Hail, Hail, the Gang's All Here!

by Ed McBain

  “What do you think?” Carella asked.

  “Let’s check the super,” Brown suggested.

  The superintendent lived on the ground floor, in an apartment behind the staircase. He came to the door in his undershirt. A television set was going somewhere in his apartment, but apparently the show had not completely captured his attention, because he was carrying the Sunday comics in his right hand. The detectives identified themselves. The super looked at Carella’s shield. He looked at Carella’s ID card. Then he said, “Yes?”

  “Was there a Minnie Goldenthal living here recently?” Carella asked.

  The super listened attentively to his every word, as though he were being asked a question that, if answered correctly, would cause him to win a $100,000 jackpot.

  Then he said, “Yes.”

  “Which apartment?”

  “9-D.”

  “Anyone living in that apartment now?”

  “Son’s still living in it.”

  “Bernie Goldenthal?”

  “That’s right. Don’t know why he’s living in it, mind you. Moved all the furniture out a little while after Minnie died. Still pays the rent, though.” The super shrugged. “Tell you the truth, the owners wish he’d get out. That apartment’s price-fixed. Nice big old apartment. If he gets out, they can put a new tenant in and legally raise the rent.”

  “Anybody up there now?” Carella asked.

  “Don’t know,” the super said. “Don’t keep tabs on the comings and goings of the people who live here. Their business is their business, and mine is mine.”

  “Law requires you to have a key to all the apartments in the dwelling,” Carella said. “Have you got one for 9D?”

  “Yep.”

  “All right if we use it?”

  “What for?”

  “To enter the apartment.”

  “That’s illegal, ain’t it?”

  “We won’t tell anybody if you won’t,” Brown said.

  “Well,” the super said, and shrugged. “Okay,” he said, and shrugged again. “I guess.”

  Carella and Brown took the elevator up to the ninth floor and stepped into the corridor. Neither man said a word to the other, but both simultaneously drew their revolvers. 9D was at the far end of the hall. They listened outside the door and heard nothing. Cautiously, Carella inserted the passkey into the lock. He nodded to Brown, and twisted the key. There was only a small click as the lock turned, but it must have sounded like a warning shot inside that apartment. Carella and Brown burst into a long, narrow entrance foyer. At the far end of the foyer, they saw Herbert Gross and a blond man they assumed to be Bernard Goldenthal, both of them armed.

  “Hold it right there!” Carella shouted, but neither of the two men were holding anything right there or right anywhere. They opened fire just as Carella and Brown threw themselves flat on the linoleum-covered floor. Goldenthal made a break for a doorway to the right of the long foyer. Brown shouted a warning and fired almost before the words left his lips. The slug caught Goldenthal in the leg, knocked him off his feet, and sent him flailing against the corridor wall, where he slid to the floor. Gross held his ground, firing down the long length of the foyer, pulling off shot after shot until his pistol clicked empty. He was reaching into his jacket pocket, presumably for fresh cartridges, when Carella shouted, “Move and you’re dead!”

  Gross’s hand stopped in mid-motion. He squinted down the corridor, silhouetted in the light that spilled from the room Goldenthal had tried to reach.

  “Drop the gun,” Carella said.

  Gross did not move.

  “Drop it!” Carella shouted. “Now!”

  “You, too, Goldie!” Brown shouted.

  Goldenthal and Gross—one crouched against the wall clutching his bleeding leg, the other with his hand still hanging motionless over his jacket pocket—exchanged quick glances. Without saying a word to each other, they dropped their guns to the floor. Gross kicked them away as if they were contaminated. The guns came spinning down the length of the corridor one after the other, sliding along the waxed linoleum.

  Carella got to his feet and started toward the two men. Behind him, Brown was crouched on one knee, his gun resting on his forearm and pointing directly at the far end of the foyer. Carella threw Gross against the wall, quickly frisked him, and then bent over Goldenthal.

  “Okay,” he called to Brown, and then glanced into the room on the right of the foyer. It, too, was loaded with household goods. But unlike the stuff in the apartment downtown, this had not come from a dead woman’s home, this was not the accumulation of a lifetime. This was, instead, the result of God knew how many recent burglaries and robberies, a veritable storehouse of television sets, radios, typewriters, tape recorders, broilers, mixers, luggage, you name it, right down to a complete set of the Encyclopaedia Britannica—a criminal bargain basement, awaiting only the services of a good fence.

  “Nice little place you’ve got here,” Carella said, and then handcuffed Gross to Goldenthal and Goldenthal to the radiator. From a telephone on the kitchen wall, the late Minnie’s last shopping list still tacked up beside it, he called the station house and asked for a meat wagon. It arrived at exactly 6:00 P.M., not seven minutes after Carella requested it. By that time, Goldenthal had spilled a goodly amount of blood all over his mother’s linoleum.

  “I’m bleeding to death here,” he complained to one of the hospital orderlies who was lifting him onto the stretcher.

  “That’s the least of your worries,” the orderly answered.

  Delgado had not found Pepe Castaneda in the pool hall, nor had he found him in any one of a dozen bars he tried in the neighborhood. It was now 6:15, and he was about ready to give up the search. On the dubious assumption, however, that a pool shooter might also be a bowler, he decided to hit the Ponce Bowling Lanes on Culver Avenue before heading back to the squadroom.

  The place was on the second floor of an old brick building. Delgado went up the narrow flight of steps and came into a fluorescent-lighted room with a counter just opposite the entrance doorway. A bald-headed man was sitting on a stool behind the counter, reading a newspaper. He looked up as Delgado came in, went back to the newspaper, finished the story he was reading, and then put both hands flat on the countertop. “All the alleys are full,” he said. “You got maybe a half-hour wait.”

  “I don’t want an alley,” Delgado said.

  The man behind the counter looked at him more carefully, decided he was a cop, gave a brief knowledgeable nod, but said nothing.

  “I’m looking for a man named Pepe Castaneda. Is he here?”

  “What do you want him for?” the man said.

  “I’m a police officer,” Delgado said, and flashed the tin. “I want to ask him some questions.”

  “I don’t want no trouble here,” the man said.

  “Why should there be trouble? Is Castaneda trouble?”

  “He’s not the trouble,” the man said, and looked at Delgado meaningfully.

  “Neither am I,” Delgado said. “Where is he?”

  “Lane number five,” the man said.

  “Thanks.”

  Delgado went through the doorway adjacent to the counter and found himself in a larger room than the small reception area had promised. There were twelve alleys in all, each of them occupied with bowlers. A bar was at the far end of the place, with tables and chairs set up around it. A jukebox was playing a rock-and-roll song. The record ended as Delgado moved past the racks of bowling balls against the low wall that separated the lanes from the area behind them. A Spanish-language song erupted from the loudspeakers. Everywhere, there was the reverberating clamor of falling pins, multiplied and echoing in the high-ceilinged room, joined by voices raised in jubilant exclamation or disgruntled invective.

  There were four men bowling in lane number five. Three of them were seated on the leatherette banquette that formed a semicircle around the score pad. The fourth man stood waiting for his ball to return. It came rolling do
wn the tracks from the far end of the alley, hit the stop mechanism, and eased its way toward his waiting hand. He picked up the ball, stepped back some five feet from the foul line, crouched, started his forward run, right arm coming back, left arm out for balance, stopped dead, and released the ball. It curved down the alley and arced in true between the one and three pins. The bowler hung frozen in motion, his right arm still extended, left arm back, crouched and waiting for the explosion of pins. They flew into the air like gleeful cheerleaders, there was the sound of their leap as the ball sent them helter-skelter, the additional sound of their pell-mell return to the polished alley floor. The bowler shouted, “Made it!” and turned to the three men on the banquette.

  “Which one of you is Pepe Castaneda?” Delgado asked.

  The bowler, who was walking back toward the score pad to supervise the correct marking of the strike, stopped in his tracks and looked up at Delgado. He was a short man with straight black hair and a pockmarked face, thin, with the light step of a dancer, a step that seemed even airier in the red, rubber-soled bowling shoes.

  “I’m Castaneda,” he said. “Who’re you?”

  “Detective Delgado, 87th Squad,” Delgado said, “Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

  “What about?”

  “Is Ramon Castaneda your brother?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Why don’t we walk over there and talk a little?”

  “Over where?”

  “The tables there.”

  “I’m in the middle of a game.”

  “The game can wait.”

  Castaneda shrugged. One of the men on the banquette said, “Go ahead, Pepe. We’ll order a round of beer meanwhile.”

  “How many frames we got to go?”

  “Just three,” the other man said.

  “This gonna take long?” Castaneda asked.

  “I don’t think so,” Delgado said.

  “Well, okay. We’re ahead here, I don’t want to cool off.”

  They walked together to the bar at the far end of the room. Two young girls in tight slacks were standing near the jukebox, pondering their next selection. Castaneda looked them over and then pulled out a chair at one of the tables. The men sat opposite each other. The jukebox erupted again with sound. The intermittent rumble of exploding pins was a steady counterpoint.

  “What do you want to know?” Castaneda asked.

  “Your brother’s got a partner named Jose Huerta,” Delgado said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you know him?”

  “Yeah, I know Joe.”

  “Do you know he was beaten up this morning?”

  “He was? No, I didn’t know that. You got a cigarette? I left mine on the table back there.”

  “I don’t smoke,” Delgado said.

  “I didn’t used to smoke, either,” Castaneda said. “But, you know…” He shrugged. “You break one habit, you pick up another, huh?” He grinned. The grin was wide and infectious. He was perhaps three or four years younger than Delgado, but he suddenly looked like a teenager. “I used to be a junkie, you know. Did you know that?”

  “Yes, I’ve heard it.”

  “I kicked it.”

  “I’ve heard that, too.”

  “Ain’t you impressed?”

  “I’m impressed,” Delgado said.

  “So am I,” Castaneda said, and grinned again. Delgado grinned with him. “So, I still don’t know what you want from me,” Castaneda said.

  “He got beat up pretty badly,” Delgado said. “Broke both his legs, chopped his face up like hamburger.”

  “Gee, that’s too bad,” Castaneda said. “Who done it?”

  “Four men.”

  “Boy,” Castaneda said, and shook his head.

  “They got him on the front stoop of his building. He was on his way to church.”

  “Yeah? Where does he live?”

  “On South Sixth.”

  “Oh yeah, that’s right,” Castaneda said. “Across the street from the candy store, right?”

  “Yes. The reason I wanted to talk to you,” Delgado said, “is that your brother seemed to think the four men who beat up Huerta were asked to beat him up.”

  “I don’t follow you,” Castaneda said.

  “When I asked your brother who disliked Huerta, he said, ‘No one dislikes him enough to have him beaten up.’”

  “So? What does that mean?”

  “It means—”

  “It don’t mean nothing,” Castaneda said, and shrugged.

  “It means your brother thinks the men who beat up Huerta were doing it for somebody else, not themselves.”

  “I don’t see where you get that,” Castaneda said. “That was just a way of speaking, that’s all. My brother didn’t mean nothing by it.”

  “Let’s say he did. Let’s say for the moment that somebody wanted Huerta beaten up. And let’s say he asked four men to do the favor for him.”

  “Okay, let’s say that.”

  “Would you happen to know who those four men might be?”

  “Nope,” Castaneda said. “I really could use a cigarette, you know? You mind if I go back to the table for them?”

  “The cigarette can wait, Pepe. There’s a man in the hospital with two broken legs and a busted face.”

  “Gee, that’s too bad,” Castaneda said, “but maybe the man should’ve been more careful, you know? Then maybe nobody would’ve wanted him beaten up, and nobody would’ve talked to anybody about beating him up.”

  “Who wanted him hurt, Pepe?”

  “You interested in some guesses?”

  “I’m interested.”

  “Joe’s a pusher, did you know that?”

  “I know that.”

  “Grass. For now. But I never yet met a guy selling grass who didn’t later figure there was more profit in the hard stuff. It’s just a matter of time, that’s all.”

  “So?”

  “So maybe somebody didn’t like the idea of him poisoning the neighborhood, you dig? I’m only saying. But it’s something to consider, right?”

  “Yes, it’s something to consider.”

  “And maybe Joe was chasing after somebody’s wife, too. Maybe somebody’s got a real pretty wife, and maybe Joe’s been making it with her, you dig? That’s another thing to consider. So maybe somebody decided to break both his legs so he couldn’t run around no more balling somebody else’s wife and selling poison to the kids in the barrio. And maybe they decided to mess up his face for good measure, you dig? So he wouldn’t look so pretty to other guys’ wives, and so maybe when he come up to a kid in the neighborhood and tried to get him hooked, the kid might not want to deal with somebody who had a face looked like it hit a meat grinder.” Castaneda paused. “Those are all things to consider, right?”

  “Yes, they’re all things to consider,” Delgado said.

  “I don’t think you’re ever gonna find those guys who beat him up,” Castaneda said. “But what difference does it make?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He got what he deserved. That’s justice, ain’t it? That’s what you guys are interested in, ain’t it? Justice?”

  “Yes, we’re interested in justice.”

  “So this was justice,” Castaneda said,

  Delgado looked at him.

  “Wasn’t it?” Castaneda asked.

  “Yes, I think it was,” Delgado said. He nodded, rose from the table suddenly, pushed his chair back under it, and said, “Nice talking to you. See you around.”

  “Buy you a drink or something?” Castaneda asked.

  “Thanks, I’ve still got an hour before I’m off duty,” Delgado answered, and walked away from the table.

  Behind him, Castaneda raised his hand in farewell.

  It was 7:00 P.M. by the time Brown finally got around to Mary Ellingham, the lady who had called in twelve hours before to report that her husband was missing. Full darkness was upon the city now, but it was not yet nighttime; it w
as still that time of day called “evening,” a poetic word that always stirred something deep inside Brown, perhaps because he had never heard the word as a child and only admitted it to his vocabulary after he met Connie, his wife-to-be, when things stopped being merely night and day, or black and white; Connie had brought shadings to his life, and for that he would love her forever.

  North Trinity was a two-block-long street off Silvermine Oval, adjacent to fancy Silvermine Road, which bordered on the River Harb and formed the northern frontier of the precinct. From where Brown had parked the car, he could see the waters of the river, and uptown the scattered lights of the estates in Smoke Rise, the brighter illumination on the Hamilton Bridge. The lights were on along Trinity, too, beckoning warmly from windows in the rows of brownstones that faced the secluded street. Brown knew that behind most of those windows, the occupants were enjoying their cocktail hour. One could always determine the socioeconomic standing of anybody in this city by asking him what time he ate his dinner. In a slum like Diamondback, the dinner hour had already come and gone. On Trinity Street, the residents were having their before-dinner drinks. Farther uptown in Smoke Rise, the dinner hour would not start until 9:00 or 9:30— although the cocktail hour may have started at noon.

  Brown was hungry.

  There were no lights burning at 742 North Trinity. Brown looked at his watch, shrugged, and rang the front doorbell. He waited, rang the doorbell a second time, and then stepped down off the front stoop to look up at the second story of the building, where a light had suddenly come on. He went back up the steps and waited. He heard someone approaching the door. A peephole flap was thrown back.

  “Yes?” a woman’s voice asked.

  “Mrs. Ellingham?”

  “Yes?”

  “Detective Brown, 87th Squad.”

  “Oh,” Mrs. Ellingham said. “Oh, just a minute, please.” The peephole flap fell back into place. He heard the door being unlocked.

  Mary Ellingham was about forty years old. She was wearing a man’s flannel robe. Her hair was disarrayed. Her face was flushed.

  “I’m sorry I got here so late,” Brown said. “We had a sort of busy day.”