Ed McBain_87th Precinct 47 (29 page)

“Wench,
yeah,“ he said.

“Actually,
The Wench Is…“

“
Dead
, yeah,” he said. “It’s from Marlowe.”

“Philip?” Kling asked.

“Christopher,” Jerry said, and quoted, “ ‘But that was in another country, and besides the wench is dead.’
The Jew of Malta,
1589.”

“We gather from the title page…”

“Yeah, Chuck and I were writing it together.”

“How come?”

“We started tossing around ideas during rehearsal one day, and decided we ought to write a play,” Jerry said, and shrugged.
“We figured if Freddie can get
his
shit produced, then
anybody
can.”

“When was this?”

“That we decided to do it? A few weeks ago.”

“Wrote twenty pages since then, huh?”

“Oh, yeah. It’s easy.”

“Where’d you work?” Kling asked.

“Chuck’s place mostly.”

“The apartment on North River?”

“Yeah.”

“Were you there last night?”

“No.”

“When were you there last?”

“Wednesday night, I guess it was.”

“This past Wednesday?”

“Yes.”

“The eighth, is that right?”

“Whenever.”

One of the few nights this past week when someone wasn’t getting stabbed or shoved out a window, Kling thought.

“Did Madden live in that apartment?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I think he just kept it as a place to work.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“No, it was just the impression I got.”

“What gave you that impression?”

“Hardly anything in the fridge.”

“You noticed that, huh?”

“Oh sure. I always wondered why he never
offered
me anything, you know? Then I realized he had practically nothing to offer. To eat
or
drink, I mean. It was Mother Hubbard’s cupboard up there.”

“Any idea where he was actually living?”

“With some woman, I think.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He was going over there one night.”

“Going over where?”

“Well, I don’t know.”

“Then how do you know he was … ?”

“He said we had to wrap early because his old lady was home waiting for him.”

“Were those his exact words? Old lady?”

“Exact.”

“You don’t think he meant his
mother,
do you
?“

“I really don’t think so, fellas.”

“And he said she was
home
waiting for him, right?”

“Home waiting, yes
.
”

“He used the word ’home.’ ”

“Yes. Home.”

“Did you ask him where
home
might be?”

“Nope. None of my business.”

“Where else did you work? You said
mostly
his…”

“My place a couple of times.”

“Did he ever make any phone calls? Either from his apartment or yours?”

“Couple of times, I guess.”

“Any to this ‘old lady’ he mentioned?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Who
did
he call, would you know?”

“Well, people in the cast mostly. About theater business, you know. Changes in rehearsal time, new pages, whatever. I wasn’t
really listening that hard.”

“Did he ever call Josie Beales, would you know?”

“Yes, I’m sure he did.”

“How’d he address her?”

“Address her?”

“Use any terms of endearment with her?”

“No, no. Just called her Josie, I guess.”

“Just theater business, huh?”

“Yes, that’s what it sounded like.”

“Ever call
her
honey or darling or anything like that?”

“No, not that I heard.”

“Was there a regular pattern to when you worked on the play?”

“Just whenever was convenient for both of us.”

“No set pattern? Like Monday, Wednesday and Friday, or Tuesday, Thursday…”

“Nothing like that.”

“Were you working with him on Tuesday night?”

Tuesday night. The night someone had stabbed Michelle Cassidy to death.

“This past Tuesday?” Jerry said. “No, I wasn’t.”

“Did you happen to
talk
to him that night?”

“No.”

“Any idea where he might have been that night?”

“None at all.”

“Where were you
last
night, Mr. Greenbaum?” Kling asked.

“At around eleven-thirty,” Carella said.

“Home asleep,” Jerry said.

“Alone?” Kling asked.

“More’s the pity.”

“Mr. Greenbaum, as soon as the lab finishes with that manuscript…”

“The lab?”

“Yes, sir, they’ll be checking it for latents, bloodstains, any other kind of…”

“Jesus.”

“Yes, sir. In any case, we’ll be having copies made…”

“Why? You going to produce it?”

“We just want to see what’s in it.”

“
In
it?”

“Is there anything in it we
shouldn’t
see?”

“Like what?”

“You tell us.”

“Like a character planning to shove another character out a ten-story window?” Jerry asked.

“Any characters like that in it?”

“No,” Jerry said. “The only person who gets killed is a woman.
The
Wench
Is Dead,
remember?”

“The guy is dead, too,” Carella reminded him.

There was no such thing as a melting pot anymore, that was the tragedy. We were supposed to take them all in, welcome them
all with a warm embrace, hold them close and dear, cherish them as our precious own, forge from a thousand tribes a single
strong and vital tribe. That had been the idea. Not a bad one, actually. One people. One good and decent, brave and honorable
tribe.

But somewhere along the way, the idea began to dissipate. It had lasted longer than most ideas in America, where everything
is in a state of incessant change. In America, there’s always a new president or a new war or a new television series or a
new movie or a new talk show or a new hot writer. In view of the overwhelming
wealth
of ideas flooding America all the time, day and night, night and day, it wasn’t too surprising that people began thinking
maybe
the idea of mixing
all those separate colors and languages and cultures hadn’t been such a hot one all along. That was probably when the flame
burning bright and hot under the gigantic kettle that was this port-of-entry city began to dwindle until it burned too low
for liquefaction.

The current hot idea was to keep sacred and separate the heritage of distant lands and foreign tongues. Not to
contribute
these treasures to the solitary tribe, not to
share
this wealth with the other members of this great tribe, but instead to protect this private hoard from all other hordes,
to keep this fortune ever and always apart.

Where once “separate but equal” was a reviled notion, it was now viewed as something to which an entire people might actually
aspire. Hey,
separate
, man, I can dig it! Long as it’s
equal,
too. Where once the noble idea of a “rainbow coalition” conjured an image of bands of different colors riding the sky together
in a bonded arch that led to a shared pot of gold, the impoverished expression “gorgeous mosaic” now conjured a restricted
vision of tiny chips of colors separated by
boundaries
, each unit secure in its own brilliance and beauty, none contributing to the grander concept of a unique and remarkable whole.

Where once people pounded on the doors of opportunity and shouted, “
Forget
we’re black
, forget
we’re Hispanic
, forget
we’re Asian,” these same people were now shouting, “
Don’t
forget we’re black
, don’t
forget we’re Hispanic
, don’t
forget we’re Asian!” Where once there was pride and honor and dignity and hope in being American, now there was only despair
at what America had become. Small wonder that immigrants remembered their native lands as being more serene and stable than
they ever were. Small wonder that they chose to cling to an ethnic identity that seemed eternally unchanging to them, rather
than to fall for the bullshit of one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.

The city for which Bert Kling worked was a city of tribal enclaves poised on the edge of ethnic warfare similar to that erupting
all over the world. The riot in Grover Park last Saturday had been caused by a criminal intent on personal gain through planned
mischief. But his scheme would not have succeeded if this city had not already been so divided along ethnic lines.

Ethnic.

The most obscene word in any language.

Sharyn Cooke’s office was in Diamondback, where everyone in the entire world was black. Certainly everyone in her waiting
room was black. That was when Kling realized he’d never seen a black doctor treating a white patient.

Sharyn’s receptionist was black, too.

“Detective Kling,” he told her, and from the corner of his eye caught heads turning, eyes swiveling. Everybody here was figuring
the only business a honkie cop could have in a doctor’s office was looking for some brother or sister got shot. “I have an
appointment,” he said. The appointment was for lunch, but he didn’t mention that.

Sharyn came out a moment later.

She was wearing a white smock over a dark skirt. Stethoscope sticking out of a pocket. White Reeboks. He wanted to kiss her.

“I’ll just be a second,” she said. “Have a seat. Read a magazine.”

He grinned like a schoolboy.

They had lunch in a diner off Colby. Everyone in the diner was black, too. This was the heart of Diamondback. He reminded
her that he had to be downtown again at two, talk to a woman who might have had something to do with last night’s excitement.

“Guy jumped out a window,” he told her.

“Or was pushed,” she said knowingly.

“Or was pushed,” he agreed, nodding.

“Who’s doing the autopsy?” she asked.

“He was taken to Parkside.”

“That’d be Dwyer. Good man.”

“How long have you been practicing up here?” he asked.

“Always,” she said, and shrugged.

He hesitated a moment, and then asked, “Do you have any white patients?”

“No,” she said. “Well, at Rankin, yeah, white cops come in all the time. But not here, no.”

“Have you
ever
had a white patient?”

“In private practice? No. Why?”

“I just wondered.”

“Have you ever gone to a black doctor?”

“No.”

“Case closed,” she said, and smiled.

“Who are you going out with tonight?” he asked.

“None of your business.”

“Woman tells me she can’t see me cause she’s got other plans…”

“That’s right.”

“…then it
becomes
my business.”

“Nope.”

“How about lunch tomorrow?”

“Busy then, too.”

“Who with?”

“My mother.”

“How come your
mother’s
not none of my business?”

“That’s a double negative.”

“Busy twice in a
row
is a double negative. Why don’t I join you and your mother?”

“I don’t think that’d be such a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Cause Mama don’t ’low no saxophone playin here.”

“What does that mean?”

“Mama don’t know you
white,
man
.“

“Time she found out, don’t you think?”

“Three dates and we’re getting married already?”

“Four counting today.”

“Four, right.”

“All of them wonderful.”

“Not the first one.”

“First one doesn’t count. Who’s this guy tonight?”

“I told you, that’s none…”

“Is this your first date with him?”

“Nope.”

“Is he black?”

“Sho nuff, honey chile.”

“Does Mama know
him
?”

“She do.”

“Does she allow you to play
his
saxophone?”

“Mama thinks I’m still a virgin. Mama don’t ’low me to play
nobody’s
saxophone
nohow
.”

“Good for Mama,” Kling said, and blinked in mock surprise. “You mean you’re
not
a virgin?”

“Sullied through and through,” she said,

“Well, when
can
we get together? Artie…”

“We’re together now.”

“Yes, but Artie wants to meet you.”

“Who’s Artie?”

“Brown. Who suggested Barney’s, remem…?”

“Right. Whose grandmother was a slave.”

“Great-
great
-grandmother. He wants to have dinner with us and his wife.”

“Good, I’d like to.”

“Sure, but you’re
busy
all the goddamn time.”

“Not all the time.”

“You’re busy
tonight,
you’re busy…”

“I made tonight’s date a long time ago.”

“How about
tomorrow
night?”

“I’d love to.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Good, I’ll tell Artie. Chinese okay?”

“Chinese is fine.”

“Who’s this guy tonight?”

“None of your…”

“Sharyn?”

The voice was deep and mellow, originating at Kling’s right elbow, and causing him to turn at once in surprise. The man standing
there was tall and black and elegantly dressed in a suit several shades lighter than the color of his skin. Unless King was
mistaken, the key hanging on a chain across his vest was a Phi Beta Kappa key, and unless he was further mistaken, the little
plastic ID tag clipped to the lapel of the man’s jacket had the words MOUNT PLEASANT HOSPITAL printed across its top.

“Jamie, hi,” she said, and then immediately, “Bert, this is Jamie Hudson…”

“How do you…?”

“Bert Kling,” she concluded.

“Nice to meet you.”

The men shook hands. Kling, big detective that he was, had already scanned the plastic identification tag and discovered that
this handsome guy looming over the table was Dr. James Melvin Hudson, and that his department at Mount Pleasant Hospital was
ONCOLOGY.

“Sit down a minute,” Sharyn said.