The Mugger

by Ed McBain

  “Man, I’m hot tonight. Bet it all,” he said. “Am I covered?”

  “Slow down a little, cousin,” Willis said suddenly.

  “I’m betting the eight,” Turtleneck answered.

  “Let’s see the ivories,” Willis said.

  “What!”

  “I said let me see the cubes. They act talented.”

  “The talent’s in the fist, friend,” Turtleneck said. “You covering me or not?”

  “Not until I see the dice.”

  “Then you ain’t covering me,” Turtleneck answered dryly. “Who’s betting?”

  “Show him the dice,” Randolph said. Willis watched him. The ex-Marine had lost two bills on that last roll. Willis had intimated that the dice were crooked, and now Randolph wanted to see for himself.

  “These dice are straight,” Turtleneck said.

  Gravel stared at Willis peculiarly. “They’re Honest Johns, stranger,” he put in. “We run a square game.”

  “They act drunk,” Willis said. “Prove it to me.”

  “You don’t like the game, you can cut out,” Hook Nose said.

  “I’ve dropped half a G since I walked in,” Willis snapped. “I practically own those dice. Do I get a look or don’t I?”

  “You bring this guy in, Fats?” Gravel asked.

  “Yeah,” Donner said. He was beginning to sweat.

  “Where’d you dig him up?”

  “We met in a bar,” Willis said, automatically clearing Donner. “I told him I was looking for action. I didn’t expect educated dice.”

  “We told you the dice are square,” Gravel said.

  “Then give me a look.”

  “You can study them when they’re passed to you,” Turtleneck said. “It’s still my roll.”

  “Nobody rolls till I see them dice,” Willis snapped.

  “For a small man, you talk a big game,” Gravel said.

  “Try me,” Willis said softly.

  Gravel looked him over, apparently trying to determine whether or not Willis was heeled. Deciding that he wasn’t, he said, “Get out of here, you scrawny punk. I’d snap you in two.”

  “Try me, you big tub!” Willis shouted.

  Gravel stared hotly at Willis for an instant and then made the same mistake countless men before him had made. There was, you see, no way of telling from Willis’s appearance what his training had been. There was no way of knowing that he was expert in the ways of judo or that he could practically break your back by snapping his fingers. Gravel simply assumed he was a scrawny punk, and he rushed across the circle, ready to squash Willis like a bug.

  He was, to indulge in complete understatement, somewhat surprised by what happened to him next.

  Willis didn’t watch Gravel’s face or Gravel’s hands. He watched his feet, timing himself to rush forward when Gravel’s right foot was in a forward position. He did that suddenly and then dropped to his right knee and grabbed Gravel’s left ankle.

  “Hey, what the hell—” Gravel started, but that was all he ever said. Willis pulled the ankle toward him and upward off the ground. In the same instant, he shoved out at Gravel’s gut with the heel of his right hand. Gravel, seeing his opponent drop to his knees, feeling the fingers tight around his ankles, feeling the sharp thrust at his mid-section, didn’t know he was experiencing an ankle throw. He only knew that he was suddenly falling backward, and then he felt the wind rush out of him as his back collided with the concrete floor. He shook his head, bellowed, and jumped to his feet.

  Willis was standing opposite him, grinning.

  “Okay, smart guy,” Gravel said. “Okay, you smart little bastard,” and he rushed forward again.

  Willis didn’t move a muscle. He stood balanced evenly, smiling, waiting, and then he struck suddenly.

  He grabbed Gravel’s left arm at the elbow bend, cupping it with his right hand. Without hesitation, he snapped Gravel’s left arm upward and forced his left hand into Gravel’s armpit. His hand was opened flat, but the fingers were not spread. They lay close together, the thumb tucked under them, out of the way. Willis wheeled to the right, swinging Gravel’s arm over his left shoulder and forcing it downward by pressing on the elbow grip.

  He bent forward suddenly, and Gravel’s feet left the ground, and then Willis gave a sharp jerk and Gravel found himself spinning upward in a shoulder overthrow, the concrete coming up to meet him.

  Considerately, and because he didn’t want to break Gravel’s arm, Willis released his grip on the elbow before Gravel smashed into the concrete. Gravel shook his head, dazed. He tried to get up, and then he sat down again, still shaking his head. Across the circle, Hook Nose’s hand snaked toward the opening of his jacket.

  “Hold it right there!” a voice said.

  Willis turned. Randolph was holding a .45 in his fist, covering the others. “Thanks,” Willis said.

  “Scoop up that eight hundred,” Randolph answered. “I don’t like crooked games.”

  “Hey, that’s my dough!” Turtleneck shouted.

  “It used to be ours,” Randolph replied.

  Willis picked up the money and put it in his pocket.

  “Come on,” Randolph said.

  They started for the side door, Randolph backing away from the circle, still holding the .45. The skinny man who’d passed Willis in looked confused, but he didn’t say anything. Most men don’t when a .45 is in the picture. Willis and Randolph ran down the street.

  Randolph pocketed the gun and hailed a cab on the corner. “You like a cup of coffee?”

  “Sure,” Willis said.

  Randolph extended his hand. “My name’s Skippy Randolph.”

  Willis took it. “Mine’s Willy Harris.”

  “Where’d you learn judo?” Randolph asked.

  “In the Marines,” Willis said.

  “It figured. I was in the corps, too.”

  “No kidding?” Willis said, feigning surprise.

  “Sixth Division,” Randolph said proudly.

  “I was in the Third,” Willis said.

  “Iwo?”

  “Yes,” Willis said.

  “I was in Iwo and Okinawa both. My company was attached with the Fifth when we hit Iwo.”

  “That was a goddamn mess,” Willis said.

  “You said it. Still, I had some good times with the corps. Caught a slug at Okinawa, though.”

  “I was lucky,” Willis said. He looked around for wood to knock and then rapped his knuckles on his head.

  “You think we’re far enough away from those creeps?” Randolph asked.

  “I think so.”

  “Any place here,” Randolph told the cabbie. The driver pulled up to the curb, and Randolph tipped him. They stood on the sidewalk, and Randolph looked up the street. “There’s a coffeepot,” he said, pointing.

  Willis took the $800 from his pocket. “Half of this is yours,” he said. He handed Randolph the bills.

  “I figured them dice were a little too peppy,” Randolph said, taking the money.

  “Yeah,” Willis said dryly. They opened the door to the coffeepot and walked to a table in the corner. They ordered coffee and French crullers. When the order came, they sat quietly for a while.

  “Good coffee,” Randolph said.

  “Yeah,” Willis agreed.

  “You a native in this burg?”

  “Yeah. You?”

  “Chicago, originally,” Randolph said. “I drifted here when I was discharged. Stuck around for four years.”

  “When were you discharged?”

  “‘45,” Randolph said. “Went back to Chicago in ‘50.”

  “What happened to ‘49?”

  “I did some time,” Randolph said, watching Willis warily.

  “Haven’t we all?” Willis said evenly. “What’d they get you on?”

  “I mugged an old duffer.”

  “What brings you back here?” Willis asked.

  “What’d they get you for?” Randolph asked.

  “Oh, nothi
ng,” Willis said.

  “No, come on.”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “I’m curious,” Randolph said.

  “Rape,” Willis said quickly.

  “Hey,” Randolph said, raising his brows.

  “It ain’t like what it sounds. I was going with this dame, and she was the biggest tease alive. So one night—”

  “Sure, I understand.”

  “Do you?” Willis said levelly.

  “Sure. You think I wanted to mug that old crumb? I just needed dough, that’s all.”

  “What’re you doing for cash now?” Willis asked.

  “I been makin’ out.”

  “Doing what?”

  Randolph hesitated. “I’m a truck driver.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “Well, I ain’t workin’ at it right now.”

  “What are you working at?”

  “I got something going, brings in a little steady cash.” He paused. “You looking for something?”

  “I might be.”

  “Two guys could really make out.”

  “Doing what?”

  “You figure it,” Randolph said.

  “I don’t like playing ‘What’s My Line?,’” Willis answered. “If you’ve got something for me, let me hear it.”

  “Mugging,” Randolph said.

  “Old guys?”

  “Old guys, young guys, what’s the diff?”

  “There ain’t much dough in mugging.”

  “In the right neighborhoods, there is.”

  “I don’t know,” Willis said. “I don’t like the idea of knocking over old guys.” He paused. “And dames.”

  “Who said anything about dames? I steer away from them. You get all kinds of trouble with dames.”

  “Yeah?” Willis said.

  “Sure. Well, don’t you know? They get you on attempted rape as well as assault. Even if you didn’t lay a hand on them.”

  “That right?” Willis said, somewhat disappointed.

  “Sure. I stay away like they’re poison. Besides, most dames don’t carry too much cash.”

  “I see,” Willis said.

  “So what do you think? You know judo, and I know it, too. We could knock this city on its side.”

  “I don’t know,” Willis said, convinced that Randolph was not his man now, but wanting to hear more so that he could set him up for a pinch. “Tell me more about how you work it.”

  While the two men talked in one part of the city, the girl lay face down in the bushes in another part of the city.

  The bushes were at the base of a sharp incline, a miniature cliff of earth and stone. The cliff sloped down toward the bushes, and beyond the bushes was the river, and arching overhead was the long span of the bridge leading to the next state.

  The girl lay in a crooked heap.

  Her stockings had been torn when she rolled down the incline to the bushes, and her skirt was twisted so that the backs of her legs were exposed clear to her buttocks. The legs were good legs, youthful legs, but one was twisted at a curious angle, and there was nothing attractive about the girl’s body as it lay in the bushes.

  The girl’s face was bleeding. The blood spread from the broken features to the stiff branches of the bushes and then to the ground, where the parched autumn earth drank it up thirstily. One arm was folded across the girl’s full breasts, pressed against the sharp, cutting twigs of the bushes. The other arm dangled loosely at her side. Her hand was open.

  On the ground, close to the spreading blood, several feet from the girl’s open palm, a pair of sunglasses rested. One of the lenses in the glasses was shattered.

  The girl had blonde hair, but the bright yellow was stained with blood where something hard and unyielding had repeatedly smashed at her skull.

  The girl was not breathing. She lay face down in the bushes at the bottom of the small cliff, her blood rushing onto the ground, and she would never breathe again.

  The girl’s name was Jeannie Paige.

  Lieutenant Byrnes studied the information on the printed sheet.

  Translated into English, it simply meant that somebody had goofed. The body had been taken to the mortuary, and some young intern there had probably very carefully studied the broken face and the shattered skull and come up with the remarkable conclusion that death had been caused by “brain concussion apparently.” He could understand why a full report was not on his desk, but even understanding, the knowledge griped him. He could not expect people, he supposed, to go gallivanting around in the middle of the night—the body had probably been delivered to the mortuary in the wee hours—trying to discover whether or not a stomach holds poison. No, of course not. Nobody starts work until 9:00 in the morning, and nobody works after 5:00 in the afternoon. A wonderful country. Short hours for everyone.

  Except the fellow who killed this girl, of course.

  He hadn’t minded a little overtime, not him.

  Seventeen years old, Byrnes thought. My son is seventeen!

  He walked to the door of his office. He was a short, solidly packed man with a head that seemed to have been blasted loose from a huge chunk of granite. He had small blue eyes, which constantly darted, perpetually alert. He didn’t like people getting killed. He didn’t like young girls getting their heads smashed in. He opened the door.

  “Hal!” he called.

  Willis looked up from his desk.

  “Come in here, will you?” He left the door and began pacing the office. Willis came into the room and stood quietly, his hands behind his back.

  “Anything on those sunglasses yet?” Byrnes asked, still pacing.

  “No, sir. There was a good thumbprint on the unbroken lens, but it’s not likely we’ll get a make on a single print.”

  “What about your pal? The one you brought in last night?”

  “Randolph. He’s mad as hell because I conned him into making a full confession to a cop. I think he suspects it won’t stand up in court, though. He’s screaming for a lawyer right now.”

  “I’m talking about the thumbprint.”

  “It doesn’t match up with his, sir,” Willis said.

  “Think it’s the girl’s?”

  “No, sir, it isn’t. We’ve already checked that.”

  “Then Randolph isn’t our man.”

  “No, sir.”

  “I didn’t think he was, anyway. This girl was probably knocked over while Randolph was with you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s a goddamn shame,” Byrnes said, “a goddamn shame.” He began pacing again. “What’s Homicide North doing?”

  “They’re on it, sir. Rounding up all sex offenders.”

  “We can give them a hand with that. Check our files and put the boys to work, will you?” He paused. “You think our mugger did this?”

  “The sunglasses might indicate that, sir.”

  “So Clifford’s finally crossed the line, the bastard.”

  “It’s a possibility, sir.”

  “My name is Pete,” Byrnes said. “Why the formality?”

  “Well, sir, I had an idea.”

  “About this thing?”

  “Yes, sir. If our mugger did it, sir.”

  “Pete!” Byrnes roared.

  “Pete, this murderer is terrorizing the city. Did you see the papers this morning? A seventeen-year-old kid, her face beaten to a bloody pulp! In our precinct, Pete. Okay, it’s a rotten precinct. It stinks to high heaven, and there are people who think it’ll always stink. But it burns me up, Pete. It makes me sore.”

  “This precinct isn’t so bad,” Byrnes said reflectively.

  “Ah, Pete,” Willis said, sighing.

  “All right, it smells. We’re doing our best. What the hell do they expect here? Snob Hill?”

  “No. But we’ve got to give them protection, Pete.”

  “We are, aren’t we? Three hundred and sixty-five days a year, every god
damn year. It’s only the big things that make the papers. This goddamn mugger—”

  “That’s why we have to get him. Homicide North’ll dicker around with this thing forever. Another body. All Homicide cops see is bodies. You think another one’s going to get them in an uproar?”

  “They do a good job,” Byrnes said.

  “I know, I know,” Willis said impatiently. “But I think my idea’ll help them.”

  “Okay,” Byrnes said, “let’s hear it.”

  The living room on that Friday afternoon was silent with the pallor of death. Molly Bell had done all her crying, and there were no more tears inside her, and so she sat silently, and her husband sat opposite her, and Bert Kling stood uneasily by the door, wondering why he had come.

  He could clearly remember the girl Jeannie when she’d called him back as he was leaving Wednesday night. Incredible beauty, and etched beneath the beauty the clutching claws of trouble and worry. And now she was dead. And, oddly, he felt somehow responsible.

  “Did she say anything to you?” Bell asked.

  “Not much,” Kling replied. “She seemed troubled about something…seemed…very cynical and bitter for a kid her age. I don’t know.” He shook his head.

  “I knew there was something wrong,” Molly said. Her voice was very low, barely audible. She clutched a handkerchief in her lap, but the handkerchief was dry now, and there were no more tears to wet it.

  “The police think it’s the mugger, honey,” Bell said gently.

  “Yes,” Molly said. “I know what they think.”

  “Honey, I know you feel—”

  “But what was she doing in Isola? Who took her to that deserted spot near the Hamilton Bridge? Did she go there alone, Peter?”

  “I suppose so,” Bell said.

  “Why would she go there alone? Why would a seventeen-year-old girl go to a lonely spot like that?”

  “I don’t know, honey,” Bell said. “Honey, please, don’t get yourself all upset again. The police will find him. The police will—”

  “Find who?” Molly said. “The mugger? But will they find whoever took her to that spot? Peter, it’s all the way down in Isola. Why should she go there from Riverhead?”

  Bell shook his head again. “I don’t know, honey. I just don’t know.”