I reached over and grabbed his arm. “Now wait up....”
“Get your goddamn hands off me!” he actually growled, his eyes narrowing.
I let go of him and he went back to his desk, sat down and somehow got his long legs under the desk. He said calmly, “One thing I can't stand, anybody holding me. What's the idea keeping important info to yourself?”
“Maybe because I knew you'd act just as you did. Sure, they're a whore and a pimp, but they're still people, and you can't ride roughshod over...”
“Harris, this is a hell of a case. Everything ends up against a blank wall. Two people have been murdered, one of them a cop. In these tough cases, these impossible deals, one small break usually knocks everything wide open. We have the first and only link between Andersun and Detective Turner, and you sit there like a goddamn stuffed dressmaker's dummy, handing me some crap about a whore and a pimp! What's with you, sentimental over mudkickers? And what the hell do you think I'm going to do to 'em... cook 'em and serve 'em with apples in their mouths?”
“I think you'll beat the slop out of Cliff, make life miserable for the girl. I don't make any pretense of being a good detective, but I know this—if either of them had been guilty, or implicated in any way, they wouldn't have talked, or had Turner's photo around. I don't want you to push them about—I sort of promised her they wouldn't be in a jam for talking, and that Cliff wouldn't be made the fall guy for...”
“You made them a promise!” Franzino cut in, and for a thin guy he sure got a lot of power into his voice. “Who the hell are you to make promises? What makes you think we'd frame this pimp? Harris, what the hell do you know about the Police Department?”
“Not much, but everybody knows...”
“Everybody—everybody isn't a cop! Harris, that badge you carry is one degree above the kind they give out with box tops to kids.” He yanked open his drawer, came out with a blue cardboard box which held a gold medal about the size of a half dollar. “I've been a cop all my life, even before I came to New York City. It's my profession and I'm pretty good at it, and proud of it. This medal was given to me by the Lieutenants Association for my general skill as a policeman. No matter what the hell you think or read, I don't go about beating people with rubber hoses, or busting their heads with a blackjack. We'll bring in this Louise and Cliff, question them. Maybe they won't like it, but I don't care about that. If they give me straight answers, and we don't have to hold them as witnesses, they can go. As for her hustling, that has to stop—in my precinct. Let her set up shop someplace else.”
I shrugged. “That's a fair shake. I'll hold you to it.”
He gave me an evil grin. “That's swell of you, Harris. And what else can you do about it?”
“Not much I can do,” I said carefully. “Except this case has been good headline bait. When it breaks, everybody concerned will be interviewed. If Louise and the pimp are innocent, as I believe, and you give them a hard time... well, papers are always interested in police brutality—when they can tie in a sex angle.”
“Son of a bitch—and you call yourself a detective!”
“Mainly I call myself a human being. I didn't have to tell you about Louise nor did she have to spill to me. Well, she did, and co-operation is a two-way affair.”
He studied me for a moment and I could almost feel his eyes on my face. “Won't be any trouble for me to revoke your license.”
“Don't threaten me. If you're so good at your job, then you don't have to resort to threats. Just be a cop—don't be a judge and jury too.”
“That's all I ever try to be—a cop. An underpaid and overworked cop.” He did that jack-in-the-box stunt again as he stood up. Walking to the door he said, “Wait here, I'm going to take a leak.”
I picked up the medal—it was real gold. I was thoroughly steamed—but mostly at myself. I was doing things cockeyed and here I was sore at Franzino for playing it right. Only I wished he hadn't sent out the order to pick up Louise and Cliff. All they had to do was try to take a powder now and they'd be practically convicted.
Franzino returned and lit his pipe again as he sat down. “Sorry I blew up,” he said quietly. “You're right. Under the law everybody is equal, even a pimp who operates on the wrong side of the law. Look, Harris, only a fool tries to give people a hard time. Sure, I'll admit I'm rushed and under pressure and there's a million laws we can't enforce and these petty lawbreakers in time make for the big crimes. Guy gets away with spitting on the sidewalk, he begins to feel a little above the law. We're living in a goddamn jungle and as long as it stays a jungle...”
“You have to use a whip?” I asked.
“I don't know. Mr. Harris, this morning a wino and his girl were in the grass on the Drive, juiced up. For no reason he suddenly stabbed her. She's in the hospital now. Two people saw him do it. Seems simple—a man has done an act of violence, he'll be punished, and the law is being upheld. But when they brought this drunken bastard in here, he suddenly says he didn't do it, starts screaming for a lawyer. Should I have argued with him politely for hours that I can't spare? Or do you blame me for belting him in the guts and telling him to shut up?”
“Lieutenant Franzino, you just said little crimes are the start of bigger ones. Same goes for a 'little' violence—like being a 'little' pregnant—ain't no such thing.”
“Guess there's a lot to be said on both sides. If we had more men and the jungle didn't make winos, well... hell with all this. Swan tells me you're a crackerjack mechanic. Interested in motors and cars myself. Got a shack out on Long Island and an old Bugatti racer I picked up for a few hundred.”
“Does she run?”
“You bet. Sometimes I take her out late at night—so not to attract attention. Clip off sixty or seventy miles an hour. You been out to the auto museum near Southampton?”
We sat around and bulled about cars for a while and it got to be five o'clock and we were arguing about the advantages of front-wheel drive when his phone rang, and he grunted into the receiver, “I'll be right out.”
He stood up. “Excuse me, Harris, I'm wanted at the desk. Be back soon.” He went out and I wondered if they had picked up Louise so soon. The door opened and Al Swan walked in, dressed all in blue. Dark blue serge suit, gray-blue shirt, deep blue tie, and a baby-blue fedora. I didn't dare look at his socks. He said, “Hello, brother-in-law.”
“Hello, Al. When did they send for you?”
“Happened to drop in and Franzino just told me you've come up with something big. You astonish me, Barney. Could be you're a detective after all.”
“Save that bull for the cold weather.”
Al brushed off a corner of the desk with a blotter, then carefully sat down and looked at his nails, as if not sure they were all there. Then he said, “Barney, I put you onto this case because I knew it was easy dough. We got the police force of New York, Elmira, and Syracuse working on this, and all by your lonesome you've turned up the best lead we've had so far. Now maybe you're sleeping with this whore and...”
“Stop it, Al. All I'm asking is that she and this Cliff get a fair shake.”
“Jesus—hell! A cop has been killed!” Al rasped.
“So what? He had a badge, not a halo. And this particular cop was part pimp. Also, there's a very ordinary young fellow named Andersun was killed, too. I want to find the killer as much as you do, only it won't be solved by the brass quieting the papers by playing tag with two innocent lives, making them 'it.'”