The Mugger

12

At 2:00 on the morning of Thursday, September 21, Eileen Burke walked the streets of Isola in a white sweater and a tight skirt.

She was a tired cop.

She had been walking the streets of Isola since 11:45 the previous Saturday night. This was her fifth night of walking. She wore high-heeled pumps, and they had definitely not been designed for hikes. In an attempt to lure the mugger, whose basic motivation in choosing women might or might not have been sexually inspired, she had hitched up her brassiere a notch or two higher so that her breasts were cramped and upturned, albeit alluring.

The allure of her mammary glands was not to be denied by anyone, least of all someone with so coldly analytical a mind as Eileen Burke possessed.

During the course of her early-morning promenades, she had been approached seven times by sailors, four times by soldiers, and twenty-two times by civilians in various styles of male attire. The approach had ranged from polite remarks such as, “Nice night, ain’t it?” to more direct opening gambits like, “Walking all alone, honey?” to downright unmistakable business inquiries like, “How much, babe?”

All of these Eileen had taken in stride.

They had, to be truthful, broken the monotony of her otherwise lonely and silent excursions. She had never once caught sight of Willis behind her, though she knew with certainty that he was there. She wondered now if he was as bored as she, and she concluded that he was possibly not. He did, after all, have the compensating sight of a backside, which she jiggled jauntily for the benefit of any unseen, observant mugger.

Where are you, Clifford? she mentally asked.

Have we scared you off? Did the sight of the twisted and bloody young kid whose head you split open turn your stomach, Clifford? Have you decided to give up this business, or are you waiting until the heat’s off?

Come on, Clifford.

See the pretty wiggle? The bait is yours, Clifford. And the only hook is the .38 in my purse.

Come on, Clifford!

From where Willis jogged doggedly along behind Eileen, he could make out only the white sweater and occasionally a sudden burst of bright red when the lights caught at her hair.

He was a tired cop.

It had been a long time since he’d walked a beat, and this was worse than walking any beat in the city. When you had a beat, you also had bars and restaurants and sometimes tailor shops or candy stores. And in those places you could pick up, respectively, a quick beer, cup of coffee, snatch of idle conversation, or warmth from a hissing radiator.

This girl Eileen liked walking. He had followed behind her for four nights now, and this was the fifth, and she hadn’t once stopped walking. This was an admirable attitude, to be sure, a devotion to duty that was not to be scoffed aside.

But good Christ, man, did she have a motor?

What propelled those legs of hers? (Good legs, Willis. Admit it.)

And why so fast? Did she think Clifford was a cross-country track star?

He had spoken to her about her speed after their first night of breakneck pacing. She had smiled easily, fluffed her hair, and said, “I always walk fast.”

That, he thought now, had been the understatement of the year.

What she meant, of course, was, “I always run slow.”

He did not envy Clifford. Whoever he was, wherever he was, he would need a motorcycle to catch this redhead with the paperback-cover bosoms.

Well, he thought, she’s making the game worth the candle.

Wherever you are, Clifford, Miss Burke’s going to give you a run for your money.

He had first heard the tapping of her heels.

The impatient beaks of woodpeckers riveting at the stout mahogany heart of his city. Fluttering taps, light-footed, strong legs and quick feet.

He had then seen the white sweater, a beacon in the distance, coming nearer and nearer, losing its two-dimensionality as it grew closer, expanding until it had the three-sidedness of a work of sculpture, then taking on reality, becoming woolen fiber covering firm, high breasts.

He had seen the red hair then, long, lapped by the nervous fingers of the wind, enveloping her head like a blazing funeral pyre. He had stood in the alleyway across the street and watched her as she pranced by, cursing his station, wishing he had posted himself on the other side of the street instead. She carried a black patent-leather sling bag over her shoulder, the strap loose, the bag knocking against her left hipbone as she walked. The bag looked heavy.

He knew that looks could be deceiving, that many women carried all sorts of junk in their purses, but he smelled money in this one. She was either a whore drumming up trade or a society bitch out for a late-evening stroll — it was sometimes difficult to tell them apart. Whichever she was, the purse promised money, and money was what he needed pretty badly right now.

The newspapers shrieking about Jeannie Paige!

They had driven him clear off the streets. But how long can a murder remain hot? And doesn’t a man have to eat?

He watched the redhead swing past, and then he ducked into the alleyway, quickly calculating a route that would intersect her apparent course.

He did not see Willis coming up behind the girl.

Nor did Willis see him.

There are three lampposts on each block, Eileen thought.

It takes approximately one and a half minutes to cover the distance between lampposts. Four and a half minutes a block. That’s plain arithmetic.

Nor is that exceptionally fast. If Willis thinks that’s fast, he should meet my brother. My brother is the type of person who rushes through everything — breakfast, dinner…

Hold it now!

Something was moving up ahead.

Her mind, as if instantly sucked clean of debris by a huge vacuum cleaner, lay glistening like a hard, cut diamond. Her left hand snapped to the drawstrings on her purse, wedging into the purse and enlarging the opening. She felt the reassuring steel of the .38, content that the butt was in a position to be grasped instantly by a cross-body swipe of her right hand.

She walked with her head erect. She did not break her stride. The figure ahead was a man, of that much she was certain. He had seen her now, and he moved toward her rapidly. He wore a dark-blue suit, and he was hatless. He was a big man, topping six feet.

“Hey!” he called. “Hey, you!” and she felt her heart lurch into her throat because she knew with rattling certainty that this was Clifford.

And, suddenly, she felt quite foolish.

She had seen the markings on the sleeve of the blue suit, had seen the slender white lines on the collar. The man she’d thought to be Clifford was only a hatless sailor. The tenseness flooded from her body. A small smile touched her lips.

The sailor came closer to her, and she saw now that he was weaving unsteadily, quite unsteadily. He was, to be kind, as drunk as a lord, and his condition undoubtedly accounted for his missing white hat.

“Wal now,” he bawled, “if’n it ain’ a redhaid! C’mere, redhaid!”

He grabbed for Eileen, and she knocked his arm aside quickly and efficiently. “Run along, sailor,” she said. “You’re in the wrong pew!”

The sailor threw back his head and guffawed boisterously. “Th’ wrong pew!” he shouted. “Wal now, Ah’ll be hung fer a hoss thief!”

Eileen, not caring at all what he was hung for so long as he kept his nose out of the serious business afoot, walked briskly past him and continued on her way.

“Hey!” he bellowed. “Wheah y’goin’?”

She heard his hurried footsteps behind her, and then she felt his hand close on her elbow. She whirled, shaking his fingers free.

“Whutsamatter?” he asked. “Doan’choo like sailors?”

“I like them fine,” Eileen answered. “But I think you ought to be getting back to your ship. Now, go ahead. Run along.” She stared at him levelly.

He returned her stare soberly and then quite suddenly asked, “Hey, you-all like t’go to bed wi’ me?”

Eileen could not suppress the smile. “No,” she said. “Thank you very much.”

“Why not?” he asked, thrusting forward his jaw.

“I’m married,” she lied.

“Why, tha’s awright,” he said. “Ah’m married, too.”

“My husband is a cop,” she further lied.

“Cops doan scare me none. On’y the SOBSP ah got to worry ‘bout. Hey now, how ‘bout it, huh?”

“No,” Eileen said firmly. She turned to go, and he wove quickly around her, skidding to a stop in front of her.

“We can talk ‘bout yo’ husbin an’ mah wife, how’s that? Ah got th’ sweetes’ li’l wife in th’ whole wide world.”

“Then go home to her,” Eileen said.

“Ah cain’t! Dammit all, she’s in Alabama!”

“Take off, sailor,” Eileen said. “I’m serious. Take off before you get yourself in trouble.”

“No,” he said, pouting.

She turned and looked over her shoulder for Willis. He was nowhere in sight. He was undoubtedly resting against an alley wall, laughing his fool head off. She walked around the sailor and started up the street. The sailor fell in beside her.

“Nothin’ ah like better’n walkin’,” he said. “Ah’m goan walk mah big feet off, right here ‘longside you. Ah’m goan walk till hell freezes over.”

“Stick with me, and you will,” Eileen muttered, and then she wondered how soon it would be until she spotted an SP. Dammit, there never was a cop around when you needed one!

Now she’s picking up sailors, Willis thought.

We’ve got nothing better to do than humor the fleet. Why doesn’t she conk him on the head and leave him to sleep it off in an alleyway?

How the hell are we going to smoke Clifford if she insists on a naval escort? Shall I go break it up? Or has she got something up her sleeve?

The terrible thing about working with women is that you can never count on them to think like men.

He watched silently, and he cursed the sailor.

Where had the fool materialized from? How could he get that purse now? Of all the goddamn rotten luck, the first good thing that had come along on his first night out since the papers started that Jeannie Paige fuss, and this stupid sailor had to come along and louse it up.

Maybe he’d go away.

Maybe she’d slap him across the face and he’d go away.

Or maybe not. If she was a prostitute, she’d take the sailor with her, and that would be the end of that.

Why did the police allow the Navy to dump its filthy cargoes into the streets of the city, anyway?

He watched the wiggle of the girl’s backside, and he watched the swaying, bobbing motion of the sailor, and he cursed the police, and he cursed the fleet, and he even cursed the redhead.

And then they turned the corner, and he ducked through the alley and started through the backyard, hoping to come out some two blocks ahead of the pair, hoping she’d have gotten rid of him by then, his fingers aching to close around the purse that swung so heavily from her left shoulder.

“What ship are you on?” Eileen asked the sailor.

“USS Huntuh,” the sailor said. “You-all beginnin’ t’take an intrust in me, redhaid?”

Eileen stopped. She turned to face the sailor, and there was a deadly glint in her green eyes. “Listen to me, sailor,” she said. “I’m a policewoman, understand? I’m working now, and you’re cluttering up my job, and I don’t like it.”

“A what?” the sailor said. He threw back his head, ready to let out a wild guffaw, but Eileen’s cold dispassionate voice stopped him.

“I’ve got a .38 Detective’s Special in my purse,” she said evenly. “In about six seconds, I’m going to take it out and shoot you in the leg. I’ll leave you on the sidewalk and then put in a call in to the Shore Patrol. I’m counting, sailor.”

“Hey, whut you—”

“One…”

“Listen, whut you gettin’ all het up about? Ah’m on’y—”

“Two…”

“I don’t even believe you got an’ ol’ gun in that—”

The .38 snapped into view suddenly. The sailor’s eyes went wide.

“Three…” Eileen said.

“Wal, ah’ll be—”

“Four…”

The sailor looked at the gun once more.

“G’night, lady,” he said, and he turned on his heel and began running.

Eileen watched him. She returned the gun to her purse, smiled, turned the corner, and walked into the darkened street. She had taken no more than fifteen steps when the arm circled her throat and she was pulled into the alleyway.

The sailor came down the street at such a fast clip that Willis almost burst out laughing. The flap of the sailor’s jumper danced in the wind. He charged down the middle of the asphalt with a curious mixture of a sailor’s roll, a drunk’s lopsided gait, and the lope of a three-year-old in the Kentucky Derby. His eyes were wide, and his hair flew madly as he jounced along.

He skidded to a stop when he saw Willis, and then, puffing for breath, he advised, “Man, if’n you-all see a redhaid up theah, steer clear of her, Ah’m tellin’ you.”

“What’s the matter?” Willis asked paternally, holding back the laugh that crowded his throat.

“Whutsamatter! Man, she got a twenty-gauge shotgun in her handbag, tha’s whutsamatter. Whoo-ie, Ah’m gettin’ clear the hell out o’ here!”

He nodded briefly at Willis and then blasted off again. Willis watched his jet trail, indulged himself in one short chuckle, and then looked for Eileen up ahead. She had probably turned the corner.

He grinned, changing his earlier appraisal of the sailor’s intrusion. The sailor had, after all, presented a welcome diversion from this dull business of plodding along and hoping for a mugger who probably would never materialize.

She was reaching for the .38 in her purse when the strap left her shoulder. She felt the secure weight of the purse leaving her hipbone, and then the bag was gone. And just as she planted her feet to throw the intruder over her shoulder, he spun her around and slammed her against the wall of the building.

“I’m not playing around,” he said in a low, menacing voice, and she realized instantly that he wasn’t. The collision with the wall of the building had knocked the breath out of her. She watched his face, dimly lighted in the alleyway. He was not wearing sunglasses, but she could not determine the color of his eyes. He was wearing a hat, too, and she cursed the hat because it hid his hair.

His fist lashed out suddenly, exploding just beneath her left eye. She had heard about purple and yellow globes of light that followed a punch in the eye, but she had never experienced them until this moment. She tried to move away from the wall, momentarily blinded, but he shoved her back viciously.

“That’s just a warning,” he said. “Don’t scream when I’m gone, you understand?”

“I understand,” she said levelly. Willis, where are you? her mind shrieked. For God’s sake, where are you?

She had to detain this man. She had to hold him until Willis showed. Come on, Willis.

“Who are you?” she asked.

His hand went out again, and her head rocked from his strong slap.

“Shut up!” he warned. “I’m taking off now.”

If this were Clifford, she had a chance. If this were Clifford, she would have to move in a few seconds, and she tensed herself for the move, knowing only that she had to hold the man until Willis arrived.

There!

He was going into it now.

“Clifford thanks you, madam,” he said, and his arm swept across his waist, and he went into a low bow, and Eileen clasped both hands together, raised them high over her head, and swung them at the back of his neck as if she were wielding a hammer.

The blow caught him completely by surprise. He began to pitch forward, and she brought up her knee, catching him under the jaw. His arms opened wide. He dropped the purse and staggered backward, and when he lifted his head again, Eileen was standing with a spike-heeled shoe in one hand. She didn’t wait for his attack. With one foot shoeless, she hobbled forward and swung out at his head.

He backed away, missing her swing, and then he bellowed like a wounded bear, and cut loose with a roundhouse blow that caught her just below her bosom. She felt the sharp knifing pain, and then he was hitting her again, hitting her cruelly and viciously now. She dropped the shoe, and she caught at his clothes, one hand going to his face, trying to rip, trying to claw, forgetting all her police knowledge in that one desperate lunge for self-survival, using a woman’s weapons — nails.

She missed his face, and she stumbled forward, catching at his jacket again, clawing at his breast pocket. He pulled away, and she felt the material tear, and then she was holding the torn shield of his pocket patch in her hands, and he hit her again, full on the jaw, and she fell back against the wall and heard Willis’s running footsteps.

The mugger stooped down for the fallen purse, seizing it by the shoulder straps as Willis burst into the mouth of the alley, a gun in his fist.

Clifford came erect, swinging the bag as he stood. The bag caught Willis on the side of the head, and he staggered sidewards, the gun going off in his hand. He shook his head, saw the mugger taking flight, shot without aiming, shot again, missing both times. Clifford turned the corner, and Willis took off after him, rounding the same bend.

The mugger was nowhere in sight.

He went back to where Eileen Burke sat propped against the wall of the building. Her knees were up, and her skirt was pulled back, and she sat in a very unladylike position, cradling her head. Her left eye was beginning to throb painfully. When she lifted her head, Willis winced.

“He clipped you,” he said.

“Where the hell were you?” Eileen Burke answered.

“Right behind you. I didn’t realize anything was wrong until I heard a man’s voice shout, ‘Shut up!’”

“He packs a wallop,” Eileen said. “How does my eye look?”

“You’re going to have a hell of a mouse,” Willis told her. “We’ll get a steak for it whenever you feel like going.” He paused. “Was it Clifford?”

“Sure,” she said. She got to her feet and winced. “Ow, I think he broke one of my ribs.”

“Are you kidding me?” Willis asked, concerned.

Eileen felt the area beneath her breasts. “It only feels that way. Oooooh, God!”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

“Too dark,” she said. She held up her hand. “I got his pocket, though.”

“Good.” Willis looked down. “What’s all this on the sidewalk?”

“What?”

He bent. “Cigarettes,” he said. “Good. We may get some latents from the cellophane.” He picked the package up with his handkerchief, carefully holding the linen around it.

“He was probably carrying them in his pocket,” Eileen said. She touched the throbbing eye. “Let’s get that steak, huh?”

“Sure. Just one thing.”

“What?”

“Matches. If he was carrying cigarettes in that pocket, he was probably carrying matches, too.” He took a pocket flashlight and thumbed it into life. The light spilled onto the sidewalk, traveling in a slow arc. “Ah, there they are,” he said. He stooped to pick up the match folder, using a second handkerchief he took from his inside pocket.

“Listen, can’t we get that steak?” Eileen asked.

Willis looked at the folder. “We may be in luck,” he said.

“How so?”

“The ad on these matches. It’s for a place here in the city. A place named the Three Aces. Maybe we’ve got a hangout for Clifford now.”

He looked at Eileen and grinned broadly. She stooped, putting on her shoe.

“Come on,” he said, “let’s take care of that peeper.”

“I was beginning to think you didn’t care anymore,” Eileen said. She took his arm, and they started up the street together.