Ed McBain - Downtown (2 page)

"So you just put your hands on the wall here and lean on them, and spread your legs, and if you ain't got her ring, you got nothin' to worry

about."

13 "You've got no right to ..." "Then you want to go down the precinct? Okay, fine, we'll go down the precinct, we'll talk there. Let's go, my car's up the street."

"Why don't you just give me the ring, mister?" Helen said. "Save yourself a lot of trouble." "I don't _have your goddamn ..." "Okay, fine, let's go down the precinct," Cahill said. "All right, all _right," Michael said angrily, and leaned against the wall, his arms spread, his legs spread, his fingers spread, "let's get this over with, okay? I don't have the ring, you can search me from now to ..." "Fine, we'll just _see what you got," Cahill said.

Michael's immediate impulse was to attack; the army had taught him that. But the army had also taught him never to start up with an M.P. Indignantly, angrily, he endured the frisk. Cahill ran his hands up and down Michael's legs, and then tossed up Michael's jacket and reached into the right hip pocket of his trousers, and took out his wallet. Behind him, Michael could hear him rummaging through the wallet. "This you?" Cahill asked. "Michael Barnes?" "Yes." "This your driver's license?" "Yes." "You from Florida?" "Yes." "These your credit cards?" "Yes, everything in the wallet is mine."

"Okay, fine," Cahill said, and put the wallet back into Michael's hip pocket and then began patting down the pockets of his jacket.

"If you don't mind," Michael said, "it's goddamn cold out here. I wish you'd ..." "Well, well, well," Cahill said, and his hands stopped. Michael felt a sudden chill that had nothing to do with the weather. Cahill was reaching into the right-hand pocket of Michael's jacket. "What have we here?" he said. Michael held his breath.

"Off the wall," Cahill said, "_off it! Turn around!"

Michael shoved himself off the wall.

15 He turned. Cahill was holding a star sapphire ring between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. "This your ring, miss?" he asked Helen. "Yes," she said.

"Officer," Michael said, "I don't know how that got in my pocket, but ..." "Let's go," Cahill said, "we all three of us got some work to do down the precinct."

"Could I have my ring, please?" Helen said.

"This is evidence, miss," Cahill said.

"No, it isn't _evidence, it's a gift from my father, and I'd like it back, please." "Miss, when we get down the precinct ..." "I'm not _going down the precinct ..." "Miss ..." "... or _up the precinct or _around the ..."

"Miss, this individual here stole your ring ..."

"Yes, but now we've got it back, so let me have it." "Miss ..."

"I told you I don't want to make any trouble for him." "This individual is a _thief, miss."

"I don't care what he is, just let me have the ring," Helen said. Cahill looked at her.

"I do not wish to press charges, okay?" she said. "Do you understand that?"

"That's how criminals go free in this city," Cahill said. "Because people are afraid to ..."

"Just give me the goddamn _ring!" Helen said. "Here's the goddamn ring," Cahill said sourly, and handed it to her. "Thank you." She put the ring on her finger. "Good night," she said, and walked off.

"You're a very lucky thief," Cahill said, and walked off in the opposite direction.

"I'm not a goddamn _thief!" Michael shouted to the empty air.

The words plumed out of his mouth, carried away on the wind, the vapor dissipating into the lazy swirl of snowflakes. His dark brown hair was covered with snow, the shoulders of his brown jacket were covered with snow, he had not been in a snowstorm for a good long time now--since before his mother sold the

hardware business in Boston and loaned

17 Michael the money for the groves in Florida--but now he was up to his ass in snow. Well, not quite. Not yet. Only up to the insteps of his shoes so far. He realized all at once that he was shivering. He shoved open the door to the bar.

Mahogany and brass, green-shaded lamps, the gentle _chink of ice in glasses, the buzz of conversation, the friendly sound of laughter. Everything just as it had been before the blonde accused him of stealing her ring. Shaking his head, still amazed by what had happened, he went back to where he'd left his glass on the bar. He downed what was left of the scotch in two swallows and signaled to the bartender for another one. The bartender scooped ice into a glass, began pouring from the bottle of Dewar's. "What was _that all about?" he asked. "Don't ask," Michael said. "Was that guy a cop?" "Yeah." "What was it? The girl hit on you?" "What do you mean?" "Was he Vice?" "No, no, nothing like that."

"'Cause I thought maybe she was a hooker ..." "No, she was a lawyer." "So what was it then?" "She said I stole her ... look, I don't want to discuss it," Michael said. "It's over and done with, I don't even want to _think about it anymore."

Shaking his head again, he picked up the fresh drink and took a long swallow. A man sitting three stools down the bar said, "I was watching the whole thing." "With the hooker, you mean?" the bartender said, turning to him. "She was a lawyer," Michael said. "Hookers will often claim to be lawyers, bankers, university professors, what have you," the man down the bar said. He was tall and lanky, with a Lincolnesque face, a pronounced cleft in his chin, and a thick mane of white hair brushed back from a widow's peak. He was in his early to mid-fifties, Michael guessed, wearing a dark gray suit with a red-and-black silk rep tie. Brown eyes. Long-fingered hands. A deep, stentorian voice. "I've been chatted

up by hookers who claimed to be investment

19 counselors, architects, delegates to the U.N., and even children's book editors. They are all nonetheless hookers." "It's hard to tell a hooker, this day and age," the bartender said, nodding in agreement.

"Until they name their price," the tall, thin man said, and then got off his stool and came up the bar to where Michael was sitting. Taking the stool the blonde had vacated, he said, "Arthur Crandall," and took from his vest pocket a business card made of very thin black plastic. The lettering on the card was in white, and it read:

CRANDALL FILMS, LTD.

Arthur Crandall, Director

In the lower left-hand corner of the card, there was a New York address and telephone number. In the lower right-hand corner, there was a Beverly Hills address and telephone number. The card looked and felt like a strip of movie film. Which Michael now realized was its intent. "Michael Barnes," he said, and took a little leather card case from the right-hand pocket of his jacket, and slipped a card free, and handed it to Crandall. The card was illustrated with an orange tree that grew out of the right-hand corner, its branches and leaves spreading upward and leftward across the top of the card, its oranges overhanging green lettering that read:

GOLDEN ORANGE GROVES

16554 Fruitville Road

Sarasota, FL 34240 In the lower right-hand corner was Michael's name, followed by the word "President," and below that his telephone number.

"Pleased to meet you," Crandall said. "You grow oranges, I see." "That's what I do," Michael said. "I grow _ideas, so to speak," Crandall said. "A writer comes to me with an idea, and I nurture it along until we have, _voil� _un _film!" "Would I know any of your movies?" Michael asked.

"_War _and _Solitude?" Crandall said, and looked at him expectantly.

"Uh-huh," Michael said.

21 "You've heard of it?" "No." "That was my most recent film. _War _and _Solitude." "I'm sorry, but I don't know it," Michael said. "I think I've seen almost every movie ever made ..." "I see," Crandall said. "Either in an actual theater or else on cable or on videocassette ..." "I see," Crandall said again. "... but _War _and _Solitude doesn't ring a ..." "But you know _Platoon, right?" "Oh, sure."

"_War _and _Solitude was about the U.S. intervention in Nicaragua in 1926." "Uh-huh," Michael said.

"It played art houses mostly," Crandall said. "That must be why I missed it," Michael said. "We don't have too many art houses in Sarasota." "It was meant to be a parable of sorts," Crandall said. "The film. But, of course, _Platoon picked up all the marbles." "It was a pretty realistic movie, I thought," Michael said. "_Platoon. I was only over there for a little while, but ..." "Vietnam?" "Yes. But I thought ..." "In combat?" "Yes. I thought he really caught the feel of it. What it was like being there."

"You should see _my movie," Crandall said. "You want the feel of war ..." "I'll look for it. Maybe it'll come to Sarasota someday." "I doubt it," Crandall said. "Well, you never know." "Well, I _do know, as a matter of fact," Crandall said somewhat heatedly. "Since the film was made eleven years ago, and it didn't make a nickel then, it sure as hell isn't going to be re-released _now after _Platoon got the girl, the gold watch, and everything. Which, by the way, the reason I was so fascinated by the conversation between you and the girl was that it read like a movie script. A classic Hooker-John scene.

Until she accused you of stealing her ring.

23 That threw me. I found myself thinking if this hooker is trying to _land this guy, why is she all at once accusing him of stealing her ring?" "Yeah, well." "Very puzzling," Crandall said. "Anyway, she got the ring back, so I guess ..." "What do you mean?" "It was in my pocket." "It was?" "Yeah." "How did it get in your pocket?"

"I guess she put it there. At least, that's what I thought until she refused to press charges."

"Then why'd she put it in your pocket to begin with?"

"That's just it. Listen, who the hell cares? She got her ring back, the cop let me go ..." "Well, aren't you curious?" "No."

"I guess that's why you grow oranges and I make movies," Crandall said. "I hate to interrupt this discussion," the bartender said, "but do you want me to keep your tab running?" "No, I better be on my way," Michael said. "What do I owe you?" The bartender handed him the bill. Michael glanced at it, took out his wallet, opened it, and reached into the bill compartment. There was no money in the bill compartment. There were no credit cards in the various little slots on either side of the wallet. His driver's license was gone, too. So was his card for the Sarasota Public Library. "Shit," he said.

2

"Be that as it may," the bartender said, "who's going to pay for these drinks here?"

"_I'll pay for the drinks," Crandall said, somewhat testily. "Is that all you can think of is who's going to pay for the drinks? This man has just had his money and his credit cards stolen and all you can think of ..."

"All right, all right," the bartender

25 said. "Is it any wonder that this city has a reputation for insensitivity? Here's a man visiting from Florida, on Christmas _Eve, no less ..." "All right, all right ..."

"He has his credit cards and his money and his driver's license stolen, and all _you can think of ..." "I said all _right already!"

"We've got to report this to the police," Crandall said, taking out his own wallet, looking at the check, and then putting a twenty-dollar bill on the bar. "What precinct are we in?" "The First," the bartender said. "Where is that?" "On Ericsson Place." "_Where?"

"Ericsson Place. You gotta go all the way over the West Side from here. It's just off Varick and Canal."

"Do you know how to get there?" Crandall asked Michael.

"No," Michael said. "This is the first time I've been down in this part of the city."

"Last time, too, I'll bet," the bartender said. "I'll show you the way," Crandall said. "Well, look, I have to catch an eleven-oh-five plane to Boston. What I thought ..."

"That gives you over three hours," Crandall said.

"Well, I thought I'd leave the city by ..." "Even so. You don't want these people ..." "I thought I'd call from Boston, report it ..."

"No, no, you can't do that," Crandall said. "You have to go to the police in person. That's the way it works. Otherwise nothing'll get done. Don't worry, I'll go with you. I have a photographic memory, I can give them a good description of that fake cop." "Well, thanks but ..." "Where'd you park your car?"

"But you see, I thought it might be simpler ..." "Come on, this won't take a minute,"

Crandall said. "It's your duty as a

27 citizen." "He's right," the bartender said. Michael looked at him. "Really," the bartender said.

"Well, okay," Michael said, and nodded. "So where's the car?" Crandall asked. "Right around the corner."

"Probably be a parking ticket on it," the bartender said. Crandall gave him a look. "Sorry," he said, and went to the cash register. "Do you remember what name he gave you?" Crandall asked.

"Yes. Detective Daniel Cahill." "Good. Although the name was probably as phony as he was." "Here's your change," the bartender said.

"Thank you," Crandall said. He looked at the check again, left a tip on the bar, and then said, "Let's go."

They walked out of the bar into a raging snowstorm.

What had earlier been a Charles Dickens sort of _Christmas _Carol-ish snowfall-- with fat, gentle flakes swirling and dipping on the air, and little puffy white hats on the street lamps, and people hurrying by with long mufflers trailing, their footsteps hushed on sidewalks and streets covered with a thin dusting of white--had now turned into a blustery blizzard blowing wind and tiny sharp snowflakes into every crack and crevice, covering the entire city with a fine, glistening, slippery coat of white already an inch thick.

"This we definitely do not need," Crandall said. "Where'd you say the car was?" "Around the corner," Michael said. They walked together to the corner, their heads ducked against the needle-sharp flakes driven by the wind, turned right, and then walked to the middle of the street where the rented car was parked under a street lamp. Michael unlocked the car on the driver's side, got in, and started it. "If you'll flick open the trunk," Crandall said, "I'll see if we've got a scraper."

Michael reached for the trunk-release lever, close to the floor, and pulled on it. "That's got it," Crandall said. "Anything in there?" Michael called.

"Just a valise."

29 "Yes, that's mine." "Nothing we can use," Crandall said, and slammed the trunk shut and came around the car to where Michael was sitting behind the wheel, the door open. "One of those nights, huh?" he said.