by Ed McBain
Skewered, browning chickens turned slowly on spits, their savory aroma filling the shop as Kling opened the door and stepped inside. A burly man in a white chef’s apron and hat was behind the counter preparing to skewer four more plump white birds. He glanced up as Kling came in. Another man was at the cigarette machine, his back to the door. He was even bigger than the one behind the counter, with wide shoulders and a thick bull’s neck. He turned from the machine as Kling closed the door, and the recognition between them was simultaneous. Kling knew at once that this was the man who’d beaten him senseless last Monday night, and the man knew that Kling had been his victim. A grin cracked across his face. “Well, well,” he said, “look who’s here, Al.”
“Are you Peter Brice?” Kling asked.
“Why, yes, so I am,” Brice said, and took a step toward Kling, his fists already clenched.
Kling had no intention of getting into a brawl with a man as big as Brice. His shoulder still ached (Meyer’s copper bracelet wasn’t worth a damn) and he had a broken rib and a broken heart besides (which can also hurt). The third button of his overcoat was still unbuttoned. He reached into the coat with his right hand, seized the butt of his revolver, drew it swiftly and effortlessly, and pointed it directly at Brice’s gut.
“Police officer,” he said. “I want to ask you some questions about . . .”
The greasy skewer struck his gun hand like a sword, whipping down fiercely across the knuckles. He whirled toward the counter as the skewer came down again, striking him hard across the wrist, knocking the gun to the floor. In that instant Brice threw the full weight of his shoulder and arm into a punch that caught Kling close to his Adam’s apple. Three things flashed through his mind in the next three seconds. First, he realized that if Brice’s punch had landed an inch to the right, he would now be dead. Which meant that Brice had no compunctions about sending him home in a basket. Next he realized, too late, that Brice had asked the man behind the counter to “look who’s here, Al.” And then he realized, also too late, that the super had said, “Brice’s brother works there.” His right wrist aching, the three brilliant flashes sputtering out by the time the fourth desperate second ticked by, he backed toward the door and prepared to defend himself with his one good hand, that one being the left and not too terribly good at all. Five seconds gone since Al had hit him on the hand (probably breaking something, the son of a bitch) and Pete had hit him in the throat. Al was now lifting the counter top and coming out front to assist his brother, the idea probably having occurred to both of them that, whereas it was not bad sport to kick around a jerk who was chasing after Frank Richmond’s girl, it was bad news to discover that the jerk was a cop, and worse news to let him out of here alive.
The chances of getting out of here alive seemed exceedingly slim to Detective Bert Kling. Seven seconds gone now, ticking by with amazing swiftness as they closed in on him. This was a neighborhood where people got stomped into the sidewalk every day of the week and nary a soul ever paused to tip his hat or mutter a “how-de-do” to the bleeding victim. Pete and Al could with immunity take Kling apart in the next seven seconds, put him on one of their chicken skewers, hang him on the spit, turn him and baste him in his own juices, and sell him later for sixty-nine cents a pound. Unless he could think of something clever.
He could not seem to think of a single clever thing.
Except maybe you shouldn’t leave your undefended gun hand within striking distance of a brother with a greased skewer.
His gun was on the floor in the corner now, too far to reach.
(Eight seconds.)
The skewers were behind the counter, impossible to grab.
(Nine seconds.)
Pete was directly ahead of him, maneuvering for a punch that would knock Kling’s head into the gutter outside. Al was closing in on the right, fists bunched.
(With a mighty leap, Detective Bert Kling sprang out of the pit.)
He wished he could spring out of the goddamn pit. He braced himself, feinted toward Pete, and then whirled suddenly to the right, where Al was moving in fast, and hit him with his left, hard and low, inches below the belt. Pete swung, and Kling dodged the blow, and then swiftly stepped behind the doubled-over Al, bringing his bunched fist down across the back of his neck in a rabbit punch that sent him sprawling flat across his own sawdust-covered floor.
One down, he thought, and turned just as Pete unleashed a haymaker that caught him on the side opposite the broken rib, thank God for small favors. He lurched back against the counter in pain, brought up his knee in an attempt to groin Pete, who was hip to the ways of the street and sidestepped gingerly while managing at the same time to clobber Kling on the cheek, bringing his fist straight down from above his head, as though he were holding a mallet in it.
I am going to get killed, Kling thought.
“Your brother’s dead,” he said.
He said the words suddenly and spontaneously, the first good idea he’d had all week. They stopped Pete cold in his tracks, with his fist pulled back for the blow that could have ended it all in the next thirty seconds, smashing either the bridge of Kling’s nose or his windpipe. Pete turned swiftly to look at his brother where he lay motionless in the sawdust. Kling knew a good thing when he saw one. He didn’t try to hit Pete again, he didn’t even try to kick him; he knew that any further attempts at trying to overpower him physically were doomed to end only one way, and he did not desire a little tag on his big toe. He dove headlong for his gun in the corner of the room, scooped it up in his left hand, the butt awkward and uncomfortable, rolled over, sat up, and curled his finger around the trigger as Pete turned toward him once again.
“Hold it, you son of a bitch!” Kling said.
Pete lunged across the room.
Kling squeezed the trigger once, and then again, aiming for Pete’s trunk, just as he had done on the police range so many times, the big target up there at the end of the range, the parts of the body marked with numerals for maximum lethal reward, five points for the head and throat, chest and abdomen, four for the shoulders, three for the arms, two for the legs. He scored a ten with Peter Brice, because both slugs caught him in the chest, one of them going directly through his heart and the other piercing his left lung.
Kling lowered his gun.
He sat on the floor in the corner of the room, and watched Pete’s blood oozing into the sawdust, and wiped sweat from his lip, and blinked, and then began crying because this was one hell of a fucking Christmas Eve, all right.
Carella had been parked across the street from The Chandeliers for close to two hours, waiting for Fletcher and Arlene to finish their dinner. It was now ten minutes to ten, and he was drowsy and discouraged and beginning to think the bug in the car wasn’t such a hot idea after all. On the way out to the restaurant, Fletcher and Arlene had not once mentioned Sarah or the plans for their impending marriage. The only remotely intimate thing they had discussed was receipt of the lingerie Fletcher had sent, which Arlene just adored, and which she planned to model for him later that night.
It was now later that night, and Carella was anxious to put them both to bed and get home to his family. When they finally came out of the restaurant and began walking toward Fletcher’s Oldsmobile, Carella actually uttered an audible “At last” and started his car. Fletcher started the Olds in silence, and then apparently waited in silence for the engine to warm before pulling out of the parking lot. Carella followed close behind, listening intently. Neither Fletcher nor Arlene had spoken a word since they entered the automobile. They proceeded east on Route 701 now, heading for the bridge, and still they said nothing. Carella thought at first that something was wrong with the equipment, and then he thought that Fletcher had tipped to this bug, too, and was deliberately maintaining silence, and then finally Arlene spoke and Carella knew just what had happened. The pair had argued in the restuarant, and Arlene had been smoldering until this moment when she could no longer contain her anger. The words burst into the stillne
ss of Carella’s car as he followed close behind, Arlene shouting, Maybe you don’t want to marry me at all!
That’s ridiculous, Fletcher said.
Then why won’t you set a date? Arlene said.
I have set a date, Fletcher said.
You haven’t set a date. All you’ve done is say after the trial, after the trial. When after the trial?
I don’t know yet.
When the hell will you know, Gerry?
Don’t yell.
Maybe this whole damn thing has been a stall. Maybe you never planned to marry me.
You know that isn’t true, Arlene.
How do I know there really were separation papers?
There were. I told you there were.
Then why wouldn’t she sign them?
Because she loved me.
Bullshit.
She said she loved me.
If she loved you . . .
She did.
Then why did she do those horrible things?
I don’t know.
Because she was a whore, that’s why.
To make me pay, I think.
Is that why she showed you her little black book?
Yes, to make me pay.
No. Because she was a whore.
I guess. I guess that’s what she became.
Putting a little TG in her book every time she told you about a new one.
Yes.
A new one she’d fucked.
Yes.
Told Gerry, and marked a little TG in her book.
Yes, to make me pay.
A whore. You should have gone after her with detectives. Gotten pictures, threatened her, forced her to sign those damn . . .
No, I couldn’t have done that. It would have ruined me, Arl.
Your precious career.
Yes, my precious career.
They both fell silent again. They were approaching the bridge now. The silence persisted. Fletcher paid the toll, and then drove onto the River Highway, Carella following. They did not speak again until they were well into the city. Carella tried to stay close behind them, but on occasion the distance between the two cars lengthened and he lost some words in the conversation.
You know she had me in a bind, Fletcher said. You know that, Arlene.
I thought so. But now I’m not so sure anymore.
She wouldn’t sign the papers, and I ( ) adultery because ( ) have come out.
All right.
I thought ( ) perfectly clear, Arl.
And I thought ( )
I did everything I possibly could.
Yes, Gerry, but now she’s dead. So what’s your excuse now?
I have reasons for wanting to wait.
What reasons?
I told you.
I don’t recall your telling me . . .
I’m suspected of having killed her, goddamn it!
(Silence. Carella waited. Up ahead, Fletcher was making a left turn, off the highway. Carella stepped on the accelerator, not wanting to lose voice contact now.)
What difference does that make? Arlene asked.
None at all, I’m sure, Fletcher said. I’m sure you wouldn’t at all mind being married to a convicted murderer.
What are you talking about?
I’m talking about the possibility . . . never mind.
Let me hear it.
I said never mind.
I want to hear it.
All, right, Arlene. I’m talking about the possibility of someone accusing me of murder. And of having to stand trial for it.
That’s the most paranoid . . .
It’s not paranoid.
Then what is it? They’ve caught the murderer, they . . .
I’m only saying suppose. How could we get married if I killed her, if someone says I killed her?
No one has said it, Gerry.
Well, if someone should.
(Silence. Carella was dangerously close to Fletcher’s car now, and risking discovery. But he could not afford to miss a word at this point, even if he had to follow bumper-to-bumper. On the floor of his own car, the unwinding reel of tape recorded each word of the dialogue between Fletcher and Arlene, admissible evidence if ever Fletcher were charged and brought to trial. Carella held his breath and stayed glued to the car ahead. When Arlene spoke again, her voice was very low.)
You sound as if you really did do it.
You know Corwin did it.
Yes, I know that. That’s what . . . Gerry, I don’t understand this.
There’s nothing to understand.
Then why . . . if you didn’t kill her, why are you so worried about being accused and standing trial and . . .
Someone could make a good case for it.
For what?
Someone could say I killed her.
Why would anyone do that? They know that Corwin . . .
They could say I came into the apartment and . . . they could say she was still alive when I came into the apartment.
Was she?
They could say it.
But who cares what they . . . ?
They could say the knife was still in her and I . . . I came in and found her that way and . . . finished her off.
Why would you do that?
To end it.
You wouldn’t kill anyone, Gerry.
No.
Then why are you even suggesting such a terrible thing?
If she wanted it . . . if someone accused me . . . if someone said I’d done it . . . that I’d finished the job, pulled the knife across her belly . . . they could claim she asked me to do it.
What are you saying, Gerry?
Don’t you see?
No. I don’t.
I’m trying to explain that Sarah might have . . .
Gerry, I don’t think I want to know.
I’m trying to tell you . . .
No, I don’t want to know. Please, Gerry, you’re frightening me, I really don’t want to . . .
Listen to me, goddamn it! I’m trying to explain what might have happened, is that so fucking hard to accept? That she might have asked me to kill her?
Gerry, please, I . . .
I wanted to call the hospital, I was ready to call the hospital, don’t you think I could see she wasn’t fatally stabbed?
Gerry, Gerry, please . . .
She begged me to kill her, Arlene, she begged me to end it for her, she . . . damn it, can’t either of you understand that? I tried to show him, I took him to all the places, I thought he was a man who’d understand. For Christ’s sake, is it that difficult?
Oh my God, my God, did you kill her?
What?
Did you kill Sarah?
No. Not Sarah. Only the woman she’d become, the slut I’d forced her to become. She was Sadie, you see. When I killed her. When she died.
Oh my God, Arlene said, and Carella nodded in weary acceptance. He felt neither elated nor triumphant. As he followed Fletcher’s car into the curb before Arlene’s building, he experienced only a familiar nagging sense of repetition and despair. Fletcher was coming out of his car now, walking around to the curb side, opening the door for Arlene, who took his hand and stepped onto the sidewalk, weeping. Carella intercepted them before they reached the front door of the building. Quietly, he charged Fletcher with the murder of his wife, and made the arrest without resistance.
Fletcher did not seem at all surprised.
And so it was finished, or at least Carella thought it was.
In the silence of his living room, the children already asleep, Teddy wearing a long white hostess gown that reflected the colored lights of the Christmas tree, he put his arm around her and relaxed for the first time that day. The telephone rang at a quarter past one. He went into the kitchen, catching the phone on the third ring, hoping the children had not been awakened.
“Hello?” he said.
“Steve?”
He recognized the lieutenant’s voice at once. “Yes, Pete,” he said.
“I just go
t a call from Calcutta,” Byrnes said.
“Mmm?”
“Ralph Corwin hanged himself in his cell, just after midnight. Must have done it while we were still taking Fletcher’s confession in the squadroom.”
Carella was silent.
“Steve?”
“Yeah, Pete.”
“Nothing,” Byrnes said, and hung up.
Carella stood with the dead phone in his hand for several seconds, and then replaced it on the hook. He looked into the living room, where the lights of the tree glowed warmly, and he thought of a despairing junkie in a prison cell, who had taken his own life without ever having known he had not taken the life of another.
It was Christmas Day.
Sometimes, none of it made any goddamn sense at all.
The End
FB2 document info
Document ID: 6e57a8dd-4859-4142-9fce-4271eead08dc
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 10.10.2013
Created using: calibre 0.9.22, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6 software
Document authors :
McBain, Ed
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