Ed McBain_87th Precinct 47 (18 page)

“Sir?”

The penguin. He, too, in black and white,
that
hadn’t changed. Chest puffed out, staring down the length of his nose.

“Sir?”

A bit more imperiously this time. A
king
penguin, Kling figured.

“Detective Bert Kling,” he said, “Eighty-seventh Squad.”

There was a moment, but only a moment.

And then, beaming, the penguin said, “Yes, sir, how do you do, sir, a pleasure to have you with us. My name is Rudolph, will
there be just the two of you, Mr. Kling?”

“Just the two of us, yes, thank you,” Kling said, bewildered.

“Will that be for supper, sir, or just cocktails?”

“Sharyn?”

“Just cocktails, please.”

“Just cocktails, please,” Kling said.

“Just cocktails, yes, Detective Kling, this way, please, I have a lovely table by the window.”

It was not until Rudolph was seating them that Kling realized what this was all about.

“That was speedy work you and your mates did on that actress who got stabbed,” Rudolph said.

“Oh,” Kling said. “Thank you.”

“Speedy work indeed. Enjoy the view. Enjoy the music, I’ll send your waitress at once. Let me know if there’s anything I can
do for you.”

“Thank you, Rudolph.”

“My pleasure, Detective Kling. Miss,” he said, and bowed to Sharyn, and then moved swiftly from the table.

“Well!” she said.

“Imagine what’ll happen if Fat
Ollie
stops by,” Kling said, shaking his head.

“Fat who?”

“Ollie. Who shared the collar. You’ll have to meet him sometime. No, on second thought …”

“I forgot to congratulate you,” she said.

“Our friend Rudolph must’ve seen us on television,” Kling said. “There were cameras waiting when we took Milton out to the
van.”

“I saw it,” she said.

“Was I okay?”

“You looked very cute,” she said.

“But did I
sound
okay? Steve wouldn’t say a word …”

“Steve?”

“Carella. We worked the assault together. He doesn’t think Milton did the homicide.”

“Was Fat Ollie … ?”

“The one standing on my right. The one hogging the camera.”

“Ah, yes.”

“Then you saw him.”

“How could I
miss
him?”

“The power of television, huh?” he said, still amazed, shaking his head. “Boy.”

A waitress materialized.

“Sir?” she said, smiling.

Her manner told him she watched television, too.

“Sharyn?” he asked.

“Beefeater martini, pair of olives,” she said, “straight up and very cold.”

“Johnnie Black, on the rocks,” Kling said, “a splash.”

“Water?”

“Soda.”

“Would you care to see menus?”

“Sharyn? Anything?”

“Maybe something to nibble on,” she said.

“I’ll bring the menu,” the waitress said, and clicked off on her black high heels, long legs showing in the slit skirt.

Sharyn turned immediately to the window, where the lights of the city lay spread below like a nest of sparkling red and white
and green and yellow jewels. “This is
glori
ous,” she said.

“Listen,” he said.

She looked toward the bandstand, where a quartet sounding very much like George Shearing’s had just begun a new tune. She
listened for only a moment, recognizing the song at once.

” ‘Kiss,’ ” she said.

“Let’s dance,” he said.

“Love to,” she said.

They moved onto the polished dance floor. She slid into his arms. He held her close.

Kiss
…

It all begins with a kiss …

“I’m a lousy dancer,” he said.

“You’re very good,” she lied.

“You’ll have to teach me.”

But kisses wither

And die

Unless

“This is much better, isn’t it?”

“Much.”

The first caress

Is true.

Kiss …

“See? We’re doing it already.”

“What are we doing already?” she asked.

She was thinking What we’re doing is dancing too close already. We’re going to get arrested already. Good thing you’re a celebrity
hero cop—at Top of the Hill, anyway.

“We’re going wherever we want to go,” he said, “and we’re just being us, without having to worry about looking like everyone
around us.”

“We could
never
look like everyone around us,” she said.

“That’s because you’re so beautiful,” he said.

“No, it’s because you’re so handsome,” she said.

“And such a good dancer,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said.

“I meant
me,
” he said.

“Of course, exactly what I meant,” she said.

So hold me tight and whisper

Words of

Love

Against my eyes.

And kiss me sweet and promise

Me your

Kisses won’t he lies.

“We are, you know,” she said.

“Are what?”

“Going to get arrested.”

“That’s okay, I’m a cop.”

“So am I.”

“I find it hard to think of you as a cop”

“I find it hard, too,” she said, and moved in very tight against him.

He caught his breath.

She caught hers, too.

Kiss …

And show me, tell me of

Bliss …

“I love this song,” she said.

“I love it, too.”

Because I know I

Will die

Unless

“Sharyn?” he said.

“Yes?”

“Nothing.”

This first

Caress

Is true.

The rehearsal had ended at ten-thirty and now the play’s producer, director and playwright sat in the darkened theater, whispering
low, considering their chances. There was no doubt in any of their minds that the murder of Michelle Cassidy would immeasurably
help the show’s prospects. They were all beginning to think they had a hit on their hands.

“
Plus,
” Kendall said, “Josie’s a hundred times better than Michelle
ever
was.”

“Or ever
would
have been,” Morgenstern said.

They were giving Corbin the needle, of course. He had been the only holdout in casting Josie Beaks over Michelle. As playwright,
he’d had the final say. Now Michelle’s understudy had inherited the role by default, and the play was better for it. Even
Corbin had to admit it.

“I admit it,” he said. “She’s better. She makes the play come alive. I admit it. Now drop it.”

“The point is,” Kendall said, “how do we capitalize on what’s happened?”

“I got a call from Wally this afternoon,” Morgenstern said. He liked to think he was either Flo Ziegfeld or David Merrick.
He had worn a black homburg and a black topcoat to the theater this evening. The topcoat was draped over the seat beside him,
but he was still wearing the hat. Wally Stein was the play’s press agent, as opposed to its advertising representative. “He
told me
Time’s
still doing the cover story.”

“Great,” Corbin said.

“Be better if we could get Josie in the story someplace,” Kendall said.

“She’s already in it,” Morgenstern said.

“When did this happen?”

“They interviewed her this morning. Murdered star’s replacement, how does she feel about it, all that shit.”

“When are they running it?”

“
Next
week’s issue, they’ve delayed it. Big picture of Michelle on the cover.”

“Do we have any pictures of her getting stabbed?” Corbin asked.

“In the play, do you mean?” Morgenstern said.

Kendall looked at him.

No, in her
fuckin
apartment, he thought, but did not say because this was the play’s producer here.

“Yes,” he said, “Wally has publicity photos, and we’ve also got display photos for outside the theater.”

“Of her getting stabbed?” Corbin insisted.

“Yes, I’m sure we do.”

“We ought to get them over to
Time.
”

“I’m sure Wally’s already thought of that,” Morgenstern said. “But we’ve got to be careful about this, you know. We don’t
want to look like vultures. In fact…”

“You’re right, we’ve got to express the proper grief,” Kendall said.

“Which is why I was thinking …”

“Wally should start feeding the media some material on the play’s
content,”
Corbin said. “I don’t want people coming to see it just because Michelle happened to get killed.”

“Well,” Morgenstern said,
“whyever
they come see it is fine with me, so long as they come see it. The thing is not to make it
appear
that’s what we’re looking for. Which is why I thought I might announce that we’re closing the play. ”

“Closing it!”

“Out of respect for the dead, all that shit.”

“Closing
it!”

“We’re sitting on a multimillion-dollar hit here!”

“Besides, this is a good play here,” Corbin said.

“Especially now with Josie in it.”

“I’ve already
admitted
I made a mistake …”

“All right, all right.”

“… so stop about Josie already.”

“Anyway, the mistake’s been corrected,” Morgenstern said. “And I would never
dream of
actually closing it.”

The men fell silent.

Their separate breathing was the only sound in the darkened theater.

“You know …” Morgenstern said.

“Mmm?”

“They’ll be coming to us again, you know.”

“The media?”

“No. The police.”

“Mmm.”

“The one with the Chinese eyes, especially.”

“The one with the Italian name.”

“Furillo.”

“Furella.”

“Carella.”

“Whatever.”

“He’ll want to know.”

“Know what?”

“How much we’re getting out of this thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s already asked me. He’ll ask again, now that Michelle’s dead.”

“That’s what they look for.”

“Motive, do you mean?”

“Love or money. Those are the two motives.”

“But they’ve already arrested her agent.”

“I’ll bet you any amount of money he didn’t do it.”

“He’s crazy enough to have done it.”

“But he didn’t.”

“Anyway,
all
agents are crazy.”

“But he didn’t kill Michelle, I’ll bet my share of the gross on it.”

“That’s what he’ll keep harping on. Gross. Net. Profits. Royalties. Carella.”

“I don’t think so. He’s already made his arrest.”

“Did you
see
that fat one?”

“On television, do you mean?”

“Yeah. The fat one.”

“He
sure as hell thinks Johnny did it.”

“But not Carella. You didn’t see
Carella
on camera, did you? I didn’t see Carella on camera.”

“Because he doesn’t believe it.”

“Which is why he’ll be back, believe me.”

“Why?”

“To ask about our financial arrangements again.”

“Well, my lousy six percent isn’t worth killing for.”

“Neither is my two.”

They both looked at Morgenstern.

“Hey, come on, fellas,” he said.

Looking at him over the rim of her glass, she asked him why he’d trimmed Sharyn to Shaar earlier tonight. He was still trembling
inside from having held her so close. He found it difficult to remember having called her Shaar.

“When did I call you Shaar?” he asked.

Not putting his hands on the table because he was sure they were shaking.

“When you were saying you thought I might feel uncomfortable in a place where there were only white people.”

“Do you feel uncomfortable now?”

“No.”

“Well, do you feel
comfortable?“

“Yes.”

“Even though everyone around us is white?”

“I’m not seeing anyone around us.”

“Do you think if we went to a place in Diamondback, I wouldn’t see anyone around us, either?”

“I think if we went to Diamondback, you’d be made for a cop in ten seconds flat. They’d probably shoot you the minute you
walked through the door.”

“That’s racist.”

“But realistic.”

“How about you? Would they shoot you?”

“I doubt it.”

“How come? You’re a cop.”

“Do I look like a cop?”

“You look like a sexy, beautiful woman.”

“I
feel
like a sexy, beautiful woman.”

“So I called you Shaar, huh?”

“Yes. You said, ’I’ll tell you the truth, Shaar.’”

“I guess maybe I did.”

“Why?”

“I guess I was feeling very close to you.”

“My mother’s the only one in the world who ever called me Shaar.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“It’s just peculiar. That you should pick my mother’s pet name for me.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it was a special …”

“No, I kind of like your using it.”

“Then I’ll …”

“But not all the time.”

“Okay, only …”

“Only when you’re feeling very close to me.”

“I’m beginning to feel close to you
all
the time.”

“Then we’d better be careful,” she said.

“Why?” he said, and suddenly put his big trembling hands on the table and covered her hands with them.

“Oh dear,” she said.

The waitress was back.

“Another round?” she asked, smiling at Kling.

“Sharyn?”

“Yes, okay,” she said.

“I’m glad you caught that guy,” the waitress said, and swiveled off.

“
She
thinks you’re cute, too,” Sharyn said.

“Who?”

“The waitress.”

“What waitress?” he said.

Alone with her in bed that night, he tried to tell her what was troubling him about the Cassidy murder. She listened intently,
lying back against the pillows, head turned toward him, eyes wide, trying to visualize these people he was talking about.

“You see, Johnny Milton just had no reason to
kill
her,” he said. “Stabbing her accomplished everything he wanted to happen. His client is suddenly a star, she’s in a play
where she gets
stabbed,
he’s got all the media dogs barking at her heels, so why
kill
her? No reason for it at all. Stabbing her already served the purpose. Stabbing her put both her
and
the play on the map. So why kill the golden goose? No way. I can’t see it. Where’s the motive?