Widows

by Ed McBain

  "Should be here any second now," Mary Beth said.

  "Who's that with you?" Hildy asked.

  Voice touched with suspicion.

  Mary Beth looked at Brady. Eyes questioning. What do I tell her, Boss?

  Brady shook his head. Touched his index finger to his lips. Shook his head again.

  "Nobody," Mary Beth said. "I'm all alone here."

  "I thought I heard somebody talking to you."

  Brady shook his head again.

  "No, it's just me here," Mary Beth said.

  Why is he asking her to lie? Eileen wondered.

  "But there are cops out there, I know there are."

  "Yes, there are."

  "But not near the door, is that what you're saying?"

  "That's it, Hildy. I'm all alone here at the door."

  Brady nodded, pleased.

  "Why don't you open the door just a little?" Mary Beth said.

  This surprised Brady. His eyes popped open. As blue and as crisp as Mary Beth's, but clearly puzzled now. What was she doing? He shook his head.

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  "Then you can see I'm alone here," Mary Beth said, and waved Brady away with the back of her hand.

  Brady was shaking his head more vigorously now. Standing just to Mary Beth's left, bald head gleaming in the sunshine, hawk nose cleaving the stiflingly hot air, head shaking No, no no, what the hell are you doing?

  Mary Beth shooed him away again.

  "Open the door, Hildy. You'll see . . ."

  Brady shook his head angrily.

  ". . . I'm alone here."

  She lifted her head to Brady, shot him an angry glance. Their eyes locked. Blue on blue, flashing, clashing. Brady stomped off. Michael Goodman was standing with the trainees. Brady went directly to him. "I want her off that door," he said.

  "Inspector ..."

  "She'll open the door when the coffee comes, Mulhaney's moving too fast."

  "Maybe she senses something you don't," Goodman said. "She's the one talking, Inspector. Maybe she ..."

  "I was standing right there all along," Brady said. "I heard everything they said to each other. I'm telling you she's trying to get that door open too damn soon. The woman in there'll open it and start shooting, that's what'll happen."

  He doesn't trust her, Eileen thought.

  "Let's give her another few minutes," Goodman said.

  "I think we should ease in another talker. Wait till the coffee comes, and then ..."

  "Look," Eileen said.

  They turned to follow her gaze.

  The door was opening. Just a crack, but it was opening.

  "See?" Mary Beth said. "I'm all alone here."

  They could not hear Hildy's reply. But whatever she'd said, it seemed to encourage Mary Beth.

  "Why don't you leave it open?" she said. "I like to see who I'm talking to, don't you?"

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  Again, they could not hear her reply. But she did not close the door.

  "Be careful with that gun now," Mary Beth said, and smiled. "I don't want to get hurt out here."

  This time they heard Hildy's voice:

  "Where's your gun?"

  "I don't have one," Mary Beth said.

  "You're a cop, aren't you?"

  "Yes, I am. I told you that. I'm a Police Department negotiator. But I haven't got a gun. You can see for yourself, now that the door is open," Mary Beth said, and spread her hands wide. "No gun. Nothing. See?"

  "How do I know you haven't got one under your shirt?"

  "Well, here, I'll open the shirt, you can see for yourself."

  Mary Beth opened the blue shirt wide, like a flasher, showing Hildy the yellow T-shirt under it.

  "See?" she said.

  "How about your pockets?"

  "Would you like to put your hand in my pockets? Make sure I haven't got a gun?"

  "No. You'll try something funny."

  "Why would I do that? You think I want to get hurt?"

  "No, but. . ."

  "I don't want to hurt you, and I don't want to get hurt, either. I have a three-year-old son, Hildy. I don't think he'd want me getting shot out here."

  "Do you really?"

  "I really do, his name is Dennis," she said.

  "Dennis the Menace, huh?"

  "You said it," Mary Beth said, and laughed.

  From inside the shop, they could hear the woman laughing, too.

  "You got any children?" Mary Beth asked.

  "I think she'll be all right," Goodman said.

  "So the sexist bastard fires her," Eileen said. "Not from the police department, even that dictatorial son of a bitch couldn't

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  swing that. But he kicked her off the team, sent her back full time to the Three-One. And you know why?"

  "Why?" Karin asked.

  They were in her office on the fifth floor of the building. Dr Karin Lefkowitz. Five o'clock that afternoon, her last appointment of the day. A big-city Jewish girl who looked like Barbra Streisand, people told her, only much prettier. Brown hair cut in a flying wedge. Sharp intelligence in her blue eyes, something like anger in them, too, as she listened to Eileen's atrocity story about Inspector William Cullen Brady, commander of the hostage negotiating team. Good legs, crossed now, wearing her signature dark blue business suit and Ree-boks, leaning forward intently, wanting to know why the son-of-a-bitch sexist bastard had fired Mary Beth Mulhaney.

  "Because she wasn't doing it exactly his way," Eileen said. "You do it exactly his way, or so long, sister, it was nice knowing you. But Mary Beth's way was working, it did work, she got the hostage and the taker out of there without anyone getting hurt. You know what this is?"

  "What is it?" Karin asked.

  "It's the old-guard mentality of the police department," Eileen said. "They can say what they want about the gun on the hip making us all equal, but when push comes to shove, the old-timers still think of us as girls. And us girls need a lot of help, don't we? Otherwise we might endanger all those hairy-chested men out there who are doing their best to maintain law and order. I say fuck law and order and fuck all thick-headed Irishmen like Brady who think sweet little Irish girls like me and Mary Beth should be in church saying novenas for all the brave men out there in the streets!"

  "Wow," Karin said.

  "Damn right," Eileen said.

  "I've never seen you so angry."

  "Yeah."

  "Tell me why."

  "Why do you think? If Brady can do that to Mary Beth, who was with the team for six months and who was doing an

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  absolutely great job, then what's he going to do to me the first time / screw up?"

  "Are you worried about screwing up?"

  "I've never even worked the door yet, I'm just saying ..."

  "Do you want to work the door?"

  "Well, that's the whole idea, isn't it? I mean, I'm in training as a hostage negotiator, that's what negotiators do. We work the door, we try to get the taker and the hostages ..."

  "Yes, but do you want to work the door? Are you looking forward to working the door?"

  "I think I've learned enough now to give it a shot."

  "You feel you're prepared now to ..."

  "Yes. We've simulated it dozens of times already, different kinds of takers, different kinds of situations. So, yes, I feel I'm prepared."

  "Are you looking forward to your first time?"

  "Yes."

  "Your first real situation?"

  "Yes. I'm a little nervous about it, of course, but there'll be supervision. Even if I was alone at the door, there'd be other people nearby."

  "Nervous how?"

  "Well, this isn't a game, you know. There are lives at stake."

  "Of course."

  "So I'd want to do it right."

  "Are you afraid you might do it wrong?"

  "I just wouldn't want anyone to get hurt."

  "Of course not."

  "I mean, the reason I hate decoy work ..."

&nbs
p; "I know."

  "... is because there's . . . there's always the possibility you'll have to . . ."

  "Yes?"

  "Put someone away."

  "Yes. Kill someone."

  "Kill someone. Yes."

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  "And you feel that would be a danger? When you're working the door?"

  "Whenever there's a gun on the scene, there's a danger of that happening,-yes."

  "But in this situation, you wouldn't be the one with the gun, isn't that right?"

  "Well, yes, that's right."

  "The taker would have the gun."

  "The taker would have the gun, that's absolutely right."

  "So there's no possibility that you would have to shoot anyone. Kill anyone."

  "Well, you know, / don't want to get hurt, either, you know? The person in there has a gun, you know ..."

  "Yes, I know."

  "And if I screw up . . ."

  "What makes you think you'll screw up?"

  "I don't think I'll screw up. I'm only saying if I should screw up . . ."

  "Yes, what would happen?"

  "Well, the person in there might use the gun."

  "And then what?"

  "We'd have to come down."

  "You'd have to take the door by force."

  "Yes. If the taker started shooting."

  "And if the door was taken by force . . ."

  "Well. . . yes."

  "Yes what, Eileen?"

  "The taker might get hurt."

  "Might get killed."

  "Yes. Might get killed."

  "Which you wouldn't want to happen."

  "I wouldn't want that to happen, no. That's why I want to get out of decoy work. Because ..."

  "Because you once had to kill a man."

  "Bobby."

  "Bobby Wilson, yes."

  "I killed him, yes."

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  The women looked at each other. They had gone over this

  ground again and again and again. If Eileen heard herself

  telling this same story one more time, she would vomit all

  over her shoes. She looked at her watch. She knew Karin

  hated it when she did that. It was twenty minutes past five.

  Monday afternoon. Hot as hell outside and not much cooler

  here in this windowless room with faulty municipal-government

  air-conditioning.

  "Why does Brady make you so angry?" Karin asked.

  "Because he fired Mary Beth."

  "But you're not Mary Beth."

  "I'm a woman."

  "He hasn't fired you, though."

  "He might."

  "Why?"

  "Because he doesn't think women can do the job."

  "Does he remind you of anyone you know?"

  "No."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Positive."

  "You can't think of a single other man who ..."

  "I'm not going to say Bert, if that's what you want me to say."

  "I don't want you to say anything you don't want to say."

  "It wasn't that Bert didn't think I could do the job."

  "Then what was it?"

  "He was trying to protect me."

  "But he screwed up."

  "That wasn't his fault."

  "Whose was it?"

  "He was trying to help me."

  "You mean you no longer think . . .?"

  "I don't know what I think. You were the one who suggested I talk to Goodman about joining the team, you were the one who thought..."

  "Yes, but we're talking about Bert Kling now."

  "I don't want to talk about Bert."

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  "Why not? Last week you seemed to think he was responsible ..."

  "He was. If I hadn't lost my backups ..." "Yes, you wouldn't have had to shoot Bobby Wilson." "Fuck Bobby Wilson! If I hear his name one more time ..."

  "Do you still think Bert was responsible for ..." "He was the one who made me lose my backups, yes." "But was he responsible for your shooting Bobby Wilson? For your killing Bobby Wilson?" Eileen was silent for a long time. Then she said, "No." Karin nodded. "Maybe it's time we talked to Bert," she said.

  Carella had spent his early adolescence and his young manhood in Riverhead. He had moved back to Riverhead after he married Teddy, and it was in Riverhead that his father had been killed. Tonight, he drove to a section of Riverhead some three miles from his own house, to talk to his brother-in-law, Tommy. He would rather have done almost anything else in the world.

  Tommy had moved back to the house that used to be his parents' while he was away in the army. Nowadays, you did not have to say which war or police action or invasion a man had been in. If you were an American of any given age, you had been in at least one war. The irony was that Tommy had come through his particular war alive while his parents back home were getting killed in an automobile accident. He still owned the house, still rented it out. But there was a room over the garage, and he was living in that now.

  Angela had told Carella that he'd moved out at the beginning of the month, after they'd had a terrible fight that caused their three-year-old daughter to run out of the room crying. Actually, Angela had kicked him out. Screamed at him to get the hell out of the house and not to come back till he got rid of his bimbo. That was the word she'd used. Bimbo. Tommy

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  had packed some clothes and left. Two weeks ago, he'd called to tell her he had to go to California on business. Last night, he'd called to say he was back. Tonight, Carella was here to see him.

  He had called first, he knew he was expected. He did not want to ring this doorbell. He did not want to be here asking Tommy questions, he did not want to be playing cop with his own brother-in-law. He climbed the steep flight of wooden steps that ran up the right-hand side of the garage. He rang the bell. It sounded within.

  "Steve?"

  "Yeah."

  "Just a sec."

  He waited.

  The door opened.

  "Hey." Arms opening wide. "Steve." They embraced. "I didn't know about your father," Tommy said at once. "I would've come home in a minute, but Angela didn't call me. I didn't find out till last night. Steve, I'm sorry."

  "Thank you."

  "I really loved him."

  "I know."

  "Come in, come in. You ever think you'd see me living alone like this? Jesus," Tommy said, and stood aside to let him by. He had lost a little weight since Carella had last seen him. You get a little older, your face gets a look of weariness about the eyes. Just living did that to you, even if you weren't having troubles with your marriage.

  The single room was furnished with a sofa that undoubtedly opened into a bed, a pair of overstuffed easy chairs with flowered slipcovers on them, a standing floor lamp, a television set on a rolling cart, a dresser with another lamp and a fan on top of it, and a coffee table between the sofa and the two easy chairs. On the wall over the sofa, there was a picture of Jesus Christ with an open heart in his chest radiating blinding rays of light, his hand held up in blessing. Carella had seen that same picture in Catholic homes all over the city. There was a

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  partially open door to the left of the sofa, revealing a bathroom beyond.

  "Something to drink?" Tommy said.

  "What've you got?" Carella asked.

  "Scotch or gin, take your choice. I went down for fresh limes after you called, in case you feel like a gin and tonic. I've also got club soda, if you ..."

  "Gin and tonic sounds fine."

  Tommy walked to where a sink, a row of cabinets, a Formica countertop, a range, and a refrigerator occupied one entire wall of the room. He cracked open an ice-cube tray, took down a fresh bottle of Gordon's gin from one of the cabinets, sliced a lime in half, squeezed and dropped the separate halves into two tall glasses decorated with cartoon characters Carella didn't recognize, and mixed two hefty drinks that he then carried back to where Carella was already sitting on the sofa.
<
br />   They clinked glasses.

  "Cheers," Tommy said.

  "Cheers," Carella said.

  The fan on top of the dresser wafted warm air across the room. The windows - one over the sink, the other on the wall right-angled to the sofa - were wide open, but there wasn't a breeze stirring. Both men were wearing jeans and short-sleeved shirts. It was insufferably hot.

  "So?" Carella said.

  "What'd she tell you?"

  "About the fight. About kicking you out."

  "Yeah," Tommy said, and shook his head. "Did she say why?"

  "She said you had someone else."

  "But I don't."

  "She thinks you do."

  "But she's got no reason to believe that. I love her to death, what's the matter with her?"

  Carella could remember organ music swelling to drown out the sound of joyful weeping in the church, his father's arm

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  supporting Angela's hand as he led her down the center aisle to the altar where Tommy stood waiting . . .

  "I told her there's nobody else but her, she's the only woman lever..."

  . . . the priest saying a prayer and blessing the couple with holy water, Tommy sweating profusely, Angela's lips trembling behind her veil. It was the twenty-second day of June, Carella would never forget that day. Not only because it was the day his sister got married, but because it was also the day his twins were born. He remembered thinking he was the luckiest man alive. Twins!

  "... but she keeps saying she knows there's somebody else."

  Teddy sitting beside him, watching the altar, the church expectantly still. He remembered thinking his little sister was getting married. He remembered thinking we all grow up. For everything there is a season . . .

  Do you, Thomas Giordano, take this woman as your lawfully wedded wife to live together in the state of holy matrimony? Will you love, honor, and keep her as a faithful . . .

  ... a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted . . .

  "I've never cheated on her in my life," Tommy said. "Even when we were just going together . . . well, you know that, Steve. The minute I met her, I couldn't even look at another girl. So now she ..."

  . . . and forsaking all others keep you alone unto her 'til death do you part?

  Yes. I do.

  And do you, Angela Louise Carella, take this man as your lawfully wedded husband to live together in the state of holy matrimony? Will you love, honor, and cherish him as a faithful woman is bound to do, in health, sickness, prosperity, and adversity . . .