The Mugger (16 page)

“So you’re Mr. Sherlock Holmes, eh?” Hawthorne said.

Kling didn’t know what to answer. He didn’t know whether to smile or cast his eyes downward. He didn’t know whether to sit or go blind.

Hawthorne watched him. Emphatically, he repeated, “So you’re Mr. Sherlock Holmes, eh?”

“Sir?” Kling said politely.

“Diddling around with a murder case, eh?”

“I didn’t realize, sir, that—”

“Listen to me, Sherlock,” Hawthorne said, slamming his open palm on to the desk. “We got a phone call here this afternoon.” He opened the top drawer. “Clocked in at”—he consulted a pad— “sixteen thirty-seven. Said you were messing around with this Jeannie Paige thing.” Hawthorne crashed the desk drawer shut. “I’ve been very kind to you, Sherlock. I could have gone straight to Captain Frick at the 87th. The 87th happens to be your precinct, and Captain Frick happens to be an old and dear friend of mine, and Captain Frick doesn’t take nonsense from runny-nosed patrolmen who happen to be walking beats. Lieutenant Byrnes of your precinct likes to stick his nose in murder cases, too, and I can’t do a hell of a lot about that, except occasionally show him I don’t too much appreciate his goddamn Aunt Suzianna help! But if the 87th think it’s going to run in a patrolman on me, if the 87th thinks—”

“Sir, the precinct didn’t know anything about my—”

“AND THEY STILL DON’T KNOW!” Hawthorne shouted. “And they don’t know because I was kind enough not to mention this to Captain Frick. I’m being good to you, Sherlock, remember that. I’m being goddamn good and kind to you, so don’t give me any lip!”

“Sir, I wasn’t—”

“All right, listen to me, Sherlock. If I hear again that you’re even
thinking
about Jeannie Paige, your tail is going to be in one big sling. I’m not talking about a transfer to a beat in Bethtown, either. I’m talking about OUT! You are going to be out in the street. You are going to be out and cold. And don’t think I can’t do it.”

“Sir, I didn’t think—”

“I know the commissioner the way I know the back of my own hand. The commissioner would sell his wife if I asked him to; that’s the way I know the commissioner. So don’t for one second think the commissioner wouldn’t toss a snot-nosed patrolman right out on his ear if I asked him to. Don’t for a minute think that, Sherlock.”

“Sir—”

“And don’t for a minute think I’m kidding, Sherlock, because I never kid around where it concerns murder. You’re fooling with murder, do you realize that? You’ve been barging around asking questions, and God alone knows who you’ve scared into hiding, and God alone knows how much of our careful work you’ve fouled up! SO LAY OFF! Go walk your goddamn beat! If I get another squeal about you—”

“Sir?”

“WHAT IS IT?”

“Who called you, sir?”

“That’s none of your goddamn business!” Hawthorne shouted.

“Yes, sir.”

“Get out of my office. You make me sick. Get out of my office.”

“Yes, sir,” Kling said. He turned and went to the door.

“AND DON’T FOOL WITH MURDER!” Hawthorne shouted after him.

He called Claire at 11:10. The phone rang six times, and he was ready to hang up, afraid he’d caught her asleep, when the receiver was lifted.

“Hello?” she said. Her voice was sleepy.

“Claire?”

“Yes, who’s this?”

“Did I wake you?”

“Yes.” There was a pause, and then her voice became a bit more lively. “Bert? Is that you?”

“Yes. Claire, I’m sorry I—”

“The last time I got stood up was when I was sixteen and had a—”

“Claire, I didn’t stand you up, honest. Some Homicide cops—”

“It felt like being stood up. I waited in the newspaper office until a quarter to eight, God knows why. Why didn’t you call?”

“They wouldn’t let me use the phone.” Kling paused. “Besides, I didn’t know how I could reach you.”

Claire was silent.

“Claire?”

“I’m here,” she said wearily.

“Can I see you tomorrow? We’ll spend the day together. I’m off tomorrow.”

Again, there was silence.

“Claire?”

“I heard you.”

“Well?”

“Bert, why don’t we call it quits, huh? Let’s consider what happened tonight an ill omen and just forget the whole thing, shall we?”

“No,” he said.

“Bert—”

“No! I’ll pick you up at noon, all right?”

Silence.

“Claire?”

“All right. Yes,” she said. “Noon.”

“I’ll explain then. I…I got into a little trouble.”

“All right.”

“Noon?”

“Yes.”

“Claire?”

“Yes?”

“Good night, Claire.”

“Good night, Bert.”

“I’m sorry I woke you.”

“That’s all right. I’d just dozed off, anyway.”

“Well…good night, Claire.”

“Good night, Bert.”

He wanted to say more, but he heard the click of the receiver being replaced in the cradle. He sighed, left the phone booth, and ordered a steak with mushrooms, french-fried onions, two baked potatoes, a huge salad with Roquefort dressing, and a glass of milk. He finished off the meal with three more glasses of milk and a slab of chocolate cream pie.

On the way out of the restaurant, he bought a candy bar.

Then he went home to sleep.

A common and much believed fallacy in popular literature is the one that links romantic waiters with starry-eyed couples who are obviously in love. The waiter hovers over the table, suggesting special dishes (“Per’aps the pheasant under ground glass for ze lady, yas?”), kissing his fingers, or wringing his hands against his chest while his heart bursts with romance.

Bert Kling had been in a good many restaurants in the city, as boy and man, with a good many young ladies ranging from the plain to the beautiful. He had come to the conclusion a long while back that most waiters in most restaurants had nothing more romantic on their minds than an order of scrambled eggs with lox.

He did not for a moment believe that he and Claire looked starry-eyed with love, but they were without doubt a nice-enough-looking couple, and they were in a fashionable restaurant that overlooked the River Harb, high atop one of the city’s
better-known hotels. And, even discounting the absence of the starry-eyed (which he was fast coming to believe were nothing more than a Jon Whitcomb creation—ah, once a man begins to doubt…), he felt that any waiter with more than a stone for a heart should have recognized and aided the fumbling and primitive ritual of two people who were trying to get to know each other.

The day, by any standards, had not been what Kling would have called a rousing success.

He had planned on a picnic in Bethtown, with its attendant ferry ride from Isola across the river. Rain had destroyed that silly notion.

He had drippingly called for Claire at twelve on the dot. The rain had given her a “horrible headache.” Would he mind if they stayed indoors for a little while, just until the Empirin took hold?

Kling did not mind.

Claire had put some good records into the record player and then had lapsed into a heavy silence, which he attributed to the throbbing headache. The rain had oozed against the windowpanes, streaking the city outside. The music had oozed from the record player—Bach’s
Brandenburg Concerto No.
5
in D,
Strauss’s
Don Quixote,
Franck’s
Psyche.

Kling almost fell asleep.

They left the apartment at 2:00. The rain had let up somewhat, but it had put a knife-edge on the air, and they sloshed along in a sullen, uncommunicative silence, hating the rain with common enmity, but somehow having allowed the rain to build a solid wedge between them. When Kling suggested a movie, Claire accepted the offer eagerly.

The movie was terrible.

The feature was called
Apache Undoing,
or some such damn thing, and it starred hordes of painted Hollywood extras who screeched
and whooped down upon a small band of blue-clothed soldiers. The handful of soldiers fought off the wily Apaches until almost the end of the movie. By this time, the hordes flung against the small, tired band must have numbered in the tens of thousands. With five minutes to go in the film, another small handful of soldiers arrived, leaving Kling with the distinct impression that the war would go on for another two hours in a subsequent film to be titled
Son of Apache Undoing.

The second film on the bill was about a little girl whose mother and father are getting divorced. The little girl goes with them to Reno—Dad conveniently has business there at the same time Mom must establish residence—and through an unvarying progression of mincing postures and bright-eyed, smirking little-girl facial expressions, convinces Mom and Dad to stay together eternally and live in connubial bliss with their mincing, bright-eyed, smirking little smart-aleck daughter.

They left the theater bleary-eyed. It was 6:00.

Kling suggested a drink and dinner. Claire, probably in self-defense, agreed that a drink and dinner would be just dandy along about now.

And so they sat in the restaurant high atop one of the city’s better-known hotels, and they looked through the huge windows that faced the river; across the river there was a sign.

The sign first said:
SPRY.

Then it said:
SPRY FOR FRYING.

Then it said:
SPRY FOR BAKING.

Then it said, again:
SPRY.

“What’ll you drink?” Kling asked.

“A whiskey sour, I think,” Claire said.

“No cognac?”

“Later maybe.”

The waiter came over to the table. He looked as romantic as Adolf Hitler.

“Something to drink, sir?” he asked. “A whiskey sour and a martini.” “Lemon peel, sir?” “Olive,” Kling said.

“Thank you, sir. Would you care to see a menu now?” “We’ll wait until after we’ve had our drinks, thank you. All right, Claire?”

“Yes, fine,” she said.

They sat in silence. Kling looked through the windows.

SPRY FOR FRYING.

“Claire?”

“Yes?”

SPRY FOR BAKING.

“It’s been a bust, hasn’t it?”

“Please, Bert.”

“The rain…and that lousy movie. I didn’t want it to be this way. I wanted—”

“I knew this would happen, Bert. I tried to tell you, didn’t I? Didn’t I try to warn you off? Didn’t I tell you I was the dullest girl in the world? Why did you insist, Bert? Now you make me feel like a…like a…”

“I don’t want you to feel
any
way,” he said. “I was only going to suggest that we…we start afresh. From now. Forgetting everything that’s…that’s happened.”

“Oh, what’s the use?” Claire said.

The waiter came with their drinks. “Whiskey sour for the lady?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He put the drinks on the table. Kling lifted the martini glass.

“To a new beginning,” he said.

“If you want to waste a drink,” she answered, and she drank.

“About last night—” he started.

“I thought this was to be a new beginning.”

“I wanted to explain. I got picked up by two Homicide cops and taken to their lieutenant who warned me to keep away from the Jeannie Paige potato.”

“Are you going to?”

“Yes, of course.” He paused. “I’m curious, I admit, but—”

“I understand.”

“Claire,” he said evenly, “what the hell’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Where do you go when you retreat?”

“What?”

“Where do you—”

“I didn’t think it showed. I’m sorry.”

“It shows,” Kling said. “Who was he?”

Claire looked up sharply. “You’re a better detective than I realized.”

“It doesn’t take much detection,” he said. There was a sad undertone to his voice now, as if her confirmation of his suspicions had suddenly taken all the fight out of him. “I don’t mind you carrying a torch. Lots of girls—”

“It’s not that,” she interrupted.

“Lots of girls do,” he continued. “A guy drops them cold, or else it just peters out the way romances sometimes—”

“It’s not that!” she said sharply, and when he looked across the table at her, her eyes were filmed with tears.

“Hey, listen, I—”

“Please, Bert, I don’t want to—”

“But you said it
was
a guy. You said—”

“All right,” she answered. “All right, Bert.” She bit down on her lip. “All right, there was a guy. And I was crazy in love with him. I was seventeen—just like Jeannie Paige—and he was nineteen.”

Kling waited. Claire lifted her drink and drained the glass. She swallowed hard and then sighed, and Kling watched her, waiting.

“I met him at Club Tempo. We hit it off right away. Do you know how such things happen, Bert? It happened that way with us. We made a lot of plans, big plans. We were young, and we were strong, and we were in love.”

“I…I don’t understand,” he said.

“He was killed in Korea.”

Across the river, the sign blared,
SPRY FOR FRYING.

The table was very silent. Claire stared at the tablecloth. Kling folded his hands nervously.

“So don’t ask me why I go down to Tempo and make a fool of myself with kids like Hud and Tommy. I’m looking for
him
all over again, Bert, can’t you see that? I’m looking for his face, and his youth, and—”

Cruelly, Bert Kling said, “You won’t find him.”

“I—”

“You won’t find him. You’re a fool for trying. He’s dead and buried. He’s—”

“I don’t want to listen to you,” Claire said. “Take me home, please.”

“No,” he said. “He’s dead and buried, and
you’re
burying yourself alive; you’re making a martyr of yourself; you’re wearing a widow’s weeds at twenty! What the hell’s the matter with you? Don’t you know that people die every day? Don’t you know?”

“Shut up!” she said.

“Don’t you know you’re killing yourself? Over a kid’s puppy love, over a—”

“Shut up!” she said again, and this time her voice was on the edge of hysteria, and some of the diners around them turned at her outburst.

“Okay!” Kling said tightly. “Okay, bury yourself! Bury your beauty, and try to hide your sparkle! Wear black every day of the week for all I give a damn! But I think you’re a phony! I think you’re a fourteen-carat phony!” He paused and then said angrily, “Let’s get the hell out of this goldfish bowl!”

He started to rise, signaling for the waiter at the same time. Claire sat motionless opposite him. And then, quite suddenly, she began to cry. The tears started slowly at first, forcing their way past clenched eyelids, trickling silently down her cheeks. And then her shoulders began to heave, and she sat as still as a stone, her hands clasped in her lap, her shoulders heaving, sobbing silently while the tears coursed down her face. He had never seen such honest misery before. He turned his face away. He did not want to watch her.

“You are ready to order, sir?” the waiter asked, sidling up to the table.

“Two more of the same,” Bert said. The waiter started off, and he caught at his arm. “No. Change the whiskey sour to a double shot of Canadian Club.”

“Yes, sir,” the waiter said, padding off.

“I don’t want another drink,” Claire muttered.

“You’ll have one.”

“I don’t want one.” She erupted into tears again, and this time Kling watched her. She sobbed steadily for several moments, and then the tears stopped as suddenly as they had begun, leaving her face looking as clean as a city street does after a sudden summer storm.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be.”

“I should have cried a long time ago.”

“Yes.”

The waiter brought the drinks.

Kling lifted his glass. To a new beginning,” he said.

Claire studied him. It took her a long while to reach for the double hooker before her. Finally, her hand closed around the glass. She lifted it and touched the rim to Kling’s glass. To a new beginning,” she said. She threw off the shot quickly.

“That’s strong,” she said.

“It’ll do you good.”

“Yes. I’m sorry, Bert. I shouldn’t have burdened you with my troubles.”

“Offhand, can you think of anyone who’d accept them so readily?”

“No,” she said immediately. She smiled tiredly.

“That’s better.”

She looked across at him as if she were seeing him for the first time. The tears had put a sparkle into her eyes. “It…it may take time, Bert,” she said. Her voice came from a long way off.

“I’ve got all the time in the world,” he said. And then, almost afraid she would laugh at him, he added, “All I’ve been doing is killing time, Claire, waiting for you to come along.”

She seemed ready to cry again. He reached across the table and covered her hand with his.

“You’re…you’re very good, Bert,” she said, her voice growing thin, the way a voice does before it collapses into tears. “You’re good, and kind, and gentle, and you’re quite beautiful, do you know that? I…I think you’re very beautiful.”

“You should see me when my hair is combed,” he said, smiling, squeezing her hand.

“I’m not joking,” she said. “You always think I’m joking, and you really shouldn’t because I’m…I’m a serious girl.”

“I know.”

“So—”

He shifted his position abruptly, grimacing.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, suddenly concerned.

“No. This goddamn pistol” He shifted again.

“Pistol?”

“Yes. In my back pocket. We have to carry them, you know. Even off duty.”

“Not really? A gun? You have a gun in your pocket?”

“Sure.”

She leaned closer to him. Her eyes were clear now, as if they had never known tears or sadness. They sparkled with interest. “May I see it?”

“Sure.” He reached down, unbuttoned his jacket, and then pulled the gun with its leather holster from his hip pocket. He put it on the table. “Don’t touch it, or it’ll go off in your face.”

“It looks menacing.”

“It is menacing. I’m the deadliest shot in the 87th Precinct.”

“Are you really?”

“‘Kling the King,’ they call me.”

She laughed suddenly.

“I can shoot any damn elephant in the world at a distance of three feet,” Kling expanded.

Her laugh grew. He watched her laughing. She seemed unaware of the transformation.

“Do you know what I feel like doing?” he said.

“What?”

“I feel like taking this gun and shooting out that goddamned Spry sign across the river.”

“Bert,” she said, “Bert,” and she put her other hand over his so that three hands formed a pyramid on the table. Her face grew very serious. “Thank you, Bert. Thank you so very, very much.”