Eighty Million Eyes

9

Considering the number of human killings that took place daily in the five separate sections of the city, Kling was surprised to discover that the city could boast of only one slaughterhouse. Apparently the guiding fathers and the Butchers Union (who gave him the information) were averse to killing animals within the city limits. The single slaughteringhouse was on Boswell Avenue in Calm’s Point, and it specialized in the slaughtering of lambs. Most of the city’s killing, as Grossman had surmised, was done in four separate slaughterhouses across the river, in the next state. Since Calm’s Point was closest, Kling hit the one on Boswell Avenue first. He was armed with the list he had compiled at the lab earlier that day, together with the drawing he had received from the BCI. He didn’t know exactly what he was looking for, or exactly what he hoped to discover. He had never been inside a slaughterhouse before.

After visiting the one in Calm’s Point, he never wanted to step inside another one as long as he lived. Unfortunately, there were four more to check across the river.

He was used to blood; a cop gets used to blood. He was used to the sight of human beings bleeding in a hundred different ways from a thousand different wounds, he was used to all that. He had been witness to sudden attacks with razor blades or knives, pistols or shotguns, had seen the body case torn or punctured, the blood beginning to flow or spurt. He had seen them dead and bleeding, and he had seen them alive and in the midst of attack—bleeding. But he had never seen an animal killed before, and the sight made him want to retch. He could barely concentrate on what the head butcher was telling him. The bleating of the lambs rang in his ears, the stench of blood filled the air. The head butcher looked at the drawing Kling extended, leaving a bloody thumbprint on the celluloid sleeve, and shook his head. Behind him the animals shrieked.

The air outside was cold, it drilled the nostrils. He sucked breath after breath into his lungs, deeply savoring each cleansing rush. He did not want to go across that river, but he went. Forsaking lunch, because he knew he would not be able to keep it down, he hit two more slaughterhouses in succession and—finding nothing—grimly prepared to visit the next two on his list.

There is an intuitive feel to detection, and the closest thing to sudden truth—outside of fiction—is the dawning awareness of a cop when he is about to make a fresh discovery. The moment Kling drove onto the dock he knew he would hit pay dirt. The knowledge was sudden and fierce. He stepped out of the police sedan with a faint vague smile on his face, looking up at the huge white sign across the top of the building, facing the river, PURLEY BROTHERS, INC. He stood in the center of the open dock, an area the size of a baseball diamond, and took his time surveying the location, while all the while the rising knowledge clamored within him, this is it, this is it, this is it.

One side of the dock was open to the waterfront. Beyond the two marine gasoline pumps at the water’s edge, Kling could see across the river to where the towers of the city were silhouetted against the gray October sky. His eye lingered on the near distance for a moment, and then he swung his head to the right, where a half-dozen fishing boats were tied up, fishermen dumping their nets and their baskets, leaping onto the dock and then sitting with their booted legs hanging over its edge while they scraped and cleaned their fish and transferred them to fresh baskets lined with newspapers. The grin on his face widened because he knew for certain now that this was pay dirt, that everything would fall into place here on this dock.

He turned his attention back to the slaughterhouse that formed almost one complete side of the rectangular dock area. Gulls shrieked in the air over the river where waste material poured from an open pipe. Railroad tracks fed the rear of the brick building, a siding that ran from the yards some 500 feet back from the dock. He walked to the tracks and began following them to the building.

They led directly to the animal pens, empty now, alongside of which were the metal entrance doors to the slaughterhouse. He knew what he would find on the floor inside; he had seen the floors of three such places already.

The manager was a man named Joe Brady, and he was more than delighted to help Kling. He took him into a small, glass-partitioned office overlooking the killing floor (Kling sat with his back to the glass) and then accepted the drawing Kling handed to him, and pondered it for several moments, and then asked, “What is he, a nigger?”

“No,” Kling said. “He’s a white man.”

“You said he attacked a girl, didn’t you?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And he ain’t a nigger?” Brady shook his head.

“You can see from the drawing that he’s white,” Kling said. An annoyed tone had crept into his voice. Brady did not seem to notice.

“Well, it’s hard to tell from a drawing,” he said. “I mean, the way the shading is done here, look, right here, you see what I mean? That could be a nigger.”

“Mr. Brady,” Kling said flatly, “I do not like that word.”

“What word?” Brady asked.

“Nigger.”

“Oh, come on,” Brady said, “don’t get on your high horse. We got a half a dozen niggers working here, they’re all nice guys, what the hell’s the matter with you?”

“The word offends me,” Kling said. “Cut it out.”

Brady abruptly handed back the drawing. “I’ve never seen this guy in my life,” he said. “If you’re finished here, I got to get back to work.”

“He doesn’t work here?”

“No.”

“Are all of your employees full-time men?”

“All of them.”

“No part-time workers, maybe somebody who worked here for just a few days—”

“I know everybody who works here,” Brady said. “That guy don’t work here.”

“Is he someone who might possibly make deliveries here?”

“What kind of deliveries?”

“I don’t know. Maybe—”

“The only thing we get delivered here is animals.”

“I’m sure you get other things delivered here, Mr. Brady.”

“Nothing,” Brady said, and he rose from behind his desk. “I got to get back to work.”

“Sit down, Mr. Brady,” Kling said. His voice was harsh.

Surprised, Brady looked at him with rising eyebrows, ready to really take offense.

“I said sit down. Now go ahead.”

“Listen, mister—” Brady started.

“No, you listen, mister,” Kling said. “I’m investigating an assault, and I have good reason to believe this man”—he tapped the drawing—”was somewhere around here last Friday. Now, I don’t like your goddamn attitude, Mr. Brady, and if you’d like the inconvenience of answering some questions uptown at the station house instead of here in your nice cozy office overlooking all that killing out there, that’s just fine with me. So why don’t you get your hat and we’ll just take a little ride, okay?”

“What for?” Brady said.

Kling did not answer. He sat grimly on the side of the desk opposite Brady and studied him coldly. Brady looked deep into his eyes.

“The only thing we get delivered here is animals,” he said again.

“Then how’d the paper cups get here?”

“Huh?”

“On the water cooler,” Kling said. “Don’t brush me off, Mr. Brady, I’m goddamn good and sore.”

“Okay, okay,” Brady said.

“Okay! Who delivers stuff here?”

“A lot of people. But I know most of them, and I don’t recognize that picture.”

“Are there any deliveries made that you would not ordinarily see?”

“What do you mean?”

“Does anything come into this building that you personally would not check?”

“I check anything that goes in or out. What do you mean? You mean personal things, too?”

“Personal things?”

“Things that have nothing to do with the business?”

“What’d you have in mind, Mr. Brady?”

“Well, some of the guys order lunch from the diner across the dock. They got guys working there who bring the lunch over. Or coffee sometimes. I got my own little hot plate here in the office, so I don’t have to send out for coffee, and also I bring my lunch from home. So I don’t usually get to see the guys who make the deliveries.”

“Thank you,” Kling said, and rose.

Brady could not resist a parting shot. “Anyway,” he said, “most of them delivery guys are niggers.”

The air outside was clean, blowing fresh and wet off the river. Kling sighted the diner on the opposite end of the dock rectangle and quickly began walking toward it. It was set in a row of shops that slowly came into sharper focus as he moved closer to them. The two shops flanking the diner were occupied by a plumber and a glazier.

He took out his notebook and consulted it: suet, sawdust, blood, animal hair, fish scale, putty, wood splinter, metal filings, peanut, and gasoline. The only item he could not account for was the peanut, but maybe he’d find one in the diner. He was hopeful, in fact, of finding something more than just a peanut inside. He was hopeful of finding the man who had stopped at the slaughterhouse and stepped into the suet, blood and sawdust to which the animal hair had later clung when he crossed the pens outside. He was hopeful of finding the man who had walked along the creosoted railroad tracks, picking up a wood splinter in the sticky mess on his heel. He was hopeful of finding the man who had stopped on the edge of the dock where the fishermen were cleaning fish, and later walked through a small puddle of gasoline near the marine pumps, and then into the glazier’s where he had acquired the dot of putty, and the plumber’s where the copper filings had been added to the rest of the glopis. He was hopeful of finding the man who had beaten Cindy senseless, and the possibility seemed strong that this man made deliveries for the diner. Who else could wander so easily in and out of so many places? Kling unbuttoned his coat and reassuringly touched the butt of his revolver. Briskly, he walked to the door of the diner and entered.

The smell of greasy food assailed his nostrils. He had not eaten since breakfast, and the aroma combined with his slaughterhouse memories to bring on a feeling of nausea. He took a seat at the counter and ordered a cup of coffee, wanting to look over the personnel before he showed his drawing to anyone. There were two men behind the counter, one white and one colored. Neither looked anything at all like the drawing. Behind a pass-through into the kitchen, he caught a glimpse of another white man as he put down a hamburger for pickup. He was not the suspect, either. Two Negro delivery boys in white jackets were sitting in a booth near the cash register, where a baldheaded white man sat picking his teeth with a matchstick. Kling assumed he had seen every employee in the place, with the possible exception of the short-order cook. He finished his coffee, went to the cash register, showed his shield to the baldheaded man and said, “I’d like to talk to the manager, please.”

“I’m the manager and the owner both,” the baldheaded man said. “Myron Krepps, how do you do?”

“I’m Detective Kling. I wonder if you would take a look at this picture and tell me if you know the man.”

“I’d be more than happy to,” Krepps said. “Did he do something?”

“Yes,” Kling said.

“May I ask what it is he done?”

“Well, that’s not important,” Kling said. He took the drawing from its envelope and handed it to Krepps. Krepps cocked his head to one side and studied it.

“Does he work here?” Kling asked.

“Nope,” Krepps said.

“Has he ever worked here?”

“Nope,” Krepps said.

“Have you ever seen him in the diner?”

Krepps paused. “Is this something serious?”

“Yes,” Kling said, and then immediately asked, “Why?” He could not have said what instinct provoked him into pressing the issue, unless it was the slight hesitation in Krepp’s voice as he asked his question.

“How serious?” Krepps said.

“He beat up a young girl,” Kling said.

“Oh.”

“Is that serious enough?”

“That’s pretty serious,” Krepps admitted.

“Serious enough for you to tell me who he is?”

“I thought it was a minor thing,” Krepps said. “For minor things, who needs to be a good citizen?”

“Do you know this man, Mr. Krepps?”

“Yes, I seen him around.”

“Have you seen him here in the diner?”

“Yes.”

“How often?”

“When he makes his rounds.”

“What do you mean?”

“He goes to all the places on the dock here.”

“Doing what?”

“I wouldn’t get him in trouble for what he does,” Krepps said. “As far as I’m concerned, it’s no crime what he does. The city is unrealistic, that’s all.”

“What is it that he does, Mr. Krepps?”

“It’s only that you say he beat up a young girl. That’s serious. For that, I don’t have to protect him.”

“Why does he come here, Mr. Krepps? Why does he go to all the places on the dock?”

“He collects for the numbers,” Krepps said. “Whoever wants to play the numbers, they give him their bets when he comes around.”

“What’s his name?”

“They call him Cookie.”

“Cookie what?”

“I don’t know his last name. Just Cookie. He comes to collect for the numbers.”

“Do you sell peanuts, Mr. Krepps?”

“What? Peanuts?”

“Yes.”

“No, I don’t sell peanuts. I carry some chocolates and some Life Savers and some chewing gum, but no peanuts. Why? You like peanuts?”

“Is there anyplace on the dock where I can get some?”

“Not on the dock,” Krepps said.

“Where then?”

“Up the street. There’s a bar. You can get peanuts there.”

“Thank you,” Kling said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

“Good, I’m glad,” Krepps said. “Now, please, would you mind paying for the coffee you drank?”

The front plate-glass window of the bar was painted a dull green. Bold white letters spelled out the name, BUDDY’S, arranged in a somewhat sloppy semicircle in the center of the glass. Kling walked into the bar and directly to the phone booth some five feet beyond the single entrance door. He took a dime from his pocket, put it in the slot, and dialed his own home phone. While the phone rang unanswered on the other end, he simulated a lively conversation and simultaneously cased the bar. He did not recognize Cindy’s attacker among any of the men sitting at the bar itself or in the booths. He hung up, fished his dime from the return chute, and walked up to the bar. The bartender looked at him curiously. He was either a college kid who had wandered into the waterfront area by accident—or else he was a cop. Kling settled the speculation at once by producing his shield.

“Detective Bert Kling,” he said. “87th Squad.”

The bartender studied the shield with an unwavering eye—he was used to bulls wandering in and out of his fine establishment—and then asked in a very polite, prep-school voice, “What is it that you wish, Detective Kling?”

Kling did not answer at once. Instead, he scooped a handful of peanuts from the bowl on the bar top, put several into his mouth, and began chewing noisily. The proper thing to do, he supposed, was to inquire about some violation or other, garbage cans left outside, serving alcohol to minors, any damn thing to throw the bartender off base. The next thing to do was have the lieutenant assign another man or men to a stakeout of the bar, and simply pick up Cookie the next time he wandered in. That was the proper procedure, and Kling debated using it as he munched on his peanuts and stared silently at the bartender. The only trouble with picking up Cookie, of course, was that Cindy Forrest had been frightened half to death by him. How could you persuade a girl who’d been beaten senseless that it was in her own interest to identify the man who had attacked her? Kling kept munching his peanuts. The bartender kept watching him.

“Would you like a beer or something, Detective Kling?” he asked.

“You the owner?”

“I’m Buddy. You want a beer?”

“Uh-uh,” Kling said, chewing. “On duty.”

“Well, was there something on your mind?” Buddy asked.

Kling nodded. He had made his decision. He began baiting his trap. “Cookie been in today?”

“Cookie who?”

“You get a lot of people named Cookie in here?”

“I don’t get anybody named Cookie in here,” Buddy said.

“Yeah, you do,” Kling said, and nodded. He scooped up another handful of peanuts. “Don’t you know him?”

“No.”

“That’s a shame.” Kling began munching peanuts again. Buddy continued watching him. “You’re sure you don’t know him?”

“Never heard of him.”

“That’s too bad,” Kling said. “We want him. We want him real bad.”

“What for?”

“He beat up a girl.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Sent her to the hospital.”

“No kidding?”

“That’s right,” Kling said. “We’ve been searching the whole damn city for him.” He paused, and then took a wild gamble. “Couldn’t find him at the address we had in the Lousy File, but we happen to know he comes in here a lot.”

“How do you happen to know that?”

Kling smiled. “We’ve got ways.”

“Mmm,” Buddy said noncommittally.

“We’ll get him,” Kling said, and again he took a wild gamble. “The girl identified his picture. Soon as we pick him up, good-bye, Charlie.”

“He’s got a record, huh?”

“No,” Kling answered. “No record.”

Buddy leaned forward slightly, ready to pounce. “No record, huh?”

“Nope.”

“Then how’d you get his picture for the girl to identify?” Buddy said, and suddenly smiled.

“He’s in the numbers racket,” Kling said. Idly, he popped another peanut into his mouth.

“So?”

“We’ve got a file on them.”

“On who?”

“On half the guys involved with numbers in this city.”

“Yeah?” Buddy said. His eyes had narrowed to a squint. It was plain to see that he did not trust Kling and was searching for a flaw in what he was being told.

“Sure,” Kling said. “Addresses, pictures, even prints on some of them.”

“Yeah?” Buddy said again.

“Yeah.”

“What for?”

“Waiting for them to step out of line.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean something bigger than numbers. Something we can lock them up for and throw away the key.”

“Oh.” Buddy nodded. He was convinced. This, he understood. The devious ways of cops, he understood. Kling tried to keep his face blank. He picked up another handful of peanuts.

“Cookie’s finally stepped over the line. Once we get him, the girl takes another look, and bingo! First-degree assault.”

“He used a weapon?”

“Nope, his hands. But he tried to kill her nonetheless.”

Buddy shrugged.

“We’ll get him, all right,” Kling said. “We know who he is, so it’s just a matter of time.”

“Yeah, well.” Buddy shrugged.

“All we have to do is find him, that’s all. The rest is easy.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes finding a person can be extremely difficult,” Buddy said, reactivating his prep-school voice.

“I’m going to give you a word of warning, friend,” Kling said.

“What’s that?”

“Keep your mouth shut about my being in here.”

“Who would I tell?”

“I don’t know who you’d tell, but it better be nobody.”

“Why would I want to obstruct justice?” Buddy said, an offended look coming onto his face. “If this Cookie person beat up a girl, why then good luck to you in finding him.”

“I appreciate your sentiments.”

“Sure.” Buddy paused, and glanced down at the peanut bowl. “You going to eat all of those, or what?”

“Remember what I told you,” Kling said, hoping he wasn’t overdoing it. “Keep your mouth shut. If this leaks, and we trace it back to you…”

“Nothing leaks around here but the beer tap,” Buddy answered, and moved away when someone at the other end of the bar signaled him. Kling sat a moment longer, and then rose, put another handful of peanuts into his mouth, and walked out.

On the pavement outside, he permitted himself a smile.

The item appeared in both afternoon newspapers later that day.

It was small and hardly noticeable, buried as it was in a morass of print on the fourth page of both papers. Its headline was brief but eye-catching:

Byrnes read the article in the privacy of his corner office, and then looked up at Kling, who was standing on the other side of his desk, beaming with the pride of authorship.

“Is Fairchild really on the critical list?” he asked.

“Nope,” Kling answered.

“Suppose our man checks?”

“Let him check. I’ve alerted Buena Vista.”

Byrnes nodded and looked at the article again. He put it aside then, and said, “You made me sound like a jerk.”