The McBain Brief

This is for

Ed and Alyce Kalin

T
he peculiar thing about the following collection is that only one of the stories in it has ever been published under the Ed McBain byline, and even that—if memory serves—
first
appeared under my own name, Evan Hunter, as did several of the other stories. For the rest, I used either the pseudonym Richard Marsten (from the surnames of my three sons, Richard, Mark and Ted) or else Hunt Collins (derived from my alma mater, Hunter College in New York). Since McBain writes exclusively about matters criminous, you may well ask why
his
name did not appear on any of these stories that most certainly deal with crime.

I wish I knew.

The oversight might seem understandable in view of the fact that some of the stories appeared in print
before
1956, when the Ed McBain byline first saw the light of day with the publication of
Cop Hater.
But many of these stories were written
after
the debut of the 87th Precinct novels, and still Ed McBain was rudely shunted aside by Hunter, Marsten and Collins, a trio of literary muggers to rival the infamous Totting Hill Triplets (whom I made up this very minute). As a drawing-room detective might have muttered over her knitting needles, “It's all very baffling.”

Is it possible that the reasoning at the time may have gone something like this:
Well, this McBain chap writes police novels, so let the
shoemaker stick to his last, let's not confuse the reader by giving him a McBain story that has nothing whatever to do with cops.
All well and good, except for the fact that many of these stories
do
deal with policemen and police work. (Oddly, the only one that McBain's name adorned before now was
not
a police story.) Or is it possible that those three hoodlums—Hunter, Marsten and Collins—once commanded higher prices in the literary marketplace than did poor, struggling, honest Ed McBain? Was a venal agent, editor, publisher, all or any of the above, responsible for the malfeasance? If so, is there no higher court to which an appeal can be made? Must Ed McBain, in the face of such despicable strong-arm tactics, continue to hide his light under a bushel for the remainder of his days? Is there no way to rectify what has surely been a gross miscarriage of justice?

There
is
a way.

This
is the way.

You may well argue that using the McBain byline to foist upon an unsuspecting public the crime-related stories that follow is an offense even more heinous than the one perpetrated by those three gangsters whose names I refuse even to
mention
again. I hope not. I hope indeed that you will enjoy reading these stories as much as I enjoyed writing them (however many
other
literary thugs may lay claim to that distinction). I am, in fact, rather fond of the little tales that follow, including the one I wrote when I was eighteen years old and serving as a radarman aboard a U.S. destroyer in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. (If you guess
Hot,
you're cold.) I also like . . . but that's another story.

I promised you a “brief” introduction. And so, ladies and germs, I give you, for the first time together anywhere in the entire universe, the one, the only (I hope) . . .

Ed McBain

H
e sat in the police van with the collar of his leather jacket turned up, the bright silver studs sharp against the otherwise unrelieved black. He was seventeen years old, and he wore his hair in a high black crown. He carried his head high and erect because he knew he had a good profile, and he carried his mouth like a switch knife, ready to spring open at the slightest provocation. His hands were thrust deep into his jacket pockets, and his gray eyes reflected the walls of the van. There was excitement in his eyes, too, an almost holiday excitement. He tried to tell himself he was in trouble, but he couldn't quite believe it. His gradual descent to disbelief had been a spiral that had spun dizzily through the range of his emotions. Terror when the cop's flash had picked him out; blind panic when he'd started to run; rebellion when the cop's firm hand had closed around the leather sleeve of his jacket; sullen resignation when the cop had thrown him into the RMP car; and then cocky stubbornness when they'd booked him at the local precinct.

The desk sergeant had looked him over curiously, with a strange aloofness in his Irish eyes.

“What's the matter, Fatty?” he'd asked.

The sergeant stared at him implacably. “Put him away for the night,” the sergeant said.

He'd slept overnight in the precinct cell block, and he'd awakened with this strange excitement pulsing through his narrow body, and it was the excitement that had caused his disbelief. Trouble, hell! He'd been in trouble before, but it had never felt like this. This was different. This was a ball, man. This was like being initiated into a secret society some place. His contempt for the police had grown when they refused him the opportunity to shave after breakfast. He was only seventeen, but he had a fairly decent beard, and a man should be allowed to shave in the morning, what the hell! But even the beard had somehow lent to the unreality of the situation, made him appear—in his own eyes—somehow more desperate, more sinister-looking. He knew he was in trouble, but the trouble was glamorous, and he surrounded it with the gossamer lie of make-believe. He was living the storybook legend. He was big time now. They'd caught him and booked him, and he should have been scared but he was excited instead.

There was one other person in the van with him, a guy who'd spent the night in the cell block, too. The guy was an obvious bum, and his breath stank of cheap wine, but he was better than nobody to talk to.

“Hey!” he said.

The bum looked up. “You talking to me?”

“Yeah. Where we going?”

“The line-up, kid,” the bum said. “This your first offense?”

“This's the first time I got caught,” he answered cockily.

“All felonies go to the line-up,” the bum told him. “And also some special types of misdemeanors. You commit a felony?”

“Yeah,” he said, hoping he sounded nonchalant. What'd they have this bum in for anyway? Sleeping on a park bench?

“Well, that's why you're going to the line-up. They have guys from every detective squad in the city there, to look you over. So they'll remember you next time. They put you on a stage, and they read off the offense, and the Chief of Detectives starts firing questions at you. What's your name, kid?”

“What's it to you?”

“Don't get smart, punk, or I'll break your arm,” the bum said.

He looked at the bum curiously. He was a pretty big guy, with a heavy growth of beard, and powerful shoulders. “My name's Stevie,” he said.

“I'm Jim Skinner,” the bum said. “When somebody's trying to give you advice, don't go hip on him.”

“Yeah, well what's your advice?” he asked, not wanting to back down completely.

“When they get you up there, you don't have to answer anything. They'll throw questions, but you don't have to answer. Did you make a statement at the scene?”

“No,” he answered.

“Good. Then don't make no statement now, either. They can't force you to. Just keep your mouth shut, and don't tell them nothing.”

“I ain't afraid. They know all about it anyway,” Stevie said.

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 on folded 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 line-up. 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 won'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 drily.

“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-footsix-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?”

“How about what?” Assisi asked.

“Were you carrying a gun?”

“Yes, I was carrying a gun.” Assisi seemed to realize his shoulders were slumped. He pulled them back suddenly, standing erect.

“Where, Gus?”

“In my pocket.”

“What were you doing with the gun, Gus?”

“I was just carrying it.”

“Why?”

“Listen, I'm not going to answer any questions,” Assisi said. “You're gonna put me through a third-degree, I ain't answering nothing. I want a lawyer.”

“You'll get plenty opportunity to have a lawyer,” the Chief of Detectives said. “And nobody's giving you a third-degree. We just
want to know what you were doing with a gun. You know that's against the law, don't you?”

“I've got a permit for the gun,” Assisi said.

“We checked with Pistol Permits, and they say no. This is a Navy gun, isn't it?”

“Yeah.”

“What?”

“I said yeah, it's a Navy gun.”

“What were you doing with it? Why were you carrying it around?”

“I like guns.”

“Why?”

“Why what? Why do I like guns? Because . . .”

“Why were you carrying it around?”

“I don't know.”

“Well, you must have a reason for carrying a loaded .45. The gun
was
loaded, wasn't it?”

“Yeah, it was loaded.”

“You have any other guns?”

“No.”

“We found a .38 in your room. How about that one?”

“It's no good.”

“What?”

“The .38.”

“What do you mean, no good?”

“The firin' mechanism is busted.”

“You want a gun that works, is that it?”

“I didn't say that.”

“You said the .38's no good because it won't fire, didn't you?”

“Well, what good's a gun that won't fire?”

“Why do you need a gun that fires?”