by Ed McBain
Teddy looked at the little round Chinese, and she suddenly felt very much like allowing him to tattoo his prize butterfly design on her shoulder. Carella took the pictures back and put them into the envelope.
“Has this man ever come into your shop again?” Carella asked. “With another woman, perhaps?”
“No, never,” Chen said.
“Well,” Carella said, “thanks a lot, Mr. Chen. If you remember anything more about him, give me a call, won’t you?” He opened his wallet. “Here’s my card. Just ask for Detective Carella.”
“You come back,” Chen said. “You ask for Charlie Chan, big detective, with stupid sons. You bring wife. I make pretty butterfly on shoulder.” He extended his hand, and Carella took it. For a moment, Chen’s eyes went serious. “You lucky,” he said. “You not so pretty, have very pretty lady. Love very special.” He turned to Teddy. “Someday, if you want butterfly, you come back. I make very pretty.” He winked. “Detective husband like. I promise. Any color. Ask for Charlie Chan. That’s me.”
He grinned and wagged his head, and Carella and Teddy left the shop, heading for the police sedan up the street.
“Nice guy, wasn’t he?” Carella said.
Teddy nodded.
“I wish they were all like him. A lot of them aren’t. With many people, the presence of a cop automatically produces a feeling of guilt. That’s the truth, Teddy. They instantly feel that they’re under suspicion, and everything they say becomes defensive. I guess that’s because there are skeletons in the cleanest closets. Are you very hungry?”
Teddy made a face that indicated she was famished.
“Shall we find a place in the neighborhood, or do you want to wait until we get uptown?”
Teddy pointed to the ground.
“Here?”
Yes, she nodded.
“Chinese?”
No.
“Italian?”
Yes.
“You shouldn’t have married a guy of Italian descent,” Carella said. “Whenever such a guy eats in an Italian restaurant, he can’t help comparing his spaghetti with what his mother used to cook. He then becomes dissatisfied with what he’s eating, and the dissatisfaction spreads to include his wife. The next thing you know, he’s suing for divorce.”
Teddy put her forefingers to her eyes, stretching the skin so that her eyes became slitted.
“Right,” Carella said. “You should have married a Chinese. But then, of course, you wouldn’t be able to eat in Chinese restaurants.” He paused and grinned. “All this eating talk is making me hungry. How about that place up the street?”
They walked to it rapidly, and Carella looked through the plateglass window.
“Not too crowded,” he said, “and it looks clean. You game?”
Teddy took his arm, and he led her into the place.
It was, perhaps, not the cleanest place in the world. As sharp as Carella’s eyes were, a cursory glance through a plateglass window is not always a good evaluation of cleanliness. And, perhaps, the reason it wasn’t too crowded was that the food wasn’t too good. Not that it mattered very much, since both Carella and Teddy were really very hungry and probably would have eaten sautéed grasshoppers if they were served.
The place did have nice checkered tablecloths and candles stuck into the necks of old wine bottles, the wax frozen to the glass. The place did have a long bar, which ran the length of the wall opposite the dining room, bottles stacked behind it, amber lights illuminating the bottles. The place did have a phone booth, and Carella still had to make his call back to the squad.
The waiter who came over to their table seemed happy to see them.
“Something to drink before you order?” he asked.
“Two martinis,” Carella said. “Olives.”
“Would you care to see a menu now or later, sir?”
“Might as well look at it now,” Carella said. The waiter brought them two menus. Carella glanced at his briefly and then put it down. “I’m bucking for a divorce,” he said. “I’ll have spaghetti.”
While Teddy scanned the menu, Carella looked around the room. An elderly couple was quietly eating at a table near the phone booth. There was no one else in the dining room. At the bar, a man in a leather jacket sat with a shot glass and a glass of water before him. The man was looking into the bar mirror. His eyes were on Teddy. Behind the bar, the bartender was mixing the martinis Carella had ordered.
“I’m so damn hungry I could eat the bartender,” Carella said.
When the waiter came with their drinks, he ordered spaghetti for himself and then asked Teddy what she wanted. Teddy pointed to the lasagna dish on the menu, and Carella gave it to the waiter. When the waiter was gone, they picked up their glasses.
“Here’s to ships that come in,” Carella said.
Teddy stared at him, puzzled.
“All loaded with treasures from the east,” he went on, “smelling of rich spices, with golden sails.”
She was still staring at him, still puzzled.
“I’m drinking to you, darling,” he explained. He watched the smile form on her mouth. “Poetic cops this city can do without,” he said, and he sipped at the martini and then put the glass down. “I want to call the squad, honey. I’ll be back in a minute.” He touched her hand briefly and then went toward the phone booth, digging in his pocket for change as he walked away from the table.
She watched him walk from her, pleased with the long athletic strides he took, pleased with the impatience of his hand as it dug for change, pleased with the way he held his head. She realized abruptly that one of the first things that had attracted her to Carella was the way he moved. There was an economy and simplicity of motion about him, a sense of directness. You got the feeling that before he moved he knew exactly where he was going and what he was going to do, and so there was a tremendous sense of security attached to being with him.
Teddy sipped at the martini and then took a long swallow. She had not eaten since noon, and so she was not surprised by the rapidity with which the martini worked its alcoholic wonders. She watched her husband enter the phone booth, watched as he dialed quickly. She wondered how he would speak to the desk sergeant and then to the detective who was catching in the squadroom. Would they know he’d been talking of treasure ships just a few moments before? What kind of a cop was he? What did the other cops think of him? She felt a sudden exclusion. Faced with the impenetrable privacy that was any man’s work, she felt alone and unwanted. Quickly, she drained the martini glass.
A shadow fell over the table.
At first she thought it was only a trick of her eyes, and then she looked up. The man who’d been sitting at the bar, the man in the leather jacket, was standing at the table, grinning.
“Hi,” he said.
She glanced hastily at the phone booth. Carella had his back to the dining room.
“What’re you doing with a creep like that?” the man said.
Teddy turned away from him and fastened her eyes to the napkin in her lap.
“You’re just about the cutest doll that ever walked into this dump,” the man in the leather jacket said. “Why don’t you ditch that creep and meet me later. How about it?”
She could smell whiskey on the man’s breath. There was something frightening about his eyes, something insulting about the way they roamed her body with open candor. She wished she were not wearing a sweater. Unconsciously, she pulled the cardigan closed over the jutting cones of her breasts.
“Come on,” the man said, “don’t cover them up.”
She looked up at him and shook her head. Her eyes pleaded with him to go away. She glanced again to the phone booth. Carella was talking animatedly.
“My name’s Dave,” the man said. “That’s a nice name, ain’t it? Dave. What’s your name?”
She could not answer him. She would not have answered him even if she could.
“Come on, loosen up,” Dave said. He stared at her, and his eyes changed, and he said
, “Jesus, you’re beautiful, you know that? Ditch him, will you? Ditch him and meet me.”
Teddy shook her head.
“Let me hear you talk,” Dave said.
She shook her head again, pleadingly this time.
“I want to hear your voice. I’ll bet it’s the sexiest goddamn voice in the world. Let me hear it.”
Teddy squeezed her eyes shut tightly. Her hands were trembling in her lap. She wanted this man to go away, wanted him to leave her alone, wanted him to be gone before Steve came out of that booth, before Steve came back to the table. She was slightly dizzy from the martini, and her mind could only think that Steve would be displeased, that Steve might think she had invited this.
“Look, what do you have to be such a cold tomato for, huh? I’ll bet you’re not so cold. I’ll bet you’re pretty warm. Let me hear your voice.”
She shook her head again, and then she saw Carella hang up the phone and open the door of the booth. He was grinning, and then he looked toward the table and the grin dropped from his mouth, and she felt a sudden sick panic at the pit of her stomach. Carella moved out of the booth quickly. His eyes had tightened into focus on the man with the leather jacket.
“Come on,” Dave said, “what you got to be that way for, huh? All I’m asking—”
“What’s the trouble, mister?” Carella said suddenly. She looked up at her husband, wanting him to know she had not asked for this, hoping it was in her eyes. Carella did not turn to look at her. His eyes were riveted to Dave’s face.
“No trouble at all,” Dave said, turning to face Carella with an arrogant smile.
“You’re annoying my wife,” Carella said. “Take off.”
“Oh, was I annoying her? Is the little lady your wife?” He spread his legs wide and let his arms dangle at his sides, and Carella knew instantly that he was looking for trouble and wouldn’t be happy until he found it.
“You were, and she is,” Carella said. “Go crawl back to the bar. It’s been nice knowing you.”
Dave continued smiling. “I ain’t crawling back nowhere,” he said. “This is a free country. I’m staying right here.”
Carella shrugged and pulled out his chair. Dave continued standing by the table. Carella took Teddy’s hand.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Teddy nodded.
“Ain’t that sweet?” Dave said. “Big handsome hubby comes back from—”
Carella dropped his wife’s hand and stood suddenly. At the other end of the dining room, the elderly couple looked up from their meal.
“Mister,” Carella said slowly, “you’re bothering the hell out of me. You’d better—”
“Am I bothering you?” Dave said. “Hell, all I’m doing is admiring a nice piece of—” and Carella hit him.
He hit him suddenly, with the full force of his arm and shoulder behind the blow. He hit him suddenly and full in the mouth, and Dave staggered back from the table and slammed into the next table, knocking the wine bottle candle to the floor. He leaned on the table for a moment, and when he looked up, his mouth was bleeding, but he was still smiling.
“I was hoping you’d do that, pal,” he said. He studied Carella for a moment, and then he lunged at him.
Teddy sat with her hands clenched in her lap, her face white. She saw her husband’s face, and it was not the face of the man she knew and loved. The face was completely expressionless, the mouth a hard, tight line that slashed it horizontally, the eyes narrowed so that the pupils were barely visible, the nostrils wide and flaring. He stood spread-legged with his fists balled, and she looked at his hands, and they seemed bigger than they’d ever seemed before, big and powerful, lethal weapons that hung at his sides, waiting. His entire body seemed to be waiting. She could feel the coiled-spring tautness of him as he waited for Dave’s rush, and he seemed like a smoothly functioning, well-oiled machine in that moment, a machine which would react automatically as soon as the right button were pushed, as soon as the right lever were pressed. There was nothing human about the machine. All humanity had left Steve Carella the moment his fist had lashed out at Dave. What Teddy saw now was a highly trained and a highly skilled technician about to do his work, waiting for the response buttons to be pushed.
Dave did not know he was fighting a machine. Ignorantly, he pushed out at the buttons.
Carella’s left fist hit him in the gut, and he doubled over in pain, and then Carella threw a flashing uppercut, which caught Dave under the chin and sent him sprawling backward against the table again. Carella moved quickly and effortlessly, like a cue ball under the hands of an expert pool player, sinking one ball and then rolling to position for a good shot at the next ball. Before Dave clambered off the table, Carella was in position again, waiting.
When Teddy saw Dave pick up the wine bottle, her mouth opened in shocked anguish. But she knew somehow this did not come as a surprise to her husband. His eyes, his face, did not change. He watched dispassionately while Dave hit the bottle against the table. The jagged shards of the bottleneck clutched in Dave’s fist frightened her until she wanted to scream, until she wished she had a voice so that she could scream until her throat ached. She knew her husband would be cut, she knew that Dave was drunk enough to cut him, and she watched Dave advancing with the broken bottle, but Carella did not budge an inch. He stood there motionless, his body balanced on the balls of his feet, his right hand open, the fingers widespread, his left hand flat and stiff at his side.
Dave lunged with the broken bottle. He passed low, aiming for Carella’s groin. A look of surprise crossed his face when he felt Carella’s right hand clamp onto his wrist. He felt himself falling forward suddenly, pulled by Carella who had stepped back lightly on his right foot, and who was raising his left hand high over his head, the hand still stiff and rigid.
And then Carella’s left hand descended. Hard and straight, like the sharp biting edge of an ax, it moved downward with remarkable swiftness. Dave felt the impact of the blow. The hard, calloused edge of Carella’s hand struck him on the side of his neck, and then Dave bellowed and Carella swung his left hand across his own body, and again, the hand fell, this time on the opposite side of Dave’s neck, and he fell to the floor, both arms paralyzed for the moment, unable to move.
Carella stood over him, waiting.
“Lay…lay off,” Dave said.
The waiter stood at the entrance to the dining room, his eyes wide.
“Get the police,” Carella said, his voice curiously toneless.
“But—” the waiter started.
“I’m a detective,” Carella said. “Get the patrolman on the beat. Hurry up!”
“Yes,” the waiter said. “Yes, sir.”
Carella did not move from where he stood over Dave. He did not once look at Teddy. When the patrolman arrived, he showed his shield and told him to book Dave for disorderly conduct, generously neglecting to mention assault. He gave the patrolman all the information he needed, walked out with him to the squad car, and was gone for some five minutes. When he came back to the table, the elderly couple had gone. Teddy sat staring at her napkin.
“Hi,” he said, and he grinned.
She looked across the table at him.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t want trouble.”
She shook her head.
“He’ll be better off locked up for the night. He’d only have picked on someone else, hon. He was spoiling for a fight.” He paused. “The next guy he might have succeeded in cutting.”
Teddy Carella nodded and sighed heavily. She had just had a visit to her husband’s office and seen him at work. And she could still remember the terrible swiftness of his hands, hands which she had only known tenderly before.
And so she sighed heavily because she had just discovered the world was not populated with gentle little boys playing games.
And then she reached across the table, and she took his right hand and brought it to her mouth, and she kissed the knuckles, and she kissed the pal
m, and Carella was surprised to feel the wetness of her tears against his flesh.
It was unfortunate, perhaps, that Arthur Brown was so zealous in his pursuit of the con man. Had he not been such an eager beaver, he would not have asked to replace Carella when Carella drew Lineup that week. Lineup means a trip downtown to Headquarters on High Street, and Lineup means sitting in a room with a pile of other detectives from all over the city, watching the parade of felony offenders. Lineup is sometimes exciting; usually, it’s a bore.
Brown, as it happened, had just held his personal lineup in the squadroom of the 87th Precinct, whereat he paraded Frederick “Fritzie” Deutsch before a little Negro girl named Betty Prescott and a big businessman named Elliot Jamison. Both victims had cleared Deutsch at once. He was not the man (or in Jamison’s case, either of the men) who had conned them. Brown was secretly pleased. He had thanked both Miss Prescott and Mr. Jamison and then clapped Deutsch on the back and gruffly said, “Keep your nose clean.”
And then he had asked Carella if he could take his place at the lineup the next day. Carella, who considered the lineup a necessary evil—something like a mother-in-law who comes to live with you—readily relinquished the duty. Had Carella been the sort of cop who loved Lineup, had Carella been more conscientious, more devoted to detail, had Carella felt any real purpose would be served by his appearance at Headquarters that Wednesday, things might have worked out differently.
Actually, Carella was conscientious, and he was devoted to detail—but he was up to his ears in floaters and the lineup very rarely turned up any good murder suspects. His time, he assumed, could be better spent in a thorough rundown of the city’s tattoo parlors in an effort to track down the NAC that had appeared on the second floater’s hand.
So he allowed Brown to take his place, and that was most unfortunate.
It was unfortunate in that there were two handsome blond men who were shown at the lineup that Wednesday.
One of them had killed Mary Louise Proschek and the second unidentified floater.
