“Pete,” Daniels muttered, grinding his fist into his palm, “you give a man a little money, promise him more, and you can buy his soul.”
“This guy who clunked the girl?”
Daniels grunted and lapsed into a thoughtful silence, coming out of it only when the car stopped in front of the store. He got out of the car and walked to the head of the steps. “Hey, Pete,” he called back, “you haven’t eaten yet.”
“Neither have you.”
“There’s a one-arm around the corner. Go get yourself a cup of coffee and a sinker. I’ll meet you there.”
“Right, Lieutenant.”
Pete drove away and Daniels went quietly down the steps. He unlocked the door and slipped into the dark store. By the light of his pocket flash, he found the bowl on the table. Wrapping it carefully in his coat, he started out again. Then, at the sound of footsteps on the sidewalk above, he turned away from the door and moved cautiously toward the rear of the store.
Feet were scraping on the steps now. Daniels eased his gun from its holster and waited in the dark.
“Who’s in there?” a voice called
“Raynor?” Daniels asked.
“Come out with your hands up.”
It was Raynor, all right. “It’s Lieutenant Daniels.”
“Oh.” The relief was obvious in Raynor’s gasp. “I thought maybe—”
“Maybe what?” asked Daniels, moving forward. “The murderer returning to the scene of the crime?”
Daniels and Raynor left the store together and Daniels locked the door. They climbed the steps and crossed the sidewalk and Daniels carefully set the bowl down on the curb.
“What’s that?” Raynor asked.
“Sonya’s bowl,” Daniels said, straightening. “It should be covered with the murderer’s prints.”
“Michael’s?”
“No, Raynor, not Michael’s. You tried hard on that one, Raynor, but you missed. Michael didn’t kill the girl.”
“Who did?”
“That’s what I’m asking you.”
“What’s the gag, Lieutenant?”
“I don’t care about the guy who killed the girl. We’ll get him. It’s you I’m thinking about now.”
Raynor’s eyes narrowed and he stepped back a pace. “You’re nuts.”
“How much protection money were they paying you to close your eyes every time the banker came around to pick up the dough? And don’t tell me you didn’t see him when he came every day. You saw Michael well enough.”
“Daniels, you’re a—”
“And how much did you get for selling a kid’s life? Nice honest cop, you are. You’d let the boy go to the chair just because some hoodlum bought your soul for a bag of peanuts.”
“I never saw anybody else leave the—”
“Maybe not. Maybe not yesterday — but how many dollars does it take to buy a cinder for the eye? All right, Raynor, what’s his name?”
“I’ve been pounding a beat for twelve years, twelve lousy years, and it took me almost that long to find out how to make it worthwhile. You won’t stop it now.”
“Don’t try it,” Daniels said softly, watching Raynor’s right hand. “All I need is an excuse.”
Raynor’s hands came up to his chest. “There’s enough in it for both of us, Daniels. More than enough. What’s one no-good Gypsy anyway? He could take the rap.”
Daniels listened thoughtfully, nodding his head. “Michael’s a petty thief,” he admitted. “He’s got a record. The D.A. could get a conviction without half trying.”
“Sure. So what do you say?”
“All right,” Daniels said tartly, “I’ll— No, wait a minute, how do I know we’ll get paid off?”
Raynor laughed raucously. “These guys are big. Benny Nerri.”
“Nerri! Well, in that case... Shake on it.” Daniels stepped toward Raynor, his right hand out. Raynor reached to take it and Daniels hit the cop across the ear with a looping left. Raynor went down and Daniels kicked him in the ribs. Glaring down at Raynor, he said, “Never trust an honest cop.”
Down on the lower East Side, Daniels thought, a Gypsy was being kicked out of his group — Mahrimé, the Gypsies called it — not because he had killed one of his own people but because his lying had almost protected her killer. And here, on a midtown sidewalk, lay a man whose crime had been infinitely worse than either the youth’s or the killer’s. What was the Mahrimé for Raynor’s breed?
With a feeling of loathing in his heart, Daniels fingered the butt of his gun and wondered what he could do to make Raynor try to run away.
Mayhem Patrol
by John Bender
Five hundred smackers flew out of Sergeant Fagan’s prowl-car window — all because an eager rookie tagged along on the...
The day they put Ed Clancy in the patrol car with me is the day I should of took my sick leave. He is a nice-looking, fresh-faced sort of cookie, but right from the start I can see that he is a wrongo for yours truly, Sergeant Tim Fagan, and it is the most uncomfortable week of my life I spend with this brand-new cop Ed Clancy.
Most of the time I am thinking how I can get rid of him and team up with one of the old-timers like myself, who is not above looking in on a bar or two for a quick one or dogging it a bit now and then. But this Clancy is fresh out of the patrolmen school and eager as a hound dog on a hot smell, and there is no relaxing with him, not even one little bit.
We are cruising down Pennoyer Street, me and Clancy, the last night of our tour together, when I get the horn on my left and the big green convertible cuts in front of our police car. It is Big Bobo, the bookie, at the wheel and I wonder what is up, since he is not that kind of reckless driver for nothing. He is at all times a very careful citizen, and I have even known him to swallow instead of spit should there be a bluecoat in the neighborhood.
“Of all the nerve!” says Officer Clancy, as I pull in to the curb in front of the parked convertible. “You see that, Sarge. You get a load of that? You see the way he cuts right in front of us, no hand signal? I ought to give him a ticket.”
“Just to prove you know how to write?” I ask. This kid Clancy is just itching to use his charge book, all right, a one-man FBI. I tell him to sit still and put his ticket book away. Part of the reason Chief Monaghan assigns him to my car is to wise him up, to show him the ropes, but I got a feeling that this is impossible.
“You just sit here, Eager Beaver,” I tell him, “and make sure nobody steals the buggy. I’ll talk to the guy.”
I go over to the convertible, wondering what is on Big Bobo’s mind besides the fifty-dollar panama. I steer quite a bundle of trade his direction the past ten, twelve years since he got me appointed to the force, but I cannot recall that I owe his book anything much these days. I been a little lucky lately; the nags run good for me. Maybe I’m into him a half a yard, but nothing substantial to speak about, you understand. He’s not a guy to put the pressure on for that much, the dough he turns over.
“Well, Fagan,” he says, “good to see you. Hop in.”
This boat is six grands’ worth of solid comfort, big, smooth — just like Bobo. He’s wearing a hand-tailored piece of cloth my month’s pay couldn’t touch. His pudgy, smooth-shaven face comes out the top of his silk shirt like he’s pulled his belt too tight and squeezed himself up into the panama.
“New car, ain’t it, Bobo?”
“Thirteen miles on her, is all.” He nods his cigar at the speedometer. “Present for Susie.”