The Mugger 87th Precinct Series, Book 2 - By Ed McBain Page 0,3

I say this doesn’t call for a report. I say if you feel like typing one up, go ahead.”

“Do you feel strong enough to take another look at the Lousy File?”

“Under what?” Havilland mocked. “Muggers named Clifford who wear sunglasses and Bermuda shorts?”

“We may have missed something,” Willis said. “Of course, the cabinet’s at least four feet away. I don’t want you to strain yourself.”

“I been through the file and back again,” Havilland said. “Every time this Clifford character hits another broad. There’s nothing, nothing. And what this Ellio broad gave us ain’t gonna add one bit to the picture.”

“It might,” Willis said.

“No,” Havilland said, shaking his head. “And you know why? Because that mugging didn’t take place in the street, like she said it did.”

“No? Then where did it take place?”

“In her head, pal,” Havilland said. “All in Miss Ellio’s head.”

The shoulder didn’t hurt at all now.

It was funny. You figure you get shot in the shoulder, it’s going to hurt for a long, long time. But it didn’t. Not at all.

As a matter of fact, if Bert Kling had had his way, he’d be back on the job, and the job was working as a patrolman out of the 87th Precinct. But Captain Frick was the boss of the uniformed cops at the house, and Captain Frick had said, “Now, you take another week, Bert. I don’t care whether the hospital let you go or not. You take another week.”

And so Bert Kling was taking another week, and not enjoying it very much. “Another week” had started with Monday, and this was Tuesday, and it seemed like a nice brisk autumn day outside, and Kling had always liked autumn, but he was bored silly with it now.

The hospital duty hadn’t been bad in the beginning. The other cops had come up to see him, and even some of the detectives had dropped around, and he’d been something of a precinct celebrity, getting shot up like that. But after a while, he had ceased to be a novelty, and the visits had been less frequent, and he had leaned back against the fat hospital mattress and begun his adjustment to the boredom of convalescence.

His favorite indoor sport had become the crossing off of days on the calendar. He had also ogled the nurses, but the joy of such diversion had evaporated when he had realized his activities—so long as he was a patient, at any rate—could never rise higher than the spectator level. So he had crossed off the days, one by one, and he had looked forward to returning to the job, yearned for it with almost ferocious intensity.

And then Frick had said, “Take another week, Bert.”

He’d wanted to say, “Now, look, Captain, I don’t need any more rest. I’m as strong as an ox. Believe me, I can handle two beats.”

But knowing Frick, and knowing he was a thickheaded old jerk, Kling had kept his peace. He was still keeping his peace. He was very tired of keeping his peace. It was almost better getting shot.

Now, that was a curious attitude, he realized, wanting to get back to the job that had been responsible for the bullet in his right shoulder. Not that he’d been shot doing his job, actually. He’d been shot off duty, coming out of a bar, and he wouldn’t have been shot if he hadn’t been mistaken for someone else.

The shot had been intended for a reporter named Savage, a reporter who’d done some snooping around, a reporter who’d asked too many leading questions of a teenage gang member who’d later summoned all his pals and colleagues to the task of taking care of Savage.

It happened to be Kling’s misfortune that he’d been coming out of the same bar in which Savage had earlier interrogated the kid. It was also his misfortune that he was blond, because Savage, inconsiderately, was blond, too. The kids had jumped Kling, anxious to mete out justice, and Kling had pulled his service revolver from his back pocket.

And that’s how heroes are made.

Kling shrugged.

Even when he shrugged, the shoulder didn’t hurt. So why should he be sitting here in a stupid furnished room when he could be out walking a beat?

He rose and walked to the window, looking down toward the street. The girls were having trouble keeping their skirts tucked against the strong wind. Kling watched.

He liked girls. He liked all girls. Walking his beat, he would watch the girls. He always felt pleased when he did.