into it.
He drew back his hand in terror and revulsion. An instant thought rushed across his mind—God, not again—and then he gripped the bus stop sign for support because he was suddenly dizzy.
In the detective squadroom of the 87th Precinct, the boys were swapping reminiscences about their patrolman days.
Now you may quarrel with the use of the word “boys” to describe a group of men who ranged in age from twenty-eight to forty-two, who shaved daily, who went to bed with various and assorted mature and immature women, who swore like pirates, and who dealt with some of the dirtiest humans since Neanderthal. The word “boys,” perhaps, connotes a simplicity, an innocence that would not be entirely accurate.
There was, however, a spirit of boyish innocence in the squadroom on that dreary, rainy March day. It was difficult to believe that these men who stood in a fraternal knot around Andy Parker’s desk, grinning, listening in attentiveness, were men who dealt daily with crime and criminals. The squadroom, in effect, could have been a high-school locker room. The chatter could have been that of a high-school football team on the day of the season’s last game. The men stood drinking coffee from cardboard containers, completely at ease in the grubby shopworn comfort of the squadroom. Andy Parker, like a belligerent fullback remembering a difficult time in the game against Central High, kept his team huddled about him, leaned back in his swivel chair, and shook his head dolefully.
“I had
a pipperoo one time, believe me,” he said. “I stopped her coming off the River Highway. Right near Pier Seventeen, do you know the spot?”
The boys nodded.
“Well, she crashed the light at the bottom of the ramp, and then made a U-turn under the highway. I blew the whistle, and she jammed on the brakes, and I strolled over to the car and said, ‘Lady, you must be the Mayor’s daughter to be driving like that.’”
“Was she?” Steve Carella asked. Sitting on the edge of the desk, a lean muscular man with eyes that slanted peculiarly downward to present an Oriental appearance, he held his coffee container in big hands and studied Parker intently. He did not particularly care for the man or his methods of police investigation, but he had to admit he told a story with gusto.
“No, no. Mayor’s daughter, my eye. What she was—well, let me tell the story, will you?”
Parker scratched his heavy beard. He had shaved that morning, but five o’clock shadow came at an earlier hour for him, so that he always looked somewhat unkempt, a big shaggy man with dark hair, dark eyes, dark beard. In fact, were it not for the shield Parker carried pinned to his wallet, he could easily have passed for many of the thieves who found their way into the 87th. He was so much the Hollywood stereotype of the gangster that he’d often been stopped by overzealous patrolmen seeking suspicious characters. On those occasions, he immediately identified himself as a detective and then proceeded to bawl out the ambitious rookie, which pastime—though he never admitted it to himself—gave him a great deal of pleasure. In truth, it was possible that Andy Parker purposely roamed around in other precincts hoping to be stopped by an unsuspecting patrolman upon whom he could then pull his rank.
