The Deadly Streets

by Harlan Ellison

“Mr. Farley, this is the police. We know you’re there, sir, and we want to be of help. Please allow me to speak to you for a few minutes.” A hesitation, then, again, “Mr. Farley? Are you there?”

  The police? Could it be? Why not? If the killer knew he had seen his face, and if the killer had found him, then why couldn’t the police have done the same? He bit his fingernail and winced in indecision.

  The knock.

  “Y-yes?” He attempted to sound brave, but it came out too softly.

  “Mr. Farley.” It was semi-triumphant. Just a slight disguise of pleasure; the man outside had done considerable searching, that was certain. “Mr. Farley, please let me speak to you for a few minutes, sir. I’ve been trying to locate you for almost six days, and they were getting worried at the station house. Please, sir.”

  Mr. Farley went to the door. He did not touch it, almost as though it were molten. He pressed himself against the wall, his face against the mirror beside the door, his breath caught in his throat. Why had he spoken? This man might be the killer. But no—there was a faith and trust engendered in that voice. He somehow trusted the man on the other side of that door. It wasn’t the killer; he knew that.

  He felt the cool of the mirror against his face, and moved away. For an instant he caught a glimpse of himself. Gone to fat.

  Slightly balding, and with a haircut that made him look as though a bowl had been jammed on his skull, then the hair sheared around the edge. Eyes that were watery blue, nothing romantic. His nose was so much puff and froth, and the cheeks that parenthesized the puff were round hemispheres. His neck was a logical outgrowth of his chin, and the two were one. He was not a handsome man; he had never been one. He was merely a man, with no great direction in life, and no great skill.

  He had existed in the wasteland of passion and struggle that was the world mainly through an ability to speak. He had a gift of gab, a golden tongue, and that great gift offset his other, unprepossessing drawbacks.

  Now, he could not speak. For the first time in his life he was tongue-bound. He managed to make a sound: “Nuhh?”

  The reassuring voice just beyond his perspiring face soothed him. “Mr. Farley. You’ve got to talk to me, sir. My name is Cadwell. Detective Robert Cadwell, thirty-second precinct. Sir, your life is in danger, and I’ve been sent to ask you—oh what the hell!” The man exploded with a curse that was all annoyance and frustration, nothing more. “Look, Mr. Farley, I was sent here to help you. Now how the devil can I help you if you won’t even talk to me?”

  Farley placed a hand on the mirror. It left a soft, moist print.

  “I’m—I’m a-afraid to open the door.”

  “Mr. Farley, sir, nothing can hurt you. I’m from the Police, and I’ve been sent to—” The annoyed snort again. “Oh, hell.” The sounds of footsteps receding.

  Panic butterflyed through him and struggled to be free. The policeman was going! He had to stop him.

  Mr. Farley unbolted the door, and stuck his head out.

  The policeman stopped at the head of the stairs leading down to the foyer of the apartment building. “Hi.” It was a relieved, final word. Cadwell was surprised, but pleased.

  “I—I’m s-sorry. I’ve not been myself…at all…lately. I’ve not been well.”

  Cadwell stepped toward him. “May I speak to you, Mr. Farley?” He did not use the word “sir” but it was there, and such politeness reassured Mr. Farley more than pleading could have, even by its absence.

  Abruptly, Mr. Farley realized he was in the presence of a policeman, and his manners returned. “Oh, yes, won’t you come in, please.”

  The man named Cadwell stopped before entering the apartment. “Mr. Farley,” he said seriously, reaching inside his jacket—Mr. Farley stiffened—and pulling forth a wallet which he flipped open, “I wanted you to see my credentials before I came in. Just so everything is squared away.”

  Matthew glanced quickly at the tin, and back to Cadwell’s face; it was a restful face. He was satisfied.

  “Come in, sir, do come in.” The golden tongue had loosened.

  Cadwell entered the room, and swept his dark gray snapbrim from his head. He held it awkwardly, until Matthew realized it was in the man’s hand, and took it. He nervously indicated the Morris chair by the window for Cadwell; and perched on the edge of the sofa when Cadwell was seated.

  “Mr. Farley—” Cadwell began.

  “Yes?” inquisitive, because Matthew knew he must not talk about the thing he had seen in the street.

  “Look, Mr. Farley—”

  “Do call me Matthew. That was the name I used when I was in the theater. Matthew, plain Matthew, no last name; rather clever don’t you think, for a stage personage?” Matthew had never been on the stage.

  “Well, then, Matthew. But look Mr. Fa—Matthew, I came here at the request of Lieutenant Foote, he’s in charge down at the thirty-second, sir.”

  Matthew smiled politely at this intelligence, anxious to say something. Anything. It had been six days since his conversational abilities had been demonstrated; it was good to feel relaxed, to be able just to speak to someone again.

  Cadwell went on. “Matthew, five days ago, a man named Ricci was killed a block from here, in a pool parlor. He was the collector for a horse book that we’ve been trying to track down for almost a year now. He was killed because he had been keeping back some of the take. Do you know anything about that killing, sir?”

  His eyes knew what the answer should be, and his voice asked Matthew to tell the truth.

  Matthew lied; he did not want to die.

  “Killing, Mr. Cadwell? I’m afraid not. You see, since I left the theater, I haven’t been too well. It’s all I can do to get down to the office every morning. I work for—”

  “Yes, Mr. Farley.” Cadwell interrupted impatiently, frustration in the sound of his voice and the lock of his big hands. “I know. I know you work for the Better Business Bureau; and I know you’re fifty-one years old; and I know you have a heart condition. I know all of these things because I’ve been searching for you for six days.

  “And I’ve been searching for you for six days because a beat cop at the corner of Third and Seventieth saw you near the scene of that killing. I’m not here by chance, Mr. Farley.

  “Now. Will you please tell me what you saw, sir.”

  Matthew’s plump left hand found the slight indentation where neck and jowl merged, and stroked. Softly, shamed, he murmured, “I know nothing.”

  “Excuse me, sir, I didn’t hear what you said.”

  Louder. “I said, Mr. Cadwell, I know nothing.”

  Cadwell leaned forward, pleading persuasively. “Mr. Farley, there’s more at stake here than just the apprehension of a killer. This city has to be clean, sir. It has a great need to be clean. You can’t know what it is, to work as a cop all your adult life and see the filth that’s all around you, and want to clean it out, yet find yourself helpless. Mr. Farley, it’s a terrible thing.”

  “What do you want from me!” Matthew was shouting. He was annoyed at the other man’s eloquence. “I’m a peaceful man; I detest violence and crime as much as you. All right, so perhaps I’m not a great hero, but if I knew something, I’d tell you. No. I know nothing. Leave me alone.” He wished fervently, within himself, that he had never opened that door. He hoped the killer would not use this to track him down. Could this police officer have been followed?

  Cadwell stood up, and anger flamed in his face. “Mr. Farley, a man went into that pool room and used a Thompson submachine gun in a space not much bigger than this apartment. Not only did he cut in half a slob no better than himself, but he wounded three other men, neighborhood hang-ons who were minding their own business, shooting a game of snooker.

  “That man might have killed people on the street if he had been pressed, Mr. Farley. The next time it might be someone’s wife or children. Can you go to bed at night with that on your con—”

  “I can’t worry about that, Cadwell,” Matthew said. “
I can’t worry about anything or anyone but myself.

  “That may sound self-centered.” He was apologetic, but firm. “But no one has ever looked out for me. I’ve had to go it myself all the way. I have no one to hand me anything and say, ‘Take it easy, Matthew, just settle back and rest.’ No, Mr. Cadwell, I know nothing, and if I did, I would still keep my mouth shut. Now that’s it! Get out now, and leave me alone!”

  He rose and went to the other window. He clasped his pudgy hands behind his back, and stared at the street below.

  He heard Cadwell rising, snapping his tongue against his teeth.

  “You’re a weak excuse for a human being, Mr. Farley. A weak, weak excuse.” Matthew heard the hat being slid off the table where he had placed it. “I can’t say it’s been a pleasure, Mr. Farley.”

  Matthew did not turn around. “I’m sorry. That’s the way it is. I saw nothing. I’m sick, go away and leave me alone.”

  “You know we may call you, subpoena you if this ever gets to trial—which it probably won’t, now that we’ve lost our only witness…”

  Matthew stiffened, and a picture ran through his head.

  “You know, Mr. Farley, there’s a legal phrase that might interest you. It’s called pari passu, which means without preference. If this comes to court, they’ll get you for withholding evidence. You’ll go to jail yourself—”

  The picture in Matthew’s mind was of himself, on the witness stand, dapper in a double-breasted dark blue suit, with a four-in-hand tie and his hair—with the bald spot covered—combed straight back. Himself, talking.

  The golden tongue.

  For the first time, the center of attention. Not a clerk in the Better Business Bureau, not a fat little man who talked too much, but a material witness. His picture in the papers, important men listening as each golden word fell from his lips. It was a picture to envision, a thing to be desired. He turned from the window.

  “—but if you know nothing,” Cadwell finished resignedly, “then you know nothing. Goodbye, Mr. Farley.” He turned to the door.

  “Wait!”

  Matthew’s hand was palm forward, his face alive for the first time in a great long while. “You, you say this might be a big case?”

  Cadwell’s face showed renewed interest. “Why, yes, sir. It would be the biggest thing to hit this city since Leggever and his bunch were broken up years ago. Do you think you’d change your mind?”

  Matthew’s decision was made in an instant. The cleanliness of the city did not matter to him; the truth of it all, and the rightness of it all did not matter. None of it mattered, but being able to speak, and be heard, for the first time in his life, that was something that mattered.

  “Yes. Yes, Mr. Cadwell, I’ll talk. Take me down to your precinct to see your Lieutenant. I’ll tell him what I saw. It was a short man with a scar on his nose. He was wearing a—”

  Cadwell was shaking his head. Sadly, slowly, shaking his head.

  “Killing is so unnecessary, Mr. Farley,” he said. “It is to be avoided as often as possible. Only when absolutely necessary, as in the case of Ricci. We had hoped you would be afraid to talk, Mr. Farley. I was sent to ascertain whether that was the case.

  “You had me convinced, Mr. Farley. Quite thoroughly convinced. Too bad.” He drew the snub-nosed .32 from his waistband.

  “They sent me to check you out because I’m a good talker, Mr. Farley. They said if I couldn’t break you down, then you were a safe bet to stay alive and keep quiet. You had me convinced there, Mr. Farley. You’re a good talker, too.

  “But I guess I’m a better talker than you.” He went to the sofa and took a pillow from it, placing it over the muzzle of the .32 as he walked toward Matthew.

  The blood drained from Matthew’s face as he watched the pillow approach.

  “You know the trouble with you, Mr. Farley,” Cadwell said calmly, as he pressed the now-hard pillow into Matthew’s stomach.

  “You talk too much.”

  JOHNNY SLICE’S STOOLIE

  We was mugging a lush in the alley back of Gavoldie’s Bar when Fish popped it to me.

  “You been talkin’ to that lousy cop, Fairchild?”

  His head was wrapped in smoke from his cigarette and he looked like somebody’d cut him off at the neck. I looked up and I knew he saw something in my eyes. I could tell.

  “Shaddup!” Johnny whispered, looking up from the drunk. “Ya wanna bring the cops in here?” He said it, but that wasn’t the reason. He just didn’t want Fish sayin’ anything yet. Something was wrong, real wrong. One of these boys had an itch to stomp me—I could feel it—and the others had the feel of watchers.

  Fish squatted around, his feet making scratching sounds on the gravel in the alley. He was hunkered down over the guy, with Johnny and me. The drunk was layin” on his kisser with his coat-tail pulled over his head, and we was goin’ through his pockets.

  “I got it,” said Johnny, holding up a fat, square thing. He opened it and it made money sounds in his fingers. Let’s cut out.”

  We beat it out the back end of the alley, picking up Lazear and Dumb Chollie, one from each end of the passage.

  We hit for the subway, and all the way downtown they just hung there, arms limp through commuter-straps, watching me.

  Man, you don’t know what it’s like.

  When they got the evil-eye down on you, you just want to crawl inside your shirt and turn black and shrivel up real small. I felt like that, and I figured they knew. But what was this jazz about me talkin’ to Fairchild?

  I wouldn’t go near that crummy plain-clothes dick for all the broads in Minsky’s. Once with him was enough. Cops give me a pain in the can, anyway, and Fairchild’s the slimiest of the lot.

  We got off at Grand Army Plaza and came up out of the ground. I wanted to run and hit for home, but I knew those men were watching me. One whistle off-key and I’d have my brains all over Brooklyn.

  “Let’s divvy,” said Dumb Chollie. He never was too bright, otherwise he’d of known not to get on Johnny’s back. Johnny turned to him and smiled. When Johnny Slice smiles, the rest of us wanta throw up. It ain’t nice to look at.

  Johnny ain’t a pretty boy. He’s like—well, ya ever see these characters what put a silk stocking over their faces, and scrunch their kissers all up? That’s what Johnny looked like, except he didn’t have no stocking on. He didn’t need one.

  He was just plain ugly, with a nose that looked like it was all the time pushed up against a window, and real high cheekbones. It gave him an Indian look. Lousy skin, too, all covered with beard and pimples and blackheads. And scraggy hair. Just a plain mess. Real miserable. Don’t you never tell him that, though. Seen too many guys get stomped flat ’cause they looked at Slice with less than Tony Curtis reflected in their eyes.

  “How’s ya sister, Chollie?” he asked.

  Dumb Chollie got a blanker look than usual on his pan and stuttered, “Wh-what’s she got ta do with it?”

  “No, no,” Johnny said, placating him, “I just wanna know how she is.”

  “Oh, she’s okay, I s’pose,” Chollie answered, with effort.

  “She ain’t goin’ into the lots with Zylo and Vimmy no more? She ain’t layin’ for all the ten-year-olds in your block no more? She ain’t takin’ it in the—”

  “You shut up! You jus’ shuddup, y’unnerstand!” yelled Chollie, moving a step closer to Johnny.

  That’s what Johnny likes. He gets them all riled up and then he swats. Man, his hand came out like it was on a switch, and he slapped that Chollie six good times, whack, whack, across the chops. Chollie staggered back and fell up against Lazear. That fat slob just pushed him back, and Johnny grabbed the dummy by his collar, faced him up close, shovin’ that sick kisser of his right into Chollie’s eyes.

  “You ever tell me to shut up again, I’m gonna put you down for good. Ill cut you open from your crotch ta your lousy pudding-head. You read me, man?” He shook Chollie, hard.

  The dummy just kept wa
gging his head, like it wasn’t held on good. He knew when to back down. Johnny shoved him away and he fell on the sidewalk.

  “I’ll divvy when I get damned good and ready, and don’t you forget it, zero-brains.” He turned away, and his eyes caught mine.

  Blood turn to water. Hell, yes. It happens.

  “Whattaya wanna do?” asked Lazear. Man, was I glad he broke it. I could feel the sparks building inside Johnny’s head.

  “Let’s go to Coney,” I suggested.

  “Man, that’s nowhere,” snarled Fish, and I knew it wasn’t just Coney made him say it. That boy hated me. He was after something.

  I had to stake it, though. Don’t know why, it just would have been backing off, and I don’t back from that cat He’s rough, but not that bad.

  “I like it,” I said, watching him close.

  His hand went into his pocket. I knew he had his switch in that pocket. I pushed my hands deeper into my jacket pockets. I had a switch in there, too.

  “Some of us don’t like you, wise guy. We heard you been seen places you shouldn’t’a. Like you been talkin’ to people we don’t approve of. Your mouth hinged on both ends, we hear.” He was talking big, but that didn’t mean anything. It didn’t mean anything till he went for that six-inch down there somewheres.

  “You got somethin’ to say, you say it crapbreath,” I snapped back at him, and wished I hadn’t. You don’t toss names like that when you don’t wanna fight. Man, I was sorry. Like I wanted to run over and catch that word before it got to him and shove it in my hip pocket.

  But he heard it.

  My fist got stuck in my pocket, and he had that switch out and snick! it was open and makin’ little circles in his big fist.

  I finally got mine out and was back a step or two.

  It opened, but it looked like a safety pin next to his, and that was funny ’cause they was both the same size. I guess it’s just the end you look at it from.

  “Aw, come on, fellas, don’t make no trouble out here.”

  It was Dumb Chollie, picking himself up and moving in at us.

  “Shove it, you goofball. Stay outta this, it’s between the squeek and me.” He moved toward me, slow, tossing the knife from one hand to the other, so I couldn’t be sure where it was. He was kinda slouched, and he scared hell outta me, but I hadda back my play.