“The only stolen car in the world,” Crestone said. “Yeah, we got it. You can pick it up at the police garage in the morning. Bring your registration and title and five bucks for towing charges.”
“Towing! Is it hurt?”
“No keys.”
“Oh,” the man said. The party was still going on around him. “Look, officer, I’ve got an extra set of keys. If you’ll send a car around—”
“Get it here in the morning.”
“Okay then.” The man hung up.
Crestone decided that his skull was breaking. He punched his cigarette out and tried to swallow the bad taste it had left in his mouth.
They brought her in, Purcell and Old McGlone. The tension was gone from her now; she looked beaten down and helpless.
“Cute kid.” Purcell held up the .38. “She put a couple of spots on 752 by way of greeting us. Is the chief on his way?”
Crestone nodded. The woman looked at him and said, “I’m sorry I kept hitting you.”
“Yeah.”
“She was here?” Purcell asked. “She slugged you?”
“She did.”
Old McGlone needed a shave as usual. He was staring at Judith Barrows. All at once he asked, “When did you leave Pulaski Avenue, Zelda Tuwin?”
Her eyes jerked up to Old McGlone’s face. “Five years ago. It was raining.”
“I remember you. You were a chubby kid, Zelda. You—”
“I was a big fat slob!”
“You been a dress model?” Crestone asked.
“Yeah! Big stuff! I got tired of parading in front of bitches and their men. I couldn’t eat what I wanted to. I had to walk like I was made of glass. I got tired of it.”
Old McGlone nodded. “Sure, sure. So you wanted to have the money like them you pranced in front of. You were doubtless making plenty yourself — for a kid from the Polish section of Midway. You’d have been better off staying on Pulaski and marrying a good boy from the mill, Zelda Tuwin.”
Old McGlone looked sad and wistful. He never did want to believe the things he had been seeing for twenty-five years. He was tough but not hard. He understood and he deplored but he never could condemn. Zelda Tuwin watched him for several moments and seemed to recognize those things about him.
And then she stared at the floor.
The chief tramped in. Crestone gave him the story. The chief nodded, watching Zelda Tuwin. He tilted his head toward his office and clumped down the steps. Old McGlone and Purcell took her out, Purcell walking ahead. Old McGlone said, “Watch them steel steps there, Zelda.”
After a while the sheriff’s car came in. He had Brownie, who had tried to jump a canal and nearly drowned. Car 54 was on the air a moment later.
“We got the Hornet, Midway. Four men. What’s the authority?”
“Midway PD. Bring ’em back, and everything they have with them.”
“They got it too. Cars 55 and 86 are coming in with me.”
Crestone sent out a cancellation on the two stolen cars. He could hear the chief talking to Zelda Tuwin downstairs. He knew how Old McGlone felt about some things there seemed to be no help for. It was 3:41 A.M.
Joe Crestone had a hell of a headache.
Bait For the Red-Head
by Eugene Pawley
1.
Ron Jordan saw the relief man coming across Berkeley Street and knew something was up. Jordan was standing in the gore on the Trimount Avenue side, letting the traffic flow by on both sides of him. At three o’clock the traffic was full but not bad. The sun was behaving for June, and Ron Jordan was standing there letting it flow and looking at the girls going away from him in the crosswalk. Then this relief, an old traffic fixture named Dennehy, walked out and gave him a funny look.
“You’re wanted at the station,” said Dennehy.
“What for?”
Dennehy’s face, with its puckered round mouth, had a knowing and maybe pleased shape to it. He shot a veiled glance up at Jordan’s cap, which sat at a jaunty angle like a flying colonel’s; he let his eyes travel slowly down Jordan’s trimness and thought the gesture was explanation enough. “I don’t know,” he said.
“You know. Give, my friend, give.”
“I said I don’t. But the sergeant was talking to the inspectors’ bureau before he sent me to relieve you. When he hung up he said, ‘Send Lover Boy back here, and tell him to hump it.’ “ The relief gave Jordan a sidelong glance. “So maybe you know.”
A girl in the crosswalk crowd said, “Hi, Ron.” She was a chick from the office building on Berkeley below Trimount. Ron said, “Hi, honey,” and answered her smile, and absently watched her tick-tock gait as she walked away from him. At the curb she looked back and smiled again.
Jordan put his whistle in his pocket. “It’s all yours.”
At the station, Sergeant Gillchrist said, “Get down to the inspectors’ bureau. Report to Captain Sline, and hightail it.”
“What for?” Jordan asked, again.
The sergeant put his lips against his teeth and sucked in air. It was a gesture; it meant suction — pull, influence. Gillchrist thought Jordan was finagling a transfer to the bureau. Rookies under a year in the department didn’t get into the bureau, even as clerks. Not without pull. The sergeant thought it was pull, the relief thought Jordan was in trouble over a girl. So neither of them really knew anything.
The inspectors’ bureau was high in the chopped-up warren atop the City Hall building. It was strange territory.
Jordan knew the two men in the captain’s office because they were who they were. He had never seen either up close before. Captain Sline, the broad one, sat behind his desk, his back more rigid than the clerk’s had been. The other one, the little one with the quick, burning, black eyes and the hat on, was Shorty Eglin. Chief Inspector Bernard Eglin of the homicide detail. They said he didn’t like the Shorty and he didn’t like the Bernard; so everybody called him Ben Eglin. He sat slumped and loose as a sleeping child, so very loose that Jordan knew he was doing it because he was even more taut inside than the other man. They were talking when Jordan came in. They looked at him and then at each other, leaving some question suspended in the air between them.
“I’m Jordan. You wanted me?”
“You took your sweet time,” Eglin said.
Jordan looked at him. The pressure was infecting Jordan, too, making him sore at the relief with his puckered mouth, sore at Gillchrist who wasn’t going any higher and so found pull in the promotion of every other cop. Ron was sore at this little man with the raspy voice, the hot eyes and sardonic lips. Jordan said to himself, You’re an ugly runt with a reputation and so you shove rookies around. I ought to call you Shorty to your face. Aloud he said, “I came as soon as I was told to.”
Eglin grunted and looked at the captain. The question was between them again. Jordan wondered if he should have talked hack to the inspector. Eglin had no say-so in traffic and couldn’t touch him. Maybe Captain Sline could, though. Jordan said to himself, Remember your own rules. Keep your nose clean.
Sline turned to the rookie. “So you’re a lady’s man,” he said.
“He don’t look it,” said Eglin. “What’s he got?”
The relief guessed right, then. Jordan was in trouble over some girl. But it didn’t add up. There wasn’t any girl down on him. There wasn’t any girl who had cause to be down on him. He didn’t fool around with the kind that hollered; they were no good for anybody.
Sline said, “Know a girl named Elsa Berkey? Name mean anything?”
“No,” said Jordan quickly. Maybe too quickly, but it was the truth.
“A man named Bart Berkey?”
“No.”
“A man named Joe Crider?”