“Just find her,” Tommy said, thinking, What's wrong with this big joker? If he knew anything about May, he'd have to know she's too sweet to be mixed up in anything shady. Not May!
“Okay, let's go to the diner. Let me do the talking,” Walt said, shivering slightly with the cold night air. He also knew the numbers syndicate was real big-time, far too powerful for one cop to buck, even an honest one. He almost wished Tommy would argue, give him an excuse to back out of this.
When they reached the diner Bertha was kidding with one of two coffee-and-cake customers. Mac was kneading a pan of dough, having had his usual sampling of “cooking sherry” some minutes before. He gave Tommy and Walt a sloppy, loose grin, told Walt, “Absolutely no point in asking who you are. It's all over your face. What can I do for you, officer?”
“Where's May Cork?”
Mac grinned, as if Walt had told him a joke. “I can answer that one easily and truthfully. I don't know.”
“When did you last see her?”
“Oh, maybe I saw May last month. Once, I think,” Mac said, the silly grin still on his wide face.
Walt glanced at Tommy, annoyed, then asked Mac, “Doesn't she work here?”
Mac nodded, working on his dough again. “Sure, she worked here. But you asked when was the last time I saw her. As it happens I generally knock off about a half hour before May's due on, so...”
“Cut the coy crap,” Walt said, putting muscle into his voice. “I want some straight answers and I want them fast!”
Mac made a slight bow, his hands still in the white dough. “I always work with the police. Like I told him,” he jerked his big head toward Tommy, “if I knew where May was, I'd tell you. All I heard was May was beaten up. I don't even know that for a fact. I didn't see it. I only heard about it. I can only...”
“Was she taking numbers?”
Mac looked sad. “So I've heard. However, officer, I want you to know that if May was doing it—and I said if—she was doing it solely on her own, without our knowledge. In this eating establishment, we don't allow gambling or solicit...”
“You serve beer here?” Walt cut in.
“Sure. Bottles only. You want some?”
“I don't want any beer and unless I get some real information out of you, nobody else is going to buy any suds here, either. I'll request the state board to revoke your beer license—something about racketeers and unsavory characters hanging about.”
The smile fled Mac's puffy face. For the first time Tommy was impressed by Walt, was glad he'd let Walt carry the conversation, as he'd been told. He glanced up at Walt's grim face, which didn't hint that Walt was merely bluffing. Hell, this wasn't even near his squad area.
“Now you guys wait just a fat minute,” Mac said. “I'm not holding out on you. Told you all I know. Don't see why I'm suddenly in the middle of this thing. Like I said, I hardly see—saw—May. You speak to my partner, Butch. This is all his baby and I ain't going to get my feet wet. He'll be here in an hour or so. Comes on around eleven-thirty.”
Walt asked, “Where's he live?”
“Two blocks east. Nineteen Rand Street. Morris, Fred Morris. Talk to him, let him say what he wants. He's the big-hearted slob protecting May. I told him... well, never mind.”
“What's 'never mind' mean?”
“It means nothing. I told him to keep our noses out of it. She wanted to mess with these digit punks, then it's her business and she had to take what she got. We...”
“Got? What did May get?” Tommy suddenly asked, leaping toward Mac. Walt practically lifted Tommy off the ground as he turned him toward the door, said, “Take it slow. Let's see this Morris fellow.”
“Fred Morris, the third, no less,” Mae called out happily, adding for his own benefit, “And you can tell him to quit lecturing me about my drinking. Ruining the business he says and he...”
Butch always went through a simple ritual before he started for the night shift at the diner. He'd sit in an old worn leather easy chair and carefully read the evening paper. He read nearly everything in the paper, including the want ads. The reading wasn't part of the ritual, but sitting was very much the ritual, and an important one, since he would be on his feet for the balance of the night, and part of the morning when he bought meat. These were by far the most enjoyable few hours of each day because his wife was generally in bed by then, and he could read in peace without hearing the TV.
He was angry when the doorbell cut into his quiet. His anger reached a boil as Walt flashed his badge. When they asked about May, Butch said, “I haven't nothing to say.”
Butch was standing by his open door and Walt asked, “Can we come in and talk this over?”
“Do your talking right here.”
“Now Mr. Morris,” Walt said softly, “I understand you're trying to protect Mrs. Cork. That's fine, but don't you think she'd be in safer hands if she was under police protection?”
“No! Look, May ain't nothing to me, but she's a good hard-working woman, steady, and I don't stand for her getting the wrong end of the stick. You don't con me. How do I know you're not goons for the numbers boys? And don't wave that badge at me, that don't make no difference, you can still be working with them. Hell, numbers is being played all over the city and they couldn't do it without the help of the police! I don't know nothing about May.”
“That's a hell of a thing to say about the police force. I know your type, talk us down in one breath and be yelling the loudest for the police when there's trouble,” Walt said, his face flushed. Although this was another sharp bit sticking in the back of his mind, he knew if he fooled with the numbers syndicate he could easily be busted. Their pay-off went right to the top, all the way up to City Hall.
Butch said, “Sure I'm saying it, but that isn't what makes it a bad thing. It's being true makes it sad. Look, I'm not out to be a hero, or hunting trouble. That's police business, you run it how you see best. Well, we got us a good restaurant business, and we put in a lot of sweat and varicose veins to make it that. But my ancestors battled the Indians and I sure ain't going to help a decent church-going woman like May get hurt no more.”
“She's my wife!” Tommy said.
“I heard you say that before—when she had to sock you. You didn't see her from one brace of months to another. I'm busy resting, have a long night ahead of me, so...”
“You might have a longer night ahead of you in the station house,” Walt began, “unless you act right and....”
Butch cut in with, “I come from one of the oldest families in America. You think I don't know my rights? You running me in? For what? Is this an official visit? Except for flashing that tin, you haven't even identified yourself as a policeman!”
“I'm a detective asking if you know the whereabouts of May Cork.”
“I don't know. Now the both of you get out of my doorway. The next time you come calling, let me see a warrant!”
Tommy was surprised to hear Walt mutter, “You'll be in real trouble if anything happens to Mrs. Cork. All this talk about oldest family and you don't think the police...” Butch shut the door in their faces. For a moment he leaned against the closed door, shaking a little with fright, but then a feeling of righteous indignation calmed his fears. Besides, he always had a blind dislike for cops.