by Ed McBain
Kling reached for his wallet, opened it to where his shield was pinned to the leather.
‘Gee,’ Sadie said.
‘Told you,’ Kling said, and closed the wallet and put it back in his pocket.
‘Wanna see my library card?’ Sadie asked.
‘No, I believe you.’
‘So what do you think the chances are of a white blond cop meeting a gorgeous black librarian in a bar on the edge of the universe?’
‘Pretty slim, I’d say.’
‘You agree, though, huh?’
Kling looked at her, puzzled.
‘That I’m gorgeous,’ Sadie said.
‘It crossed my mind, yes.’
‘So if I’m not a hooker, why am I sitting here flashing my stuff at you? What kind of librarian would behave like such a brazen hussy?’
‘A brazen hussy, huh?’ Kling said, and smiled.
‘A brazen hussy, is exactly right. Jiggling her foot, letting her boobs spill all over the bar. Lord a’mercy, my daddy would throw a fit.’
‘I’ll bet.’
‘Let me have another one of these li’l mothas, Louis.’
He poured her another drink.
Sadie lifted the stemmed glass.
‘Would you like another li’l taste of this, Bert?’ she asked. ‘I’m assuming you’re off duty, seeing as how it’s a Friday night, and you’re sitting here drinking and all. Another li’l sip, Bert? Another sweet li’l taste?’
She lifted the glass to his mouth again, tilted it.
He sipped.
‘Yummy, ain’t it?’ she said, and raised one eyebrow like a movie star. ‘But getting back, Bert, if I was a hooker, I would have to tell you how much I charge and all that, you know whut I’m saying? And even then, before you could make a vice bust, I’d have to be naked and accepting actual cash, whatever it is these girls charge, a hundred for a blowjob, two hundred for the missionary, five for the whole night, whatever, around the world understood. Then again, you’re off duty, Bert, isn’t that right? My question is: When is an off-duty cop not a cop? And how would he like to make love to a gorgeous black librarian?’
Kling looked at her.
Louis was a discreet ten feet down the bar.
‘Li’l taste, Bert?’ Sadie said.
‘I think…”
She took his hand, placed it on her thigh.
Jiggling her foot.
Eyebrow raised.
He rose abruptly and went to the phone booth.
* * * *
Sharyn answered on the third ring.
‘Don’t hang up,’ he said. ‘Please.’
‘I was in the shower,’ she said. ‘I’m soaking wet.’
‘Get a towel. I’ll call you back.’
‘I have a towel.’
‘Sharyn, I love you to death.’
Silence.
‘Sharyn, let me come there. Please.’
‘No,’ she said, and hung up.
* * * *
Sadie was still sitting at the bar. She ignored him when he sat down beside her. Then she took a long swallow of the martini, draining the glass, and placed it delicately on the bar top, and turned to him, her knees touching his.
‘Mama give you permission?’ she asked.
* * * *
The old lady was walking her dog at almost eleven thirty P.M., not a particularly wise thing to do in this part of the city, but she did it every night at this time, and everyone in the neighborhood knew her, black or white, and she’d never had any trouble so far. When she heard the voice behind her, she was startled, but not frightened.
‘Helen?’
She turned.
The dog didn’t even growl, just stared into the darkness with her.
‘Do I know you?’ she asked.
‘You should,’ he said, ‘it’s Carlie,’ and shot her twice in the face.
As the dog turned to run, he shot her, too.
7.
HE THOUGHT AT first the girl in bed with him was Sharyn. Opening his eyes, first thing that registered was black. Then he realized her scent was different, her hairstyle was different, her face was different, this girl was not Sharyn Cooke. Oh, Jesus, he thought, and felt immediate guilt.
Almost ashamed to look at her.
But kept looking at her.
Black hair in corn rows. Ripe lips, free of lipstick now. Fast asleep, breathing lightly. Looked like a shiny angel. Earrings on the night table beside her. Clothes draped on a chair across the room. The clock on his side of the bed read 6:15 A.M. He was due in the squadroom at 7:45.
Was she a hooker?
In the bar last night… hadn’t there been some talk about money?
He couldn’t even remember which bar it was.
He kept looking at her.
She was quite beautiful.
She couldn’t be a hooker, could she?
Her name was…
Sally?
Sophie?
Whatever her name was, whatever her occupation, she should not be here in his bed this morning. Was someone in Sharyn’s bed this morning?
As if the bed were suddenly on fire, he got out of it fast, and virtually ran across the room to the bathroom. He closed and locked the door. He looked at himself in the mirror.
Maybe you didn’t do anything but sleep together, he told himself.
Buy that one, and I have a good bridge I can sell you.
He kept looking at himself in the mirror. Then he got into the shower, and ran it very hot, and kept thinking over and again, What have I done, what have I done, what have I done?
* * * *
She was sitting up in bed when he came back into the room, a towel around his waist.
‘Hi,’ she said, and got out of bed immediately. ‘Gotta tinkle,’ she said, and rushed past him to the bathroom, long legs flashing, tight little ass, cute little boobs, the door closed behind her. He could hear her peeing inside there. He did not want this intimacy. This intimacy was reserved for Sharyn. But Sharyn wasn’t here, this girl was here, whatever her name was.
He pulled on a pair of undershorts, trousers, threw on a shirt. Should he offer her coffee? Who was she, anyway? Had he paid her for last night? He hoped he hadn’t paid her, he hoped she wasn’t a hooker. He went to the dresser, picked up his wallet, thinking to check the bills there, see if he was now a hundred or so short.
The bathroom door opened.
She stood there naked, hands on her hips.
‘Anything missing?’ she asked.
Smile on her face.
‘You still believe it, don’t you?’
He said nothing.
‘The fun I was having with you last night. In the bar.’
He still said nothing.
‘You still think I’m a hooker, don’t you? My, my,’ she said. ‘Just how drunk were you, Bert?’
‘Pretty drunk. I’m sorry. Forgive me if I…”
‘Do you remember my name?’
‘I’m sorry, no.’
‘Sadie,’ she said. ‘Sadie Harris.’
He nodded.
‘Librarian,’ she said.
He nodded again.
‘Really,’ she said, ‘I’m a librarian. Last night didn’t cost you a nickel. Go ahead, count your money.’
‘Well,’ he said, and put the wallet back on the dresser.
‘How much of last night do you remember, by the way?’
He spread his hands helplessly.
‘Well, I enjoyed it,’ she said. ‘Have you got a robe I can put on? Or are you going to kick me out without breakfast?’
He went to the closet, took a robe from its hanger, carried it to her, held it for her while she shrugged into it. His earlier guilt was changing to something else. He was beginning to feel rotten for the girl. If she really was a librarian, then…
‘So where do you work?’ he asked. ‘Which library?’
‘Still don’t believe me, huh?’ she said, and walked familiarly to the cabinets over the sink, and open
ed one of them, and found a tin of ground coffee. ‘Chapel Road Branch, uptown near the old Orpheum Theater. I have to be in at nine, by the way. And I still have to go home to change into my librarian threads.’
‘I have to be in at seven forty-five.’
‘So we still have time,’ she said, and raised one eyebrow. ‘For breakfast,’ she added.
* * * *
This time, he was cold sober.
This time, he was wide awake.
When she let his robe fall from her shoulders, he opened his arms wide to her and drew her close to him, and when she raised her face to his, he kissed her fiercely on the mouth. And then he lifted her off the floor and into his arms, and carried her to the bed.
* * * *
‘You still think I’m a hooker, don’t you?’ she said afterward. She was lying beside him, cradled in his arms. One hand was on his chest. Long slender fingers. Bright red painted fingernails.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think you’re a hooker.’
‘Then why did I behave so sluttily last night in that bar?’
‘Why?’ he asked.
‘Cause I liked what I saw,’ she said. ‘And librarians don’t get out much.’
‘You seemed to know the bartender pretty well,’ he said.
‘Louis. Yes, I do know him. I live right around the corner from there.’
‘Do you play that game often? Pretending to be a hooker?’
‘Depends what I’ve been reading that week. Sometimes I pretend to be a rich Jewish girl from the suburbs.’
‘Are you really a librarian?’
‘How many times I got to tell you, man? You want me to ‘splain the Dewey Decimal System to you?’
‘Is that another role?’
‘The Dewey… ?’
‘No, the li’l cornpone black girl.’
‘I can talk white, black, whatever suits you, dollink,’ she said, suddenly going Jewish. Then, for some reason, she reached up to touch his mouth. Her hand lingered there, her long fingers tracing his lips. ‘You have a beautiful mouth,’ she said. ‘I think I’m in love with you,’ she said. ‘Oh, pshaw,’ she said. ‘I got that expression from a British spy novel. Oh, pshaw. Man named Sykes keeps saying that to his assistant. “Oh, pshaw, Shaw,’ which is the assistant’s name. Ask Louis. Two months ago I walked in talking British and being a spy. But I do believe I’m seriously in love with you,’ she said, and sat up, and leaned over him, and kissed him on the mouth. She pulled her own mouth away, looked him full in the face. ‘What’s my name?’ she asked.
‘Sadie,’ he said.
‘I’ve got a BA from Radmore U,’ she said. ‘I’m thirty years old. How old are you?’
‘Thirty-three,’ he said.
‘Well now, that’s nigh on perfect, ain’t it?’ she said.
‘Is that black?’ he asked.
‘That’s white trash,’ she said. ‘Am I your first black girl?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘You’re my first white man.’
‘Was I okay?’
‘Oh my dear boy!’ she said, and kissed him on the mouth again.
They both looked at the bedside clock again.
‘I can’t get enough of you,’ she said.
‘Sadie…”
‘Don’t tell me you’re married, or engaged, or even dreaming of having a relationship with anyone else,’ she said. ‘Because right now, you are going to make love to me again, and then we are going to discuss our future together, you unner’stan whut I’m sayin, white boy?’
‘Sadie…’
‘Now just hush,’ she said.
He hushed.
* * * *
‘We’re beginning to get overwhelmed here,’ Byrnes said.
‘I told you. The garbage can of the DD,’ Parker said.
‘Where’d this one go down?’ Hawes asked.
‘The Three-Eight. In Majesta. Old lady and her dog.’
‘How old?’ Carella asked.
‘Seventy-three.’
‘He’s upping ages,’ Meyer said.
‘Softer targets.’
‘Same Glock?’ Brown asked.
‘Identical. Shot the dog for good measure.’
‘Killed him, too?’
‘Her. A bitch.’
‘The dog, I mean.’
‘Right. A female.’
‘Where’d you get that?’
‘From the Three-Eight’s report. They sent us their paper soon as Ballistics confirmed.’
‘Sure,’ Parker said knowingly.
‘What kind of dog was it?’ Genero asked.
‘We already went by the dog, Richard.’
‘I’m curious.’
‘A golden,’ Byrnes told him.
‘That’s a nice dog, a golden.’
‘Some people get very offended when dogs are killed,’ Hawes said. He was sitting by the window, his red hair touched by sunlight, looking on fire. ‘You can kill all the cats in the world, they don’t care. But kill a dog? They march on City Hall.’
‘Goldens?’ Genero asked. ‘Or all dogs?’
‘Point is we’re overwhelmed here,’ Byrnes said. ‘Five homicides now…”
‘Plus the dog, don’t forget,’ Genero said.
‘Fuck the dog,’ Parker said.
‘Eileen, Hal? What are you guys working?’
‘The liquor store holdups on Culver.’
‘Can you take on the dog lady?’
‘Don’t see how,’ Willis said. ‘We’re sitting four stores alternately.’
‘Me and Andy’ll take the dog lady,’ Genero said.
‘We’ve already got the cosmetics lady,’ Parker reminded him.
‘I like dogs,’ Genero explained.
‘How’re you doing with your professor?’ Byrnes asked.
‘Getting nowhere fast,’ Brown said.
‘Where’s Kling, anyway?’ Byrnes said.
Brown shrugged.
Everyone looked up at the clock.
‘So what do we do here?’ Byrnes asked. ‘Cotton? You want to fly solo on this one?’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Who caught it up the Three-Eight?’
‘Guy named Anderson. We’ve got all his paper.’
‘I’ll give him a call.’
‘Ask him what the dog’s name was,’ Genero said.
* * * *
According to Helen Reilly’s neighbors, the dog’s name was Pavarotti. A female. Go figure. Apparently, Helen was single when she was killed, but she’d been married twice before. This from several sources in her building, but primarily from her closest friend, a woman who lived across the street at 324 South Waverly. Hawes didn’t get to her until almost three that Saturday afternoon.
Her name was Paula Wellington, and she was in her early fifties, he guessed, some twenty years younger than the dog lady. Good-looking woman with a thick head of white hair she wore loose around her face. Blue eyes. She told Hawes almost at once that three months ago she’d weighed two hundred pounds. Right now, she looked fit and trim.
‘Helen and I used to walk a lot together,’ she said. “We were friends for a long time.’
‘How long would that have been?’ Hawes asked.
‘She moved into the neighborhood, must’ve been three years ago. She was a lovely woman.’
‘Where’d she live before this, would you know?’
‘In Calm’s Point. She was a recent widow when she moved here.’
‘Oh?’ Hawes said.
‘Yes. Her husband was killed in a drive-by shooting.’
‘Oh?’ he said again.
‘Gang stuff. He was coming home from work, just coming down to the street from the train station, when these teenagers drove by shooting at someone from another gang. Martin was unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the right time.’
‘Would you know his last name?’
‘It was a gang thing,’ Paula said.
I’d like to check it, anyway.’
‘Martin Reilly.
Well, Reilly. He was her husband, you understand.’
‘Of course,’ Hawes said, but he wrote down the name, anyway.
‘They were very happily married, too. Unlike the first time around.’
‘When was that, would you know?’
‘Had to’ve been at least fifty years ago. Her first marriage. Two kids. She finally walked out after twelve years of misery.’
‘Walked out?’
‘So long, it’s been good to know you.’
‘Were they ever divorced?’
‘Oh, I’m sure. Well, she remarried, right?’
‘Right. What was her first husband’s name, would you know?’
‘No, I’m sorry. Luke Something?’
‘Ever meet him?’
‘No.’
‘He wouldn’t have tried to contact her ever, would he?’
‘I don’t think so. No. I’m sure she would’ve told me. It was strictly good riddance to bad rubbish.’
‘The children? Would you know their names?’
‘No, I’m sorry.’
‘Were they boys or girls?’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t know.’
‘Well, thank you, Ms. Wellington, I appreciate your time.’
‘You wouldn’t care for a cup of tea, would you?’ she said. ‘It’s about that time of day, you know.’
Hawes hesitated a moment.
Then he said, ‘I have to get back.. Maybe some other time.’
Paula nodded.
* * * *
Fat Ollie Weeks did not like religion in general and priests in particular, but he hoped no one would write him letters on the subject because he simply would not answer them. He could not say he particularly disliked Father Joseph Santoro, except that the man appeared to be in his late seventies, and Ollie had no particular fondness for old people, either.
Why a man at such an advanced age hadn’t yet tipped to the fact that wearing a long black dress and a gold necklace and cross might be considered somewhat effeminate was beyond Ollie. But he was not here to discuss sexual proclivities or the peculiar dress habits of the Catholic priesthood. He was here to learn what Father Joseph Santoro had seen or heard on the night Father Michael Hopwell was shot twice in the face, he being the last person to have seen his dead colleague alive, ah yes, except for the killer.
The retirement center at six P.M. that Saturday was just serving dinner to its fifty or so resident retired priests and nuns. Ollie knew these religious people had all taken vows of chastity and poverty, which he surmised included not eating too terribly much, or screwing around at all after hours, wherever it was they slept. Hence the somewhat gaunt and hungry appearance of many of the men and women seated around long wooden tables in the center’s dining room. He was not expecting any kind of decent dinner, and was surprised to find the food both plentiful and quite delicious.
