Like Love

13

Love was in riotous bloom on the day that Fred Hassler came back to the squadroom and set the merry-go-round in violent motion once again. He had no idea he was reactivating the carousel, no knowledge that it had just about ran down, or that the Tommy Barlow-Irene Thayer suicide was in danger of being thrown into the Open File. Police work is always a race against time, especially in a precinct like the 87th. A crime is committed, and the bulls go to work on it quickly and efficiently because anything that’s likely to turn up is going to turn up soon or not at all. They’ll go over the ground a hundred times, asking the same questions over and over again in hope of getting a different answer. But a case goes cold too quickly, and in a place like the 87th, there are always new cases, there is always a steady press of crime, there is always a fresh occurrence demanding investigation, there is always the Open File. The Open File is a convenience which allows cops to close a case while keeping it open. Once a case is dumped into the Open File, they can stop thinking about it, and concentrate instead on the three dozen other cases that have miraculously become a part of their working day routine. The case in the Open File is not officially closed since it hasn’t officially been solved-there has been no arrest and conviction. But if it is not officially closed, neither is it truly active; it is simply laying there like a bagel. The Tommy Barlow-Irene Thayer case had lost all its momentum, and the cops of the 87th were almost ready to throw it into the Open File on the day Fred Hassler reappeared at the squadroom railing, on the day love was in riotous bloom.

The lovers were fifty-eight and fifty-five years old respectively, and they were standing before Detective Meyer’s desk arguing heatedly. The man wore a sports jacket which he had thrown on over his undershirt when the arresting patrolman had knocked on the door. The woman wore a flowered house dress.

“All right, now who’s pressing charges?” Meyer wanted to know.

“I’m pressing charges,” the man and woman said together.

“One at a time.”

“I’m pressing charges,” the woman said.

“I’m pressing charges,” the man said.

Hassler, standing at the slatted railing, tried to catch the attention of someone in the squadroom, but they all seemed to be busy filing or typing, except Meyer who was busy listening to the lovers.

“Who called the police?” Meyer asked.

“I called the police,” the woman said.

“Is that true, sir?”

“Sure,” the man said “Big mouth called the police.”

“All right, ma’am, why’d you call the police?”

“Because he pinched me,” the woman said.

“Big mouth,” the man said.

“Because he pinched you, huh?” Meyer asked patiently. “Are you married, folks?”

“We’re married,” the man said. “Big mouth can’t stand a little pinch from her own husband. Right away, she has to yell cop.”

“Shut up, you rotten animal,” the woman said. “You grabbed a hunk, I thought you were gonna rip it off.”

“I was being friendly.”

“Some friendly.”

“I should have been the one who called the cops,” the man protested. “But I’m not a big mouth.”

“You pinched me!” she insisted.

“Wash our dirty laundry,” the man muttered. “Call the cops. Why didn’t you call the F.B.I already?”

“Let’s try to calm down,” Meyer said. “Lady, if your husband pinched you…”

“She hit me with a frying pan!” the man said suddenly. “Ah!” the woman shouted. “Ah! Listen!

Just listen!”

“That’s right, she hit me with a…”

“And he calls me big mouth! Listen to him!”

“You hit me, Helen, it’s the truth.”

“You pinched me, and that’s the truth!”

“I pinched you ‘cause you hit me.”

“I hit you ‘cause you pinched me.”

“Look, one at a time,” Meyer warned.

“Now what happened?”

“I was washing the dishes,” the woman said. “He came up behind me and pinched me.”

“Tell him, tell him,” the man said, shaking his head. “Nothing sacred between a man and a wife. Blab it all to the police.”

“Then what happened?”

“Then I took a frying pan from the sink, and I hit him with it.”

“On the head,” the man said. “You want to see what she done? Here, just feel this lump.”

“Go ahead, tell him everything,” the woman said.

“You were the one who called the police!” the man shouted.

“Because you threatened to kill me!”

“You hit me with the goddamn frying pan, didn’t you?”

“You got me angry, that’s why.”

“From a little pinch?”

“It was a big pinch. I got a mark from it. You want to see the mark, officer?”

“Sure, go ahead, show him,” the man said. “We’ll make this a burlesque house. Go ahead, show him.”

“How long have you been married?” Meyer asked patiently.

“Twenty-five years,” the man said.

“Twenty-three years,” the woman corrected.

“It seems more like twenty-five,” the man said, and then burst out laughing at his own wit.

“In addition to beating his wife,” the woman said, “he’s also, as you can see, a comedian.”

“I didn’t beat you, I pinched you!”

“Why don’t you both go home and patch it up?” Meyer asked.

“With him? With this rotten animal?”

“With her? With this loud mouth?”

“Come on, come on, it’s springtime, the flowers are blooming, go home and kiss and make up,” Meyer said. “We got enough troubles around here without having to lock you both up.”

“Lock us up?” the man said indignantly. “For what? For a little love tap with a frying pan?”

“For a friendly pinch between husband and wife?” the woman asked.

“We love each other,” the man protested.

“I know you do. So go on home, okay?” Meyer winked at the man. “Okay?”

“Well…”

“Sure,” Meyer said, rising, scooping them both in his wide-spread arms, shoving them toward the gate in the railing. “Nice young couple like you shouldn’t be wasting time arguing. Go on home, it’s a beautiful day, how do you do, sir, can I help you?”

“My name’s Fred Hassler,” Hassler said. “I’ve been here before, but…”

“You mean we can just go?” the man asked.

“Yes,” Meyer said, “go, go. Before I change my mind. Go on, scram.” He turned to Hassler and said, “Yes, sir, I remember you now. Won’t you come in? Don’t pinch her any more, mister! And you lay off the frying pans. Have a seat, Mr. Hassler.”

“Thank you,” Hassler said. He did not seem very interested in the color or atmosphere of the squadroom this time. He seemed very serious, and a trifle angry, and Meyer wondered what had provoked his visit, and then called across the squadroom to where Carella was typing at his own desk.

“Steve, Mr. Hassler’s here. You remember him, don’t you?”

Carella got up from his desk, walked to where Hassler was sitting, and extended his hand. “Hello, Mr. Hassler, how are you?” he asked.

“Fine, thank you,” Hassler said a bit brusquely.

“What can we do for you?” Meyer asked.

“You can get back my stuff,” Hassler replied.

“What stuff?”

“I don’t know if it was you or the Forty Thieves who took it, but somebody took it, and I want it back.”

“Is something missing from your apartment, Mr. Hassler?” Carella asked.

“Yes, something is missing from my apartment. I’m not saying it was the police. It might have been the firemen. But…”

“You think the firemen took it?”

“I’m saying it’s possible. They break into an apartment and next thing you know, everything is sticking to their fingers. Well, this time a citizen is complaining. A citizen has a right to complain, hasn’t he?”

“Certainly, Mr. Hassler. What’s missing?”

“To begin with, I’m a good sleeper.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes. I don’t usually have trouble. But they’ve begun construction on our block, and last night they were making such a terrible racket that I went to the medicine chest to get some of these sleeping pills that I had one time when I had the flu, it must have been in nineteen fifty-nine.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Yes, I had this high fever, a hundred and two, almost a hundred and three, and I couldn’t sleep, so I got these pills, they’re called Barbinal, you take one and it knocks you out like a light for the whole night. I had four of those pills left in a bottle from the time I had the flu in nineteen fifty-nine.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Yes, well last night I couldn’t sleep so I went to the medicine chest figuring I would take one of those Barbinals, and I found the bottle all right, but it was empty.”

“The pills were gone?”

“All four of them. So I knew the firemen had been in the apartment at the time of the explosion, and I also knew the police had been crawling all over it, so I automatically figured. That was the first thing.”

“Something else was missing, Mr. Hassler?”

“Mmmm,” Hassler said grimly. “This morning, when I got up, I thought I’d just make a check of the apartment to see what else had been stolen. Well, a whole reel of film is missing.”

“Film?”

“Movie film. I told you I was a bug on movies, I keep them all stored in my living room, the reels, in these metal containers, you know? And on the cover of each container, there’s a strip of adhesive tape and it gives the date and tells what’s on the reel. Well, a reel is missing.”

“Perhaps you misplaced it, Mr. Hassler.”

“I didn’t misplace it. Those reels are all filed chronologically in a wooden case I made myself, with a space for each reel, and one of those spaces is empty. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like my pills back, and also my film.”

“We haven’t got either, Mr. Hassler.” Carella paused. “It’s possible, you know, that Tommy and Irene took those pills. To put themselves to sleep.”

“I thought they drank themselves to sleep.”

“They may have taken the pills, Mr. Hassler.”

“Did they take my film, too? They were both half-naked and dead, and my film wasn’t anywhere on them. Besides, Tommy didn’t like that particular reel.”

“Tommy saw this reel?”

“Saw it? He was in it.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Hassler?”

“I told you the first time I was up here that Tommy used to help me with my movies. I got this bug, you know, can I help it? So this one was the story of a guy who’s broke, and he’s walking in the park and he finds a hundred-dollar bill. So Tommy and I went over to Grover Park one afternoon, and we shot the whole thing, almost three hundred feet in one afternoon. There’s only Tommy in it-no, wait a minute, there’s also a little kid we found in the park and asked him to be in the picture. The way the plot goes, you see, Tommy finds this bill and then has to decide…”

“Tommy acted in this film, Mr. Hassler, is that right?”

“That’s right.” Hassler paused. “He wasn’t a professional actor, you know, but what the hell, we were doing it for kicks, anyway. It came out pretty good.” He shrugged. “Tommy didn’t like it, though. He said he needed a haircut, and it made his face look too thin. Anyway, I liked it, and I want it back.”

“But you see, we haven’t got it,” Carella said.

“Then the firemen must have it.”

“Mr. Hassler, how was this reel of film labeled?”

“The usual way.”

“Which is?”

“First the date on the top line. Then the title of the reel, which in this case was ‘The Hundred Dollar Bill.’ Then, after that it said ‘with Tommy Barlow and Sammy La Paloma’-that’s the name of the kid we discovered in the park. That’s all.”

“Then anyone who looked at the cover of the can would know that Tommy Barlow was in this reel of film.”

“That’s right.”

“Mr. Hassler, thank you very much,” Carella said. “We’ll try our best to get it back for you.”

“It was the Forty Thieves,” Hassler insisted. “Those louses’ll take the sink if it isn’t nailed down.”

But Carella wasn’t at all sure the firemen were responsible for the theft of Fred Hassler’s film. Carella was remembering that Mary Tomlinson had said, “I wish I had some pictures of Tommy, too. I have a lot of Margaret, but none of the man she was going to marry.” And he was remembering that Michael Thayer had said, “I want to keep looking at him. That’s strange, isn’t it? I want to find out what was so… different about him.” And he was remembering, too, that Amos Barlow had said, “Ever since he died, I’ve been going around the house looking for traces of him. Old letters, snapshots, anything that was Tommy.” So whereas he knew that perhaps the firemen had earned their nickname with good reason, he also knew that none of the Forty Thieves would be crazy enough to steal a container of home movies. The carousel music had suddenly started again. The gold ring was once more in sight. The horses were in motion.

Carella went downtown and swore out three search warrants.

Hawes, in the meantime, perhaps motivated by the sudden burst of activity on the case, decided that he wanted to talk to Miss Martha Tamid one more time. They were each, Carella and Hawes, about to gasp their last breath on this case, but they were nonetheless still giving it the old college try. Hawes didn’t really believe that Martha Tamid had anything at all to do with the suicide-homicide, but there remained nonetheless the fact that she had lied about going to Amos Barlow’s house on the afternoon of April 16. The specific purpose of his visit was to find out why she had lied. She told him immediately and without hesitation.

“Because I was embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed, Miss Tamid?”

“Yes, how would you feel? I knew he was in there. I could see his car in the garage. But he wouldn’t answer the doorbell. Well, no matter. It is finished.”

“What do you mean, finished? No, don’t answer that yet, Miss Tamid, we’ll come back to it. I want to get something else straight first. You’re saying that you lied to the police because your feelings were hurt? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Yes.”

“Suppose you tell me why you went there in the first place, Miss Tamid?”

“You are getting harsh with me,” Martha said, her eyes seeming to get larger and a little moist.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Hawes answered. “Why did you go there?”

Martha Tamid shrugged. “Because I do not like being ignored,” she said. “I am a woman.”

“Why did you go there, Miss Tamid?”

“To make love,” she answered simply.

Hawes was silent for several moments. Then he said, “But Amos Barlow wouldn’t open the door.”

“He would not. Of course, he did not know why I was coming there”

“Otherwise he most certainly would have opened the door, is that right?”

“No, he would not have opened the door, anyway. I know that now. But I thought I would mention to you anyway, that he did not know I was coming to make love.”

“Are you in love with Amos Barlow?” Hawes asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous!”

“Were you in love with him?”

“Certainly not!”

“But you nonetheless went there that Sunday to… to seduce him?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I am a woman.”

“Yes, you’ve already told me that.”

“I do not like to be ignored.”

“You’ve told me that, too.”

“Then? It’s simple, n’est-ce pas?” She nodded emphatically. “Besides, it’s finished now. I no longer care.”

“Why is it finished, Miss Tamid? Why do you no longer care?”

“Because he was here, and now I know, and now I do not feel unattractive anymore.”

“When was he here?”

“Four nights ago, five nights? I don’t remember exactly.”

“He came of his own accord?”

“I invited him.”

“And? What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.” Martha nodded. “I am a very patient woman, you know. My patience is endless. But, you know… I gave him every opportunity. He is simply… he is inexperienced… he knows nothing, but nothing. And there is a limit to anyone’s patience.”

“I’m not sure I follow you, Miss Tamid,” Hawes said.

“You cannot blame a person for being inexperienced. This is not the same thing as being inattentive, you know. So when I tried, and I realized he was… comment dit-on?

… simple? naïf? ingénu? … what is there to do? He did not know. He simply did not know.”

“What didn’t he know, Miss Tamid?”

“What to do, how to do! He did not know.” She leaned forward suddenly. “I can trust you, can’t I? You are like a confesseur, isn’t that true? A priest who hears confession? I can tell you?”

“Sure,” Hawes said.

“I took off my own blouse,” Martha said, “because he was fumbling so with the buttons. But then… he did not know how to undress me. He simply did not know. He had never been with a woman before, do you understand? He is an innocent.” Martha Tamid sat back in her chair. “One cannot be offended by innocence,” she said.

The police who went through all those rooms were pretty much offended by all the rampant innocence. They searched Mary Tomlinson’s house from basement to attic, and they went through every inch of Michael Thayer’s apartment, and they covered Amos Barlow’s house like a horde of termites-but they didn’t turn up hide or hair of the film that had been stolen from Fred Hassler. They went through Mrs. Tomlinson’s tiny little Volkswagen, and through Michael Thayer’s blue Oldsmobile sedan, and through Amos Barlow’s tan Chevrolet, but they found nothing. They searched through Thayer’s small office in the Brio Building, and through Barlow’s mailing room at 891 Mayfair-but they did not find the film, and the merry-go-round was slowing to a halt again.

The next day, without realizing how close they’d come to grabbing the gold ring, the detectives held a meeting in the squadroom.

“What do you think?” Hawes asked, “have you got any ideas?”

“None,” Carella said.

“Meyer?”

Meyer shook his head.

“Bert?”

Kling hesitated a moment, and then said, “No.”

“So do we call it a suicide and close it out?” Hawes asked.

“What the hell else can we do?” Meyer asked.

“Let’s ask Pete for permission to leave it in the Open File,” Carella said.

“That’s the same thing as killing it,” Hawes said.

Carella shrugged, “Something may come up on it someday.”

“When?”

“Who knows? We’ve ran it into the ground. What else can we do?”

Hawes hesitated, unwilling to be the one who officially killed the case. “You want to vote on it?” he asked. The detectives nodded. “All those in favor of asking Pete to dump it in Siberia?” None of the men raised their hands.

“Meyer?”

“Dump it,” Meyer said.

“Bert?”

“Dump it.”

“Steve?”

Carella paused for a long time. Then he nodded reluctantly and said, “Dump it. Dump it.”

The request was placed on Lieutenant Peter Byrnes’ desk that afternoon. He glanced at it cursorily, picked up his pen, and then signed it, granting his permission. Before he went home that night, Alf Miscolo, filing a sheaf of papers he’d picked up from all the desks in the squadroom, went to the green cabinet marked OPEN FILE, slid out the drawer and dropped into it a manila folder containing all the papers on the Tommy Barlow-Irene Thayer case.

For all intents and purposes, the case was closed.

* * * *