The Mugger

by Ed McBain

  “Hey!” he said.

  Temple’s shaggy brows shot up onto his forehead. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. What do you think of a mugger who calls himself Clifford?”

  “I think he should be shot,” Temple said. He turned and faced the penetrating stare of Meyer’s mild blue eyes.

  “I think so, too,” Meyer said, smiling. “You awake?”

  “I’m awake.” Temple scratched his chin. “I’ve had this damn itch for the past three days. Drives me nuts.” He scratched himself again.

  “If I were a mugger,” Meyer said, figuring the only way to keep Temple awake was to talk to him, “I wouldn’t pick a name like Clifford.”

  “Clifford sounds like a pansy,” Temple agreed.

  “Steve is a good name for a mugger,” Meyer said.

  “Don’t let Carella hear you say that.”

  “But Clifford. I don’t know. You think it’s his real name?”

  “It could be. Why bother giving it if it’s not his real name?”

  “That’s a point,” Meyer said.

  “I got him tabbed as a psycho, anyway,” Temple said. “Who else would take a deep bow and then thank his victim? He’s a screwball. He’s knocked over thirteen so far. Did Willis tell you about the dame who came in this afternoon?”

  Meyer glanced at his watch. “Yesterday afternoon,” he corrected. “Yes, he told me. Maybe thirteen’ll be Cliff’s unlucky number, huh?”

  “Yeah, maybe. I don’t like muggers, you know? They give me a pain.” He scratched himself. “I like gentlemen thieves.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like murderers, even. Murderers, it seems to me, have more class than muggers.”

  “Give Cliff time,” Meyer said. “He’s still warming up.”

  Both men fell silent. Meyer seemed to be getting something straight in his mind. At last, he said, “I’ve been following this case in the papers. One of the other precincts. 33rd, I think.”

  “Yeah, what about it?”

  “Some guy’s going around stealing cats.”

  “Yeah?” Temple asked. “You mean cats?”

  “Yeah,” Meyer said, watching Temple closely. “You know, house pets. So far, they’ve had eighteen squeals on it in the past week. Something, huh?”

  “I’ll say,” Temple said.

  “I’ve been following it,” Meyer said. “I’ll let you know how it turns out.” He kept watching Temple, a twinkle in his blue eyes. Meyer was a very patient man. If he’d told Temple about the kidnapped cats, he’d done so for a very good reason. He was still watching Temple when he saw him sit suddenly erect.

  “What?” he said.

  “Shhh!” Temple said.

  They listened together. From far off down the darkened street, they could hear the steady clatter of a woman’s high-heeled shoes on the pavement. The city was silent around them, like an immense cathedral closed for the night. Only the hollow, piercing chatter of the wooden heels broke the stillness. They sat in silence, waiting, watching.

  The girl went past the car, not turning her head to look at it. She walked quickly, her head high. She was in her early thirties, a tall girl with long blonde hair. She swept past the car, and the sound of her heels faded, and still the men were silent, listening.

  The even cadence of a second pair of heels came to them. Not the light, empty chatter a woman’s feet make. This was heavy conversation. These were the footsteps of a man.

  “Clifford?” Temple asked.

  “Maybe.”

  They waited. The footsteps came closer. They watched the man approaching in the rearview mirror. Then, simultaneously, both Temple and Meyer stepped out of the car from opposite sides.

  The man stopped, fright darting into his eyes.

  “What…” he said. “What is this? A holdup?”

  Meyer cut around behind the car and came up alongside of the man. Temple was already blocking his path.

  “Your name Clifford?” Temple asked.

  “Wah?”

  “Clifford.”

  “No,” the man said, shaking his head violently. “You got the wrong party. Look, I—”

  “Police,” Temple said tersely, and he flashed the tin.

  “P—p—police? What’d I do?”

  “Where’re you going?” Meyer asked.

  “Home. I just come from a movie.”

  “Little late to be getting out of a movie, isn’t it?”

  “Wah? Oh, yeah, we stopped in a bar.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “Right down the street.” The man pointed, perplexed, frightened.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Frankie’s my name.” He paused. “Ask anybody.”

  “Frankie what?”

  “Oroglio. With a g.”

  “What were you doing following that girl?” Meyer shot.

  “Wah? Girl? Hey, whatta you nuts or something?”

  “You were following a girl!” Temple said. “Why?”

  “Me?” Oroglio pointed both hands at his chest. “Me? Hey, listen, you made a mistake, fellers. I mean it. You got the wrong guy.”

  “A blonde just walked down this street,” Temple said, “and you came along behind her. If you weren’t following—”

  “A blonde?” Oroglio said.

  “Yes, a blonde,” Temple said, his voice rising. “Now how about it, mister?”

  “In a blue coat?” Oroglio asked. “Like in a little blue coat? Is that who you mean?”

  “That’s who we mean,” Temple said.

  “Oh my God,” Oroglio said.

  “HOW ABOUT IT?” Temple shouted.

  “That’s my wife!”

  “What?”

  “My wife, my wife, Conchetta.” Oroglio was wagging his head wildly now. “My wife, Conchetta. She ain’t no blonde. She bleaches it.”

  “Look, mister.”

  “I swear. We went to the show together, and then we stopped for a few beers. We had a fight in the bar. So she walked out alone. She always does that. She’s nuts.”

  “Yeah?” Meyer said.

  “I swear on my Aunt Christina’s hair. She blows up, and she takes off, and I give her four, five minutes. Then I follow her. That’s all there is to it. Lord, I wouldn’t follow no blonde.”

  Temple looked at Meyer.

  “I’ll take you up to the house,” Oroglio said, plunging on. “I’ll introduce you. She’s my wife! Listen, what do you want? She’s my wife!”

  “I’ll bet she is,” Meyer said resignedly. Patiently, he turned to Temple. “Go back to the car, George,” he said. “I’ll check this out.”

  Oroglio sighed. “Gee, this is kind of funny, you know that?” he said, relieved. “I mean being accused of following my own wife. It’s kind of funny.”

  “It could’ve been funnier,” Meyer said.

  “Yeah? How?”

  “She could’ve been somebody else’s wife.”

  He stood in the shadows of the alley, wearing the night like a cloak. He could hear his own shallow breathing and beyond that the vast murmur of the city, the murmur of a big-bellied woman in sleep. There were lights in some of the apartments, solitary sentinels piercing the blackness with unblinking yellow. It was dark where he stood, though, and the darkness was a friend to him, and they stood shoulder to shoulder. Only his eyes glowed in the darkness, watching, waiting.

  He saw the woman long before she crossed the street.

  She was wearing flats, rubber-soled and rubber-heeled, and she made no sound, but he saw her instantly, and he tensed himself against the sooty brick wall of the building, waiting, studying her, watching the careless way in which she carried her purse.

  She looked athletic, this one.

  A beer barrel with squat legs. He liked them better when they looked feminine. This one didn’t wear high heels, and there was a springy bounce to her walk; she was probably one of these walkers, one of these girls who do six miles before breakfast. She was closer now, still
with that bounce in her step as if she were on a pogo stick. She was grinning, too, grinning like a big baboon picking lice; maybe she was coming home from bingo or maybe a poker session; maybe she’d just made a big killing, and maybe this big bouncing baby’s bag was just crammed full of juicy bills.

  He reached out.

  His arm circled her neck, and he pulled her to him before she could scream, yanking her into the blackened mouth of the alley. He swung her around then, releasing her neck, catching her sweater up in one big hand, holding it bunched in his fist, slamming her against the brick wall of the building.

  “Quiet,” he said. His voice was very low. He looked at her face. She had hard green eyes, and the eyes were narrow now, watching him. She had a thick nose and leathery skin.

  “What do you want from me?” she asked. Her voice was gruff.

  “Your purse,” he answered. “Quick.”

  “Why are you wearing sunglasses?”

  “Give me your purse!”

  He reached for it, and she swung it away from him. His hand tightened on the sweater. He pulled her off the wall for an instant and then slammed her back against the bricks again. “The purse!”

  “No!”

  He bunched his left fist and hurled it at her mouth. The woman’s head rocked back. She shook it, dazed.

  “Listen,” he said, “listen to me. I don’t want to hurt you, you hear? That was just a warning. Now, give me the purse, and don’t make a peep after I’m gone, you hear? Not a peep!”

  The woman slowly wiped the back of her hand across her mouth. She looked at the blood in the darkness, and then she hissed, “Don’t touch me again, you punk!”

  He brought back his fist. She kicked him suddenly, and he bent over in pain. She struck out at his face, her fleshy fists bunching, hitting him over and over again.

  “You stupid…” he started, and then he caught her hands and shoved her back against the wall. He hit her twice, feeling his bunched knuckles smashing into her stupid, ugly face. She fell back against the wall, moaned, and then collapsed to the concrete at his feet.

  He stood over her, breathing heavily. He looked over his shoulder, staring off down the street, lifting the sunglasses for a better view. There was no one in sight. Hastily, he bent down and retrieved the purse from where it had fallen.

  The woman did not move.

  He looked at her again, wondering. Dammit, why had she been so stupid? He hadn’t wanted this to happen. He bent down again, and he put his head on her bosom. She was breathing. He rose, satisfied, and a small smile flitted across his face.

  He stood over her, and he bowed, the hand with the purse crossing his waist gallantly, and he said, “Clifford thanks you, madam.”

  And then he ran into the night.

  The bulls of the 87th Squad, no matter what else they agreed upon, generally disagreed upon the comparative worth of the various stool pigeons they employed from time to time. For as the old maid remarked upon kissing the cow, “It’s all a matter of taste,” and one cop’s pigeon might very well be another cop’s poison.

  It was generally conceded that Danny Gimp was the most trustworthy of the lot, but even Danny’s staunchest supporters realized that some of their colleagues got better results from some of the other birds. That all of them relied heavily upon information garnered from underworld contacts was an undisputed fact; it was simply a question of whom you preferred to use.

  Hal Willis favored a man named Fats Donner.

  In fact, with Donner’s solicited and recompensed aid, he had cracked many a tough nut straight down the middle. And there was no question but what Clifford, the mugger with the courtly bow, was beginning to be a tough nut.

  There was only one drawback to using Donner, and that was his penchant for Turkish baths. Willis was a thin man. He did not enjoy losing three or four pounds whenever he asked Donner a question.

  Donner, on the other hand, was not only fat; he was Fats. And Fats, for the benefit of the uninitiated, is “fat” in the plural. He was obese. He was immense. He was mountainous.

  He sat with a towel draped across his lap, the thick layers of flesh quivering everywhere on his body as he sucked in the steam that surrounded him and Willis. His body was a pale, sickly white, and Willis suspected he was a junkie, but he’d be damned if he’d pull in a good pigeon on a holding rap.

  Donner sat, a great white Buddha, sucking in steam. Willis watched him, sweating.

  “Clifford, huh?” Donner asked. His voice was a deep, sepulchral rattle, as if Death were his silent partner.

  “Clifford,” Willis said. He could feel the perspiration seeping up into his close-cropped hair, could feel it trickling down the back of his neck, over his narrow shoulders, across his naked backbone. He was hot. His mouth was dry. He watched Donner languishing like a huge contented vegetable and he cursed all fat men, and he said, “Clifford. You must have read about him. It’s in all the papers.”

  “I don’t dig papers, man,” Donner said. “Only the funnies.”

  “Okay, he’s a mugger. He slams his victims before he takes off, and then he bows from the waist and says, ‘Clifford thanks you, madam.’”

  “Only chicks this guy taps?”

  “So far,” Willis said.

  “I don’t make him, dad,” Donner said, shaking his head, sprinkling sweat on to the tiled walls around him. “Clifford. The name’s from nowhere. Hit me again.”

  “He wears sunglasses. Last two times out, anyway.”

  “Cheaters? He flies by night, this cat?”

  “Yes?”

  “Clifford, chicks, cheaters. All Cs. A cokie?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “C, you dig me?” Donner said. “Clifford, chicks…”

  “I caught it the first time around,” Willis answered.

  Donner shrugged. It seemed to be getting hotter in the steam room. The steam billowed up from hidden instruments of the devil, smothering the room with a thick blanket of soggy, heat-laden mist. Willis sighed heavily.

  “Clifford,” Donner said again. “This his square handle?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I mean, dad, I grip with a few muggers, but none with a Clifford tag. If this is just a party stunt to gas the chicks, that’s another thing again. Still, Clifford. This he picked from hunger.”

  “He’s knocked over fourteen women,” Willis said. “He’s not so hungry anymore.”

  “Rape?”

  “No.”

  “No eyes for the chicks, this Clifford cat, huh? He’s a faggot?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “Big hauls?”

  “Fifty-four bucks was tops. Mostly peanuts.”

  “Small time,” Donner said.

  “Do you know any big-time muggers?”

  “The ones who work the Hill don’t go for chewing-gum loot. I’ve known plenty big muggers in my day.” Donner lay back on the marble seat, readjusting the towel across his middle. Willis wiped sweat from his face with a sweaty hand.

  “Listen, don’t you ever conduct business outside?” Willis asked.

  “What do you mean, outside?”

  “Where there’s air.”

  “Oh. Sure, I do. This summer I was out a lot. Man, it was a great summer, wasn’t it?”

  Willis thought of the record-breaking temperatures that had crippled the back of the city. “Yeah, great,” he said. “So what about this, Fats? Have you got anything for me?”

  “No rumble, if that’s what you mean. He’s either new or he keeps still.”

  “Many new faces in town?”

  “Always new faces, dad,” Donner said. “None I peg for muggers, though. Tell the truth, I don’t know many hit-and-run boys. This is for the wet-pants nowadays. You figure Clifford for a kid?”

  “Not from what the victims have told us about him.”

  “Old man?”

  “Twenties.”

  “Tough age,” Donner said. “Not quite a boy, yet not quite a man.”

>   “He hits like a man,” Willis said. “He sent the one last night to the hospital.”

  “I tell you,” Donner said, “let me go on the earie. I listen a little here and there, and I buzz you. Dig?”

  “When?” Willis asked. “Soon.”

  “How soon is soon?”

  “How high is up?” Donner asked. He rubbed his nose with his forefinger. “You looking for a lead or a pinch?”

  “A lead would suit me fine,” Willis said.

  “Gone. So let me sniff a little. What’s today?”

  “Wednesday,” Willis said.

  “Wednesday,” Donner repeated, and then for some reason, he added, “Wednesday’s a good day. I’ll try to get back to you sometime tonight.”

  “If you’ll call, I’ll wait for it. Otherwise, I go home at four.”

  “I’ll call,” Donner promised.

  “Okay,” Willis said. He rose, tightened the towel about his waist, and started out.

  “Hey, ain’t you forgetting something?” Donner called.

  Willis turned. “All I came in with was the towel,” he said.

  “Yeah, but I come here every day, man,” Donner said. “This can cost a man, you know.”

  “We’ll talk cost when you deliver,” Willis said. “All I got so far is a lot of hot air.”

  Bert Kling wondered what he was doing here.

  He came down the steps from the elevated structure, and he recognized landmarks instantly. This had not been his old neighborhood, but he had listed this area among his teenage stomping grounds, and he was surprised now to find a faint nostalgia creeping into his chest.

  If he looked off down the avenue, he could see the wide sweep of the train tracks where the El screeched sparklingly around Cannon Road, heading north. He could see, too, the flickering lights of a Ferris wheel against the deepening sky—the carnival, every September and every April, rain or shine, setting up business in the empty lot across from the housing project. He had gone to the carnival often when he was a kid, and he knew this section of Riverhead as well as he knew his own old neighborhood. Both were curious mixtures of Italians, Jews, Irish, and Negroes. Somebody had set a pot to melting in Riverhead, and somebody else had forgotten to turn off the gas.