The Mugger 87th Precinct Series, Book 2 - By Ed McBain Page 0,55
“Yep?”
Havilland threw the match folder onto the bar. “This yours?”
The bartender studied it at great length. The identical three aces on the mirror fronted the match folder. The name Three Aces was plastered on the cardboard in red letters a half inch high. The bartender nonetheless took his time.
At last, he said, “Yep.”
“How long have you been stocking them?” Willis asked.
“Why?”
“We’re police officers,” Havilland said wearily. He reached into his pocket for his shield.
“Save it,” the bartender said. “I can smell law at sixty paces.”
“Is that how you got your nose broken?” Havilland asked, clenching his fists on the bar top.
The bartender touched his nose. “I used to box,” he said. “What’s with the matches?”
“How long have you stocked them?”
“About three months. It was a big bargain. There’s this kid in the neighborhood, sells Christmas cards and like that. Came around saying the matches would give the joint a little class. So I tumbled. Ordered a couple gross.” The bartender shrugged. “Didn’t do no harm, as I can see. What’s the beef?”
“No beef,” Willis said. “Routine check.”
“On what? Matchbooks?”
“Yeah,” Havilland said. “On matchbooks. Do you sell cigarettes?”
“Only in the machine.” The bartender indicated the vending apparatus in the corner near the door.
“You stock these matches in the machine?”
“No. We keep ‘em on the bar in a small box. Anybody runs out of matches, he comes up and grabs himself a book. Why? What’s so important with the matches?”
“We’ll ask the questions,” Havilland said.
“I’m only trying to help, Officer,” the bartender said. His voice conveyed the distinct impression that he would have liked nothing better than to punch Havilland in the mouth.
“Then anyone who drinks here can walk up to the bar and help himself to the matches, right?” Willis asked.
“Yep,” the bartender said. “Makes it homely, don’t you think?”
“Mister,” Havilland said evenly, “you better wipe that wise-guy smirk off your voice, or something’s gonna make you homely.”
“Cops have always scared me,” the bartender said dryly, “ever since I was a wee babe.”
“If you’re looking for a fight, pal,” Havilland said, “you picked the right cop.”
“I’m looking to mind my own business,” the bartender said.
“I’d hate like hell to have a judge decide on whose word to take in a ‘resisting an officer’ case,” Havilland persisted.
“I ain’t fighting, and I ain’t resisting nothing,” the bartender replied. “So cool off. You want a beer?”
“I’ll have a scotch,” Havilland said.
“That figures,” the bartender drawled. “How about you?” he asked Willis.
“Nothing,” Willis said.
“Come on,” the bartender egged. “It’s just like grabbing an apple from the pushcart.”
“When you’re ready for that fight,” Willis said, “you’ve got two of us now.”
“Whenever I fought, I got paid for it,” the bartender said. “I don’t believe in exhibition bouts.”
“Especially when you know your face’ll be spread over six counties,” Havilland said.
“Sure,” the bartender said. He poured a hooker of scotch and then slid the glass to Havilland.
“You know most of your customers?” Willis asked.
“The steadies, sure.”
The door opened, and a woman in a faded green sweater walked into the bar, looked around, and then sat at a table near the door. The bartender glanced at her.
“She’s a lush,” he said. “She’ll sit there until somebody offers to buy her a drink. I’d kick her out, but I feel Christian on Sunday.”
“It shows all over you,” Havilland said.
“What is it you guys want, anyway?” the bartender asked. “The fight? Is that what this is all about?”
“What fight?” Willis asked.
“We had a rhubarb here week or so ago. Listen, don’t snow me. What have you got up your sleeve? Disorderly conduct? You figure on yanking my license?”
“You’re doing all the talking so far,” Willis said.
The bartender sighed wearily. “All right, what’ll it cost?”
“Oh, this man lives dangerously,” Havilland said. “Are you attempting to bribe us?”
“I was talking about the price of the new Lincoln Continental,” the bartender said. “I asked what it’ll cost.” He paused. “A hundred, two hundred? How much?”
“Do I look like a two-hundred-dollar cop?” Havilland asked.
“I’m a two-hundred-dollar bartender,” the bartender said. “That’s the limit. The goddamn fight was over in about two seconds flat.”
“What kind of a fight?” Willis asked.
“You mean, you didn’t know?”
“Put your money back in your sock,” Willis said. “This isn’t a shakedown. Tell us about the fight.”
The bartender seemed relieved. “You sure you don’t want a drink, Officer?” he asked.
“The fight,” Willis said.
“It was nothing,” the bartender said. “Couple of guys got hot-headed, and wham! One took a swing at the other, the other swung back, and I came over and busted