McBain's Ladies: The Women of the 87th Precinct

Claire Townsend

In Riverhead — and throughout the city for that matter — but especially in Riverhead, the cave dwellers have thrown up a myriad number of dwellings which they call middle-class apartment houses. These buildings are usually connected of yellow brick, and they are carefully set on the street so that no wash in seen hanging on the lines, except when an inconsiderate city transit authority constructs an elevated structure that cuts through backyards.

The fronts of the buildings are usually hung with a different kind of wash. Here is where the women gather. They sit on bridge chairs and stools and they knit and they sun themselves, and they talk, and their talk is the dirty wash of the apartment building. In three minutes flat, a reputation can be ruined by these Mesdames Defarges. The ax drops with remarkable abruptness, whetted by a friendly discussion of last night’s mah-jongg game. The head, with equally remarkable suddenness, rolls into the basket, and the discussion idles on to topics like “Should birth control be practiced in the Virgin Isles?”

Autumn was a bold seductress on that late Monday afternoon, September 18. The women lingered in front of the buildings, knowing their hungry men would soon be home for dinner, but lingering nonetheless, savoring the tantalizing bite of the air. When the tall blond man stopped in front of 728 Peterson, paused to check the address over the arched doorway, and then stepped into the foyer, speculation ran rife among the women knitters. After a brief period of consultation, one of the women — a girl named Birdie — was chosen to sidle unobtrusively into the foyer and, if the opportunity were ripe, perhaps casually follow the good-looking stranger upstairs.

Birdie, so carefully unobtrusive was she, missed her golden opportunity. By the time she had wormed her way into the inner foyer, Bert Kling was nowhere in sight.

He had checked the name “Townsend” in the long row of brass-plated mailboxes, pushed the bell button, and then leaned on the inner door until an answering buzz released its lock mechanism. He had then climbed to the fourth floor, found apartment 47, and pushed another button.

He was now waiting.

He pushed the button again.

The door opened suddenly. He had heard no approaching footsteps, and the sudden opening of the door surprised him. Unconsciously, he looked first to the girl’s feet. She was barefoot.

“I was raised in the Ozarks,” she said, following his glance. “We own a vacuum cleaner, a carpet sweeper, a broiler, a set of encyclopedias, and subscriptions to most of the magazines. Whatever you’re selling, we’ve probably got it, and we’re not interested in putting you through college.”

Kline smiled. “I’m selling an automatic apple corer,” he said.

“We don’t eat apples,” the girl replied.

“This one mulches the seeds, and converts them to fiber. The corer comes complete with an instruction booklet telling you how to weave fiber mats.”

The girl raised a speculative eyebrow.

“It comes in six colors,” Kling went on. “Toast Brown, Melba Peach, Tart Red—”

“Are you on the level?” the girl asked, puzzled now.

“Proofreader Blue,” Kling continued, “Bilious Green, and Midnight Dawn.” He paused. “Are you interested?”

“Hell, no,” she said, somewhat shocked.

“My name is Bert Kling,” he said seriously. “I’m a cop.”

“Now you sound like the opening to a television show.”

“May I come in?”

“Am I in trouble?” the girl asked. “Did I leave that damn shebang in front of a fire hydrant?”

“No.”

And then, as an afterthought, “Where’s your badge?”

Kling showed her his shield.

“You’re supposed to ask,” the girl said. “Even the man from the gas company. Everybody’s supposed to carry identification like that.”

“Yes, I know.”

“So come in,” she said. “I’m Claire Townsend.”

“I know.”

“How do you know?”

“The boys at Club Tempo sent me here.”

Claire stared at Kling levelly. She was a tall girl. Even barefoot, she reached to Kling’s shoulder. In high heels, she would give the average American male trouble. Her hair was black. Not brunette, not brownette, but black, a total black, the black of a starless, moonless night. Her eyes were a deep brown, arched with black brows. Her nose was straight, and her cheeks were high, and there wasn’t a trace of makeup on her face, not a tint of lipstick on her wide mouth. She wore a white blouse, and black toreador pants, which tapered down to her naked ankles and feet. Her toenails were painted a bright red.

She kept staring at him. At last, she said, “Why’d they send you here?”

“They said you knew Jeannie Paige.”

“Oh.” The girl seemed ready to blush. She shook her head slightly, as if to clear it of an erroneous first impression, and then said, “Come in.”

Kling followed her into the apartment. It was furnished with good middle-class taste.

“Sit down,” she said.

“Thank you.” He sat in a low easy chair. It was difficult to sit erect, but he managed it. Claire went to the coffee table, shoved the lid off a cigarette box, took one of the cigarettes for herself, and then asked, “Smoke?”

“No, thanks.”

“Your name was Kling, did you say?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a detective?”

“No. A patrolman.”

“Oh.” Claire lighted the cigarette, shook out the match, and then studied Kling. “What’s your connection with Jeannie?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing.”

Claire grinned. “I asked first.”

“I know her sister. I’m doing a favor.”

“Um-huh.” Claire nodded, digesting this. She puffed on the cigarette, folded her arms across her breasts, and then said, “Well, go ahead. Ask the questions. You’re the cop.”

”Why don’t you sit down?”

“I’ve been sitting all day.”

“You work?”

“I’m a college girl,” Claire said. “I’m studying to be a social worker.”

“Why that?”

“Why not?”

Kling smiled. “This time, I asked first.”

“I want to get to people before you do,” she said.

“That sounds reasonable,” Kling said. “Why do you belong to Club Tempo?”

Her eyes grew suddenly wary. He could almost see a sudden film pass over the pupils, masking them. She turned her head and blew out a ball of smoke. “Why shouldn’t I?” she asked.

“I can see where our conversation is going to run around in the why/why not rut,” Kling said.

“Which is a damn sight better than the why/because rut, don’t you think?” There was an edge to her voice now. He wondered what had suddenly changed her earlier friendliness. He weighed her reaction for a moment, and then decided to plunge onward.

“The boys there are a little young for you, aren’t they?”

“You’re getting a little personal, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Kling said. “I am.”

“Our acquaintance is a little short for personal exchanges,” Claire said icily.

“Hud can’t be more than eighteen—”

“Listen—”

“And what’s Tommy? Nineteen? They haven’t got an ounce of brains between them. Why do you belong to Tempo?”

Claire squashed out her cigarette. “Maybe you’d better leave, Mr. Kling,” she said.

“I just got here,” he answered.

She turned. “Let’s set the record straight. So far as I know, I’m not obliged to answer any questions you ask about my personal affairs, unless I’m under suspicion for some foul crime. To bring the matter down to a fine technical point, I don’t have to answer any questions a patrolman asks me, unless he is operating in an official capacity, which you admitted you were not. I liked Jeannie Paige, and I’m willing to cooperate. But if you’re going to get snotty, this is still my home, and my home is my castle, and you can get the hell out.”

“Okay,” Kling said, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Miss Townsend.”

“Okay,” Claire said. A silence clung to the atmosphere. Claire looked at Kling. Kling looked back at her.

“I’m sorry, too,” Claire said finally. “I shouldn’t be so goddamn touchy.”

“No, you were perfectly right. It’s none of my business what you—”

“Still, I shouldn’t have—”

“No really, it’s—”

Claire burst out laughing, and Kling joined her. She sat, still chuckling, and said, “Would you like a drink, Mr. Kling?”

Kling looked at his watch. “No, thanks,” he said.

“Too early for you?”

“Well—”

“It’s never too early for cognac,” she said.

“I’ve never tasted cognac,” he admitted.

“You haven’t?” Her eyebrows shot up onto her forehead. “Ah, monsieur, you are meesing one of ze great treats of life. A little, oui? Non?”

“A little,” he said.

She crossed to a bar with green Leatherette doors, opened them, and drew out a bottle with a warm, amber liquid showing within.

“Cognac,” she announced grandly, “the king of brandies. You can drink it as a highball, cocktail, punch — or in coffee, tea, hot chocolate, and milk.”

“Milk?” Kling asked, astonished.

“Milk, yes indeed. But the best way to enjoy cognac is to sip it — neat.”

“You sound like an expert,” Kling said.

Again, quite suddenly, the veil passed over her eyes. “Someone taught me to drink it,” she said flatly, and then she poured some of the liquid into two medium-sized, tulip-shaped glasses. When she turned to face Kling again, the mask had dropped from her eyes.

“Note that the glass is only half filled,” she said. “That’s so you can twirl it without spilling any of the drink.” She handed the glass to Kling. “The twirling motion mixes the cognac vapors with the air in the glass, bringing out the bouquet. Roll the glass in your palms, Mr. Kling. That warms the cognac and also brings out the aroma.”

“Do you smell this stuff or drink it?” Kling wanted to know. He rolled the glass between his big hands.

“Both,” Claire said. “That’s what makes it a good experience. Taste it. Go ahead.”

Kling took a deep swallow, and Claire opened her mouth and made an abrupt “Stop!” signal with one outstretched hand. “Good God,” she said, “don’t gulp it! You’re committing an obscenity when you gulp cognac. Sip it, roll it around your tongue.”

“I’m sorry,” Kling said. He sipped the cognac, rolled it on his tongue. “Good,” he said.

“Virile,” she said.

“Velvety,” he added.

“End of commercial.”

They sat silently, sipping the brandy. He felt very cozy and very warm and very comfortable. Claire Townsend was a pleasant person to look at, and a pleasant person to talk to. Outside the apartment, the shadowy grays of autumn dusk were washing the sky.

“About Jeannie,” he said. He did not feel like discussing death.

“Yes?”

“How well did you know her?”

“As well as anyone, I suppose. I don’t think she had many friends.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You can tell. That lost-soul look. A beautiful kid, but lost. God, what I wouldn’t have given for the looks she had.”

“You’re not so bad,” Kling said, smiling. He sipped more brandy.

“That’s the warm, amber glow of the cognac,” Claire advised him. “I’m a beast in broad daylight.”

“I’ll just bet you are,” Kling said. “How’d you first meet her?”

“At Tempo. She came down one night. I think her boyfriend sent her. In any case, she had the name of the club and the address written on a little white card. She showed it to me, almost as if it were a ticket of admission, and then she just sat in the corner and refused dances. She looked… It’s hard to explain. She was there, but she wasn’t there. Have you seen people like that?”

“Yes,” Kling said.

“I’m like that myself sometimes,” Claire admitted. “Maybe that’s why I spotted it. Anyway, I went over and introduced myself and we started talking. We got along very well. By the end of the evening we’d exchanged telephone numbers.”

“Did she ever call you?”

“No. I only saw her at the club.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Oh, a long lime now.”

“How long?”

“Let me see.” Claire sipped her cognac and thought. “Gosh, it must be almost a year.” She nodded. “Yes, just about.”

“I see. Go ahead.”

“Well, it wasn’t hard to find out what was troubling her. The kid was in love.”

Kling leaned forward. “How do you know?”

Claire’s eyes did not leave his face. “I’ve been in love, too,” she said tiredly.

“Who was her boyfriend?” Kling asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Didn’t she tell you?”

“No.”

“Didn’t she mention his name ever? I mean, in conversation?”

“No.”

“Hell,” Kling said.

“Understand, Mr. Kling, that this was a new bird taking wing. Jeannie was leaving the nest, testing her feathers.”

“I see.”

“Her first love, Mr. Kling, and shining in her eyes, and glowing on her face, and putting her in this dream world of hers where everything outside it was shadowy.” Claire shook her head. “God, I’ve seen them green, but Jeannie—” She stopped and shook her head again. “She just didn’t know anything, do you know? Here was this woman’s body… well, had you ever seen her?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know what I mean. This was the real item, a woman. But inside — a little girl.”

“How do you figure that?” Kling asked, thinking of the autopsy results.

“Everything about her. The way she used to dress, the way she talked, the questions she asked, even her handwriting. All a little girl’s. Believe me, Mr. Kling, I’ve never—”

“Her handwriting?”

“Yes, yes. Here, let me see if I’ve still got it.” She crossed the room and scooped her purse from a chair. “I’m the laziest girl in the world. I never copy an address into my address book. I just stick it in between the pages until I’ve…” She was thumbing through a little black hook. “Ah, here it is,” she said. She handed Kling a white card. “She wrote that for me the night we met. Jeannie Paige, and then the phone number. Now, look at the way she wrote.”

Kling looked at the card in puzzlement. “This says ‘Club Tempo,’” he said. ‘“1812 Klausner Street.’”

“What?” Claire frowned. “Oh, yes. That’s the card she came down with that night. She used the other side to give me her number. Turn it over.”

Kling did.

“See the childish scrawl? That was Jeannie Paige a year ago.”

Kling flipped the card over again. “I’m more interested in this side,” he said. “You told me you thought her boyfriend might have written this. Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know. I just assumed he was the person who sent her down, that’s all. It’s a man’s handwriting.”

“Yes,” Kling said. “May I keep this?”

Claire nodded. “If you like.” She paused. “I guess I have no further use for Jeannie’s phone number.”

“No,” Kling said. He put the card into his wallet. “You said she asked you questions. What kind of questions?”

“Well, for one, she asked me how to kiss.”

“What?”

“Yes. She asked me what to do with her lips, whether she should open her mouth, use her tongue. And all this delivered with that wide-eyed, baby-blue stare. It sounds incredible, I know. But, remember, she was a young bird, and she didn’t know how strong her wings were.”

“She found out,” Kling said.

“Huh?”

“Jeannie Paige was pregnant when she died.”

“No!” Claire said. She put down the brandy glass. “No, you’re joking!”

“I’m serious.”

Claire was silent for several moments. Then she said, “First time at bat, and she gets beaned. Damnit! Goddamnit!”

“But you don’t know who her boyfriend was?”

“No.”

“Had she continued seeing him? You said this was a year ago. I mean—”

“I know what you mean. Yes, the same one. She’d been seeing him regularly. In fact, she used the club for that.”

“He came to the club?” Kling said, sitting erect.

“No, no.” Claire was shaking her head impatiently. “I think her sister and brother-in-law objected to her seeing this fellow. So she told them she was going down to Tempo. She’d stay there a little while, just in case anyone was checking, and then she’d leave.”

“Let me understand this,” Kling said. “She came to the club, and then left to meet him. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“This was standard procedure? This happened each time she came down?”

“Almost each time. Once in a while she’d stay at the club until things broke up.”

“Did she meet him in the neighborhood?”

“No, I don’t think so. I walked her down to the El once.”

“What time did she generally leave the club?”

“Between ten and ten-thirty.”

“And she walked to the El, is that right? And you assume she took a train there and went to meet him.”

“I know she went to meet him. The night I walked her, she told me she was going downtown to meet him.”

“Downtown where?”

“She didn’t say.”

“What did he look like, this fellow?”

“She didn’t say.”

“She never described him?”

“Only to say he was the handsomest man in the world. Look, who ever describes his love? Shakespeare, maybe. That’s all.”

“Shakespeare and seventeen-year-olds,” Kling said. “Seventeen-year-olds shout their love to the rooftops.”

“Yes,” Claire said gently. “Yes.”

“But not Jeannie Paige. Damnit, why not her?”

“I don’t know.” Claire thought for a moment. “This mugger who killed her—”

“Um?”

“The police don’t think he was the fellow she was seeing, do they?”

“This is the first anyone connected with the police is hearing about her love life,” Kling said.

“Oh. Well, he — he didn’t sound that way. He sounded gentle. I mean, when Jeannie did talk about him, he sounded gentle.”

“But she never mentioned his name?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

Kling rose. “I’d better be going. That is dinner I smell, isn’t it?”

“My father’ll be home soon,” Claire said. “Mom is dead. I whip something up when I get home from school.”

“Every night?” Kling asked.

“What? I’m sorry…”

He didn’t know whether to press it or not. She hadn’t heard him, and he could easily have shrugged his comment aside. But he chose not to.

“I said, ‘Every night?’”

“Every night what?”

She certainly was not making it easy for him. “Do you prepare dinner every night? Or do you occasionally get a night off?”

“Oh, I get nights off,” Claire said.

“Maybe you’d enjoy dinner out some night?”

“With you, do you mean?”

“Well, yes. Yes, that’s what I had in mind.”

Claire Townsend looked at him long and hard. At last she said, “No, I don’t think so. I’m sorry. Thanks. I couldn’t.”

“Well… uh…” Quite suddenly, Kling felt like a horse’s ass. “I… uh… guess I’ll be going, then. Thanks for the cognac. It was very nice.”

“Yes,” she said, and he remembered her discussing people who were there and yet not there, and he knew exactly what she meant because she was not there at all. She was somewhere far away, and he wished he knew where. With sudden, desperate longing, he wished he knew where she was because, curiously, he wanted to be there with her.

“Good-bye,” he said.

She smiled in answer, and closed the door behind him.

That Thursday afternoon, Kling called Claire Townsend the first chance he got.

The first chance he got was on his lunch hour. He ordered a western sandwich and a cup of coffee, went to the phone book, looked up Townsend at 728 Peterson in Riverhead, and came up with a listing for Ralph Townsend. He went into the booth, deposited a dime, and dialed the number. He allowed the phone to ring for a total of twelve times, and then he hung up.

There were a lot of things to keep him busy on the beat that afternoon. A woman, for no apparent reason other than that her husband had called her “babe,” had struck out at him with a razor, opening a gash the size of a banana on the side of his face. Kling made the pinch. The razor, by the time he had arrived on the scene, had gone the way of all discreet assault weapons — down the nearest sewer.

No sooner was he back on the street than a gang of kids attacked a boy as he was coming home from school. The boy had committed the unpardonable sin of making a pass at a deb who belonged to a rival street gang. Kling arrived just as the gang members were ready to dump the kid into the pavement. He collared one of them, told him he knew the faces of all the kids who’d participated in the beating, and that if anything happened to the boy they’d jumped from here on in, he’d know just where to look. The gang member nodded solemnly, and then took off after his friends. The boy they’d jumped survived with only a few bumps on his head. This time, fists had been the order of the day.

Kling then proceeded to break up a crap game in the hallway of one of the buildings, listen to the ranting complaints of a shopkeeper who insisted that an eight-year-old boy had swiped a bolt of blue shantung, warn one of the bar owners that his license was kaput the next time any hustlers were observed soliciting in his joint, have a cup of coffee with one of the better-known policy runners in the neighborhood, and then walk back to the precinct house, where he changed into street clothes.

As soon as he hit the street again, he called Claire. She picked up the instrument on the fourth ring.

“Who is it?” she said, “and I hope to hell you apologize for getting me out of the shower. I’m wringing wet.”

“I apologize,” Kling said.

“Mr. Kling?” she asked, recognizing his voice.

“Yes.”

“I was going to call you, but I didn’t know where. I remembered something that might help.”

“What is it?”

“The night I walked Jeannie down to the train station she said something.”

“What?”

“She said she had a half-hour ride ahead of her. Does that help?”

“It might. Thanks a lot.” He paused. “Listen, I’ve been thinking.”

“Yes.”

“About… about this dinner setup. I thought maybe—”

“Mr. Kling,” she interrupted, “you don’t want to take me to dinner.”

“I do,” he insisted.

“I’m the dullest girl in the world, believe me. I’d bore you stiff.”

“I’d like to take the chance.”

“You’re only asking for trouble for yourself. Don’t bother, believe me. Buy your mother a present with the money.”

“I bought my mother a present last week.”

“Buy her another one.”

“Besides, I was thinking of going Dutch.”

Claire chuckled. “Well, now you make it sound more attractive.”

“Seriously, Claire—”

“Seriously, Mr. Kling, I’d rather not. I’m a sad sack, and you wouldn’t enjoy me one bit.”

“I enjoy you already.”

“Those were company manners.”

“Say, have you got an inferiority complex or something?”

“It’s not that I have an inferiority complex, Doctor,” she said, “it’s that I really am inferior.” Kling laughed, and she said, “Do you remember that cartoon?”

“No, but it’s wonderful. How about dinner?”

“Why?”

“I like you.”

“There are a million girls in this city.”

“More than that, even.”

“Mr. Kling—”

“Bert.”

“Bert, there’s nothing here for you.”

“I haven’t said what I want yet.”

“Whatever you want, it’s not here.”

“Claire, let me gamble on it. Let me take you to dinner, and let me spend what may turn out to be the most miserable evening in my entire life. I’ve gambled with larger stakes involved. In the service, I even gambled with my life once in a while.”

“Were you in the service?” she asked.

“Yes.”

There seemed to be sudden interest in her voice. “Korea?”

“Yes.”

There was a long silence on the line.

“Claire?”

“I’m here.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Deposit five cents for the next three minutes, please,” the operator said.

“Oll, hell, just a minute,” Kling replied. He dug into his pocket and deposited a nickel. “Claire?” he said.

“I’m costing you money already,” she told him.

“I’ve got money to burn,” he answered. “How about it? I’ll call for you tonight at about six-thirty.”

“No, tonight is out of the question.”

“Tomorrow night, then.”

“I have a late class tomorrow. I don’t get out until seven.”

“I’ll meet you at the school.”

“That won’t give me any time to change.”

“It’ll be a come-as-you-are date, okay?”

“I usually wear flats and a dirty old sweater to school.”

“Fine!” he said enthusiastically.

“I suppose I could wear a dress and heels, though. It might shock some of the slobs in our hallowed halls, but then again it might set a precedent.”

“Seven o’clock?”

“All right,” she said.

“Good, I’ll see you then.”

“Good-bye.”

“Bye.” He hung up, grinning. He was stepping out of the booth when he remembered. Instantly, he reached into his pocket for another dime. He had no change. He went to the proprietor of the candy store, who was busy doling out a couple of two-cent seltzers. By the time he got his change, five minutes had rushed by. He dialed the number rapidly.

“Hello?”

“Claire, this is me again.”

“You got me out of the shower again, you know that, don’t you?”

“Gee, I’m awfully sorry, but you didn’t tell me which school.”

“Oh.” Claire was silent. “Nope, I didn’t. It’s Women’s U. Do you know where that is?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. Go to Radley Hall. You’ll find the office of our alleged college newspaper there. The paper is called The Radley Clarion, but the sign on the door says The Radley Rag. I keep my coat in a locker there. Don’t let all the predatory females frighten you.”

“I’ll be there on the dot,” Kling said.

“And I, exercising a woman’s prerogative, shall be there ten minutes after the dot.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Good. Now, you don’t mind, do you, but I’m making a big puddle on the carpet.”

“I’m sorry. Go wash.”

“You said that as if you thought I was dirty.”

“If you’d rather talk, I’ve got all night.”

“I’d rather wash. Good-bye, Tenacious.”

“Good-bye, Claire.”

“You are tenacious, you realize that, don’t you?”

Kling grinned. “Tenacious, anyone?” he asked.

“Ouch!” Claire said. “Good-bye,” and then she hung up.

He sat in the booth grinning foolishly for a good three minutes. A fat lady finally knocked on the glass panel in the door and said, “Young man, that booth isn’t a hotel.”

Kling opened the doors. “That’s funny,” he said. “Room service just sent up a sandwich.”

The woman blinked, pulled a face, and then stuffed herself into the booth, slamming the door emphatically.

Kling dressed for his date carefully.

He didn’t know exactly why, but he felt that extreme care should be exercised in the handling and feeding of Claire Townsend. He admitted to himself that he had never — well, hardly ever — been so taken with a girl, and that he would probably be devastated forever — well, for a long time — if he lost her. He had no ideas on exactly how to win her, except for this intuition which urged him to proceed with caution. She had, after all, warned him repeatedly. She had put out the “Keep off” sign, and then she had read the sign aloud to him, and then she had translated it into six languages, but she had nonetheless accepted his offer.

Which, proves beyond doubt, he thought, that the girl is wildly in love with me.

Which piece of deduction was about on a par with the high level detective work he had done so far. His abortive attempts at getting anywhere with the Jeannie Paige murder left him feeling a little foolish. He wanted very much to be promoted to Detective 3rd/Grade someday, but he entertained severe doubts now as to whether he really was detective material. It was almost two weeks since Peter Bell had come to him with his plea. It was almost two weeks since Bell had scribbled his address on a scrap of paper, a scrap still tucked in one of the pockets of Kling’s wallet. A lot had happened in those nearly two weeks. And those happenings gave Kling reason for a little healthy soul-searching.

He was, at this point, just about ready to leave the case to the men who knew how to handle such things. His amateurish legwork, his fumbling questions, had netted a big zero — or so he thought. The only important thing he’d turned up was Claire Townsend. Claire, he was certain, was important. She was important now, and he felt she would become more important as time went by.

So let’s polish our goddamn shoes. You want to look like a slob?

He took his shoes from the closet, slipped them on over socks he would most certainly smear with polish and later change, and set to work with his shine kit.

He was spitting on his right shoe when the knock sounded on the door.

“Who is it?” he called.

“Police. Open up,” the voice said.

“Who?”

“Police.”

Kling rose, his trouser cuffs rolled up high, his hands smeared with black polish. “Is this a gag?” he said to the closed door.

“Come on, Kling,” the voice said. “You know better than that.”

Kling opened the door. Two men stood in the hallway. Both were huge, both wore tweed jackets over V-necked sweaters, both looked bored.

“Bert Kling,” one of them asked.

“Yes?” he said, puzzled.

A shield flashed. “Monoghan and Monroe,” one of them said. “Homicide. I’m Monoghan.”

“I’m Monroe,” the other one said.

They were like Tweedledum and Tweedledee, Kling thought. He suppressed his smile. Neither of his visitors was smiling. Each looked as if he had just come from an out-of-town funeral.

“Come in, fellers,” Kling said. “I was just dressing.”

“Thank you,” Monoghan said.

“Thank you,” Monroe echoed.

They slipped into the room. They both took off their fedoras. Monoghan cleared his throat. Kling looked at them expectantly.

“Like a drink?” he asked, wondering why they were here, feeling somehow awed and frightened by their presence.

“A short one,” Monoghan said.

“A tiny hooker,” Monroe said.

Kling went to the closet and pulled out a bottle. “Bourbon okay?”

“When I was a patrolman,” Monoghan said, “I couldn’t afford bourbon.”

“This was a gift,” Kling said.

“I never took whiskey. Anybody on the beat wanted to see me, it was cash on the line.”

“That’s the only way,” Monroe said.

“This was a gift from my father. When I was in the hospital. The nurses wouldn’t let me touch it there.”

“You can’t blame them,” Monoghan said.

“Turn the place into an alcoholic ward,” Monroe said, unsmiling.

Kling brought them their drinks. Monoghan hesitated.

“Ain’t you drinking with us?”

“I’ve got an important date,” he said. “I want to keep my head.”

Monoghan looked at him with the flat look of a reptile. He shrugged, then turned to Monroe and said, “Here’s looking at you.”

Monroe acknowledged the toast. “Up yours,” he said unsmilingly, and then tossed off the shot.

“Good bourbon,” Monoghan said.

“Excellent,” Monroe amplified.

“More?” Kling asked.

“Thanks,” Monoghan said.

“No,” Monroe said.

Kling looked at them. “You said you were from Homicide?”

“Homicide North.”

“Monoghan and Monroe,” Monroe said. “Ain’t you heard of us? We cracked the Nelson-Nichols-Permen triangle murder.”

“Oh,” Kling said.

“Sure,” Monoghan said modestly. “Big case.”

“One of our biggest,” Monroe said.

“Big one.”

“Yeah.”

“What are you working on now?” Kling asked, smiling.

“The Jeannie Paige murder,” Monoghan said flatly.

A dart of fear shot up into Kling’s skull. “Oh?” he said.

“Yeah,” Monoghan said.

“Yeah,” Monroe said.

Monoghan cleared his throat. “How long you been with the force, Kling?” he asked.

“Just — just a short while.”

“That figures,” Monoghan said.

“Sure,” Monroe said.

“You like your job?”

“Yes,” Kling answered hesitantly.

“You want to keep it?”

“You want to go on being a cop?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then keep your ass out of Homicide.”

“What?” Kling said.

“He means,” Monroe explained, “keep your ass out of Homicide.”

“I–I don’t know what you mean.”

“We mean keep away from stiffs. Stiffs are our business.”

“We like stiffs,” Monroe said.

“We’re specialists, you understand? You call in a heart doctor when you got heart disease, don’t you? You call in an eye, ear, nose, and throat man when you got laryngitis, don’t you? Okay, when you got a stiff, you call in Homicide. That’s us. Monoghan and Monroe.”

“You don’t call in a wet-pants patrolman.”

“Homicide. Not a beat-walker.”

“Not a pavement-pounder.”

“Not you!” Monoghan said.

“Not a nightstick-twirler.”

“Nut a traffic jockey.”

“Clear?” Monroe asked.

“Yes,” Kling said.

“It’s gonna get a lot clearer,” Monoghan added. “The lieutenant wants to see you.”

“What for?”

“The lieutenant is a funny guy. He thinks Homicide is the best damn department in the city. He runs Homicide, and he don’t like people coming in where they ain’t asked. I’ll let you in on a secret. He don’t even like the detectives from your precinct to go messing around in murder. Trouble is, he can’t refuse their assistance or their cooperation, specially when your precinct manages to stack up so many goddamn homicides each year. So he suffers the dicks — but he don’t have to suffer no goddamn patrolman.”

“But — but why does he want to see me? I understand now. I shouldn’t have stuck my nose in, and I’m sorry I—”

“You shouldn’t have stuck your nose in,” Monoghan agreed.

“You definitely shouldn’t have.”

“But I didn’t do any harm. I just—”

“Who knows what harm you done?” Monoghan said.

“You may have done untold harm,” Monroe said.

“Ah, hell,” Kling said, “I’ve got a date.”

“Yeah,” Monoghan said. “With the lieutenant.”

“Call your broad,” Monroe advised. “Tell her the police are bugging you.”

Kling looked at his watch. “I can’t reach her,” he said. “She’s at school.”

“Impairing the morals of a minor,” Monoghan said, smiling.

“Better you shouldn’t mention that to the lieutenant.”

“She’s in college,” Kling said. “Listen, will I be through by seven?”

“Maybe,” Monoghan said.

“Get your coat,” Monroe said.

“He don’t need a coat. It’s nice and mild.”

“It may get chilly later. This is pneumonia weather.”

Kling sighed heavily. “All right if I wash my hands?”

“What?” Monoghan asked.

“He’s polite,” Monroe said. “He has to take a leak.”

“No, I have to wash my hands.”

“Okay, so wash them. Hurry up. The lieutenant don’t like to be kept Waiting.”

He called Claire at eleven-ten. The phone rang six times, and he was ready to hang up, afraid he’d caught her asleep, when the receiver was lilted.

“Hello?” she said. Her voice was sleepy.

“Claire?”

“Yes, who’s this?”

“Did I wake you?”

“Yes.” There was a pause, and then her voice became a bit more lively. “Bert? Is that you?”

“Yes. Claire, I’m sorry I—”

“The last time I got stood up was when I was sixteen and had a—”

“Claire, I didn’t stand you up, honest. Some Homicide cops—”

“It felt like being stood up. I waited in the newspaper office until a quarter to eight, God knows why. Why didn’t you call?”

“They wouldn’t let me use the phone.” Kling paused. “Besides, I didn’t know how I could reach you.”

Claire was silent.

“Claire?”

“I’m here,” she said wearily.

“Can I see you tomorrow? We’ll spend the day together. I’m off tomorrow.”

Again there was silence.

“Claire?”

“I heard you.”

“Well?”

“Bert, why don’t we call it quits, huh? Let’s consider what happened tonight an ill omen, and just forget the whole thing, shall we?”

“No,” he said.

“Bert—“

“No! I’ll pick you up at noon, all right?”

Silence.

“Claire?”

“All right. Yes,” she said. “Noon.”

“I’ll explain then. I… I got into a little trouble.”

“All right.”

“Noon?”

“Yes.”

“Claire?”

“Yes?”

“Good night, Claire.”

“Good night, Bert.”

“I’m sorry I woke you.”

“That’s all right. I’d just dozed off, anyway.”

“Well… good night, Claire.”

“Good night, Bert.”

He wanted to say more, but he heard the click of the receiver being replaced in the cradle. He sighed, left the phone booth, and ordered a steak with mushrooms, French fried onions, two baked potatoes, a huge salad with Roquefort dressing, and a glass of milk. He finished off the meal with three more glasses of milk and a slab of chocolate cream pie.

On the way out of the restaurant, he bought a candy bar.

Then he went home to sleep.

He had planned on a picnic in Bethtown, with its attendant ferry ride from Isola across the river. Rain had destroyed that silly notion.

He had drippingly called for Claire at twelve on the dot. The rain had given her a “horrible headache.” Would he mind if they stayed indoors for a little while, just until the Empirin took hold?

Kling did not mind.

Claire had put some good records onto the record player, and then had lapsed into a heavy silence which he attributed to the throbbing headache. The rain had oozed against the windowpanes, streaking the city outside. The music had oozed from the record player — Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 5 in D, Strauss’s Don Quixote, Franck’s Psyche.

Kling almost fell asleep.

They left the apartment at two. The rain had let up somewhat, but it had put a knife-edge on the air, and they sloshed along in a sullen, uncommunicative silence, hating the rain with common enmity, but somehow having allowed the rain to build a solid wedge between them. When Kling suggested a movie, Claire accepted the offer eagerly.

The movie was terrible.

The feature was called Apache Undoing, or some such damn thing, and it starred hordes of painted Hollywood extras who screeched and whooped down upon a small band of blue-clothed soldiers. The handful of soldiers fought off the wily Apaches until almost the end of the movie. By this time, the hordes flung against the small, tired band must have numbered in the tens of thousands. With five minutes to go in the fiim, another small handful of soldiers arrived, leaving Kling with the distinct impression that the war would go on for another two hours in a subsequent film to be titled Son of Apache Undoing.

The second film on the bill was about a little girl whose mother and father are getting divorced. The little girl goes with them to Reno — Dad conveniently has business there at the same time Mom must establish residence — and through an unvarying progression of mincing postures and bright-eyed, smirking little-girl facial expressions, convinces Mom and Dad to stay together eternally and live in connubial bliss with their mincing, bright-eyed, smirking little smart-assed daughter.

They left the theater bleary-eyed. It was six o’clock.

Kling suggested a drink and dinner. Claire, probably in self-defense, agreed that a drink and dinner would be just dandy along about now.

And so they sat in the restaurant high atop one of the city’s better-known hotels, and they looked through the huge windows which faced the river; and across the river there was a sign.

The sign first said: SPRY.

Then it said: SPRY FOR FRYING.

Then it said: SPRY FOR BAKING.

Then it said, again: SPRY.

“What’ll you drink?” Kling asked.

“A whiskey sour, I think,” Claire said.

“No cognac?”

“Later maybe.”

The waiter came over to the table. He looked as romantic as Adolf Hitler.

“Something to drink, sir?” he asked.

“A whiskey sour and a martini.”

“Lemon peel, sir?”

“Olive,” Kling said.

“Thank you, sir. Would you care to see a menu now?”

“We’ll wait until after we’ve had our drinks, thank you. All right, Claire?”

“Yes, fine,” she said.

They sat in silence. Kling looked through the windows.

SPRY for FRYING.

“Claire?”

“Yes?”

SPRY FOR BAKING.

“It’s been a bust, hasn’t it?”

“Please, Bert.”

“The rain… and that lousy movie. I didn’t want it to be this way. I wanted—”

“I knew this would happen, Bert. I tried to tell you, didn’t I? Didn’t I try to warn you off? Didn’t I tell you I was the dullest girl in the world? Why did you insist, Bert? Now you make me feel like a — like a—”

“I don’t want you to feel any way,” he said. “I was only going to suggest that we — we start afresh. From now. Forgetting everything that’s — that’s happened.”

“Oh, what’s the use?” Claire said.

The waiter came with their drinks. “Whiskey sour for the lady?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He put the drinks on the table. Kling lifted the martini glass.

“To a new beginning,” he said.

“If you want to waste a drink,” she answered, and she drank.

“About last night—” he started.

“I thought this was to be a new beginning.”

“I wanted to explain. I got picked up by two Homicide cops and taken to their lieutenant, who warned me to keep away from the Jeannie Paige potato.”

“Are you going to?”

“Yes, of course.” He paused. “I’m curious, I admit, but…”

“I understand.”

“Claire,” he said evenly, “what the hell is the matter with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Where do you go when you retreat?”

“What?”

“Where do you…?”

“I didn’t think it showed. I’m sorry.”

“It shows,” Kling said. “Who was he?”

Claire looked up sharply. “You’re a better detective than I realized.”

“It doesn’t take much detection,” he said. There was a sad undertone to his voice now, as if her confirmation of his suspicions had suddenly taken all the fight out of him. “I don’t mind your carrying a torch. Lots of girls—”

“It’s not that,” she interrupted.

“Lots of girls do,” he continued. “A guy drops them cold, or else it just peters out the way romances sometimes—”

“It’s not that!” she said sharply, and when he looked across the table at her, her eyes filmed with tears.

“Hey, listen, I—”

“Please, Bert, I don’t want to—”

“But you said it was a guy. You said—”

“All right,” she answered. “All right, Bert.” She bit down on her lip. “All right, there was a guy. And I was crazy in love with him. I was seventeen — just like Jeannie Paige — and he was nineteen.”

Kling waited. Claire lifted her drink and drained the glass. She swallowed hard, and then sighed and Kling watched her, waiting.

“I met him at Club Tempo. We hit it off right away. Do you know how such things happen, Bert? It happened that way with us. We made a lot of plans, big plans. We were young, and we were strong, and we were in love.”

“I–I don’t understand,” he said.

“He was killed in Korea.”

Across the river, the sign blared, SPRY for FRYING.

The table was very silent. Claire stared at the tablecloth. Kling folded his hands nervously.

“So don’t ask me why I go down to the Tempo and make a fool of myself with kids like Hud and Tommy. I’m looking for him all over again, Bert, can’t you see that? I’m looking for his face, and his youth, and—”

Cruelly, Bert Kling said, “You won’t find him.”

“I…”

“You won’t find him. You’re a fool for trying. He’s dead and buried. He’s—”

“I don’t want to listen to you,” Claire said. “Take me home, please.”

“No,” he said. “He’s dead and buried, and you’re burying yourself alive, you’re making a martyr of yourself, you’re wearing a widow’s weeds at twenty! What the hell’s the matter with you? Don’t you know that people die every day? Don’t you know?”

“Shut up!” she said.

“Don’t you know you’re killing yourself? Over a kid’s puppy love — over a—”

“Shut up!” she said again, and this time her voice was on the verge of hysteria, and some of the diners around them turned at her outburst.

“Okay!” Kling said tightly. “Okay, bury yourself! Bury your beauty, and try to hide your sparkle! Wear black every day of the week, for all I give a damn! But I think you’re a phony! I think you’re a fourteen-carat phony!” He paused, and then said angrily, “Let’s get the hell out of this goldfish bowl!”

He started to rise, signaling for the waiter at the same time. Claire sat motionless opposite him. And then, quite suddenly, she began to cry. The tears started slowly at first, forcing their way past clenched eyelids, trickling silently down her cheeks. And then her shoulders began to heave, and she sat as still as a stone, her hands clasped in her lap, her shoulders heaving, sobbing silently while the tears coursed down her face. He had never seen such honest misery before. He turned his face away. He did not want to watch her.

“You are ready to order, sir?” the waiter asked, sidling up to the table.

“Two more of the same,” Bert said. The waiter started off, and he caught at his arm. “No. Change the whiskey sour to a double shot of Canadian Club.”

“Yes, sir,” the waiter said, padding off.

“I don’t want another drink,” Claire muttered.

“You’ll have one.”

“I don’t want one.” She erupted into tears again, and this time Kling watched her. She sobbed steadily for several moments, and then the tears stopped as suddenly as they had begun, leaving her face looking as clean as a city street does after a sudden summer storm.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be.”

“I should have cried a long time ago.”

“Yes.”

The waiter brought the drinks. Kling lifted his glass. “To a new beginning,” he said.

Claire studied him. It took her a long while to reach for the double shot before her. Finally, her hand closed around the glass. She lifted it and touched the rim of Kling’s glass. “To a new beginning,” she said. She threw off the shot quickly.

“That’s strong,” she said.

“It’ll do you good.”

“Yes. I’m sorry, Bert. I shouldn’t have burdened you with my troubles.”

“Offhand, can you think of anyone who’d accept them so readily?”

“No,” she said immediately. She smiled tiredly.

“That’s better.”

She looked across at him as if she were seeing him for the first time. The tears had put a sparkle into her eyes. “It — it may take time, Bert,” she said. Her voice came from a long way off.

“I’ve got all the time in the world,” he said. And then, almost afraid she would laugh at him, he added, “All I’ve been doing is killing time, Claire, waiting for you to come along.”

She seemed ready to cry again. He reached across the table and coveted her hand with his.

“You… you’re very good, Bert,” she said, her voice growing thin, the way a voice does before it collapses into tears. “You’re good, and kind, and gentle, and you’re quite beautiful, do you know that? I… I think you’re very beautiful.”

“You should see me when my hair is combed,” he said, smiling, squeezing her hand.

“I’m not joking,” she said. “You always think I’m joking, and you really shouldn’t because I’m — I’m a serious girl.”

“I know.”

“So…”

He shifted his position abruptly, grimacing.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, suddenly concerned.

“No. This goddamn pistol.” He shifted again.

“Pistol?”

“Yes. In my back pocket. We have to carry them, you know. Even off duty.”

“Not really? A gun? You have a gun in your pocket?”

“Sure.”

She leaned closer to him. Her eyes were clear now, as if they had never known tears or sadness. They sparkled with interest. “May I see it?”

“Sure.” He reached down, unbuttoned his jacket, and then pulled the gun with its leather holster from his hip pocket. He put it on the table. “Don’t touch it, or it’ll go off in your face.”

“It looks menacing.”

“It is menacing. I’m the deadest shot in the 87th Precinct.”

“Are you really?”

‘“Kling the King,’ they call me.”

She laughed suddenly.

“I can shoot any damn elephant in the world at a distance of three feet,” Kling expanded. Her laugh grew. He watched her laughing. She seemed unaware of the transformation.

“Do you know what I feel like doing?” he said.

“What?”

“I feel like taking this gun and shooting out that goddamn Spry sign across the river.”

“Bert,” she said, “Bert,” and she put her other hand over his, so that three hands formed a pyramid on the table. Her face grew very serious. “Thank you, Bert. Thank you so very, very much.”

He didn’t know what to say. He felt embarrassed and stupid and happy and very big. He felt about eighty feet tall.

“What — what are you doing tomorrow?” he asked.

“Nothing. What are you doing tomorrow?”

“I’m calling Molly Bell to explain why I can’t snoop around anymore. And then I’m stopping by at your place, and we’re going on a picnic. If the sun is shining.”

“The sun’ll be shining, Bert.”

“I know it will,” he said.

She leaned forward suddenly and kissed him, a quick, sudden kiss that fleetingly touched his mouth and then was gone. She sat back again, seeming very unsure of herself, seeming like a frightened little girl at her first party. “You — you must be patient,” she said.

“I will,” he promised.

The waiter suddenly appeared. The waiter was smiling. He coughed discreetly. Kling watched him in amazement.

“I thought,” the waiter said gently, “perhaps a little candlelight at the table, sir? The lady will look even more lovely by candlelight.”

“The lady looks lovely just as she is,” Kling said.

The waiter seemed disappointed. “But…”

“But the candlelight, certainly,” Kling said. “By all means, the candlelight.”

The waiter beamed. “Ah, yes, sir. Yes, sir. And then we will order, yes? I have some suggestions, sir, whenever you’re ready.” He paused, his smile lighting his face. “It’s a beautiful night, sir, isn’t it?”

“It’s a wonderful night,” Claire answered.

The Mugger, 1956

The department stores on Friday, December 22nd, were a little crowded. Bert Kling could not honestly say he disliked the crowds because the crowds forced him into close proximity with Claire Townsend, and there was no girl he’d rather have been proximately close to. On the other hand, however, the alleged purpose of this excursion was to pick up presents for people like Uncle Ed and Aunt Sarah — whom Kling had never met — and the sooner that task was accomplished, the sooner he and Claire could begin spending an uncluttered afternoon together. This was, after all, a day off and he did not enjoy trudging all over department stores on his day off, even if that trudging were being done with Claire.

He had to admit that of all the trudgers around, he and Claire made the nicest looking pair of trudgers. There was a tireless sort of energy about her, an energy he usually associated with Phys. Ed. majors. Phys. Ed. majors were easily identified by short, squat bodies with muscular legs and bulging biceps. Claire Townsend had none of the attributes of the Phys. Ed. major, except the tireless energy — Claire, in Kling’s estimation, was perhaps the most beautiful woman alive. She was certainly the most beautiful woman he had ever met. Her hair was black. There are blacks, you know, and then there are blacks. But Claire’s hair was a total black, a complete absence of light, a pure black. Her eyes were a warm brown, arched with black brows. She had the pale complexion of a high-bred Spanish girl coupled with the high cheek bones of an Indian. Her nose was straight and her mouth was full, and she was obviously the loveliest woman in the world. Whether she was or not doesn’t matter. Kling thought she was.

He also thought she was a dynamo.

He wondered when the dynamo would run down, but the dynamo kept right on discharging electrical bolts and buying gifts for Cousin Percy and Grandmother Eloise, and Kling trailed along like a dinghy tied to a schooner in full sail, mixing his metaphors with reckless abandon.

“You should see what I got you,” she told him.

“What?” he asked.

“A gold-plated holster for your ridiculous weapon.”

“My gun, you mean?” he asked.

“And a carton of soap for your dirty mind.”

“I’ll bet I could make 2nd/Grade in ten minutes just picking up shoplifters here,” he said.

“Don’t pick up any who are young or blond.”

“Claire…”

“Look at those gloves! Only $2.98 and perfect for…”

“Cousin Antoinette in Kalamazoo. Claire…”

“As soon as I get these gloves, darling.”

“How do you know what I was going to say?”

“You want to stop all this nonsense and get some drinks, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Just what I had in mind,” Claire said. And then, being in a gay and expansive mood, she added, “You should be delighted. When we’re married, you’ll have to pay for all this junk.”

It was the first time the subject of marriage had come up between them and, being towed as he was, Kling almost missed it. Before he became fully aware of the miracle of what she had said, Claire had purchased the $2.98 gloves and was whisking him along to the roof garden of the store. The roof garden was packed with matronly women who were bulging with bundles.

“They only serve those triangular little sandwiches here.” Kling announced. “Come on, I’ll take you to a shady bar.”

The shady bar he took her to was really not quite so shady as all that. It was dim, true, but dimness and shadiness are not necessarily synonymous.

When the waiter tiptoed over, Kling ordered a Scotch on the rocks and then glanced inquisitively toward Claire.

“Cognac,” she said, and the waiter crept away.

“Are you really going to marry me someday?” Kling asked.

“Please,” Claire told him. “I’ll burst. I’m full of Christmas cheer, and a proposal now will just destroy me.”

“But you do love me?”

“Did I ever say so?”

“No.”

“Then what makes you so impetuous?”

“I’m sure you love me.”

“Well, confidence is a fine quality, to be sure, but…”

“Don’t you?”

Claire sobered quite suddenly. “Yes, Bert,” she said. “Yes, Bert darling, I do love you. Very much.”

“Well then…” He was speechless. He grinned foolishly and covered her hand with his and blinked.

“Now I’ve spoiled you,” she said, smiling. “Now that you know I’m in your power, you’ll be unbearable.”

“No, no I won’t.”

“I know you policemen,” she insisted. “You’re brutal and cruel and…”

“No, Claire, no really, I…”

“Yes, yes. You’ll take me in for questioning and…”

“Oh Jesus, Claire, I love you,” he said plaintively.

“Yes,” she said, smiling contentedly. “Isn’t it wonderful? Aren’t we so lucky, Bert?”

The Pusher, 1956

When Kling came back to the table, there was a smile on his face.

“What’s up?” Carella asked.

“Oh, nothing much. Claire’s father left for New Jersey this morning, that’s all. Won’t be back until Monday.”

“Which gives you an empty apartment for the weekend, huh?” Carella said.

“Well, I wasn’t thinking of anything like that,” Kling said.

“No, of course not.”

“But it might be nice,” Kling admitted.

“When are you going to marry that girl?”

“She wants to get her master’s degree before we get married.”

“Why?”

“How do I know? She’s insecure.” Kling shrugged. “She’s psychotic. How do I know?”

“What does she want after the master’s? A doctorate?”

“Maybe.” Kling shrugged. “Listen, I ask her to marry me every time I see her. She wants the master’s. So what can I do? I’m in love with her. Can I tell her to go to hell?”

“I suppose not.”

“Well, I can’t.” Kling paused. “I mean, what the hell, Steve, if a girl wants an education, it’s not my right to say no, is it?”

“I guess not.”

“Well, would you have said no to Teddy?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well, there you are.”

“Sure.”

“I mean, what the hell else can I do, Steve? I either wait for her, or I decide not to marry her, right?”

“Right,” Carella said.

“And since I want to marry her, I have no choice. I wait.” He paused thoughtfully. “Jesus, I hope she isn’t one of those perennial schoolgirl types.” He paused again. “Well, there’s nothing I can do about it. I’ll just have to wait, that’s all.”

“That sounds like sound deduction.”

“Sure. The only thing is… well, to be absolutely truthful with you, Steve, I’m afraid she’ll get pregnant or something, and then we’ll have to get married, do you know what I mean? And that’ll be different than if we just got married because we felt like it. I mean, even though we love each other and all, it’d be different. Oh, Jesus, I don’t know what to do.”

“Just be careful, that’s all,” Carella said.

“Oh, I am. I mean, we are, we are. You want to know something, Steve?”

“What?”

“I wish I could keep my hands off her. You know, I wish we didn’t have to… well, you know, my landlady looks at me cockeyed every time I bring Claire upstairs. And then I have to rush her home because her father is the strictest guy who ever walked the earth. I’m surprised he’s leaving her alone this weekend. But what I mean is… well, damnit, what the hell does she need that master’s for, Steve? I mean, I wish I could leave her alone until we were married, but I just can’t. I mean, all I have to do is be with her, and my mouth goes dry. Is it that way with… well, never mind, I didn’t mean to get personal.”

“It’s that way,” Carella said.

“Yeah,” Kling said, and he nodded. He seemed lost in thought for a moment. Then he said, “I’ve got tomorrow off, but not Sunday. Do you think somebody would want to switch with me? Like for a Tuesday or something? I hate to break up the weekend.”

“Where’d you plan to spend the weekend?” Carella asked.

“Well, you know…”

“All weekend?” Carella said, surprised.

“Well, you know…”

“Starting tonight?” he asked, astonished.

“Well, you know…”

“I’d give you my Sunday, but I’m afraid…”

“Will you?” Kling said, leaning forward.

“… you’ll be a wreck on Monday morning.” Carella paused. “All weekend?” he asked again.

“Well, it isn’t often the old man goes away. You know.”

“Flaming Youth, where have you gone?” Carella said, shaking his head. “Sure, you can have my Sunday if the Skipper says okay.”

“Thanks, Steve.”

“Or did Teddy have something planned?” Carella asked himself.

“Now, don’t change your mind,” Kling said anxiously.

“Okay, okay.” He tapped the missing-persons report with his finger. “What do you think?”

“He looks good, I would say. He’s big enough, anyway. Six-four and weighs two-ten. That’s no midget, Steve.”

“And that hand belonged to a big man.” Carella finished his coffee but said, “Come on, lover man, let’s go see Mrs. Androvich.”

As they rose, Kling said, “It’s not that I’m a great lover or anything, Sieve. It’s just… well…”

“What?”‘

Kling grinned. “I like it,” he said.

She kissed him the moment he entered the apartment. She was wearing black slacks and a wide, white, smocklike blouse which ended just below her waist.

“What kept you?” she said.

“Florists,” he answered.

“You brought me flowers?”

“No. A lady we talked to said her husband bought her a dozen red roses. We checked about ten florists in the immediate and surrounding neighborhoods. Result? No red roses on Valentine’s Day. Not to Mrs. Karl Androvich, anyway.”

“So?”

“So Steve Carella is uncanny. Can I take off my shoes?”

“Go ahead. I bought two steaks. Do you feel like steaks?”

“Later.”

“How is Carella uncanny?”

“Well, he lit into this skinny, pathetic dame as if he were going to rip all the flesh from her bones. When we got outside, I told him I thought he was a little rough with her. I mean, I’ve seen him operate before, and he usually wears kid gloves with the ladies. So with this one, he used a sledgehammer, and I wondered why. And I told him I disapproved.”

“So what did he say?”

“He said he knew she was lying from the minute she opened her mouth, and he began wondering why.”

“How did he know?”

“He just knew. That’s what was so uncanny about it. We checked all those damn florists, and nobody made a delivery at six in the morning, and none of them were even open before nine.”

“The husband could have ordered the flowers anywhere in the city, Bert.”

“Sure, but that’s pretty unlikely, isn’t it? He’s not a guy who works in an office someplace. He’s a seaman, and when he’s not at sea, he’s home. So the logical place to order flowers would be a neighborhood florist.”

“So?”

“So nothing. I’m tired. Steve sent a meat cleaver to the lab.” He paused. “She didn’t look like the kind of a dame who’d use a meat cleaver on a man. Come here.”

She went to him, climbing into his lap. He kissed her and said, “I’ve got the whole weekend. Steve’s giving me his Sunday.”

“Oh? Yes?”

“You feel funny,” he said.

“Funny? How?”

“I don’t know. Softer.”

“I’m not wearing a bra.”

“How come?”

“I wanted to feel free. Keep your hands off me!” she said suddenly, and she leaped out of his lap.

“Now, you are the kind of dame who would use a meat cleaver on a man,” Kling said, appraising her from the chair in which he sat.

“Am I?” she answered coolly. “When do you want to eat?”

“Later.”

“Where are we going tonight?” Claire asked.

“No place.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t have to be back at the squad until Monday morning,” Kling said.

“Oh, is that right?”

“Yes, and what I planned was…”

“Yes?”

“I thought we could get into bed right now and stay in bed all weekend. Until Monday morning. How does that sound to you?”

“It sounds pretty strenuous.”

“Yes, it does. But I vote for it.”

“I’ll have to think about it. I had my heart set on a movie.”

“We can always see a movie,” Kling said.

“Anyway, I’m hungry right now,” Claire said, studying him narrowly. “I’m going to make the steaks.”

“I’d rather go to bed.”

“Bert,” she said, “man does not live by bed alone.”

Kling rose suddenly. They stood at opposite ends of the room, studying each other. “What did you plan on doing tonight?” he asked.

“Eating steaks,” she said.

“And what else?”

“A movie.”

“And tomorrow?”

Claire shrugged.

“Come here,” he said.

“Come get me,” she answered.

He went across the room to her. She tilted her head to his and then crossed her arms tightly over her breasts.

“All weekend,” he said.

“You’re a braggart,” she whispered.

“You’re a doll.”

“Am I?”

“You’re a lovely doll.”

“You going to kiss me?”

“Maybe.”

They stood not two inches from each other, not touching, staring at each other, savoring this moment, allowing desire to leap between them in a mounting wave.

He put his hands on her waist, but he did not kiss her. Slowly, she uncrossed her arms.

“You really have no bra on?” he asked.

“Big weekend lover,” she murmured. “Can’t even find out for himself whether or not I have a…”

His hands slid under the smock and he pulled Claire to him.

The next time anyone would see Kling would be on Monday morning.

It would still be raining.

Give the Boys a Great Big Hand, 1960

Patterns.

The pattern of October sunlight filtering past barred and grilled windows to settle in an amber splash on a scarred wooden floor. Shadows merge with the sun splash — the shadows of tall men in shirt sleeves; this is October, but the squad room is hot and Indian summer is living slowly.

A telephone rings.

There is the sound of a city beyond those windows. The sudden shriek in unison of children let out from school, the peddler behind his cart — “Hot dogs, orange drink” — the sonorous rumble of buses and automobiles. The staccato click of high-heeled pumps, the empty rattle of worn roller skates on chalked sidewalks. Sometimes the city goes suddenly still. You can almost hear a heartbeat. But this silence is a part of the city noise, a part of the pattern. In the stillness, sometimes a pair of lovers will walk beneath the windows of the squad room, and their words will drift upward in a whispered fade. A cop will look up him his typewriter. A city is going by outside.

Patterns.

A detective is standing at the water cooler. He holds the cone-shaped paper cup in his hand, waits until it is filled, and then tilts his head back to drink. A .38 Police Special is resting in a holster which is clipped to the left-hand side of his belt. A typewriter is going across the room, hesitantly, fumblingly, but reports must be typed, and in triplicate; cops do not have private secretaries.

Another phone rings.

“87th Squad, Carella.”

There is a timelessness to this room. There are patterns overlapping patterns, and they combine to form the classic design that is police work. The design varies slightly from day to day. There is an office routine, and an investigatory routine, and very rarely does a case come along which breaks the classic pattern. Police work is like a bullfight. There is always a ring, and always a bull, and always a matador and picadors and chulos, and always, too, the classic music o the arena, the opening trumpet playing La Virgen de la Macarena, the ritual music throughout, announcing the various stages of a contest which is not a contest at all. Usually the bull dies. Sometimes, but only when he is an exceptionally brave bull, he is spared. But for the most part he dies. There is no real sport involved here because the outcome is assured before the mock combat begins. The bull will die. There are, to be sure, some surprises within the framework of the sacrificial ceremony — a matador will be gored, a bull will leap the barrera — but the pattern remains set and unvaried, the classic ritual of Mood.

It is the same with police work.

There are patterns to this room. There is a timelessness to these men in this place doing the work they are doing.

They are all deeply involved in the classic ritual of blood.

“87th Squad, Detective Kling.”

Bert Kling, youngest man on the squad, cradled the telephone receiver between his shoulder and his ear, leaned over the typewriter, and began erasing a mistake. He had misspelled “apprehended.”

“Who?” he said into the phone. “Oh, sure, Dave, put her on.” He waited while Dave Murchison, manning the switchboard in the muster room downstairs, put the call through.

From the water cooler, Meyer Meyer filled another paper cup and said, “He’s always got a girl on the phone. The girls in this city, they got nothing else to do, they call Detective Kling and ask him how the crime is going today.” He shook his head.

Kling shushed him with an outstretched palm. “Hello, honey,” he said into the phone.

“Oh, it’s her,” Meyer said knowingly.

Carella, completing a call at his own desk, hung up and said, “It’s who?”

“Who do you think? Kim Novak, that’s who. She calls here every day. She wants to know should she buy some stock in Columbia Pictures.”

“Will you guys please shut up?” Kling said. Into the phone, he said, “Oh, the usual. The clowns are at it again.”

Claire, on the other end of the line, said, “Tell them to stop kibitzing. Tell them we’re in love.”

“They already know that,” Kling said. “Listen, are we all set for tonight?”

“Yes, but I’ll be a little late.”

“Why?”

“I’ve got a stop to make after school.”

“What kind of a stop?” Kling asked.

“I have to pick up some texts. Stop being suspicious.”

“Why don’t you stop being a schoolgirl?” Kling asked. “Why don’t you many me?”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“I can’t tomorrow. I’ll be very busy tomorrow. Besides, the world needs social workers.”

“Never mind the world. I need a wife. I’ve got holes in my socks.”

“I’ll darn them when I get there tonight,” Claire said.

“Well, actually,” Kling whispered, “I had something else in mind.”

“He’s whispering,” Meyer said to Carella.

“Shut up,” Kling said.

“Every time he gets to the good part, he whispers,” Meyer said, and Carella burst out laughing.

“This is getting impossible,” Kling said, sighing. “Claire, I’ll see you at six-thirty, okay?”

“Seven’s more like it,” she said. “I’m wearing a disguise, by the way. So your nosy landlady won’t recognize me when she peeks into the hall.”

“What do you mean? What kind of a disguise?”

“You’ll see.”

“No, come on. What are you wearing?”

“Well… I’ve got on a white blouse,” Claire said, “open at the throat, you know, with a strand of very small pearls. And a black skirt, very tight, with a wide black belt, the one with the silver buckle…”

As she spoke, Kling smiled unconsciously, forming a mental picture of her in the university phone booth. He knew she would be leaning over very close to the mouthpiece. She was five feet seven inches tall, and the booth would seem too small for her. Her hair, as black as sin, would be brushed back from her face, her brown eyes intensely alive as she spoke, perhaps with a faint smile on her mouth. The full white blouse would taper to a narrow waist, the black skirt hanging on wide hips, dropping in a straight line over her thighs and her long legs.

“… no stockings because the weather’s so damn hot,” Claire said, “and high-heeled black pumps, and that’s it.”

“So, where’s the disguise?”

“Well, I bought a new bra,” Claire whispered.

“Oh?”

“You should see what it does for me, Bert.” She paused. “Do you love me, Bert?”

“You know I do,” he said.

“She just asked him does he love her,” Meyer said, and Kling pulled a lace.

“Tell me,” Claire whispered.

“I can’t right now.”

“Will you tell me later?”

“Mmmm,” Kling said, and he glanced apprehensively at Meyer.

“Wait until you see this bra,” Claire said.

“Yes, I’m looking forward to it,” Kling said, watching Meyer, phrasing his words carefully.

“You don’t sound very interested,” Claire said.

“I am. It’s a little difficult, that’s all.”

“It’s called Abundance,” Claire said.

“What is?”

“The bra.”

“That’s nice,” Kling said.

“What are they doing up there? Standing around your desk and breathing down your neck?”

“Well, not exactly, but I think I’d better say good-bye now. I’ll see you at six-thirty, honey.”

“Seven,” Claire corrected.

“Okay. ‘Bye, doll.”

“Abundance,” she whispered, and she hung up. Kling put the receiver back into the cradle.

“Okay,” he said, “I’m going to call the telephone company and ask them to put in a phone booth.”

“You’re not supposed to make private calls on the city’s time,” Carella said, and he winked at Meyer.

“I didn’t make this call. I received it. Also, a man is entitled to a certain amount of privacy, even if he works with a bunch of horny bastards. I don’t see why I can’t talk to my fiancée without—”

“He’s sore,” Meyer said. “He called her his fiancée instead of his girl. Look, talk to her. Call her back and tell her you sent all us gorillas out of the room and now you can talk to her. Go ahead.”

“Go to hell,” Kling said. Angrily, he turned back to his typewriter, forgetting that he’d been in the middle of an erasure. He began typing again and then realized he was overscoring what he’d already typed. Viciously, he ripped the almost-completed report from the machine. “See what you made me do?” he shouted impotently. “Now I have to start all over again!” He shook his head despairingly, took a white, a blue, and a yellow Detective Division report from his top drawer, separated the three sheets with carbon paper, and began typing again, banging the keys with a vengeance.

It was 5:15 p.m. when the telephone rang.

Meyer lifted the receiver and said, “87th Squad, Detective Meyer.” He moved a pad into place on his desk. “Yeah, go ahead,” he said. He began writing on the pad. “Yep,” he said. He wrote down an address. “Yep.” He continued writing. “Yep, right away.” He hung up. “Steve, Bert,” he said, “you want to take this?”

“What is it?” Carella asked.

“Some nut just shot up a bookstore on Culver Avenue,” Meyer said. “There’s three people lying dead on the floor.”

The crowd had already gathered around the bookshop. A sign out front read “Good Books, Good Reading.” There were two uniformed cops on the sidewalk, and a squad car was pulled up to the curb across the street. The people pulled back instinctively when they heard the wail of the siren on the police sedan. Carella got out first, slamming the door behind him. He waited for Kling to come around the car, and then both men started for the shop. At the door, the patrolman said, “Lot of dead people in there, sir.”

“When’d you get here?”

“Few minutes ago. We were just cruising when we took the squeal. We called back the minute we saw what it was.”

“Know how to keep a timetable?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come along and keep it, then.”

“Yes, sir.”

They started into the shop. Not three feet from the door, they saw the first body. The man was partially slumped against one of the book stalls, partially sprawled on the floor. He was wearing a blue seersucker suit, and his hand was still holding a book, and a line of blood had run down his arm, and stained his sleeve, and continued down over the hand holding the book. Kling looked at him and knew instantly that this was going to be a bad one. Just how bad, he did not yet realize.

“Here’s another one,” Carella said.

The second body was some ten feet away from the first, another man. Coatless, his head twisted and fitting snugly into the angle formed by the book stall and the floor. As they approached, he moved his head slightly, trying to raise it from its uncomfortable position. A new flow of blood spilled onto his shirt collar. He dropped his head again. The patrol man, his throat parched, his voice containing something like awe, said, “He’s alive.”

Carella stooped down beside the man. The man’s neck had been ripped open by the force of the bullet which had struck him. Carella looked at torn flesh and muscle, and for an instant he closed his eyes, the action coming as swiftly as the clicking shutter of a camera, the eyes opening again at once, a tight hard mask claiming his face.

“Did you call for a meat wagon?” he asked.

“The minute I got here,” the patrolman said.

“Good.”

“There are two others,” a voice said.

Kling turned away from the dead man in the seersucker suit. The man who’d spoken was a small, birdlike man with a bald head. He stood crouched against one of the bookstalls, his hand to his mouth. He was wearing a shabby brown sweater open over a white shirt. There was abject terror on his face and in his eyes. He was sobbing low, muted sobs which accompanied the tears that flowed from his eyes, oddly channeling themselves along either side of his nose. As Kling approached him, he thought, Two others. Meyer said there were three. But it’s four.

“Are you the owner of this shop?” he asked.

“Yes,” the man said. “Please look at the others. Back there. Is an ambulance coming? A wild man, a wild man. Look at the others, please. They may be alive. One of them is a woman. Please look at them.”

Kling nodded and walked to the back of the shop. He found the third man bent double over one of the counters, an open book beside him; he had undoubtedly been browsing when the shots were loosed. The man was dead, his mouth open, his eyes staring sightlessly. Unconsciously, Kling’s hand went to the man’s eyelids. Gently he closed them.

The woman lay on the floor beside him.

She was wearing a red blouse.

She had undoubtedly been carrying an armful of books when the bullets took her. She had fallen to the floor, and the books had fallen around her and upon her. One book lay just under her extended right hand. Another, open like a tent, covered her face and her black hair. A third leaned against her curving hip. The red blouse had pulled free from the woman’s black skirt as she had fallen. The skirt had risen over the backs of her long legs. One leg was bent, the other rigid and straight. A black high-heeled pump lay several inches away from one naked foot. The woman wore no stockings.

Kling knelt beside her. Oddly, the titles of the books registered on his mind: Patterns of Culture and The Sane Society and Interviewing: Its Principles and Methods. He saw suddenly that the blouse was not a red blouse at all. A corner that had pulled free from the black skirt showed white. There were two enormous holes in the girl’s side, and the blood had poured steadily from those wounds, staining the white blouse a bright red. A string of tiny pearls had broken when she had fallen, and the pearls lay scattered on the floor now, tiny luminescent islands in the sticky coagulation of her blood. He felt pain looking at her. He reached for the book which had fallen open over her face. He lifted the book, and the pain suddenly became a very personal, very involved thing.

“Oh my Jesus Christ!” he said.

There was something in his voice which caused Steve Carella to run toward the back of the shop immediately. And then he heard Kling’s cry, a single sharp anguished cry that pierced the dust-filled, cordite-stinking air of the shop.

“Claire!”

He was holding the dead girl in his arms when Carella reached him. His hands and his face were covered with Claire Townsend’s blood, and he kissed her lifeless eyes and her nose and her throat, and he kept murmuring over and over again, “Claire, Claire,” and Steve Carella would remember that name and the sound of Kling’s voice as long as he lived.

Lady, Lady, I Did It! 1961