Ed McBain
Another Part of the City
This is for
Alan Landsburg
1
Going to be a cold one tonight, Sadie thought.
She didn’t know what the exact date was, never kept track of such things no more, but she knew it was December, and she knew it had to be getting close to Christmastime because of all the holiday trimmings in the store windows and all up and down the street.
They put up trimmings in the fall, too, down here, same kind of trimmings, hanging colored lights on metal arches that crossed over the streets from building to building. That was when they were celebrating some kind of Italian feast, they did that in October down here. Had to move out of her doorway when they celebrated that feast down here, whatever it was, ’cause there were stands all up and down the street selling food and running games of chance, like wheels of fortune and such, and there were people from all over the city down here. It wasn’t her feast, so she didn’t much care about it except that she couldn’t use her regular doorway when all the stands were up and all the streets were crowded with people.
The decorations were the same when it got to be Christmastime, except for the lampposts twined with ropes of spruce or something, and the wreaths hanging everywhere, still it was almost the same, one feast was pretty much like another. Christmas wasn’t her feast, neither, not no more it wasn’t. Christmas was you bought things for people and people bought things for you. Sadie didn’t have nobody to buy for no more, and nobody to buy her nothing.
The doorway she used all the time, winter and summer except when there was a feast down here, was a doorway used to be the front door of an olive oil company, but the man went out of business, oh, this must’ve been two, three years ago, and nobody took over the store, and now it was all boarded up, and nobody used it but her. She came back to the doorway every night along about this time, finished with her rounds by then, had her shopping bags full of scraps to eat and things to pick over, see if they was worth anything. Used to take the subway uptown before the fares went up so high, but now she mostly made her rounds along Canal Street before it got to be Chinatown; the Chinks never threw out nothing, cheap bastards. And sometimes she wandered over to Centre Street where all the big buildings were with the courthouses in them and all. You could sometimes find some good things in the garbage cans down there, lawyers threw away a lot of good stuff.
She was glad she’d picked up a lot of newspapers today, because tonight was going to be a real cold one, she could tell, and newspapers were good for wrapping around you, better than blankets, in fact, especially the New York Times. She never read the newspapers, didn’t give a damn about what was happening here in New York or anyplace else for that matter, just picked up the papers to wrap around her later if it got cold, like it was going to be tonight.
She made her nest with care, laying down the corrugated cardboard first, and then spreading the scraps of rags over that, and then putting her newspapers aside in a neat pile for when she’d use them later to wrap herself in. She put the heaviest of the shopping bags down on the pile of newspapers, case a wind blew up or something, she didn’t want to lose what she was going to wrap herself in, have the papers blowing all over the street. She dug into the other shopping bag for something to eat, and then made herself comfortable in the doorway, knees pulled up against her chest, long cotton skirt and black coat tucked between her legs, going to be a cold one tonight, she thought, and shivered in anticipation. Her gray woolen gloves were cut off at the fingers. In her right hand, she held a stale crust of bread she had found in a garbage can on Lafayette Street. Nibbling toothlessly at the bread, she sat huddled in her doorway, peering out at the street, at the lights, at the decorations for a holiday she never celebrated anymore.
Sure hope it don’t snow, she thought.
Snow was dangerous.
Made you feel warm, but actually you could freeze to death you got covered with snow in your sleep.
She kept nibbling at the hard crust of bread.
The automobile came cruising slowly up the street, big brown car, nosing into the curb some dozen feet from where Sadie sat with her back against the boarded door to the old olive oil company. She watched the car. Mercedes, she thought. Years ago in Vegas, when she was young and beautiful, she had ridden in a Mercedes convertible, her long blonde hair blowing in the desert wind. This one wasn’t no convertible. Big sedan, it was. brown and sleek, the three-pointed star sticking up on the hood, nice car, Mercedes, blonde hair blowing in the wind, Paul’s hand under her skirt.
Two men got out of the car, one on each side of it.
A third man sat behind the wheel, his face obscured in shadow.
The car doors slammed, one on each side of it.
The two men who’d got out of the car were wearing ski masks over their faces.
They know it’s gonna be cold tonight, Sadie thought.
Nibbling at her bread, she watched them.
The two men walked diagonally across the street to the Italian restaurant there. One of them kept checking the street over his shoulder, his head moving back and forth. At the door to the restaurant, both men reached inside their coats.
Sadie saw guns.
The mandolin is too loud, he’s playing too loud, Ralph thought. He always plays too loud when they’re here. Trying to impress them, maybe they’ll invite him to one of their big gangster weddings, ask him to play for them. I wish they wouldn’t come in here, he thought. I don’t need them in here.
At seven P.M. the restaurant was full and Ralph was worried that the loud mandolin playing might upset some of his customers. But everyone seemed oblivious to the steady plinking coming from the corner of the room where Ralph’s son had set up a small Christmas tree on a table covered with a white cloth. Ralph shrugged; maybe everybody here tonight was deaf. Everybody but the mafiosi, who sat at a table in the corner of the room, facing the entrance door, backs to the wall, they always sat where they could see the front door. One of the two goons with Fortunato was snapping his fingers in time to the mandolin music. The mandolin player gave him a smile of acknowledgment. Near the door to the kitchen, one of Ralph’s waiters was nodding his head in time to the music, his attention on the mandolin player instead of on the customer who was trying to catch his eye. Ralph went to him at once. In Italian, he said, “See what they want at table three.”
He walked briskly through the restaurant then, stopping at one table or another, asking in English whether everything was all right, beaming as he approached the bar just inside the entrance door, where his son was busy mixing drinks, and his wife sat at the cash register, tallying a check. He was about to ask her if she didn’t think the mandolin was too loud, when the front door opened.
Two men holding guns were standing in the doorframe.
Mandolin music spilled out into the street.
Both of the men had ski masks pulled over their faces. One of them closed the door behind him.
At the cash register, Ralph’s wife whispered, “Madonna mia!”
The entryway was small and tight and cramped. Overcoats hung on a rack to the left of the doorway, where the two men stood with the guns in their hands.
The one standing closest to the bar said, “Be quiet, no one gets hurt.”
He spoke with an accent. Ralph couldn’t place the accent. Spanish? No, it didn’t sound...
“No!” the second man said.
He had whirled toward Ralph’s son, who was reaching under the bar. Ralph knew there was a gun under the bar.