Ten Plus One

6

It is true that in a democracy all men are equal in the eyes of the law, but this does not necessarily apply to all dead men. It would be nice to believe that a detective investigating the murder of a Skid Row wino devoted all his time and energy to the case in an attempt to discover the perpetrator. It would be nicer to believe that the untimely demise of a numbers runner or a burglar occasioned anything but relief, an attitude of “Good riddance” on the part of the police. But there is a vast difference between a murdered millionaire and a murdered criminal. A prostitute, who steals nothing, is nonetheless guilty of a violation, and in the lexicon of the police is a criminal. The death of the Culver Avenue prostitute would have caused little more than slight passing interest, had it not been for the fact that she was slain by a .308-caliber Remington cartridge. As it was, she acquired more status in death than she had ever known in life, either in the eyes of men or in the eyes of the law.

The law is curiously ambiguous concerning prostitutes. The penal law describes prostitution and disorderly houses in detail, but there is nowhere in the code a definition of a prostitute per se. Under the section on prostitution, there are listed:

(1) Abduction of female for purposes of

(2) Compulsory prostitution of women

(3) Compelling prostitution of wife of another

(4) Corroboration of testimony of female compelled or procured

(5) Pimps and procurers

(6) Transporting women for purposes of

Under the section on disorderly houses there are listed:

(1) Abduction of females

(2) Admission of minors

(3) Compulsory prostitution in

(4) Keeping or renting

(5) Sending messenger boys to

…and so on. Some of these crimes are felonies. But nowhere in these subdivisions is there reference to the crime of the prostitute herself. There is only one place in the penal law where love for sale is defined. Curiously, it is in Section 722, which defines disorderly conduct: “Any person who with intent to provoke a breach of the peace, or whereby a breach of the peace may be occasioned, commits any of the following acts shall be deemed to have committed the offense of disorderly conduct.”

The “following acts” include anything from using threatening language, to causing a crowd to collect, to making insulting remarks to passing pedestrians, and, under Subdivision 9: “frequents or loiters about any public place soliciting men for the purpose of committing a crime against nature or any other lewdness.”

If one can call going to bed with a man “a crime against nature,” then that is prostitution. It is not called prostitution in this section. It is called “soliciting,” but in the section titled “Solicitation: Lewd or immoral purposes, solicitation for,” there is listed only the following: “Male persons living on proceeds of prostitution: Every male person who lives wholly or in part on the earnings of prostitution, or who in any public place solicits for immoral purposes, is guilty of a misdemeanor. A male person who lives with or is habitually in the company of a prostitute and has no visible means of support, shall be presumed to be living on the earnings of prostitution.”

So what is an honest, conscientious cop supposed to do when an obvious whore sidles up to him and asks, “Want some fun, honey?” Left to his own devices, he might accept the offer. Bound by the penal law, he might arrest her for disorderly conduct, the penalty for which can be a jail sentence not to exceed six months, or a fine not to exceed $50, or both. But the penal law is bolstered by the Code of Criminal Procedure, and every cop in the city knows Section 887, Subdivision 4, by heart. Every prostitute has committed it to memory, too, because this is where they get her by the codes. Section 887 describes, of all things, vagrants. “The following persons are vagrants,” it states, and then goes on to list everyone including your Uncle Max. When it comes to Subdivision 4, it pulls no punches.

4. A person (a) who offers to commit prostitution, or (b) who offers to secure for another for the purpose of prostitution or for any other lewd or indecent act; or (c) who loiters in or near any thoroughfare or public or private place for the

purpose of inducing, enticing or procuring another to commit lewdness, fornication, unlawful sexual intercourse or any other indecent act…

That would seem to cover it, man. But those puritan forefathers weren’t taking any chances. Section 887, Subdivision 4, goes on to state:

…or (d) who in any manner induces, entices or procures a person who is in any thoroughfare or public place or private place, to commit any such acts; or (e) who receives or offers or agrees to receive any person into any place, structure, house, building or conveyance for the purpose of prostitution, lewdness or assignation or knowingly permits any person to remain there for such purposes; or (f) who in any way, aids or abets or participates in the doing of any of the acts or things enumerated in Subdivision four of Section eight hundred and eighty-seven of the Code of Criminal Procedure; or (g) who is a common prostitute, who has no lawful employment whereby to maintain herself.

That’s a vagrant, sir, madam. And if that is what you are, you can under Section 891 (a) of the same code be sent to a reformatory for as long as three years, or a county jail, penitentiary, or other penal institution for as long as a year—so watch yourself!

The man named Harry Wallach was a male person who lived with or was habitually in the company of the prostitute named Blanche Lettiger, the woman who had been shot to death on the night of April 30. It did not take the police long to find him. Everybody knew who Blanche’s “old man” was. They picked him up the next morning in a poolroom on North Forty-first, and they brought him to the station house and sat him down in a chair and began asking their questions. He was a tall, well-dressed man, with hair graying at the temples, and penetrating green eyes. He asked the detectives if it was all right to smoke, and then he lit a 50¢ cigar and sat back calmly with a faint superior smile on his mouth as Carella opened the session.

“What do you do for a living, Wallach?”

“Investment,” Wallach said.

“What kind of investment?” Meyer asked.

“Stocks, bonds, real estate. You know.”

“What’s the current quotation on AT&T?” Carella asked.

“Not in my portfolio,” Wallach said.

“What is in your portfolio?”

“I don’t remember offhand.”

“Do you have a broker?”

“Yes.”

“What’s his name?”

“He’s in Miami right now on vacation.”

“We didn’t ask you where he was, we asked you what his name is.”

“Dave.”

“Dave what?”

“Dave Milias.”

“Where’s he staying in Miami?”

“Search me,” Wallach said.

“All right, Wallach,” Meyer said, “what do you know about this woman Blanche Lettiger?”

“Blanche who?” Wallach said.

“Oh, you want to play this one cool, huh, Wallach? Is that it?”

“It’s just the name don’t seem to ring a bell.”

“It doesn’t, huh? Blanche Lettiger. You share an apartment with her on Culver and North Twelfth, apartment 6-B, rented under the name of Frank Wallace, and you’ve been living there with her for the past year and a half. Does the name ring a bell now, Wallach?”

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

“Maybe he’s the guy who plugged her, Steve.”

“I’m beginning to think so.”

“What do you mean?” Wallach asked, unruffled.

“Why the dodge, Wallach? You think we’re interested in a crummy pimp like you?”

“I’m not that,” Wallach said with dignity.

“No? What do you call it?”

“Not what you said.”

“Oh, how sweet,” Meyer said. “He doesn’t want to spoil his dainty little lips by saying the word pimp. Look, Wallach, don’t make this hard for us. You want us to throw the book, we’ve got it, and we know how to throw it. Make it easy for yourself. We’re only interested in knowing about the woman.”

“What woman?”

“You son of a bitch, she was shot down in cold blood last night. What the hell are you, a human being or what?”

“I don’t know any woman who was shot down in cold blood last night,” Wallach insisted. “You’re not going to get me involved in a goddamn homicide. I know you guys too good. You’re looking for a patsy, and it ain’t going to be me.”

“We weren’t looking for a patsy,” Carella said, “but now that you mention it, it’s not a bad idea. What do you think, Meyer?”

“Why not?” Meyer said. “He’s as good as anybody to pin it on. Take the heat off us.”

“Where were you last night, Wallach?”

“What time last night?” Wallach answered, still calm, still puffing gently on his cigar.

“The time the woman was killed.”

“I don’t know what time any woman was killed.”

“About five-thirty. Where were you?”

“Having dinner.”

“So early?”

“I eat early.”

“Where?”

“The Rambler.”

“Where’s that?”

“Downtown.”

“Downtown where? Look, Wallach, if you force us to pull teeth, we know some better ways of doing it.”

“Sure, get out your rubber hose,” Wallach said calmly.

“Meyer,” Carella said calmly, “get the rubber hose.”

Calmly Meyer walked to a desk on the far side of the room, opened the top drawer, took out a two-foot length of rubber hose, smacked it against his palm, and then walked back to where Wallach was watching him calmly.

“This what you mean, Wallach?”

“You think you’re surprising me or something?” Wallach asked.

“Who’d you eat with?” Carella said.

“Alone.”

“We don’t need the hose, Meyer. He just cooked his own goose.”

“That’s what you think, buddy. The waiter’ll remember me.”

“Well, that depends on how much we lean on the waiter, doesn’t it?” Carella said. “We’re looking for a patsy, remember? You think we’re going to let a lousy waiter stand in our way?”

“He’ll say I was there,” Wallach said, but his voice was beginning to lack conviction.

“Well, I certainly hope so,” Carella said. “But in the meantime, we’re going to book you for homicide, Wallach. We won’t mention the fact that you’re a pimp, of course. We’ll save that for the trial. It might impress the hell out of a jury.”

“Listen,” Wallach said.

“Yeah?”

“What do you want from me? I didn’t kill her, and you know it.”

“Then who did?”

“How the hell do I know?”

“You know the woman?”

“Of course I know her. Come on, willya?”

“You said you didn’t.”

“I was kidding around. How did I know you guys were so serious? What’s everybody getting so excited about?”

“How long have you known her?”

“About two years.”

“Was she a prostitute when you met her?”

“You getting me involved again? I don’t know what she worked at. My means of earning a living is investment. I lived with her, that’s all. What she done or didn’t do was her business.”

“You didn’t know she was a hooker, huh?”

“No.”

“Wallach,” Carella said, “we’re going to take you down and book you for homicide. Because you’re lying, you see, and that’s very suspicious. So unless we come up with somebody who looks better than you for the rap, you’re it. Now, do you want to be it, Wallach? Or do you want to start telling the truth, so we’ll know you’re an upstanding citizen who only happens to be a pimp? What do you say, Wallach?”

Wallach was silent for a long time. Then he said, “She was a hooker when I met her.”

“Two years ago?”

“Two years ago.”

“When did you see her last?”

“I was out night before last. I didn’t go back to the pad at all yesterday. I didn’t see her all day.”

“What time did you leave the apartment the night before?”

“Around eight.”

“Where’d you go?”

“Uptown. Riverhead.”

“To do what?”

Wallach sighed. “There was a crap game, all right?”

“Was Blanche in the apartment when you left?”

“Yeah.”

“Did she say anything to you?”

“No. She was in the other room with a John.”

“You brought him to her?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Wallach said, and put his cigar in the ashtray. “I’m playing ball with you, okay?”

“You’re playing ball fine, Wallach. Tell us about Blanche.”

“What do you want to know?”

“How old was she?”

“She said she was thirty-five, but she was really forty-one.”

“What’s her background? Where’s she from?”

“The Middle West someplace. Oklahoma, Iowa, I don’t know. One of those hick joints.”

“When did she come here?”

“Years ago.”

“When, Wallach?”

“Before the war. I don’t know the exact date. Listen, if you want her life history, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I didn’t know her that good.”

“Why’d she come here?”

“To go to school.”

“What kind of school?”

“College, what do you think?”

“Where?”

“Ramsey University.”

“How long did she stay there?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did she graduate?”

“I don’t know.”

“How’d she get to be a hooker?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are her parents living?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was she married, divorced, would you know?”

“No.”

“What the hell do you know, Wallach?”

“I know she was a broad who was over the hill, and I was taking care of her practically as a charity case, okay? I know she was a goddamn lush, and a pain in the ass, and the best thing that coulda happened to her was to get shot in the head, which is what she got, okay? That’s what I know.”

“You’re a nice guy, Wallach.”

“Thanks, I’m crazy about you, too. What do you want from me? She’da died in the streets a year ago if I hadn’t given her a place to stay. I done an act of kindness.”

“Sure.”

“Yeah, sure. What do you think, she made me a millionaire? Who the hell wanted to bang something looked like her? I used to bring her the dregs, that’s all. She’s lucky she made enough for room and board. Half the time, she never gave me a cent. She had the dough spent on booze before I reached her, and the booze would be gone, too. You think it was a picnic? Try it sometime.”

“How’d a college girl become a hooker?” Carella asked.

“What are you, a cop or a sociologist? There’s more hookers in this town who once went to college than I can count. Call the Vice Squad, they’ll tell you.”

“Never mind the Vice Squad,” Meyer said. “You got any idea who killed her?”

“None.”

“You sound very glad to be rid of her.”

“I am. That don’t mean I killed her. Look, you guys know I had nothing to do with this. Why are we wasting each other’s time?”

“What’s your hurry, Wallach? Another crap game?”

“Sure, I’d tell you about it, wouldn’t I?”

“Then take your time. We’ve got all day.”

“Okay, let’s shoot the day. What the hell. It’s only the taxpayers’ money.”

“You never paid a tax in your life, Wallach.”

“I pay taxes every year,” Wallach said indignantly. “Both federal and state, so don’t give me that.”

“What do you list as your occupation?”

“We going to go into that again?”

“No, let’s get back to Blanche. Did anyone ever threaten her? Would you know that?”

“How would I know? Johns are all different. Some are like little lost kids with their first broad, and some are tough guys who like to smack a girl around. There’s something wrong with a guy who goes to a whore in the first place.”

“He’s not a pimp,” Meyer said, “he’s a psychologist.”

“I know whores,” Wallach said simply.

“You don’t seem to know a hell of a lot about Blanche Lettiger.”

“I told you everything I know. What more can I say?”

“Tell us about her habits.”

“Like what?”

“Like what time she got up in the morning.”

“The morning? You kidding?”

“All right, what then? The afternoon?”

“She usually woke up about one, two in the afternoon and started looking for a bottle.”

“What time did she wake up the day she was killed?”

Wallach smiled, pointed a chiding finger at Carella, and said, “Ah-ah. Caught you.”

“Huh?” Carella said.

Still smiling, Wallach said, “I told you I didn’t see her at all yesterday, didn’t I?”

“I wasn’t trying to trip you, Wallach.”

“There ain’t a bull in the world who ain’t always trying to trip guys like me.”

“Look, Wallach,” Carella said, “we understand you’re just a decent, upright, put-upon citizen, okay? So let’s send the violinists home and get down to business. You’re beginning to get on my nerves.”

“You don’t exactly have a calming effect on me,” Wallach replied.

“What the hell is this?” Meyer said, annoyed. “A vaudeville routine at the Palace? One more crack out of you, you cheap punk, and I’ll bust your head open.”

Wallach opened his mouth and then closed it. He looked at Meyer sourly instead.

“Okay?” Meyer shouted.

“Okay, okay,” Wallach answered, sulking.

“Did she make a habit of leaving the apartment between five and five-thirty every afternoon?”

“Yeah.”

“Where’d she go?”

“There was a factory nearby the pad. Sometimes the guys coming out of work were good for a strike.”

“She did this every afternoon?”

“Not every afternoon, but often enough. When you’re in the shape she was in, you’ve got to take them where they come.”

“Where’s the factory?”

“Culver and North Fourteenth.”

“So then almost every afternoon, sometime between five and five-thirty, she’d leave the apartment and walk up toward the factory, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Who knew this besides you, Wallach?”

“The cop on the beat knew it,” Wallach answered, unable to repress the crack. “Maybe he’s the one who put the blocks to her, huh?”

“Look, Wallach…”

“All right, all right, I don’t know who knew it. The guy who killed her, I guess. Anybody coulda known it. All they had to do was watch.”

“You’ve been a great help,” Carella said. “Get the hell out of here.”

“You only ruined my day,” Wallach said.

He rose, dusted cigar ash off his trousers, and was walking away from the desk when Meyer kicked him square in the behind. Wallach didn’t even turn. With great dignity he walked out of the squadroom.