by Ed McBain
'Thank you,' Carella said, smiling, and then the Smile dropped from his face, and he pointed his finger at Big Anthony and said, 'You.'
'Me?'
'You.'
'Don't point, it's impolite.'
'The police in Turman have a warrant out for your arrest. They've authorized us to pick you up and question you regarding the murder of one Margaret McNally last Thursday night. You can consider yourself under arrest as of right this minute.'
'If the police in Turman want me, they better extradite me,' Big Anthony said.
'First things first,' Carella answered. 'You feel like answering some questions? This may all be a big mistake, and maybe we can clear it up in ten minutes. If it is a mistake, I'll call the Turman cops and tell them you're clean. What do you say?'
'I don't feel like answering no questions.'
'Well, just in case you change your mind, and in keeping with the Supreme Court decision in Miranda v. Arizona, I'm informing you now that we are not permitted to ask you any questions until you are warned of your right to counsel and your privilege against self-incrimination.'
'You're goddamn right,' Big Anthony said.
'Since I would like to ask you some questions'
'Save your breath.'
'I'm now telling you that, first, you have the right to remain silent if you so desire. Do you understand that?'
'Sure.'
'Second, you don't have to answer any questions if you don't want to.'
'The same goes for the rest of you punks, so you might as well listen,' Broughan said.
'Do you understand that?'
'Yeah, yeah,' Big Anthony said.
'How about the rest of you?'
The other boys mumbled or nodded assent.
'Third,' Carella said, 'if you do decide to answer any questions-'
'I told you'
'Shut up and listen to the man,' Broughan said.
'That's already a violation of my rights,' Big Anthony said.
'Where'd you get your law degree?' Broughan said.
'I don't need a law degree to'
'Shut your fuckin' mouth and listen to the man,' Broughan said.
'If you do decide to answer any questions,' Carella said, 'the answers may be used as evidence against you. Do you understand that?'
'This is a waste of time.'
'Do you understand it?'
'Yeah, yeah.'
'And you also have the right to consult with an attorney before or during questioning. If you don't have money to hire a lawyer, we'll appoint one for you.'
'What the hell are you telling me all this crap for?' Big Anthony said.
'Because this is a democracy,' Broughan answered dryly.
'I ain't going to answer no questions, anyway.'
'You may decide to, who knows?' Broughan said. 'Freedom of choice, that's what the whole system's about.'
'Yeah, bullshit,' Big Anthony said.
'And lastly,' Carella said, 'if you do decide to answer any questions, with or without a lawyer present, you can stop any time you want to. Is that also clear?'
'It's all clear. I got nothing to say.'
'Fine. We're holding you for the Turman police either way.'
'I don't even know anybody named Margaret what-ever-the-hell.'
'The Turman cops have a witness who saw you in the woods off Route 14 last Thursday night. The girl's body was at your feet, and the witness overheard you arguing with another boy about whether or not to bury her.'
'Prove it.'
'Oh, I'm sure we will. Or they will. Or somebody will. With so many law-enforcement agencies involved, you're in pretty hot water. Anyway, if you've got nothing to say, that's that. Charlie, can we get somebody to take him down for booking and detention?'
'Oh, sure,' Broughan said, and reached for the phone on the corner of the table.
'There's only two agencies involved,' Big Anthony said.
'Until the FBI gets into it,' Carella said.
'Why would they get into it? You said'
'Oh, I think the Turman cops have some idea the girl was kidnapped and transported across a state line. That's enough to bring in the FBI automatically. Pretty heavy stuff, Anthony. Killing a kidnap victim.'
'Hello, Mike, we got somebody we need booked and iced,' Broughan said into the phone. 'Send a patrolman up, will you?' He listened a moment, and then said, 'A warrant from the Turman police. Kidnap and homicide. No, we won't need a stenographer 'cause he don't want to make a statement. Right, thank you, Mike.' Broughan replaced the receiver on its cradle, turned to Carella and said, 'Done. You think we should talk to these other young gentlemen now? Regarding the double homicide at the candy store on Gatsby?'
The other young gentlemen had listened in somewhat awed stupefaction to the conversation between Carella and Big Anthony, and were now being made aware that it was their turn again. The attitude of the two cops was so matter-of-fact, so thoroughly bland, so real that it conversely generated an aura of unreality in the small, windowless Interrogation Room. Each of the boys (and especially Big Anthony, who had just been told what serious trouble he was in) was unprepared for this impersonal, antiseptic approach, and felt totally dehumanized by it. There was no saying Hey, listen, you guys, we were acting on orders, you know? Like this has nothing to do with murder. This is just stuff between the cliques. In fact, we're about to settle it, if you'll just let us alone.
Uh-uh. These cops were businessmen talking calmly and coolly about crimes committed, and about the penalties for those crimes, and about the various law-enforcement agencies who were going to make sure somebody paid those penalties. One of the boys, Charles 'Chingo' Ingersol, the powerful and highly respected enforcement officer of the Yankee Rebels, suddenly discovered that he had an irresistible urge to urinate, and he only hoped he would not wet his pants in front of the other guys. He debated asking the cops whether he could go down the hall to the bathroom. But he was sure they would refuse. They were hard-headed businessmen, and they weren't about to waste company time on somebody running down the hall to pee. Chingo was scared. All of them were scared. And both Carella and Broughan knew it.
'Chingo,' Broughan said, and the boy visibly started when his name was announced that way.
'Yeah,' he said, trying to affect his normal cool, even though an uncontrollable twitch had started in his lower left eyelid.
'You want to tell us what happened at the candy store?'
'Nothing happened.'
'Looked like a hell of a mess to me.'
'Yeah, somebody must've done something there,' Chingo said. 'But it wasn't us.'
'Then how come you were running out of the alleyway?'
'We were shooting crap back there when we heard the police siren. So we split, that's all.'
'Oh, you were shooting crap, I see,' Broughan said.
'That's it.'
'In the dark?'
'Well… we had a flashlight.'
'Where is it?'
'Where's what?'
'The flashlight.'
'We must've dropped it when we split.'
'You were shooting crap in an alley behind a candy store in Scarlet Avenger territory, is that what you're asking us to believe?'
'Yeah.'
'Yankee Rebels casually shooting crap in'
'They didn't know we were there,' Chingo said.
The door to the Interrogation Room opened. A patrolman looked into the room, took a pair of handcuffs from his belt, and cheerfully said, 'Who's the customer?'
'The big one there,' Broughan said.
'Let's go, fella,' the patrolman said, and walked to Big Anthony, and closed the jagged, saw-toothed jaws of one handcuff over his right wrist. 'Your mother must feed you pretty good,' the patrolman said. 'How tall are you, anyway?'
'Six-four.'
'You're a healthy kid,' the patrolman said. 'Let's go, the sergeant wants to see you.'
'I didn't do nothing,' Big Anthony said to the patrolman.
'I know, I know,' the patrolman said understandingly. 'Nobody ever done nothing.'
'I don't even know the girl,' Big Anthony said.
'That makes us even,' the patrolman said. 'I don't know her either.'
'Look, whyn't you tell these guys…?'
'Me? I just work here,' the patrolman said. 'You tell them yourself.'
'They think I killed somebody.'
'Well, if you didn't kill anybody, it'll all be cleared up. Meantime, you come on downstairs 'cause the sergeant's got a few questions he wants to ask you, and he also wants to write your name in the big book. Okay?' He turned to Broughan. 'Has he been advised?'
'He has, but tell Mike to go through it again.'
'Who we holding him for?'
'The Turman police. And most likely the Feebs.'
'Right,' the patrolman said, and jerked on the handcuff. 'Let's go-'
The other Yankee Rebels watched as Big Anthony was led silently out of the room. The frosted-glass door to the Interrogation Room closed.
'Fellow named Lucas Hawkins was killed in the blast,' Broughan said to Chingo. 'Called himself "Lamp." Had one eye. Ever recall seeing him around?'
'No,' Chingo said.
'Little girl got killed, too. I guess she was browsing the magazine rack, or maybe just sitting at the counter when somebody threw the bomb in. Thirteen-year-old kid. Her name was Daisy Cooper. That's a nice name, don't you think?'
'Yeah,' Chingo said.
'Daisy Cooper. She was dead on arrival. Lamp died on the way to the hospital. Very heavy stuff, that bombing. Want to tell us about it?'
'Nothing to say,' Chingo whispered.
'What? Speak up, son.'
'I…' Chingo cleared his throat and raised his voice. 'I said I got nothing to say.'
'Well, fine, that's up to you. Any of you other guys?'
The other Yankee Rebels looked at each other searchingly, and then looked at Chingo, and then shook their heads.
'Fine,' Broughan said. 'We'll have to lock all of you up, you understand, till we get to the bottom of this. But we got nice clean detention cells downstairs, with little potties in them and everything. You'll have very nice bowel movements while you're here at the 101st. Steve, you want to ask anything?'
'I just wanted to mention that our eyewitness'll certainly be able to identify whoever was with Anthony on the night of the murder. It might go easier - well, I can't make any promises.'
'No, you can't do that, Steve.'
'I know, I'm merely saying if any of the boys here happened to be with Anthony that night, I'd appreciate him stepping forward now.'
Nobody stepped forward.
'I didn't think so,' Carella said, and sighed. 'Well, I guess you fellows know what you're doing, but you're sure making it difficult for yourselves. Let's get somebody to take them down, huh, Charlie?'
'Yeah, we'd better do that,' Broughan said, and was reaching for the telephone when it rang. He lifted the receiver. 'Broughan,' he said, and listened. 'Where?' He looked up at the wall clock. The time was 10:25. 'Okay,' Broughan said, 'I'm on my way.'
'What is it?' Carella asked.
'World War III,' Broughan answered.
We were coming down Gateside, we were almost to the corner where the Scarlets have their clubhouse. Gateside and Delaney. There were twenty of us. I was in the lead. Mace, at the same time, was leading an attack on the Heads' clubhouse on Concord and Forty-eighth. It was all synchronized. It all should have worked beautiful.
Let me explain that we weren't tiptoeing around, we weren't ducking in hallways, we were marching right down the middle of the street. We planned to surprise the Scarlets, sure, but we weren't dumb enough to think we could sneak up on them. They got sentries and runners the same as us. We knew they had their arsenal far away from the clubhouse, though, just the way we do. That's so if the fuzz come around, there's no gun charge to pin on anybody. Just a bunch of guys sitting around rapping, that's all. You can't arrest nobody for rapping. So we knew they didn't have guns up there, and we figured even if the runners did get to them, they'd maybe have three minutes' notice that we were almost on them, and three minutes wasn't enough time to get out of that building and escape what was coming. Which was us. The Yankee Rebels. Thirty-four strong, and marching down that street with our colors proudly showing - red, white, and blue on the move. With another twenty of us over on Concord Avenue about to end the war with the Heads at the same time.
There was only one trouble.
The Heads weren't on Concord Avenue.
The Heads were on Gateside.
And what the Heads were planning to do was wipe out the Scarlets, and then come after us, and that way become undisputed rulers of the whole neighborhood.
It was The Bullet who spotted those white Swedish Army coats up the block. It was hard to see them at first, because it was snowing hard, and the streets were already covered, and those coats were pretty effective camouflage. But The Bullet has very sharp eyes. He can see in the dark like a cat, and not even white-against-white can faze him. He grabs my arm, and he tells me to take a look up the block, and all I can see at first is this swirling snow, and then through the snow I see what looks like a moving snowbank, you know what I mean? Only it ain't a snowbank, it's maybe a dozen guys all dressed in white coats, and I realize all at once it's a party of Heads coming right for us on a collision course.
The first thing I thought was that Mace hit early, and that his force got wiped out. But that ain't like Mace. We had set our watches before we started out, and Mace knew both strike forces were supposed to hit at ten-thirty sharp. It was now only ten twenty-five, and if I knew Mace, he was looking at his watch right then and timing his strike to the second. The only trouble was that all the Heads were here instead of where Mace expected them to be.
I always think best under pressure.
I have had maybe six important crisises in my life, and I have always met them and solved them. This was just another crisis, no different from the other ones. This was a football team coming down the field, armed to the teeth, but only another ball club. I had the stronger team, and we were going to beat them and end this war. All it involved was a change of plan. Instead of the Scarlets and the Heads simultaneously, it would have to be the Heads first, right there in the street, and then the Scarlets.
I gave the order to charge.
It was very exciting. I had, well, an erection. I don't know why.
We met in the middle of the street. Intelligence had told me the Heads had a very good armory, but I didn't expect the kind of opposition we got from them. Their weaponry was very sophisticated. I'd always suspected they were brothers with a clique in Calm's Point, and the stuff they were using against us now led me to believe they were being supplied by this other clique. Otherwise, where would they have got the stuff they threw at us? In spite of their heavy hardware, though, we had them outnumbered, and in the first three minutes after we joined battle, there must've been six or seven of them laying in the middle of the street, bleeding all over their nice white coats.
But I should've realized something was wrong from the minute The Bullet spotted them. There weren't enough of them. If this was a full-scale raid on the Scarlet clubhouse, why were the Heads throwing only a dozen men at them? We ourselves had come down the street with thirty-four guys. Was it possible the Heads had underestimated the strength of the Scarlets? No, it wasn't possible. Their intelligence was as good as ours, and they must've known the Scarlets were a very strong club. So why the small attack force?
The answer to that one came as a total surprise, though now that I think of it, it was really very good military planning. I always give credit where credit is due, and if the Heads planned a good attack, I'll say so, plain and honest. It was a flanking attack, you see. They were going to hit the building from two sides. The first group, the one we met in the street on Gateside Avenue, was obviously supposed to go in the front door of the building. The second group, the one that came
down Delaney Street, was I guess, supposed to go in the side basement door to the building. But what happened was they saw us engaged with the main attack force on Gateside, and the next thing you knew we were caught in a pincers, fighting with the Gateside group in front of us and the Delaney group behind us. It was bad news. There was only one thing we could do, and even that was risky, but we did it, anyway. We ran in the building.
The Bullet and six of our guys covered our rear, holing up in the entryway and firing out into the street, keeping the Heads away while the rest of us charged up the stairs to get the Scarlets. The first Scarlet we met was a little nigger punk named Jeremy Atkins, who was a junior and the brother of Lewis Atkins, who we had done away with the week before. He was coming down the stairs, probably to see what all the noise was in the street outside, and Little Anthony cut him down with three fast shots, and he came falling headfirst down the stairs, and we all got out of the way to let him go by, and Doc gave him a kick in the ribs when he come to a stop about ten steps from the bottom.
Mighty Man himself was standing at the top of the steps.
I was not armed, you know, I have already told you that. I know you don't believe me, but that's the absolute truth. I was not armed. It was not me who killed Mighty Man. I don't know who did it. Whoever did it was a very good shot. Two bullets took Mighty Man right between the eyes, one bullet right over the other, bang, bang, two neat little holes drilled right between his eyes, it was beautiful. He fell dead on the spot, and we climbed over him and ran into this big room they got up there, smelling of nigger sweat and piss, and all the guys were scrambling and realizing this was a raid and they were about to get wiped out. Doc took a bullet just when I heard the sirens. He took a bullet in the gut. Everybody was shooting and yelling, and beginning to run out of the place because they knew sirens meant fuzz, and this was designed to end the war, not to get busted and rot in jail. People were climbing all over me. Doc tried to get up. He was holding his guts together. Somebody had shot him with a very big caliber gun, probably a .45, those niggers like big guns. He fell against me, and I tried to hold him up, but he was slippery and wet, and my hands got all covered with blood, and that's when I heard somebody downstairs yelling, 'Police officer, hold it right there!' and that's when you guys came up, and put handcuffs on me, and brought me here.
