The Mugger (17 page)

He didn’t know what to say. He felt embarrassed and stupid and happy and very big. He felt about eighty feet tall.

“What…what are you doing tomorrow?” he asked.

“Nothing. What are you doing tomorrow?”

“I’m calling Molly Bell to explain why I can’t snoop around anymore. And then I’m stopping by at your place, and we’re going on a picnic.
If
the sun is shining.”

“The sun’ll be shining, Bert.”

“I know it will,” he said.

She leaned forward suddenly and kissed him, a quick, sudden kiss that fleetingly touched his mouth and then was gone. She sat back again, seeming very unsure of herself, seeming like a frightened little girl at her first party. “You…you must be patient,” she said.

“I will,” he promised.

The waiter suddenly appeared. The waiter was smiling. He coughed discreetly. Kling watched him in amazement.

“I thought,” the waiter said gently, “perhaps a little candlelight at the table, sir? The lady will look even more lovely by candlelight.”

“The lady looks lovely just as she is,” Kling said.

The waiter seemed disappointed. “But…”

“But the candlelight, certainly,” Kling said. “By all means, the candlelight.”

The waiter beamed. “Ah, yes, sir. Yes, sir. And then we will order, yes? I have some suggestions, sir, whenever you’re ready.” He paused, his smile lighting his face. “It’s a beautiful night, sir, isn’t it?”

“It’s a wonderful night,” Claire answered.

Sometimes they crack open like litchi nuts.

You struggle with something that seems to be a Brazil nut, poking at the diamond-hard exterior, yearning to get at the meat, and suddenly, it’s a litchi nut with a fragile, paper-thin skin, and it bursts open under the slightest pressure of your fingers.

It happened that way with Willis and Havilland.

The Three Aces that Sunday afternoon, September 24, had barely begun picking up business after its late opening. There were a few drinkers at the bar, but the tables were empty, and both the snooker table and the bowling pinball machine were empty of players. The bar was a rundown joint with three playing cards painted on the mirror: the ace of clubs, the ace of hearts, and the ace of spades. The fourth ace was nowhere visible. Judging from the looks of the bartender, it was probably up his sleeve, together with a fifth ace.

Willis and Havilland took stools at the end of the bar. The bartender lingered with the drinkers at the opposite end of the bar for a few minutes, then slouchingly pulled himself away from the conversation, walked to Willis and Havilland, and said, “Yep?”

Havilland threw the match folder onto the bar. “This yours?”

The bartender studied it at great length. The identical three aces on the mirror fronted the match folder. The name
Three Aces
was plastered on the cardboard in red letters a half inch high. The bartender nonetheless took his time.

At last, he said, “Yep.”

“How long have you been stocking them?” Willis asked.

“Why?”

“We’re police officers,” Havilland said wearily. He reached into his pocket for his shield.

“Save it,” the bartender said. “I can smell law at sixty paces.”

“Is that how you got your nose broken?” Havilland asked, clenching his fists on the bar top.

The bartender touched his nose. “I used to box,” he said. “What’s with the matches?”

“How long have you stocked them?”

“About three months. It was a big bargain. There’s this kid in the neighborhood, sells Christmas cards and like that. Came around saying the matches would give the joint a little class. So I tumbled. Ordered a couple gross.” The bartender shrugged. “Didn’t do no harm, as I can see. What’s the beef?”

“No beef,” Willis said. “Routine check.”

“On what? Matchbooks?”

“Yeah,” Havilland said. “On matchbooks. Do you sell cigarettes?”

“Only in the machine.” The bartender indicated the vending apparatus in the corner near the door.

“You stock these matches in the machine?”

“No. We keep ‘em on the bar in a small box. Anybody runs out of matches, he comes up and grabs himself a book. Why? What’s so important with the matches?”

“We’ll ask the questions,” Havilland said.

“I’m only trying to help, Officer,” the bartender said. His voice conveyed the distinct impression that he would have liked nothing better than to punch Havilland in the mouth.

“Then anyone who drinks here can walk up to the bar and help himself to the matches, right?” Willis asked.

“Yep,” the bartender said. “Makes it homely, don’t you think?”

“Mister,” Havilland said evenly, “you better wipe that wise-guy smirk off your voice, or something’s gonna
make you
homely.”

“Cops have always scared me,” the bartender said dryly, “ever since I was a wee babe.”

“If you’re looking for a fight, pal,” Havilland said, “you picked the right cop.”

“I’m looking to mind my own business,” the bartender said.

“I’d hate like hell to have a judge decide on whose word to take in a ‘resisting an officer’ case,” Havilland persisted.

“I ain’t fighting, and I ain’t resisting nothing,” the bartender replied. “So cool off. You want a beer?”

“I’ll have a scotch,” Havilland said.

“That figures,” the bartender drawled. “How about you?” he asked Willis.

“Nothing,” Willis said.

“Come on,” the bartender egged. “It’s just like grabbing an apple from the pushcart.”

“When you’re ready for that fight,” Willis said, “you’ve got two of us now.”

“Whenever I fought, I got paid for it,” the bartender said. “I don’t believe in exhibition bouts.”

“Especially when you know your face’ll be spread over six counties,” Havilland said.

“Sure,” the bartender said. He poured a hooker of scotch and then slid the glass to Havilland.

“You know most of your customers?” Willis asked.

“The steadies, sure.”

The door opened, and a woman in a faded green sweater walked into the bar, looked around, and then sat at a table near the door. The bartender glanced at her.

“She’s a lush,” he said. “She’ll sit there until somebody offers to buy her a drink. I’d kick her out, but I feel Christian on Sunday.”

“It shows all over you,” Havilland said.

“What is it you guys want, anyway?” the bartender asked. “The fight? Is that what this is all about?”

“What fight?” Willis asked.

“We had a rhubarb here week or so ago. Listen, don’t snow me. What have you got up your sleeve? Disorderly conduct? You figure on yanking my license?”

“You’re doing all the talking so far,” Willis said.

The bartender sighed wearily. “All right, what’ll it cost?”

“Oh, this man lives dangerously,” Havilland said. “Are you attempting to bribe us?”

“I was talking about the price of the new Lincoln Continental,” the bartender said. “I asked what it’ll cost.” He paused. “A hundred, two hundred? How much?”

“Do I look like a two-hundred-dollar cop?” Havilland asked.

“I’m a two-hundred-dollar bartender,” the bartender said. “That’s the limit. The goddamn fight was over in about two seconds flat.”

“What kind of a fight?” Willis asked.

“You mean, you didn’t know?”

“Put your money back in your sock,” Willis said. “This isn’t a shakedown. Tell us about the fight.”

The bartender seemed relieved. “You sure you don’t want a drink, Officer?” he asked.

“The fight,” Willis said.

“It was nothing,” the bartender said. “Couple of guys got hot-headed, and wham! One took a swing at the other, the other swung back, and I came over and busted it up. That’s all.”

“Who swung at who?” Willis asked.

“These two characters. What the hell’s the name of the little guy? I don’t remember. The bigger guy is called Jack. He comes in here a lot.”

“Jack, huh?”

“Yeah. Nice guy, except he’s a little weird. So him and this little guy were watching the rassling on TV, and I guess Jack said something the little guy didn’t like—about one of the rasslers, you know? So the little guy hauls off and pops Jack. So Jack takes a swing at the little guy, and that’s when I came over. Big fight, huh?”

“And you broke it up?”

“Sure. I tell you, the funny thing about this whole business was that the little guy come out of it better than Jack.” The bartender chuckled. “He really gave him a shot, I swear. You wouldn’t think a little guy could pack such a wallop.”

“I’ll bet Jack was surprised,” Willis said, losing interest.

“Surprised? I’ll say he was. Especially when he took a gander in the mirror. That little son of a bitch gave him a shiner like I never saw in my life.”

“Too bad for Jack,” Willis said. “About your other customers. Have you ever heard any of them talking about—”

“Boy, that shiner was a beaut! Hell, Jack had to wear sunglasses for about a week afterward.”

The lush sitting at the table near the door coughed. Willis kept staring at the bartender.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“Jack,” the bartender said, “had to wear these sunglasses. To hide the shiner, you know. It was a beautiful shiner. I mean it. Like a rainbow.”

“This Jack,” Willis said. He could feel the tenseness of Havilland alongside him. “Does he smoke?”

“Jack? Yeah, sure. He smokes.”

“What brand?”

“Brand? You must think I’m a…Wait a minute, the red package. What’s the red package?”

“Pall Mall?”

“Yep. That’s his brand.”

“You’re sure?”

“I think so. Listen, I don’t go around taking a picture of what he smokes. I think it’s Pall Mall. Why?”

“You’re sure his name is Jack?” Havilland asked. “It isn’t something else?”

“Jack,” the bartender said, nodding.

“Think. Are you sure his name is Jack?”

“I’m positive. Listen, don’t I know him? For God’s sake, he’s been coming in here for years. Don’t you think I know Jack Clifford?”

Jack Clifford came into the Three Aces at 3:15 that afternoon. The woman in the green sweater still sat at the table near the door. The bartender nodded when he entered, and Willis and Havilland moved off their stools quickly and intercepted him as he walked toward the bar.

“Jack Clifford?” Willis asked.

“Yeah?”

“Police officers,” Havilland said. “You’re coming with us.”

“Hey, what for?” Clifford said. He pulled his arm away from Havilland.

“Assault and suspicion of murder,” Willis snapped. He was running his hands over Clifford’s body, frisking him quickly and efficiently.

“He’s clea—” he started, and Clifford broke for the door.

“Get him!” Willis shouted. Havilland was reaching for his gun. Clifford didn’t look back. He kept his eyes glued to the entrance doorway, and he ran like a bat out of hell, and then he fell flat on his face.

He looked up from the floor instantly, startled. The lush still sat at the table, one leg spread out in front of her. Clifford looked at the leg that had tripped him, looked at it as if he wanted to cut it off at the hipbone. He was scrambling to his feet when Havilland reached him. He kicked out at Havilland, but Havilland was a cop with big hands, and Havilland enjoyed using those hands. He scooped Clifford off the floor and rammed his fist into Clifford’s face. Clifford staggered back against the door and then collapsed on the floor. He sat there shaking his head while Havilland put the cuffs on him.

“Did you enjoy your trip?” Havilland asked pleasantly.

“Go to hell,” Clifford said. “If it wasn’t for that old drunken bag, you’d never have got me.”

“Ah, but we did,” Havilland said. “Get up!”

Clifford got to his feet.

Willis came over and took his arm. He turned to the bartender. “Thanks,” he said.

Together, the three men started out of the bar. Havilland stopped just inside the doorway, at the table with the lush. The woman raised her head and studied him with alcohol-soaked eyes.

Havilland smiled, bowed, and swept one gorilla-like arm across his waist.

“Havilland thanks you, madam,” he said.

He admitted he had committed a total of thirty-four muggings in the past year. Fourteen of his victims had complained to the police. His last victim had turned out to be, of all goddamn things, a policewoman.

He denied flatly that he had assaulted and murdered Jeannie Paige.

They booked, mugged, and printed him—and then they sat with him in the interrogation room at the 87th and tried to break down his story. There were four cops in the room with him. Willis, Havilland, Meyer, and Lieutenant Byrnes. Were it not for the presence of the lieutenant, Havilland would have been practicing his favorite indoor sport. As it was, his barrage was confined to words alone.

“We’re talking about the night of September fourteenth. That was a Thursday night. Now, think about it a little, Clifford,” Meyer said.

“I’m thinking. I got an alibi a mile long for that night.”

“What were you doing?” Willis asked.

“I was sitting up with a sick friend.”

“Don’t get smart!” Byrnes said.

“I swear to God it’s the truth. Listen, you got me on eight thousand counts of assault. What’re you trying to stick me with a murder rap?”

“Shut your goddamn mouth and answer the questions,” Havilland said, contradicting himself.

“I am answering the questions. I was with a sick friend. The guy had ptomaine poisoning or something. I was with him all night.”

“What night was this?”

“September fourteenth,” Clifford said.

“How come you remember the date?”

“I was supposed to go bowling.”

“With whom?”

“This friend of mine.”

“Which friend?”

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“Where were you going bowling?”

“His name is Davey,” Clifford said.

“Davey what?”

“Davey Crockett, Clifford? Come on, Clifford.”

“Davey Lowenstein. He’s a Jew. You gonna hang me for that?”

“Where does he live?”

“Base Avenue.”

“Where on Base?”

“Near Seventh.

“What’s his name?”

“Davey Lowenstein. I told you already.”

“Where were you going bowling?”

“The Cozy Alleys.”

“Downtown?”

“Yes.”

“Where downtown?”

“You’re mixing me up.”

“What’d your friend eat?”

“Did he have a doctor?”

“Where’d you say he lived?”

“Who says he had ptomaine poisoning?”

“He lives on Base, I told you. Base and Seventh.”

“Check that, Meyer,” Lieutenant Byrnes said.

Meyer quickly left the room.

“Did he have a doctor?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know it was ptomaine?”