The Mugger

9

Unlike detectives, who figure out their own work schedules, patrolmen work within the carefully calculated confines of the eight-hour-tour system. They start with five consecutive tours from 8:00 A.M. to 4:00 P.M., and then they relax for fifty-six hours. When they return to work, they do another five tours from midnight to 8:00 A.M., after which another fifty-six-hour swing commences. The next five tours are from 4:00 P.M. to midnight. Comes the fifty-six-hour break once more, and then the cycle starts from the top again.

The tour system doesn’t respect Saturdays, Sundays, or holidays. If a cop’s tour works out that way, he may get Christmas off. If not, he walks his beat. Or he arranges a switch with a Jewish cop who wants Rosh Hashanah off. It’s something like working in an aircraft factory during wartime. The only difference is that cops find it a little more difficult to get life insurance.

Bert Kling started work that Monday morning at 7:45 A.M., the beginning of the tour cycle. He was relieved on post at 3:40 P.M. He went back to the house, changed to street clothes in the locker room down the hall from the detective squadroom, and then went out into the late-afternoon sunshine.

Ordinarily, Kling would have walked the beat a little more in his street clothes. Kling carried a little black loose-leaf pad in his back pocket, and into that pad he jotted down information from wanted circulars and from the bulls in the precinct. He knew, for example, that there was a shooting gallery at 3112 North 11th. He knew that a suspected pusher was driving a powder-blue 1953 Cadillac with the license plate RX 42–10. He knew that a chain department store in the midtown area had been held up the night before, and he knew who was suspected of the crime. And he knew that a few good collars would put him closer to detective/3rd grade, which, of course, he wanted to become.

So he ordinarily walked the precinct territory when he was off duty, a few hours each day, watching, snooping, unhampered by the shrieking blue of his uniform, constantly amazed by the number of people who didn’t recognize him in street clothes.

Today he had something else to do, and so he ignored his extracurricular activities. Instead, he boarded a train and headed uptown to Riverhead.

He didn’t have much trouble finding Club Tempo. He simply stopped into one of the clubs he’d known as a kid, asked where Tempo was, and was given directions.

Tempo covered the entire basement level of a three-story brick house off Peterson Avenue on Klausner Street. You walked up a concrete driveway toward a two-car garage at the back of the house, made an abrupt left turn, and found yourself face to face with the back of the house, the entrance doorway to the club, and a painted sign pierced with an elongated quarter note on a long black shaft.

The sign read:

Kling tried the knob. The door was locked. From somewhere inside the club, he heard the lyric, sonnet-like words to “Sh-Boom” blasting from a record player. He raised his fist and knocked. He kept knocking, realizing abruptly that all the sh-booming was drowning out his fist. He waited until the record had exhausted its serene, madrigal-like melody and then knocked again.

“Yeah?” a voice called. It was a young voice, male.

“Open up,” Kling said.

“Who is it?”

He heard footsteps approaching the door and then a voice close by on the other side of the door. “Who is it?”

He didn’t want to identify himself as a cop. If he were going to start asking questions, he didn’t want a bunch of kids automatically on the defensive.

“Bert Kling,” he said.

“Yeah?” the voice answered. “Who’s Bert Kling?”

“I want to hire the club,” Kling answered.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“What for?”

“If you’ll open the door, we can talk about it.”

“Hey, Tommy,” the voice yelled, “some guy wants to hire the club.”

Kling heard a mumbled answer, and then the door lock clicked, and the door opened wide on a thin, blond boy of eighteen.

“Come on in,” the boy said. He was holding a stack of records in his right hand, clutched tight against his chest. He wore a green sweater and dungaree pants. A white dress shirt, collar unbuttoned, showed above the V-neck of the sweater. “My name’s Hud. That’s short for Hudson. Hudson Patt. Double t. Come on in.”

Kling stepped down into the basement room. Hud watched him.

“You’re kind of old, ain’t you?” Hud asked at last.

“I’m practically decrepit,” Kling replied. He looked around. Whoever had decorated the room had done a good job with it. The pipes in the ceiling had been covered with plasterboard, which had been painted white. The walls were knotty pine to a man’s waist, plasterboard above that. Phonograph records, shellacked and then tacked to the white walls and ceiling, gave the impression of curious two-dimensional balloons that had drifted free of their vendor’s strings. There were easy chairs and a long sofa scattered about the room. A record player painted white and then covered with black notes and a G clef and a musical staff stood alongside a wide arch through which a second room was visible. There was no one but Hud and Kling in either of the two rooms. Whoever Tommy was, he seemed to have vanished into thin air.

“Like it?” Hud asked, smiling.

“It’s pretty,” Kling said.

“We done it all ourselves. Bought all those records on the ceiling and walls for two cents each. They’re real bombs — stuff the guy wanted to get rid of. We tried playing one of them. All we got was scratches. Sounded like London during an air raid.”

“Which you no doubt remember clearly,” Kling said.

“Huh?” Hud asked.

“Do you belong to this club?” Kling asked back.

“Sure. Only members are allowed down during the day. In fact, nonmembers ain’t allowed down except on Friday and Sunday nights. We have socials then.” He stared at Kling. His eyes were wide and blue. “Dancing, you know?”

“Yes, I know,” Kling said.

“A little beer sometimes, too. Healthy. This is healthy recreation.” Hud grinned. “Healthy recreation is what strong, red-blooded American teenagers need, am I right?”

“Absolutely.”

“That’s what Dr. Mortesson says.”

“Who?”

“Dr. Mortesson. Writes a column in one of the papers. Every day. Healthy recreation.” Hud continued grinning. “So what do you want to hire the club for?” he asked.

“I belong to a group of war veterans,” Kling said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. We’re… uh… having a sort of get together, meet the wives, girlfriends, like that, you know.”

“Oh, sure,” Hud said.

“So we need a place.”

“Why don’t you try the American Legion Hall?”

“Too big.”

“Oh.”

“I figured one of these cellar clubs. This is an unusually nice one.”

“Yeah,” Hud said. “Done it all ourselves.” He walked over to the record player, seemed ready to put the records down, then turned, changing his mind. “Listen, for what night is this?”

“A Saturday,” Kling said.

“That’s good — because we have our socials on Friday and Sunday.”

“Yes, I know,” Kling said.

“How much you want to pay?”

“That depends. You’re sure the landlord here won’t mind our bringing girls down? Not that anything funny would be going on or anything, you understand. Half the fellows are married.”

“Oh, certainly,” Hud said, suddenly drawn into the fraternity of the adult. “I understand completely. I never once thought otherwise.”

“But there will be girls.”

“That’s perfectly all right.”

“You’re sure?”

“Sure. We have girls here all the time. Our club is coed.”

“Is that right?”

“That’s a fact,” Hud said. “We got twelve girls belong to the club.”

“Girls from the neighborhood?” Kling asked.

“Mostly. From around, you know. Here and there. None of them come from too far.”

“Anybody I might know?” Kling asked.

Hud estimated Kling’s age in one hasty glance. “I doubt it, mister,” he said, the glowing bond of fraternal adulthood shattered.

“I used to live in this neighborhood,” Kling lied. “Took out a lot of girls around here. Wouldn’t be surprised if some of the girls in your club aren’t their younger sisters.”

“Well, that’s a possibility,” Hud conceded.

“What are some of their names?”

“Why do you want to know, pal?” a voice from the archway said. Kling whirled abruptly. A tall boy walked through the arch and into the room, zipping up the fly on his jeans. He was excellently built, with wide shoulders bulging the seams of his T-shirt, tapering down to a slender waist. His hair was chestnut brown, and his eyes were a deeper chocolate brown. He was extremely handsome, and he walked with arrogant knowledge of his good looks.

“Tommy?” Kling said.

“That’s my name,” Tommy said. “I didn’t get yours.”

“Bert Kling.”

“Glad to know you,” Tommy said. He watched Kling carefully.

“Tommy’s president of Club Tempo,” Hud put in. “He gave me the okay to hire the place to you. Provided the price was right.”

“I was in the john,” Tommy said. “Heard everything you said. Why’re you so interested in our chicks?”

“I’m not interested,” Kling answered. “Just curious.”

“Your curiosity, pal, should concern itself only with hiring the club. Am I right, Hud?”

“Sure,” Hud answered.

“What can you pay, pal?”

“How often did Jeannie Paige come down here, pal?” Kling said. He watched Tommy’s face. The face did not change expression at all. A record slid from the stack Hud was holding, clattering to the floor.

“Who’s Jeannie Paige?” Tommy said.

“A girl who was killed last Thursday night.”

“Never heard of her,” Tommy said.

“Think,” Kling told him.

“I am thinking.” Tommy paused. “You a cop?”

“What difference does it make?”

“This is a clean club,” Tommy said. “We never had any trouble with the cops, and we don’t want none. We ain’t even had any trouble with the landlord, and he’s a louse from way back.”

“Nobody’s looking for trouble,” Kling said. “I asked you how often Jeannie Paige came down here.”

“Never,” Tommy said. “Ain’t that right, Hud?”

Hud, reaching for the pieces of the broken record, looked up. “Yeah, that’s right, Tommy.”

“Suppose I am a cop?” Kling said.

“Cops have badges.”

Kling reached into his back pocket, opened his wallet, and showed the tin.

Tommy glanced at the shield. “Cop or no cop, this is still a clean club.”

“Nobody said it was dirty. Stop bulging your weight-lifter muscles and answer my questions straight. When was Jeannie Paige down here last?”

Tommy hesitated for a long time. “Nobody here had anything to do with killing her,” he said at last.

“Then she did come down?”

“Yes.”

“How often?”

“Every now and then.”

“How often?”

“Whenever there was socials. Sometimes during the week, too. We let her in ‘cause one of the girls…” Tommy stopped.

“Go ahead, finish it.”

“One of the girls knows her. Otherwise we wouldn’t’ve let her in except on social nights. That’s all I was gonna say.”

“Yeah,” Hud said, placing the broken record pieces on the player cabinet. “I think this girl was gonna put her up for membership.”

“Was she here last Thursday night?” Kling asked.

“No,” Tommy answered quickly.

“Try it again.”

“No, she wasn’t here. Thursday night is Work Night. Six kids from the club get the duty each week — different kids, you understand. Three guys and three girls. The guys do the heavy work, and the girls do the curtains, the glasses, things like that. No outsiders are allowed on Work Night. In fact, no members except the kids who are working are allowed. That’s how I know Jeannie Paige wasn’t here.”

“Were you here?”

“Yeah,” Tommy said.

“Who else was here?”

“What difference does it make? Jeannie wasn’t here.”

“What about her girlfriend? The one she knows?”

“Yeah, she was here.”

“What’s her name?”

Tommy paused. When he answered, it had nothing whatsoever to do with Kling’s question. “This Jeannie kid, like you got to understand her. She never even danced with nobody down here. A real zombie. Pretty as sin, but an iceberg. Ten below, I’m not kidding.”

“Why’d she come down then?”

“Ask me an easy one. Listen, even when she did come down, she never stayed long. She’d just sit on the sidelines and watch. There wasn’t a guy in this club wouldn’ta liked to dump her in the hay, but what a terrifying creep she was.” Tommy paused. “Ain’t that right, Hud?”

Hud nodded. “That’s right. Dead and all, I got to say it. She was a regular icicle. A real spook. After a while, none of the guys even bothered askin’ her to dance. We just let her sit.”

“She was in another world,” Tommy said. “I thought for a while she was a dope addict or something. I mean it. You know, you read about them in the papers all the time.” He shrugged. “But it wasn’t that. She was just a Martian, that’s all.” He shook his head disconsolately. “Such a piece, too.”

“A terrifying creep,” Hud said, shaking his head.

“What’s her girlfriend’s name?” Kling asked again.

A glance of muted understanding passed between Tommy and Hud. Kling didn’t miss it, but he bided his time.

“You get a pretty girl like Jeannie was,” Tommy said, “and you figure. Here’s something. Pal, did you ever see her? I mean, they don’t make them like that any—”

“What’s her girlfriend’s name?” Kling repeated, a little louder this time.

“She’s an older girl,” Tommy said, his voice very low.

“How old?”

“Twenty,” Tommy said.

“That almost makes her middle-aged like me,” Kling said.

“Yeah,” Hud agreed seriously.

“What’s her age got to do with it?”

“Well…” Tommy hesitated.

“For Christ’s sake, what is it?” Kling exploded.

“She’s been around,” Tommy said.

“So?”

“So… so we don’t want any trouble down here. This is a clean club. No, really, I’m not snowing you. So… so if once in a while we fool around with Claire—”

“Claire what?” Kling snapped.

“Claire…” Tommy stopped.

“Look,” Kling said tightly, “let’s just cut this short, okay? A seventeen-year-old kid had her head smashed in, and I don’t feel like playing around! Now, what the hell is this girl’s name? And say it damn fast!”

“Claire Townsend.” Tommy wet his lips. “Look, if our mothers found out we were… well, you know… fooling around with Claire down here, well. Look, can’t we leave her out of this? What’s to gain? Is there anything wrong with a little fun?”

“Nothing,” Kling said. “Do you find murder funny? Do you find it comical, you terrifying creep?”

“No, but—”

“Where does she live?”

“Claire?”

“Yes.”

“Right on Peterson. What’s the address, Hud?”

“728, I think,” Hud said.

“Yeah, that sounds about right. But look, Officer, leave us out of it, will you?”

“How many of you do I have to protect?” Kling said dryly.

“Well… only Hud and me, actually,” Tommy said.

“The Bobbsey Twins.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” Kling started for the door. “Stay away from big girls,” he said. “Go lift some weights.”

“You’ll leave us out of it?” Tommy called.

“I may be back,” Kling said, and then he left them standing by the record player.