The bum shrugged and gathered around him the sullen pearls of his scattered wisdom. Stevie sat in the van whistling, listening to the accompanying hum of the tires, hearing the secret hum of his blood beneath the other louder sound. He sat at the core of a self-imposed importance, basking in its warm glow, whistling contentedly, secretly happy. Beside him, Skinner leaned back against the wall of the van.
When they arrived at the Centre Street Headquarters, they put them in detention cells, awaiting the line-up which began at nine. At ten minutes to nine, they led him out of his cell, and the cop who’d arrested him originally took him into the special prisoner’s elevator.
“How’s it feel being an elevator boy?” he asked the cop.
The cop didn’t answer him. They went upstairs to the big room where the line-up was being held. A detective in front of them was pinning on his shield so he could get past the cop at the desk. They crossed the large gymnasium-like compartment, walking past the men sitting in folding chairs before the stage.
“Get a nice turnout, don’t you?” Stevie said.
“You ever tried vaudeville?” the cop answered.
The blinds in the room had not been drawn yet, and Stevie could see everything clearly. The stage itself with the permanently fixed microphone hanging from a narrow metal tube above; the height markers — four feet, five feet, six feet — behind the mike on the wide white wall. The men in the seats, he knew, were all detectives and his sense of importance suddenly flared again when he realized these bulls had come from all over the city just to look at him. Behind the bulls was a raised platform with a sort of lecturer’s stand on it. A microphone rested on the stand, and a chair was behind it, and he assumed this was where the Chief bull would sit. There were uniformed cops stationed here and there around the room, and there was one man in civilian clothing who sat at a desk in front of the stage.
“Who’s that?” Stevie asked the cop.
“Police stenographer,” the cop answered. “He’s going to take down your words for posterity.”
They walked behind the stage, and Stevie watched as other felony offenders from all over the city joined them. There was one woman, but all the rest were men, and he studied their faces carefully, hoping to pick up some tricks from them, hoping to learn the subtlety of their expressions. They didn’t look like much. He was better-looking than all of them, and the knowledge pleased him. He’d be the star of this little shindig. The cop who’d been with him moved over to talk to a big broad who was obviously a policewoman. Stevie looked around, spotted Skinner and walked over to him.
“What happens now?” he asked.
“They’re gonna pull the shades in a few minutes,” Skinner said. “Then they’ll turn on the spots and start the lineup. The spots won’t blind you, but you won’t be able to see the faces of any of the bulls out there.”
“Who wants to see them mugs?” Stevie asked.
Skinner shrugged. “When your case is called, your arresting officer goes back and stands near the Chief of Detectives, just in case the Chief needs more dope from him. The Chief’ll read off your name and the borough where you was pinched. A number’ll follow the borough. Like he’ll say ‘Manhattan one’ or ‘Manhattan two.’ That’s just the number of the case from that borough. You’re first, you get number one, you follow?”
“Yeah,” Stevie said.
“He’ll tell the bulls what they got you on, and then he’ll say either ‘Statement’ or ‘No statement.’ If you made a statement, chances are he won’t ask many questions ’cause he won’t want you to contradict anything damaging you already said. If there’s no statement, he’ll fire questions like a machine gun. But you don’t have to answer nothing.”
“Then what?”
“When he’s through, you go downstairs to get mugged and printed. Then they take you over to the Criminal Courts Building for arraignment.”
“They’re gonna take my picture, huh?” Stevie asked.
“Yeah.”
“You think there’ll be reporters here?”
“Huh?”
“Reporters.”
“Oh. Maybe. All the wire services hang out in a room across the street from where the vans pulled up. They got their own police radio in there, and they get the straight dope as soon as it’s happening, in case they want to roll with it. There may be some reporters.” Skinner paused. “Why? What’d you do?”
“It ain’t so much what I done,” Stevie said. “I was just wonderin’ if we’d make the papers.”
Skinner stared at him curiously. “You’re all charged up, ain’t you, Stevie?”
“Hell, no. Don’t you think I know I’m in trouble?”
“Maybe you don’t know just how much trouble,” Skinner said.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“This ain’t as exciting as you think, kid. Take my word for it.”
“Sure, you know all about it.”
“I been around a little,” Skinner said dryly.
“Sure, on park benches all over the country. I know I’m in trouble, don’t worry.”
“You kill anybody?”
“No,” Stevie said.
“Assault?”
Stevie didn’t answer.
“Whatever you done,” Skinner advised, “and no matter how long you been doin’ it before they caught you, make like it’s your first time. Tell them you done it, and then say you don’t know why you done it, but you’ll never do it again. It might help you, kid. You might get off with a suspended sentence.”
“Yeah?”
“Sure. And then keep your nose clean afterwards, and you’ll be okay.”
“Keep my nose clean! Don’t make me laugh, pal.”
Skinner clutched Stevie’s arm in a tight grip. “Kid, don’t be a damn fool. If you can get out, get out now! I coulda got out a hundred times, and I’m still with it, and it’s no picnic. Get out before you get started.”
Stevie shook off Skinner’s hand. “Come on, willya?” he said, annoyed.
“Knock it off there,” the cop said. “We’re ready to start.”
“Take a look at your neighbors, kid,” Skinner whispered. “Take a hard look. And then get out of it while you still can.”
Stevie grimaced and turned away from Skinner. Skinner whirled him around to face him again, and there was a pleading desperation on the unshaven face, a mute reaching in the red-rimmed eyes before he spoke again. “Kid,” he said, “listen to me. Take my advice. I’ve been...”
“Knock it off!” the cop warned again.
He was suddenly aware of the fact that the shades had been drawn and the room was dim. It was very quiet out there, and he hoped they would take him first. The excitement had risen to an almost fever pitch inside him, and he couldn’t wait to get on that stage. What the hell was Skinner talking about anyway? “Take a look at your neighbors, kid.” The poor jerk probably had a wet brain. What the hell did the police bother with old drunks for, anyway?
A uniformed cop led one of the men from behind the stage, and Stevie moved a little to his left, so that he could see the stage, hoping none of the cops would shove him back where he wouldn’t have a good view. His cop and the policewoman were still talking, paying no attention to him. He smiled, unaware that the smile developed as a smirk, and watched the first man mounting the steps to the stage.
The man’s eyes were very small, and he kept blinking them, blinking them. He was bald at the back of his head, and he was wearing a Navy peacoat and dark tweed trousers, and his eyes were red-rimmed and sleepy-looking. He reached to the five-foot-six-inches marker on the wall behind him, and he stared out at the bulls, blinking.
“Assisi,” the Chief of Detectives said, “Augustus, Manhattan one. Thirty-three years old. Picked up in a bar on 43rd and Broadway, carrying a .45 Colt automatic. No statement. How about it, Gus?”