The Mugger 87th Precinct Series, Book 2 - By Ed McBain Page 0,56
it up. That’s all.”
“Who swung at who?” Willis asked.
“These two characters. What the hell’s the name of the little guy? I don’t remember. The bigger guy is called Jack. He comes in here a lot.”
“Jack, huh?”
“Yeah. Nice guy, except he’s a little weird. So him and this little guy were watching the rassling on TV, and I guess Jack said something the little guy didn’t like—about one of the rasslers, you know? So the little guy hauls off and pops Jack. So Jack takes a swing at the little guy, and that’s when I came over. Big fight, huh?”
“And you broke it up?”
“Sure. I tell you, the funny thing about this whole business was that the little guy come out of it better than Jack.” The bartender chuckled. “He really gave him a shot, I swear. You wouldn’t think a little guy could pack such a wallop.”
“I’ll bet Jack was surprised,” Willis said, losing interest.
“Surprised? I’ll say he was. Especially when he took a gander in the mirror. That little son of a bitch gave him a shiner like I never saw in my life.”
“Too bad for Jack,” Willis said. “About your other customers. Have you ever heard any of them talking about—”
“Boy, that shiner was a beaut! Hell, Jack had to wear sunglasses for about a week afterward.”
The lush sitting at the table near the door coughed. Willis kept staring at the bartender.
“What did you say?” he asked.
“Jack,” the bartender said, “had to wear these sunglasses. To hide the shiner, you know. It was a beautiful shiner. I mean it. Like a rainbow.”
“This Jack,” Willis said. He could feel the tenseness of Havilland alongside him. “Does he smoke?”
“Jack? Yeah, sure. He smokes.”
“What brand?”
“Brand? You must think I’m a…Wait a minute, the red package. What’s the red package?”
“Pall Mall?”
“Yep. That’s his brand.”
“You’re sure?”
“I think so. Listen, I don’t go around taking a picture of what he smokes. I think it’s Pall Mall. Why?”
“You’re sure his name is Jack?” Havilland asked. “It isn’t something else?”
“Jack,” the bartender said, nodding.
“Think. Are you sure his name is Jack?”
“I’m positive. Listen, don’t I know him? For God’s sake, he’s been coming in here for years. Don’t you think I know Jack Clifford?”
Jack Clifford came into the Three Aces at 3:15 that afternoon. The woman in the green sweater still sat at the table near the door. The bartender nodded when he entered, and Willis and Havilland moved off their stools quickly and intercepted him as he walked toward the bar.
“Jack Clifford?” Willis asked.
“Yeah?”
“Police officers,” Havilland said. “You’re coming with us.”
“Hey, what for?” Clifford said. He pulled his arm away from Havilland.
“Assault and suspicion of murder,” Willis snapped. He was running his hands over Clifford’s body, frisking him quickly and efficiently.
“He’s clea—” he started, and Clifford broke for the door.
“Get him!” Willis shouted. Havilland was reaching for his gun. Clifford didn’t look back. He kept his eyes glued to the entrance doorway, and he ran like a bat out of hell, and then he fell flat on his face.
He looked up from the floor instantly, startled. The lush still sat at the table, one leg spread out in front of her. Clifford looked at the leg that had tripped him, looked at it as if he wanted to cut it off at the hipbone. He was scrambling to his feet when Havilland reached him. He kicked out at Havilland, but Havilland was a cop with big hands, and Havilland enjoyed using those hands. He scooped Clifford off the floor and rammed his fist into Clifford’s face. Clifford staggered back against the door and then collapsed on the floor. He sat there shaking his head while Havilland put the cuffs on him.
“Did you enjoy your trip?” Havilland asked pleasantly.
“Go to hell,” Clifford said. “If it wasn’t for that old drunken bag, you’d never have got me.”
“Ah, but we did,” Havilland said. “Get up!”
Clifford got to his feet.
Willis came over and took his arm. He turned to the bartender. “Thanks,” he said.
Together, the three men started out of the bar. Havilland stopped just inside the doorway, at the table with the lush. The woman raised her head and studied him with alcohol-soaked eyes.
Havilland smiled, bowed, and swept one gorilla-like arm across his waist.
“Havilland thanks you, madam,” he said.
He admitted he had committed a total of thirty-four muggings in the past year. Fourteen of his victims had complained to the police. His last victim had turned out to be, of all goddamn things, a policewoman.
He denied flatly that