Barking at Butterflies and other stories

First Offense

He sat in the police van with the collar of his leather jacket turned up, the bright silver studs sharp against the otherwise unrelieved black. He was seventeen years old, and he wore his hair in a high black crown. He carried his head high and erect because he knew he had a good profile, and he carried his mouth like a switch knife, ready to spring open at the slightest provocation. His hands were thrust deep into his jacket pockets, and his gray eyes reflected the walls of the van. There was excitement in his eyes, too, an almost holiday excitement. He tried to tell himself he was in trouble, but he couldn’t quite believe it. His gradual descent to disbelief had been a spiral that had spun dizzily through the range of his emotions. Terror when the cop’s flash had picked him out; blind panic when he’d started to run; rebellion when the cop’s firm hand had closed around the leather sleeve of his jacket; sullen resignation when the cop had thrown him into the RMP car; and then cocky stubbornness when they’d booked him at the local precinct.

The desk sergeant had looked him over curiously, with a strange aloofness in his Irish eyes.

“What’s the matter, Fatty?” he’d asked.

The sergeant stared at him implacably. “Put him away for the night,” the sergeant said.

He’d slept overnight in the precinct cell block, and he’d awakened with this strange excitement pulsing through his narrow body, and it was the excitement that had caused his disbelief. Trouble, hell! He’d been in trouble before, but it had never felt like this. This was different. This was a ball, man. This was like being initiated into a secret society someplace. His contempt for the police had grown when they refused him the opportunity to shave after breakfast. He was only seventeen, but he had a fairly decent beard, and a man should be allowed to shave in the morning, what the hell! But even the beard had somehow lent to the unreality of the situation, made him appear — in his own eyes — somehow more desperate, more sinister-looking. He knew he was in trouble, but the trouble was glamorous, and he surrounded it with the gossamer lie of make-believe. He was living the storybook legend. He was big time now. They’d caught him and booked him, and he should have been scared but he was excited instead.

There was one other person in the van with him, a guy who’d spent the night in the cell block, too. The guy was an obvious bum, and his breath stank of cheap wine, but he was better than nobody to talk to.

“Hey!” he said.

The bum looked up. “You talking to me?”

“Yeah. Where we going?”

“The lineup, kid,” the bum said. “This your first offense?”

“This’s the first time I got caught,” he answered cockily.

“All felonies go to the lineup,” the bum told him. “And also some special types of misdemeanors. You commit a felony?”

“Yeah,” he said, hoping he sounded nonchalant. What’d they have this bum in for anyway? Sleeping on a park bench?

“Well, that’s why you’re goin’ to the lineup. They have guys from every detective squad in the city there, to look you over. So they’ll remember you next time. They put you on a stage, and they read off the offense, and the Chief of Detectives starts firing questions at you. What’s your name, kid?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Don’t get smart, punk, or I’ll break your arm,” the bum said.

He looked at the bum curiously. He was a pretty big guy, with a heavy growth of beard, and powerful shoulders. “My name’s Stevie,” he said.

“I’m Jim Skinner,” the bum said. “When somebody’s trying to give you advice, don’t go hip on him...”

“Yeah, well, what’s your advice?” he asked, not wanting to back down completely.

“When they get you up there, you don’t have to answer anything. They’ll throw questions but you don’t have to answer. Did you make a statement at the scene?”

“No,” he answered.

“Good. Then don’t make no statement now, either. They can’t force you to. Just keep your mouth shut, and don’t tell them nothing.”

“I ain’t afraid. They know all about it anyway,” Stevie said.

The bum shrugged and gathered around him the sullen pearls of his scattered wisdom. Stevie sat in the van whistling, listening to the accompanying hum of the tires, hearing the secret hum of his blood beneath the other louder sound. He sat at the core of a self-imposed importance, basking in its warm glow, whistling contentedly, secretly happy. Beside him, Skinner leaned back against the wall of the van.

When they arrived at the Center Street Headquarters, they put them in detention cells, awaiting the lineup which began at nine. At ten minutes to nine they led him out of his cell, and the cop who’d arrested him originally took him into the special prisoners’ elevator.

“How’s it feel being an elevator boy?” he asked the cop.

The cop didn’t answer him. They went upstairs to the big room where the lineup was being held. A detective in front of them was pinning on his shield so he could get past the cop at the desk. They crossed the large gymnasium-like compartment, walking past the men sitting in folded chairs before the stage.

“Get a nice turnout, don’t you?” Stevie said.

“You ever tried vaudeville?” the cop answered.

The blinds in the room had not been drawn yet, and Stevie could see everything clearly. The stage itself with the permanently fixed microphone hanging from a narrow metal tube above; the height markers — four feet, five feet, six feet — behind the mike on the wide white wall. The men in the seats, he knew, were all detectives and his sense of importance suddenly flared again when he realized these bulls had come from all over the city just to look at him. Behind the bulls was a raised platform with a sort of lecturer’s stand on it. A microphone rested on the stand, and a chair was behind it, and he assumed this was where the Chief bull would sit. There were uniformed cops stationed here and there around the room, and there was one man in civilian clothing who sat at a desk in front of the stage.

“Who’s that?” Stevie asked the cop.

“Police stenographer,” the cop answered. “He’s going to take down your words for posterity.”

They walked behind the stage, and Stevie watched as other felony offenders from all over the city joined them. There was one woman, but all the rest were men, and he studied their faces carefully, hoping to pick up some tricks from them, hoping to learn the subtlety of their expressions. They didn’t look like much. He was better-looking than all of them, and the knowledge pleased him. He’d be the star of this little shindig. The cop who’d been with him moved over to talk to a big broad who was obviously a policewoman. Stevie looked around, spotted Skinner, and walked over to him.

“What happens now?” he asked.

“They’re gonna pull the shades in a few minutes,” Skinner said. “Then they’ll turn on the spots and start the lineup. The spots won’t blind you, but you won’t be able to see the faces of any of the bulls out there.”

“Who wants to see them mugs?” Stevie asked.

Skinner shrugged. “When your case is called, your arresting officer goes back and stands near the Chief of Detectives, just in case the Chief needs more dope from him. The Chief’ll read off your name and the borough where you was pinched. A number’ll follow the borough. Like he’ll say ‘Manhattan one’ or ‘Manhattan two.’ That’s just the number of the case from that borough. You’re first, you get number one, you follow?”

“Yeah,” Stevie said.

“He’ll tell the bulls what they got you on, and then he’ll say either ‘Statement’ or ‘No statement.’ If you made a statement, chances are he won’t ask many questions ’cause he won’t want you to contradict anything damaging you already said. If there’s no statement, he’ll fire questions like a machine gun. But you don’t have to answer nothing.”

“Then what?”

“When he’s through, you go downstairs to get mugged and printed. Then they take you over to the Criminal Courts Building for arraignment.”

“They’re gonna take my picture, huh?” Stevie asked.

“Yeah.”

“You think there’ll be reporters here?”

“Huh?”

“Reporters.”

“Oh. Maybe. All the wire services hang out in a room across the street from where the vans pulled up. They got their own police radio in there, and they get the straight dope as soon as it’s happening, in case they want to roll with it. There may be some reporters.” Skinner paused. “Why? What’d you do?”

“It ain’t so much what I done,” Stevie said. “I was just wonderin’ if we’d make the papers.”

Skinner stared at him curiously. “You’re all charged up, ain’t you, Stevie?”

“Hell, no. Don’t you think I know I’m in trouble?”

“Maybe you don’t know just how much trouble,” Skinner said.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“This ain’t as exciting as you think, kid. Take my word for it.”

“Sure, you know all about it.”

“I been around a little,” Skinner said drily.

“Sure, on park benches all over the country. I know I’m in trouble, don’t worry.”

“You kill anybody?”

“No,” Stevie said.

“Assault?”

Stevie didn’t answer.

“Whatever you done,” Skinner advised, “and no matter how long you been doin’ it before they caught you, make like it’s your first time. Tell them you done it and then say you don’t know why you done it, but you’ll never do it again. It might help you, kid. You might get off with a suspended sentence.”

“Yeah?”

“Sure. And then keep your nose clean afterwards, and you’ll be okay.”

“Keep my nose clean! Don’t make me laugh, pal.”

Skinner clutched Stevie’s arm in a tight grip. “Kid, don’t be a damn fool. If you can get out, get out now! I coulda got out a hundred times, and I’m still with it, and it’s no picnic. Get out before you get started.”

Stevie shook off Skinner’s hand. “Come on, willya?” he said, annoyed.

“Knock it off there,” the cop said. “We’re ready to start.”

“Take a look at your neighbors, kid,” Skinner whispered. “Take a hard look. And then get out of it while you still can.”

Stevie grimaced and turned away from Skinner. Skinner whirled him around to face him again, and there was a pleading desperation on the unshaven face, a mute reaching in the red-rimmed eyes before he spoke again. “Kid,” he said, “listen to me. Take my advice. I’ve been...”

“Knock it off!” the cop warned again.

He was suddenly aware of the fact that the shades had been drawn and the room was dim. It was very quiet out there, and he hoped they would take him first. The excitement had risen to an almost fever pitch inside him, and he couldn’t wait to get on that stage. What the hell was Skinner talking about anyway? “Take a look at your neighbors, kid.” The poor jerk probably had a wet brain. What the hell did the police bother with old drunks for, anyway?

A uniformed cop led one of the men from behind the stage, and Stevie moved a little to his left, so that he could see the stage, hoping none of the cops would shove him back where he wouldn’t have a good view. His cop and the policewoman were still talking, paying no attention to him. He smiled, unaware that the smile developed as a smirk, and watched the first man mounting the steps to the stage. The man’s eyes were very small, and he kept blinking them, blinking them. He was bald at the back of his head, and he was wearing a Navy peacoat and dark tweed trousers, and his eyes were red-rimmed and sleepy-looking. He reached to the five-foot-six-inches marker on the wall behind him, and he stared out at the bulls, blinking.

“Assisi,” the Chief of Detectives said, “Augustus, Manhattan one. Thirty-three years old. Picked up in a bar on Forty-third and Broadway, carrying a.45 Colt automatic. No statement. How about it, Gus?”

“How about what?” Assisi asked.

“Were you carrying a gun?”

“Yes, I was carrying a gun.” Assisi seemed to realize his shoulders were slumped. He pulled them back suddenly, standing erect.

“Where, Gus?”

“In my pocket.”

“What were you doing with the gun, Gus?”

“I was just carrying it.”

“Why?”

“Listen, I’m not going to answer any questions,” Assisi said. “You’re gonna put me through a third degree. I ain’t answering nothing. I want a lawyer.”

“You’ll get plenty opportunity to have a lawyer,” the Chief of Detectives said. “And nobody’s giving you a third degree. We just want to know what you were doing with a gun. You know that’s against the law, don’t you?”

“I’ve got a permit for the gun,” Assisi said.

“We checked with Pistol Permits, and they say no. This is a Navy gun, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“What?”

“I said yeah, it’s a Navy gun.”

“What were you doing with it? Why were you carrying it around?”

“I like guns.”

“Why?”

“Why what? Why do I like guns? Because...”

“Why were you carrying it around?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you must have a reason for carrying a loaded.45. The gun was loaded, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, it was loaded.”

“You have any other guns?”

“No.”

“We found a.38 in your room. How about that one?”

“It’s no good.”

“What?”

“The.38.”

“What do you mean, no good?”

“The firing mechanism is busted.”

“You want a gun that works, is that it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You said the.38’s no good because it won’t fire, didn’t you?”

“Well, what good’s a gun that won’t fire?”

“Why do you need a gun that fires?”

“I was just carrying it. I didn’t shoot anybody, did I?”

“No, you didn’t. Were you planning on shooting somebody?”

“Sure,” Assisi said. “That’s just what I was planning.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know,” Assisi said sarcastically. “Anybody. The first guy I saw, all right? Everybody, all right? I was planning on wholesale murder.”

“Not murder, maybe, but a little larceny, huh?”

“Murder,” Assisi insisted, in his stride now. “I was just going to shoot up the whole town. Okay? You happy now?”

“Where’d you get the gun?”

“From the Navy.”

“Where?”

“From my ship.”

“It’s a stolen gun?”

“No, I found it.”

“You stole government property, is that it?”

“I found it.”

“When’d you get out of the Navy?”

“Three months ago.”

“You worked since?”

“No.”

“Where were you discharged?”

“Pensacola.”

“Is that where you stole the gun?”

“I didn’t steal it.”

“Why’d you leave the Navy?”

Assisi hesitated for a long time.

“Why’d you leave the Navy?” the Chief of Detectives asked again.

“They kicked me out!” Assisi snapped.

“Why?”

“I was undesirable!” he shouted.

“Why?”

Assisi did not answer.

“Why?” There was silence in the darkened room.

Stevie watched Assisi’s face, the twitching mouth, the blinking eyelids.

“Next case,” the Chief of Detectives said.

Stevie watched as Assisi walked across the stage and down the steps on the other side, where the uniformed cop met him. He’d handled himself well, Assisi had. They’d rattled him a little at the end there, but on the whole he’d done a good job. So the guy was lugging a gun around. So what? He was right, wasn’t he? He didn’t shoot nobody, so what was all the fuss about? Cops! They had nothing else to do, they went around hauling in guys who were carrying guns. Poor bastard was a veteran, too; that was really rubbing it in. But he did a good job up there, even though he was nervous, you could see he was very nervous.

A man and a woman walked past him and onto the stage. The man was very tall, topping the six-foot marker. The woman was shorter, a bleached blonde turning to fat.

“They picked them up together,” Skinner whispered. “So they show them together. They figure a pair’ll always work as a pair, usually.”

“How’d you like that Assisi?” Stevie whispered back. “He really had them bulls on the run, didn’t he?” Skinner didn’t answer.

The Chief of Detectives cleared his throat. “MacGregor, Peter, aged forty-five, and Anderson, Marcia, aged forty-two, Bronx one. Got them in a parked car on the Grand Concourse. Backseat of the car was loaded with goods, including luggage, a typewriter, a portable sewing machine, and a fur coat. No statements. What about all that stuff, Pete?”

“It’s mine.”

“The fur coat, too?”

“No, that’s Marcia’s.”

“You’re not married, are you?”

“No.”

“Living together?”

“Well, you know,” Pete said.

“What about the stuff?” the Chief of Detectives said again.

“I told you,” Pete said. “It’s ours.”

“What was it doing in the car?”

“Oh. Well, we were... uh...” The man paused for a long time. “We were going on a trip.”

“Where to?”

“Where? Oh. To... uh...”

Again he paused, frowning, and Stevie smiled, thinking what a clown this guy was. This guy was better than a sideshow at Coney. This guy couldn’t tell a lie without having to think about it for an hour. And the dumpy broad with him was a hot sketch, too. This act alone was worth the price of admission.

“Uh...” Pete said, still fumbling for words. “Oh... we were going to... uh... Denver.”

“What for?”

“Oh, just a little pleasure trip, you know,” he said, attempting a smile.

“How much money were you carrying when we picked you up?”

“Forty dollars.”

“You were going to Denver on forty dollars?”

“Well, it was fifty dollars. Yeah, it was more like fifty dollars.”

“Come on, Pete, what were you doing with all that stuff in the car?”

“I told you. We were taking a trip.”

“With a sewing machine, huh? You do a lot of sewing, Pete?”

“Marcia does.”

“That right, Marcia?”

The blonde spoke in a high, reedy voice. “Yeah, I do a lot of sewing.”

“That fur coat, Marcia. Is it yours?”

“Sure.”

“It has the initials G. D. on the lining. Those aren’t your initials, are they, Marcia?”

“No.”

“Whose are they?”

“Search me. We bought that coat in a hockshop.”

“Where?”

“Myrtle Avenue, Brooklyn. You know where that is?”

“Yes, I know where it is. What about that luggage? It had initials on it, too. And they weren’t yours or Pete’s. How about it?”

“We got that in a hockshop, too.”

“And the typewriter?”

“That’s Pete’s.”

“Are you a typist, Pete?”

“Well, I fool around a little, you know.”

“We’re going to check all this stuff against our stolen goods list. You know that, don’t you?”

“We got all that stuff in hockshops,” Pete said. “If it’s stolen, we don’t know nothing about it.”

“Were you going to Denver with him, Marcia?”

“Oh sure.”

“When did you both decide to go? A few minutes ago?”

“We decided last week sometime.”

“Were you going to Denver by way of the Grand Concourse?”

“Huh?” Pete said.

“Your car was parked on the Grand Concourse. What were you doing there with a carload of stolen goods?”

“It wasn’t stolen,” Pete said.

“We were on our way to Yonkers,” the woman said.

“I thought you were going to Denver.”

“Yeah, but we had to get the car fixed first. There was something wrong with the...” She paused, turning to Pete. “What was it, Pete? That thing that was wrong?”

Pete waited a long time before answering. “Uh... the... uh... the flywheel, yeah. There’s a garage up in Yonkers fixes them good, we heard. Flywheels, I mean.”

“If you were going to Yonkers, why were you parked on the Concourse?”

“Well, we were having an argument.”

“What kind of an argument?”

“Not an argument, really. Just a discussion, sort of.”

“About what?”

“About what to eat.”

“What!”

“About what to eat. I wanted to eat Chink’s, but Marcia wanted a glass of milk and a piece of pie. So we were trying to decide whether we should go to the Chink’s or the cafeteria. That’s why we were parked on the Concourse.”

“We found a wallet in your coat, Pete. It wasn’t yours, was it?”

“No.”

“Whose was it?”

“I don’t know.” He paused, then added hastily, “There wasn’t no money in it.”

“No, but there was identification. A Mr. Simon Granger. Where’d you get it, Pete?”

“I found it in the subway. There wasn’t no money in it.”

“Did you find all that other stuff in the subway, too?”

“No, sir, I bought that.” He paused. “I was going to return the wallet, but I forgot to stick it in the mail.”

“Too busy planning for the Denver trip, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“When’s the last time you earned an honest dollar, Pete?”

Pete grinned. “Oh, about two, three years ago. I guess.”

“Here’re their records,” the Chief of Detectives said. “Marcia, 1938, Sullivan Law; 1939, Concealing Birth of Issue; 1940, Possession of Narcotics — you still on the stuff, Marcia?”

“No.”

“1942, Dis Cond; 1943, Narcotics again; 1947 — you had enough, Marcia?”

Marcia didn’t answer.

“Pete,” the Chief of Detectives said, “1940, Attempted Rape; 1941, Selective Service Act; 1942, Dis Cond; 1943, Attempted Burglary; 1945, Living on Proceeds of Prostitution; 1947, Assault and Battery, did two years at Ossining.”

“I never done no time,” Pete said.

“According to this, you did.”

“I never done no time,” he insisted.

“1950,” the Chief of Detectives went on, “Carnal Abuse of a Child.” He paused. “Want to tell us about that one, Pete?”

“I... uh...” Pete swallowed. “I got nothing to say.”

“You’re ashamed of some things, that it?”

Pete didn’t answer.

“Get them out of here,” the Chief of Detectives said.

“See how long he kept them up there?” Skinner whispered. “He knows what they are, wants every bull in the city to recognize them if they...”

“Come on,” a detective said, taking Skinner’s arm.

Stevie watched as Skinner climbed the steps to the stage. Those two had really been something, all right. And just looking at them, you’d never know they were such operators. You’d never know they...

“Skinner, James, Manhattan two. Aged fifty-one. Threw a garbage can through the plate-glass window of a clothing shop on Third Avenue. Arresting officer found him inside the shop with a bundle of overcoats. No statement. That right, James?”

“I don’t remember,” Skinner said.

“Is it, or isn’t it?”

“All I remember is waking up in jail this morning.”

“You don’t remember throwing that ash can through the window?”

“No, sir.”

“You don’t remember taking those overcoats?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, you must have done it, don’t you think? The off-duty detective found you inside the store with the coats in your arms.”

“I got only his word for that, sir.”

“Well, his word is pretty good. Especially since he found you inside the store with your arms full of merchandise.”

“I don’t remember, sir.”

“You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”

“I don’t remember, sir.”

“What do you do for a living, James?”

“I’m unemployed, sir.”

“When’s the last time you worked?”

“I don’t remember, sir.”

“You don’t remember much of anything, do you?”

“I have a poor memory, sir.”

“Maybe the record has a better memory than you, James,” the Chief of Detectives said.

“Maybe so, sir. I couldn’t say.”

“I hardly know where to start, James. You haven’t been exactly an ideal citizen.”

“Haven’t I, sir?”

“Here’s as good a place as any. 1948, Assault and Robbery; 1949, Indecent Exposure; 1951, Burglary; 1952, Assault and Robbery again. You’re quite a guy, aren’t you, James?”

“If you say so, sir.”

“I say so. Now how about that store?”

“I don’t remember anything about a store, sir.”

“Why’d you break into it?”

“I don’t remember breaking into any store, sir.”

“Hey, what’s this?” the Chief of Detectives said suddenly.

“Sir?”

“Maybe we should’ve started back a little further, huh, James? Here, on your record. 1938, convicted of First-degree Murder, sentenced to execution.”

The assembled bulls began murmuring among themselves. Stevie leaned forward eagerly, anxious to get a better look at this bum who’d offered him advice.

“What happened there, James?”

“What happened where, sir?”

“You were sentenced to death? How come you’re still with us?”

“The case was appealed.”

“And never retried?”

“No, sir.”

“You’re pretty lucky, aren’t you?”

“I’m pretty unlucky, sir, if you ask me.”

“Is that right? You cheat the chair, and you call that unlucky. Well, the law won’t slip up this time.”

“I don’t know anything about law, sir.”

“You don’t, huh?”

“No, sir. I only know that if you want to get a police station into action, all you have to do is buy a cheap bottle of wine and drink it quiet, minding your own business.”

“And that’s what you did, huh, James?”

“That’s what I did, sir.”

“And you don’t remember breaking into that store?”

“I don’t remember anything.”

“All right, next case.”

Skinner turned his head slowly, and his eyes met Stevie’s squarely. Again there was the same mute pleading in his eyes, and then he turned his head away and shuffled off the stage and down the steps into the darkness.

The cop’s hand closed around Stevie’s biceps. For an instant he didn’t know what was happening, and then he realized his case was the next one. He shook off the cop’s hand, squared his shoulders, lifted his head, and began climbing the steps.

He felt taller all at once. He felt like an actor coming on after his cue. There was an aura of unreality about the stage and the darkened room beyond it, the bulls sitting in that room.

The Chief of Detectives was reading off the information about him, but he didn’t hear it. He kept looking at the lights, which were not really so bright, they didn’t blind him at all. Didn’t they have brighter lights? Couldn’t they put more lights on him, so they could see him when he told his story?

He tried to make out the faces of the detectives, but he couldn’t see them clearly, and he was aware of the Chief of Detective’s voice droning on and on, but he didn’t hear what the man was saying, he heard only the hum of his voice. He glanced over his shoulder, trying to see how tall he was against the markers, and then he stood erect, his shoulders back, moving closer to the hanging microphone, wanting to be sure his voice was heard when he began speaking.

“...no statement,” the Chief of Detectives concluded. There was a long pause, and Stevie waited, holding his breath. “This your first offense, Steve?” the Chief of Detectives asked.

“Don’t you know?” Stevie answered.

“I’m asking you.”

“Yeah, it’s my first offense.”

“You want to tell us all about it?”

“There’s nothing to tell. You know the whole story, anyway.”

“Sure, but do you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Tell us the story, Steve.”

“What’re ya makin’ a big federal case out of a lousy stickup for? Ain’t you got nothing better to do with your time?”

“We’ve got plenty of time, Steve.”

“Well, I’m in a hurry.”

“You’re not going anyplace, kid. Tell us about it.”

“What’s there to tell? There was a candy store stuck up, that’s all.”

“Did you stick it up?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

“We know you did.”

“Then don’t ask me stupid questions.”

“Why’d you do it?”

“I ran out of butts.”

“Come on, kid.”

“I done it ’cause I wanted to.”

“Why?”

“Look, you caught me cold, so let’s get this over with, huh? What’re ya wastin’ time with me for?”

“We want to hear what you’ve got to say. Why’d you pick this particular candy store?”

“I just picked it. I put slips in a hat and picked this one out.”

“You didn’t really, did you, Steve?”

“No, I didn’t really. I picked it ’cause there’s an old crumb who runs it, and I figured it was a pushover.”

“What time did you enter the store, Steve?”

“The old guy told you all this already, didn’t he? Look, I know I’m up here so you can get a good look at me. All right, take your good look, and let’s get it over with.”

“What time, Steve?”

“I don’t have to tell you nothing.”

“Except that we know it already.”

“Then why do you want to hear it again? Ten o’clock, all right? How does that fit?”

“A little early, isn’t it?”

“How’s eleven? Try that one, for size.”

“Let’s make it twelve, and we’ll be closer.”

“Make it whatever you want to,” Stevie said, pleased with the way he was handling this. They knew all about it, anyway, so he might as well have himself a ball, show them they couldn’t shove him around.

“You went into the store at twelve, is that right?”

“If you say so, Chief.”

“Did you have a gun?”

“No.”

“What, then?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Just me. I scared him with a dirty look, that’s all.”

“You had a switch knife, didn’t you?”

“You found one on me, so why ask?”

“Did you use the knife?”

“No.”

“You didn’t tell the old man to open the cash register or you’d cut him up? Isn’t that what you said?”

“I didn’t make a tape recording of what I said.”

“But you did threaten him with the knife. You did force him to open the cash register, holding the knife on him.”

“I suppose so.”

“How much money did you get?”

“You’ve got the dough. Why don’t you count it?”

“We already have. Twelve dollars, is that right?”

“I didn’t get a chance to count it. The Law showed.”

“When did the Law show?”

“When I was leaving. Ask the cop who pinched me. He knows when.”

“Something happened before you left, though.”

“Nothing happened. I cleaned out the register and then blew. Period.”

“Your knife had blood on it.”

“Yeah? I was cleaning chickens last night.”

“You stabbed the owner of that store, didn’t you?”

“Me? I never stabbed nobody in my whole life.”

“Why’d you stab him?”

“I didn’t.”

“Where’d you stab him?”

“I didn’t stab him.”

“Did he start yelling?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You stabbed him, Steve. We know you did.”

“You’re foil of crap.”

“Don’t get smart, Steve.”

“Ain’t you had your look yet? What the hell more do you want?”

“We want you to tell us why you stabbed the owner of that store.”

“And I told you I didn’t stab him.”

“He was taken to the hospital last night with six knife wounds in his chest and abdomen. Now how about that, Steve?”

“Save your questioning for the Detective Squad Room. I ain’t saying another word.”

“You had your money. Why’d you stab him?”

Stevie did not answer.

“Were you afraid?”

“Afraid of what?” Stevie answered defiantly.

“I don’t know. Afraid he’d tell who held him up? Afraid he’d start yelling? What were you afraid of, kid?”

“I wasn’t afraid of nothing. I told the old crumb to keep his mouth shut. He shoulda listened to me.”

“He didn’t keep his mouth shut?”

“Ask him.”

“I’m asking you!”

“No, he didn’t keep his mouth shut. He started yelling. Right after I’d cleaned out the drawer. The damn jerk, for a lousy twelve bucks he starts yelling.”

“What’d you do?”

“I told him to shut up.”

“And he didn’t.”

“No. he didn’t. So I hit him, and he still kept yelling. So I gave him the knife.”

“Six times?”

“I don’t know how many times. I just gave it to him. He shouldn’t have yelled. You ask him if I did any harm to him before that. Go ahead, ask him. He’ll tell you. I didn’t even touch the crumb before he started yelling. Go to the hospital and ask him if I touched him. Go ahead, ask him.”

“We can’t, Steve.”

“Wh...”

“He died this morning.”

“He...”

For a moment, Stevie could not think clearly. Died? Is that what he’d said? The room was curiously still now. It had been silently attentive before, but this was something else, something different, and the stillness suddenly chilled him, and he looked down at his shoes.

“I... I didn’t mean him to pass away,” he mumbled.

The police stenographer looked up. “To what?”

“To pass away,” a uniformed cop repeated, whispering.

“What?” the stenographer asked again.

“He didn’t mean him to pass away!” the cop shouted.

The cop’s voice echoed in the silent room. The stenographer bent his head and began scribbling in his pad.

“Next case,” the Chief of Detectives said.

Stevie walked off the stage, his mind curiously blank, his feet strangely leaden. He followed the cop to the door, and then walked with him to the elevator. They were both silent as the doors closed.

“You picked an important one for your first one,” the cop said.

“He shouldn’t have died on me,” Stevie answered.

“You shouldn’t have stabbed him,” the cop said.

He tried to remember what Skinner had said to him before the lineup, but the noise of the elevator was loud in his ears, and he couldn’t think clearly. He could only remember the word “neighbors” as the elevator dropped to the basement to join them.