Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 2, February, 1953

Stabbing in the Streets by Eleazar Lipsky

There was one funny thing about the stabbing: neither side had wanted trouble.

The ringing telephone came almost as a relief. Wiley was lying in bed unable to sleep. The sheets were wrinkled and uncomfortable and his mind was going over his preparation for a murder trial still a month off. The telephone continued to ring. He threw aside the covers, fished for his slippers, and flapped into the living room where he picked up the instrument.

“This is Wiley,” he said, yawning.

“There’s a call from the Tenth,” the man down in Communications said. “Some kid got stabbed in a street brawl. He’s a merchant seaman, I understand. English. One of those things. They say they’ve got witnesses.”

“Who’s on the case?”

“Ricca and Corbin.”

“Well, that’s good,” Wiley said, “Now, what about a car?”

“Just a minute.” There was a moment’s silence in which Wiley could hear familiar sounds in the background, then the man returned. “It’s on the way, Mr. Wiley.”

“Say, Sergeant—”

“Yes, Mr. Wiley?”

“Do you know what all this is about?”

“Sorry, I just didn’t ask. The victim is at the hospital, but the rest of them are all at the Tenth.”

There was a click and David Wiley was left holding the telephone receiver. He returned to the bedroom to dress in working clothes, a sweater, jacket and an old Army trenchcoat.

Dorothy murmured and turned.

He sat down on the bed beside her and slid his arm under her shoulder. “It’s just some stabbing, I’ve got to cover. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, dear.” She brushed aside a hair. “What time is it?”

Wiley looked at his luminous wrist watch.

“About five. It’s near dawn.”

“Just don’t get tied up, darling,” she murmured, and turned over in her warm bed. “We’ve got company tonight.”

Wiley kissed his wife and went to the kitchen. He found some milk and bread and he was drinking a pair of raw eggs when he heard the hooting of an auto horn out in the street.

He left the dark apartment and went down to the street and got into the waiting sedan. They started off. It had been raining and they swept through the wet streets with the sound of drumming tires.

“I hear an English kid got it,” the driver remarked, “a merchant seaman. Now why don’t they watch out for themselves?”

“I don’t know.” Wiley closed his eyes. “They just get into trouble.” He sank into a weary silence while the driver talked about the previous day’s baseball.

“We’re here,” the driver said.

Wiley looked up. The green lights of the station house were shining in the darkness. Wiley dismissed the driver and turned into the building. As he passed the desk, the officer, a sergeant, nodded. Wiley went upstairs into the Homicide Squad offices.

A detective named Vincent Ricca came forward holding a meat sandwich and a mug of coffee in either hand. “You won’t like me for this, Dave,” he said. “There ain’t much to this case, what I mean.”

Wiley looked about with an expert eye and remarked, “I can see that.” The few witnesses were lolling without spirit on the benches in the large chamber. In an inner room, a barracks, two men were sleeping on cots wrapped in woolen blankets. The naked light bulbs were garish. Wiley returned to the detective and said crisply, “Let’s get through this fast, Vince. Suppose you sum it up for me.”

Ricca took a large bite of his sandwich. “These four merchant seamen got into a brawl with a customer in this bar, they’re all English. After it was over, the customer came up and stabbed one of them outside in the street, a kid named Eddie Porter. They’re operating on him now at St. Vincent’s. We don’t know about his chances to pull through.”

“What was the reason for the stabbing?” Wiley shook his head as he declined a share of the sandwich.

The detective licked away a trace of mustard. “This customer can’t tell us that. Doesn’t talk English, what I mean. We know what he did, we just don’t know why or what he had in mind. The way we got the story right now, this thing came out of a clear sky. He was drunk or vicious or both.”

“I’ll settle for ‘what’,” Wiley said grimly. “Let’s get on with this.”

“Come on.” The detective took Wiley’s arm and described the crime. Ricca was a lean man with a dark face, dressed in good taste, with amusement in his eyes. He carried himself with a jaunty air. He was friendly and willing to help Wiley do a good job. He drew Wiley over to a prisoner seated on a bench and said, “Here’s Juan Figueroa. He did the cutting. When we get a translator, he’ll give us his story.”

Wiley stared down at a picture of misery.

The prisoner was a stout man of forty, dressed in a foreign cut business suit. He looked up and pointed with an imploring gesture to abrasions on his temples. He portrayed the picture of innocence. His reddish eyes were inflamed and tears were rolling down his cheeks.

The detective said forcefully, “Figueroa, this is the district attorney! You want to tell him your side of the story? The district attorney — see?”

The prisoner broke into a torrent of choppy dialect, showing his wounds and protesting until Wiley cut him short. “I don’t talk Spanish, Figueroa! Now stop trying to kid me. You talk English and I’ll listen!”

The prisoner stared a hopeless moment, then threw his head back and applied a bloody handkerchief to his nose.

Wiley turned back to the detective and thrust his hands into his pockets. “What’s he crying about? Did he get a beating somewhere along the line?”

“Not from any of us,” Ricca grinned. “He got those marks in the brawl. He’s bawling because he knows he’s in trouble. That girl there told him the kid might die.”

“What girl?” Wiley looked across the room to a thin girl hunched forward on a bench near an inner office and smoking a cigarette with a thoughtful manner. Her long dark hair was tumbled down her neck in disorder. As he watched, she pulled a man’s raincoat close about her, concealing a loose glittering black evening dress.

“That’s the one.” Ricca finished his coffee and put the mug- away. “She could make sense out of all this, but she won’t.”

Wiley frowned. “Who was fool enough to let her know that the kid might be dying?”

Ricca shrugged. “She was here when the news came in.”

“Well, let’s see.” Wiley crossed the room and said in a severe tone, “What’s your name, Miss?”

The girl looked up with calm. “I’m Jenny Ortega,” she said, in a husky voice. “Now this time, who are you?”

Wiley returned her stare. “I’m an assistant district attorney for this county. I want to know about this stabbing. Did you see it?”

The girl made a gesture toward the weeping prisoner. “It wasn’t Figueroa’s fault. I saw the whole thing.”

“Tell me what happened.” The girl shrugged and Wiley repeated sharply, “Why did Figueroa stab this young seaman?”

The girl considered him thoughtfully and a sneer gathered. “Why don’t you ask those men there? They’ll give you a pack of lies. Isn’t that what you’re after?”

“I want your side of the story,” Wiley said sharply. “I’m looking for the truth.”

She shook her head with contempt. “No, mister, you’re not after the truth. Whatever I tell you, you wouldn’t believe me. You just want a story against poor Figueroa. Well, get that from the others.”

“The others?” Across the room three men were anxiously conferring in low tones with a second detective named Tom Corbin, Ricca’s partner. “All right, let’s do that.”

Ricca and Wiley went over. Corbin got up with a pleasant smile. He was a freckled blue-eyed man, taller than his partner and dressed with equal neatness. He shook hands and introduced his three witnesses to Wiley. They were short muscular men whose hands showed large callouses. They nodded politely. Their faces were all sunburnt but the tans were old and faded. Under their stoic manner, Wiley saw that they were deeply upset. Their names meant nothing to him.

One of the men asked in a cockney accent, “How’s the kid, mister? These here ’tecs don’t seem to know.”

Ricca said to Wiley in a low voice, “Start off with this witness. He can give you the picture.”

“Let’s go inside.” Wiley nodded the witness into the inner office. He took out a yellow form and placed it on the desk and put questions. The witness was Alexander Goudy, aged 28, unmarried, a British subject, a resident of Cowper’s Lane, London, England. Ricca and Corbin entered these facts in their notebooks.

“All right, Goudy.” Wiley sat back and shaded his eyes. “Tell me what happened.”

“Eddie did nothing. It was really the rest of us who had this trouble with the man.” Goudy spoke with a stammer. “This man had no reason to knife the kid at all.”

“When you say ‘this man’ do you mean Figueroa?”

“Yes, sir, the man outside, the prisoner.” Goudy fumbled to light a cigarette with a shaking hand. “Eddie, that’s Edward Porter, sir, he’s just eighteen. His mother manages a little sweets shop back home. We’re neighbors and I promised to look after him. The fact is I expect to marry his sister, Kitty, when I get home. Here, you can see what they look like.”

He showed a photograph of a group seated around a picnic basket under a tree. Goudy was in the picture with his arm around a girl with yellow hair. A tired older woman gazed pleasantly at the couple while a youth in shirtsleeves stood behind them grinning in a boyish pose. Wiley studied the group as Goudy pointed each one out. “That’s Kitty, Mrs. Porter, Eddie and me last summer.”

Wiley put down the print.

“Eddie’s a nice boy,” Goudy said solemnly. “He’s wanted to go to sea since he’s been a kid. That’s because of me. Not having an older brother, that made me one, in a way of speaking. I’ve been to sea all these years. I’m an oiler and Eddie liked the idea—”

“Get to the point, Alex,” Ricca said impatiently.

Wiley said, “Let him take his time.”

Goudy went on in a slow serious way. “Mrs. Porter let Eddie go to sea when I promised to take care of him. This was his first time. We shipped to Boston and then started the run back to Oslo. One day out we hit an old mine square in the shipping run. There was a big blowup. The whole bloody sky crashed down on us. There was just four alive when this Norskie freighter picked us up New York-bound. Eddie couldn’t swim and he’s just alive because we kept him afloat — me and Hughie Cartright and Johnny Barrow, taking turns—”

“Cartright? Barrow?” Wiley asked.

“The two men sitting outside, sir.”

Wiley made a note and Goudy added, “I almost went under myself, but I kept thinking how it would be to face up to Mrs. Porter and Kitty if anything happened to the boy and I stuck it.”

“Were you in the War?”

“I made three runs to Murmansk, sir.” Goudy rubbed his hands and lapsed into staring.

Wiley could see the pictures in Goudy’s mind — the flaming tower of spume, the crash of the deluge, the shock of icy seas, the screams of men, the rumble of the sinking vessel with its spine cracked, death in the gray North Atlantic. He opened the door to the waiting room. “Which is which?”

Goudy turned. “That’s Cartright, the other’s Johnny Barrow.”

The two dozing men looked up expectantly. They were without overcoats and they shivered. Cartright’s spectacles gave a mild cast to his eyes. Barrow’s hairy face with its lantern jaw made a picture of respectability. Wiley closed the door. “You were lucky the War was over,” he said drily.

Goudy stammered, “I thought of that. With any Nazi subs around, the Norskies would have passed us by. I saw that happen once. As it was, they found us praying and crying and balmy. The next thing, we were in a rest home here in New York. The company was quite good to us. I asked them not to notify Mrs. Porter that the ship had sunk.”

Wiley brought him back. “What about last night?”

“Well, we were out for a bit of fun. That’s not easy for merchant seamen, sir, since we draw our pay in pounds mostly. But we were to ship out today for home and we did our best. We got wind of a little Hallowe’en party and we went there, but it was just for kids, and we left. Then we saw a film and walked around Times Square. We passed up a few prosties who tried to talk to us. We didn’t want that sort of thing. The kid was red in the face, blushing you know, and besides Barrow and Cartright are married men, and me engaged. We walked all over town and when it began to rain, we were outside this nightclub. We were hungry, and we went in.”

“What time was this?”

“About two.” Goudy started another cigarette. “It was a nice quiet place. We went down and there were tables. A man was playing the piano, something bouncey, and a girl was singing Enjoy Yourself. She looked full of fun. There were only two couples about—”

“What about Figueroa?”

“He was at a table near the door drinking heavily.”

“Was there trouble then?”

“The girl was singing and that was all. We took a booth and then this man Blasco—”

“Blasco?”

Ricca gave the answer. “He’s the owner. James Blasco, 847 Arlington Street, Long Island City. We’re out looking for him now.”

Goudy waited while Wiley made a note. “The owner, Blasco, came over smiling, a friendly looking man, nicely dressed. He was wearing a dinner jacket. I said, ‘We’d like a pint of ale each and some sandwiches.’ He laughed and said, ‘You sound English! I like the English — a great race of people! My sister married an Englishman. They keep a flowershop in London.’ We talked a bit about London, and then he had the kitchen do up some lamb chops for us. They came in sizzling and rare, proper good stuff, with little paper flowers for holding. We offered to pay, but it was his treat, he knew we were short dollars. And then suddenly he looked up and said something in Spanish and went off. He seemed disturbed suddenly.”

Goudy’s mind was on the cafe with its few customers, garish and cheap, but looking first class to his eyes. He shivered and clasped his hands between his thighs. “The girl had stopped singing and was at Figueroa’s table. I said, ‘Beauty and the Beast’ and we laughed.”

“He means the girl outside,” Ricca said. “Jenny, the good looker.”

“Suppose we come down to the trouble,” Wiley suggested.

“That came a little later, sir. We heard loud voices and we all turned. Figueroa was talking fast to the girl in Spanish. I thought he was drunk. Then he was standing up screaming at the owner.”

“Where were all these people located?”

“Blasco, the owner, was behind the bar. Figueroa had thrown his table aside. His face was red as blood. He was sweating and dancing about, quite excited. The veins were sticking out in his neck. The girl was scolding him. He threw a chair across the bar and smashed the big mirror.”

“What made him do that?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Go on.”

“I said, ‘I expect Mr. Blasco needs help!’ Figueroa was tearing his hair and shaking his fist, a big one, the biggest I ever saw. I went to him and said, ‘Now then, now then, we can’t have this!’ The others were behind me. I remember thinking I sounded like a silly London bobby in an American film. The girl tried to get in the way. She kept saying, ‘Keep out of this, you. Let them alone.’ And a lot of other things, not all of them nice.”

The witness paused, then went on. “We knew what to do, of course. Cartright and Barrow took him from the sides, an arm each, and I hit him twice. I’m a fair boxer, but his face was slippery with sweat and I couldn’t connect. Then the owner came up with a heavy stick. It was a hell of a row. We broke a chair and some glasses, Barrow sprained a thumb, and I got this.” Goudy solemnly showed the mark of large teeth matrixed in the flesh of his hand. “The girl kept pulling at us, shrieking in Spanish. We were fair winded when the owner got in a clear whack. Figueroa started to moan and roll his eyes. We got out into the street and the girl ran after. Then the owner bolted the door and we stood about to catch our wind.”

“Tell me one thing, Alex.” Ricca scratched his face dubiously. “What possible reason made you men all get into the fray?”

“What else could we do, sir?” Corbin said drily.

“Mr. Blasco, the owner of the pub, needed help. This fellow Figueroa was quite out of hand.” Goudy was puzzled.

“Ah!” Ricca said. “That explains it.”

“Did the owner of the pub explain all this?” Wiley asked.

“No,” Goudy said thoughtfully. “Blasco just looked sick at the mess and began to get the place cleaned up. He offered us drinks for having helped out but we had enough. Then suddenly we heard Figueroa shouting outside, and all at once his fist smashed through the glass door — smashed right through and hung there, bleeding. I pulled the door open and shouted, ‘Hoy, you there! Clear off!’ Then he ran off and I lost him in the drizzle. I thought to call the police but Blasco said, ‘No, I know that man. A bad customer but he won’t come back. I’ll put up the shutters now.’ ”

Goudy bit a heavy underlip and concluded. “Meanwhile, the kid gave the girl his jacket against the rain and he walked her down the street, talking. I didn’t like it but he came back in ten minutes. He told me he had taken the girl to her flat down a bit. His shirt was wet.”

Wiley put a number of questions to establish the details and Goudy went on. “We left and we split up to scout out a taxi. Barrow and Cartright crossed the street and walked the north side. The kid and me walked the south side. I scolded the kid about the girl but he told me he’d had a nice talk with her and he didn’t mind the wet. It was dark and we almost fell over him again.”

“Who was that?”

“Figueroa, sir. He’d come back for more. The girl was with him, carrying a heavy stick. We stood still and I said as quiet as I could, ‘Eddie, don’t move — the man has a knife.’

“The kid said, ‘Don’t worry, Alex. It’s all right.’

“The man said something in Spanish and held up his hand. I looked for Barrow and Cartright. They were off a distance looking for a taxi. The girl shook the stick and said, ‘Keep away from us, keep away.’ ”

Goudy stared at Wiley and tears welled up. “I shall never forget that the kid was smiling at the girl. He just opened his hands and said to her, ‘It’s all right, Miss. It’s just us. We want to pass by.’ He took a step forward when this man made a quick motion to the kid’s belly and Eddie screamed and fell down to the pavement. I couldn’t believe it. Then I looked up and smashed him as hard as I could. I hit him three times, I think, then he and the woman ran off. I shouted ahead, ‘Cartright! Barrow! Stop that man! He’s hurt the kid!’ They cut him off and just at that moment the police came.

“I came back to the kid and I got sick. He was holding in his guts and asking like a baby, ‘What made him do it, Alex? What happened?’ Then the ambulance came and took him away and that was all. Except that I don’t know what I shall tell Mrs. Porter if he dies, sir. Indeed I don’t.”

The little group was silent while Wiley studied the family picture. He knew England and he fancied he could see the little shop Mrs. Porter kept. The mother seemed tired and her children carefree and thoughtless. Wiley rubbed his eyes and said, “Your girl’s pretty.”

Goudy’s body was shaking violently. “Thank you, sir.”

Wiley frowned. “For a man with a clear conscience, you seem nervous.”

The witness considered this seriously. “I caught that off Murmansk, sir, shellshock. I was torpedoed twice and strafed after. Couldn’t sleep mainly. Kept hearing those awful bombs. This thing’s brought it back.” He was silent and the bitter tears returned. “I almost wish I’d had it then. What did I fight for? What good did the whole bloody mess bring me?”

Wiley handed back the photograph. “All right, Goudy, wait outside. It won’t be long.”

Goudy went out, sniffling and blowing his nose.

Wiley drummed the table dubiously. “Well?”

Ricca raised his shoulders. “The others tell the same identical story. I guess we got the facts.”

Corbin said, “Three witnesses is pretty good.”

“What about getting some sort of confession?” Wiley said.

Ricca scratched his jaw. “Well, you know, we got nothing yet, not from the girl, not from Figueroa. We’re trying to get a Spanish cop down to translate, but we may not need him. This Blasco, the owner, he’ll tell us when he comes in.”

Wiley noticed the light of dawn. He stretched and stalked into the waiting room. The witnesses were dozing. He stood above the prisoner. “All right, Figueroa, do you want to tell your side now while you have a chance?”

The prisoner pointed to abrasions in his scalp. He unwrapped a hand-kerchief to show his gashed fingers.

“I know all about that,” Wiley said impatiently. “You talk English!”

“He’s scared, mister!” Jenny Ortega got up angrily. “Let him alone! Why not be fair about this?”

“Well!” Wiley looked her over. “Since you talk English, suppose you come inside.” She looked Wiley over with her self-contained manner still intact and said coolly, “If that’s what you want, mister.”

Wiley held the door aside as she entered the inner office and took a seat. Wiley placed the yellow form before him and considered the girl. She was small-boned but her carriage was proud. He invited her to begin. “Cigarette?”

The girl threw back the raincoat calmly. “I smoke my own.”

“All right.” Wiley lit up and began. “What made this man stab the English kid?”

“Who says he did?”

“I’ve got three witnesses.”

“Then why ask me?”

Ricca said, “This is no way, Jenny. Here’s your chance to tell your side. This is the district attorney. If you help him, he helps you. If you make trouble, he makes trouble.” He waited, then said strongly, “For God’s sake, Jenny, he can throw you in jail for a material witness! Fifty thousand dollars bail! You want that?”

“Jail?” She tossed her hair and said harshly, “What about my baby? You going to put him in jail too?”

Ricca said strongly, “This is Mr. Wiley, Jenny, a square shooter.”

Wiley said, “That’s up to you. I need the truth. If you have a side to tell, now is the time.”

“You’ll listen?” she asked cynically. “You’ll take our side? You’ll believe us?”

“You’ve been saying that all night. Why shouldn’t I believe you?”

“Why should you? We’re just dirt to you, me and my kind.”

“You don’t know what I think at all, Jenny,” Wiley said quietly. “But I’ll tell you this, if you hold out on me, I’ll have to hold you and the baby goes to the Foundling Home. But if you tell the truth, I’ll believe you. Now suppose you drop this act and think of that baby a minute.”

There was a long moment of silence.

The girl put out her hand. “I’ll take that cigarette.” She smoked thoughtfully while the white plumes curled from her nostrils, and Wiley saw that she was quite beautiful. Finally she looked up. “I’ve been telling these cops they got the wrong party. But no! They arrest poor Figueroa. The funny thing is he’s a citizen and they believe those foreigners against him.”

“Tell me something about Figueroa?”

“He’s a good man,” she said simply. “He runs a little business in the neighborhood, a grocery store. He keeps to himself, just a hardworking man trying to get along. He’s no criminal.”

“What was he doing in this bar?”

“He’s been coming these couple of months. He wants me to stop singing there and to marry him.”

“What did you say?”

“I wouldn’t do it. I said I’d just live with him. He didn’t want it that way on account of his mother. She’s very religious and he respects her. He’s like a baby, that way.”

“Why not marry him?”

She said in a low voice, “It wouldn’t be right.”

“Why not?” She said nothing, and Wiley went on. “What happened tonight?”

“Figueroa came in while I was singing. He had good news and he smiled to me. When he wants to, he’s got a nice smile. I saw him ask for whiskey, though normally he drinks beer. I smiled back. He’s the one man never treated me like an animal. Meanwhile these four walked in like they thought to take over, loud voices and everything, troublemakers.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“The regular thing. They give me the eye but I paid it no mind. I was just interested in Figueroa’s news.”

“What was that?”

“Figueroa had fixed it to send his mother to San Juan with his relatives. That meant I could move in. Then when we finally got to arguing and talking about it, Blasco horned in. He knew the deal. That’s because Figueroa’s got a loose tongue in the neighborhood. Can’t keep a thing to himself. He never could. He’s too excitable.”

“Were you going to take that deal?”

She shrugged. “Why not? That way I could get my kid to live with me. He’s only four and he’s staying with my grandmother now.” She added bitterly, “My mother don’t talk to me, my own mother.”

“Are you married?”

“No,” she said.

Ricca said, “Tell Mr. Wiley about Blasco.”

She said, “Blasco didn’t want me to go. When he came over, he was looking mean. He knows my line isn’t singing but I draw a certain steady trade and how many singers can claim that? He told Figueroa to forget about me and he said, ‘You take this girl away, and I ruin you! Now you got your warning!’ He made the sign for death and walked away.”

“What’s the sign?”

She paused to draw a finger across her throat. “Now, Figueroa’s got a few drinks in him at this time and he kept getting excited. Then Blasco said in a mean way, ‘Figueroa, I hear all about you and Esteban!’

“Figueroa said, ‘What about Esteban?’

“Blasco said, ‘The cops pulled a raid on him last night. Some pigeon tipped ’em off!’

“Figueroa got nervous and grabbed a chair. ‘What are you telling me?’ he yelled.

“Blasco came right back at him. ‘I say we got a pigeon in the house! I got my idea who it is!’

“Then Figueroa screamed, ‘You mean me? You calling me a pigeon?’

“Blasco bites his thumb and yells back, ‘Don’t make me stick a finger in your eye! You been pigeoning! I’m passing the word! We don’t want your kind around! You ask Jenny herself, she knows the whole story!’ Then Blasco talked some more against me and Figueroa began to turn purple. He could hardly breathe and I was afraid for his bad heart. Then he yelled like a wild man and threw a chair and the four sailors ganged him. I begged them to let the men fight fair, but no, they jumped him — four against one. They held his arms while Blasco busted his head open with a club. Then they threw him into a gutter like an animal. I found him there crying in the rain.”

“He went back for trouble,” Wiley suggested.

“No!” She shook her head. “He didn’t know what he was doing, he was so mixed up. He just wanted to go back to get his hat. But by then he was so wild he put his fist through the glass and cut himself. Then these four men came out to help Blasco gang him again and he ran home. When I got there, he was bleeding bad. Fie had to get to the hospital but he was afraid to go on the street. He thought they might be after him, so I promised to go with him. He finally took his small knife for protection and I carried his stick. It was dark, but before we took two steps, he whispered, ‘Watch out, Jenny, they’re back!’ I looked around. I got the picture right there. We were cut off on both sides. Two of them were right on top of us. Two others were circling us. They closed in and poor Figueroa had to defend himself. Then the big one gave Figueroa a beating before we could get away. The cops took us and they never once blamed the other side.”

Wiley drummed the table, then said pointedly, “The one he cut was the kid, the same one who lent you his jacket. That kid meant no harm.”

“How did we know that?” the girl said with a hard look. “We were just looking for the hospital. I warned them both to stay away. They just kept closing in. We wanted no trouble.”

“Did you give this warning in English?” Wiley asked pointedly.

The girl sat back and there was a moment of silence.

“When I’m excited, I use Spanish,” she said slowly. She knitted her brows and thought back. “I guess I made a mistake. I didn’t think of that. Now that you tell me, I’m sorry about that kid.”

Ricca coughed and moved his chair.

Wiley shaded his eyes. “Who is Esteban? Why should his name get Figueroa excited?”

“Esteban?” She laughed harshly. “He’s Blasco’s partner in this house the cops raided. That’s who Esteban is. Why isn’t he under arrest? How can he be operating? Esteban and Blasco!”

Wiley put the next question with care. “What did Blasco say against you just before the fight?”

The girl sat mute.

Ricca threw away a cigarette. “It’s obvious what Blasco said. He told Figueroa that Jenny works in that whorehouse for him. That’s why he was objecting to her going away. Am I right, Jenny?”

She said in a low voice, “Figueroa couldn’t stand to hear that said about me,” and turned to finish the cigarette.

Wiley asked, “Didn’t Figueroa know all this?”

“Sure he knew, but he couldn’t stand to hear it said.” She stared. “You’re a decent man. How would you feel?”

“If Figueroa feels that way about you,” Ricca said, “why wouldn’t you marry him? What’s the point?”

She said cynically, “Since I was twelve, I know too much about men. I won’t get tied to the best men alive. If he don’t treat me right, I want to walk out. I knew a girl got killed once just because a man thought he owned her.”

After a moment, Wiley said, “Stick around, Jenny. I’m sorry, but you’re a witness if there’s a trial.”

“What’s going to happen to Figueroa?” she asked huskily.

“I can’t tell until I know whether the kid dies. But I’ll do my best for him. You can tell him that much in Spanish.”

The girl looked at Wiley as though she saw him for the first time. There were hard lines about the lawyer’s mouth. Whether his eyes, cold and blue, had any sympathy, she could not tell. “Four against one!” she muttered. “The poor man!”

The interview was over and the girl left the inner office and gave the prisoner Wiley’s message. The prisoner kissed her hand and pressed it to his cheeks. “Pobrecito!” she murmured and he responded in Spanish. The girl looked up at Wiley. “He wants me to say ‘Thanks’.”

An hour of formalities passed. Other witnesses were questioned, then Corbin took the weeping prisoner downstairs and booked him for assault as a temporary measure.

They all left the precinct house together. Outside on the steps of the station house, Wiley paused to ask, “How old are you, Jenny? Do you mind telling me?”

“Nineteen.” She answered with a lurking hard smile as though she knew that he had expected her to say thirty.

The street was wet and steaming but the early sun was warm. The girl turned abruptly and walked off, her black evening dress attracting the gibes of urchins.

Wiley and the detectives got into the car and drove off.

At St. Vincent’s Hospital they got permission to visit the emergency ward. They found the young seaman in a corner bed under a dim light, screened off from the other patients. His face, they saw, was nothing like his laughing photograph. His eyes and lips were blue outlines in a waxy mask. His breathing was stertorous and shallow.

While Ricca took notes, Wiley explained his mission. The nurse kept stroking the boy’s damp hair with a soothing motion. His thin nose rose like a scimitar from the pillow.

“Do you want to talk, Porter?” Wiley asked.

The boy turned his eyes and his lips moved. “Will I die, sir?” he whispered.

Wiley did not answer directly. “Do you want to tell me how you got stabbed?”

The boy made an effort. His eyes were frightened. He managed a whisper.

“It hurts.”

Wiley paused to rub his jaw. His eyes were bleak. He hated this but he had to make an attempt.

“How do you feel about your chances?” he asked softly.

The boy whispered, “I’m all right, sir. I’ll be up soon. I’ve got to make my ship, you know.”

“Just tell me what happened in your own way.”

The boy said weakly, “A girl. I only meant to pass. I told her that. I was only—”

The whisper trailed off and the nurse intervened.

“He’s in a coma,” she said. “There’s nothing he can say now.”

The investigators trailed out, feeling relieved.

“That’s that!” Ricca lit a cigarette. “You go ahead, Dave. I’ll stick around, just in case.”

Wiley left and went directly to court to dispose of a lengthy sentence calendar. The hospital ward was in his mind throughout the day.

Toward evening he received a call from St. Vincent’s that the young seaman had died in coma. Wiley looked at his notes on the desk, then telephoned Goudy.

“I know about it, sir.” Goudy’s voice was remote arid, it struck Wiley, all the more desolate for being quiet. “They called me first thing. Thank you for calling.”

Wiley scrawled a change in his report to indicate that the assault had become homicide. “We’ll charge Figueroa with manslaughter, perhaps murder, but I can’t promise the result. A jury will probably acquit.”

“How can that be, sir?” Goudy cried.

“He’ll claim he was defending himself. He was afraid of you.”

“But, sir!” Goudy protested. “The kid told him we just wanted to pass!”

“The kid told him in English. This man didn’t understand.” Wiley paused. “It seems neither side spoke the same language. Too bad.”

In a small voice, Goudy asked, “What shall I tell Mrs. Porter, sir? That it was too bad?”

“Tell her it was just a street accident.”

“That wouldn’t be true,” Goudy objected. “How can I say that?”

“It’s true enough, and she won’t feel so badly.”

“I don’t understand!” Goudy said stubbornly.

Wiley waited with a sense of exasperation.

“Do you want her to know the boy was stabbed to death in a gutter?”

There was no answer.

After a time, Wiley concluded that Goudy had forgotten to hang up.

That evening, Wiley was grateful to get home. The children were frisky and demanding of attention until he read them their comics. They were not to be put off until dinner guests arrived.

Wiley did more than his usual drinking but he was a silent host. As the talk went on about him, he was conscious of the warmth of his home and the affection of his wife’s eyes.

The evening ended early.

Even when the guests had gone and the dishes were done, his wife did not ask nor did he tell her about the stabbing in the streets.