don't want no trouble. No, sir.”
“Aw, stop drooling about trouble. And don't be so ready to give out information about your tenants: tell 'em to go ask the tenant. Remember, if they ask about Miss Henderson, phone me soon as you can.”
“I'll do that.”
“Fine,” I said, walking away, knowing he was too scared to do anything. I walked up the basement steps and the humidity was like a blanket. I stopped to run a comb through my hair, glanced up and down the street, trying to make her tail.
The street was empty, so were the parked cars. Little ways up the block there was a tall guy of about twenty-five wearing dungarees and a shabby black leather jacket leaning against one of the buildings. What made me forget about my hair was the crumpled wire coat hanger he was toying with in his right hand.
I slipped my badge on my belt as he glanced around like a ham actor, crossed the sidewalk to the Jaguar and shielding the hanger with his body, started working the wire into the rubber lining of the front window. He was less than two hundred feet from me and having a rough time with the window.
I edged up toward him, ready to sprint if he saw me, but he was too busy and I was behind him and on his left side when I asked, “Lost your keys?”
He spun around, one of these jokers with eyes too large for his long thin face. He nodded, tried to smile as he said, 'Yeah, misplaced them.” Looking me over, he turned back to the window.
“How you going to start the car if you haven't any keys?”
“Get lost, buddy. Mind your business.”
“I'm a police officer. Keep your hands in sight and face me!”
He turned quickly, his narrow face frightened pale. I opened my coat with my right hand so he could see my badge, part of my shoulder holster. I told him, “Drop the hanger—do it slow and easy.”
He dropped it.
“Turn around and place both your hands on top of the car. Now keep them there And spread your feet.”
He spread-eagled his big feet. He was sweating badly as he stuttered, “Give me a b-break, b-buddy. This is my first t- time.”
“Quiet, punk. You'd bust a car open to get a jacket you couldn't hock for more than a few lousy bucks,” I said, frisking him. He was clean. At least he had good taste, he was after the tweed sport coat I'd liked. “Don't move till I tell you or you'll get hurt.” I got out my notebook, put down the time, the license number of the car, the nearest building address. Across the street I saw the excited face of a fat old lady at the window, then she disappeared. She was probably calling the police. I put my notebook away, told him, “Stay the way you are and don't try anything.”
“Please, give me a chance. I swear I'll never—”
“Bullslop. A chance to do what, bust into another car, give me more work making the rounds of the hock shops looking for a damn stolen jacket? Keep your trap shut and don't move.” The busybody was back at the window, her face eager.
A car passed us, then another I saw a cab coming. I called, “Taxi,” and when it stopped I flashed my badge, told him, “I'm a police officer taking a suspect to—”
A radio car turned into the street—fast. The old gal hadn't wasted a second. I told the cabby to drive on and he went, looking relieved. When the radio car stopped both cops came out on the run. They were a couple of middle-aged guys I knew—only by sight. The first one asked, “What's up, Junior?”
“Caught this clown breaking into a car One of you stay here and see if you can locate the owner of this foreign heap. The other take us up to the station.”
One of the cops gave me a mock slam-salute. “I'll stay. Some car, Al, you ride them up and don't be all afternoon coming back for me—hot in this sun.” He jabbed the punk in the ribs with his night stick. “You, get in the car and don't try nothing stupid.”
I picked up the coat hanger.
At the precinct house I took him right up to the squad room. Reed was there. I had the guy empty his pockets An old wallet with one buck in it said his name was Henry Moorepark, that he lived on East Fourth Street. He said he was a dye worker, unemployed since last February, gave me the name and address of the last concern he'd worked for. Besides the wallet he had a single key, a plastic case with his Social Security card on one side, a snap of a potty-looking babe on the other, two hock shop tickets dated five and eight days ago, and a busted cigar holder. He said he was unmarried, lived with his folks, had never served time. I had him roll up his shirt sleeves and pants legs—he wasn't a junkie. He said again, “Like I told you, I found this hanger and was trying to straighten it out against the car, figured I could take it home.”
“What you doing this far uptown?” I asked.
“Just walking around.”
“And you found this hanger and were busy straightening it out, and busting the rubber on the car window, when I saw you. That your story?”
“Yes.”
“You expect me to buy that?” I said, putting force in my voice. “If I did you'd be the most surprised guy in this room. Come on, give me a straight story.”
“I just found the... the hanger and was going to get... get it straightened so...” His narrow face seemed to grow longer and tighter, then it fell apart, went slack as he whispered, “I need money bad, I was trying to get the coat and whatever else there was in there.”
I took him down to the desk and booked him, put him in a cell and phoned down to his precinct to check his address, notify his folks. Then I called BCI to find if there was a record on the guy and went back upstairs to the squad room. Reed asked, “Call downtown for a yellow sheet on this cheap slob?”
I nodded. '“He was telling the truth, no record.”
Reed shook his head. “Another miserable bastard gone wrong. These cheap cases get me angry, doing it for a few lousy bucks. Nice work, Wintino.”
“A big deal, I bagged a hard-up jerk on his first two-bit job,” I said, thinking how we were all wasting time. Hell, I should be asking Wales about Sal Kahn.
Reed said, “You prevented a crime, that's supposed to be half our job. And there's no such animal as a 'small' crime. Suppose this punk had a knife on him and panicked when the car owner found him, it could easily have been a murder.
What I like is your working by reflex, instinctively. That's being a good cop. Have lunch yet?”
“No, sir,” I lied: it never hurts to build things up a little. “Speaking of instinct, I feel I should talk to Wales about—”
“Crab a sandwich, then finish the report on Owens and write up this case. Forget Wales. I called the brokerage office to check with him on that Dundus fellow. Wales hadn't shown up for work today. Must be off drowning his sorrows. Doesn't matter, I checked with the institution. Dundus died there. What's with this Henderson nut?”
“She isn't a nut. She's a writer. She's being rough-shadowed and annoyed by phone calls to make her so jittery she won't be able to finish an article exposing some electrical companies hogging a new invention. I thought she was a crackpot till I talked to the janitor. Somebody has been trying to throw a scare into her.”
“Has she any idea who's doing this?”
“No, but she thinks the men who jostled her must be private clowns hired by the electrical concerns. I told her we'd have the post cop and the radio car keep an eye on her house for any suspicious characters. And she wants an escort when she goes out this afternoon.”
Reed rubbed his big nose. “Escort? Hell, I got a busy house here.”
“But you see she hasn't any set hours, goes to the library whenever she has to look up stuff. I figured if we tailed her once, we'd nail the jokers who've been roughing her up. She's waiting on a call from me as to what we plan to do.”
Reed stared at his hand as if he expected to see part of his nose there. “All right, if she's a writer we don't want her knocking the department. Tell her about the beat man looking in. Find out what time she'll leave her flat in the morning, I'll be able to give her a man then. It's two-twenty now. Take off after you finish your paperwork. You'll have to take that car-punk to Night Court.”
“My wife is going to love that,” I said, almost to myself. I'd forgotten about the damn Night Court.
“Your wife isn't working for me. Cop's wife should expect him when she sees him,” Reed said as he went into his office.
When I got Rose Henderson on the phone she blew up. “Tomorrow morning? I'm waiting now to go out shopping, not to mention some research I need.”
“I'm sorry but we can't spare a man now. I told you that might happen. I checked with your super, I believe your story.”
“That's nice of you. I Suppose I won't be killed going to the corner grocery. But I will see you tomorrow, about ten then?”
“A detective will be there by ten. He'll call you first,” I said, wondering how the devil I was going to tell Mary I might not make her bridge game. I'd better call her uncle, that might cool her off.
As I hung up I started to dial Mary, then changed my mind. I felt crummy. Why should I have to crawl before my wife, act like I was doing something wrong? Still I was spoiling her evening. But what did they expect me to do, close my eyes to a sad sack robbing a car? I laughed—to and at myself. Whenever I get sore I'm always blaming things on “they” or “them,” a kind of blanket name for everybody who's against me. And that was dumb too. Mary wasn't against me, she just didn't understand what being a cop's wife meant. Perhaps she was even right; because I liked the job didn't mean she had to.
I went out for an ice cream cone and dialed Uncle Frank. It took time for the girl who answered to find him—he was always jumping around his joint, bossing everybody. Finally I heard him pant over the phone, “Dave?”
“Yeah. How's things, Uncle Frank?”
“Terrible, lad. Lousy truckman circles the block twice and can't find a parking place so he takes off like a scared rabbit. Two hundred and thirty-one pieces of express freight, dress goods, miss the afternoon train. They
