The Mugger 87th Precinct Series, Book 2 - By Ed McBain Page 0,7

if you’re born a Jew to begin with. You have to be supernaturally patient if your hilarious old man tags you with a handle like Meyer Meyer. He was patient. But a lifelong devotion to patience often provides a strain, and as the saying goes, something’s got to give. Meyer Meyer was as bald as a cue ball, even though he was only thirty-seven years old.

Detective 3rd/Grade Temple was falling asleep. Meyer could always tell when Temple was ready to cork off. Temple was a giant of a man, and big men needed more sleep, Meyer supposed.

“Hey!” he said.

Temple’s shaggy brows shot up onto his forehead. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. What do you think of a mugger who calls himself Clifford?”

“I think he should be shot,” Temple said. He turned and faced the penetrating stare of Meyer’s mild blue eyes.

“I think so, too,” Meyer said, smiling. “You awake?”

“I’m awake.” Temple scratched his chin. “I’ve had this damn itch for the past three days. Drives me nuts.” He scratched himself again.

“If I were a mugger,” Meyer said, figuring the only way to keep Temple awake was to talk to him, “I wouldn’t pick a name like Clifford.”

“Clifford sounds like a pansy,” Temple agreed.

“Steve is a good name for a mugger,” Meyer said.

“Don’t let Carella hear you say that.”

“But Clifford. I don’t know. You think it’s his real name?”

“It could be. Why bother giving it if it’s not his real name?”

“That’s a point,” Meyer said.

“I got him tabbed as a psycho, anyway,” Temple said. “Who else would take a deep bow and then thank his victim? He’s a screwball. He’s knocked over thirteen so far. Did Willis tell you about the dame who came in this afternoon?”

Meyer glanced at his watch. “Yesterday afternoon,” he corrected. “Yes, he told me. Maybe thirteen’ll be Cliff’s unlucky number, huh?”

“Yeah, maybe. I don’t like muggers, you know? They give me a pain.” He scratched himself. “I like gentlemen thieves.”

“Like what?”

“Like murderers, even. Murderers, it seems to me, have more class than muggers.”

“Give Cliff time,” Meyer said. “He’s still warming up.”

Both men fell silent. Meyer seemed to be getting something straight in his mind. At last, he said, “I’ve been following this case in the papers. One of the other precincts. 33rd, I think.”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Some guy’s going around stealing cats.”

“Yeah?” Temple asked. “You mean cats?”

“Yeah,” Meyer said, watching Temple closely. “You know, house pets. So far, they’ve had eighteen squeals on it in the past week. Something, huh?”

“I’ll say,” Temple said.

“I’ve been following it,” Meyer said. “I’ll let you know how it turns out.” He kept watching Temple, a twinkle in his blue eyes. Meyer was a very patient man. If he’d told Temple about the kidnapped cats, he’d done so for a very good reason. He was still watching Temple when he saw him sit suddenly erect.

“What?” he said.

“Shhh!” Temple said.

They listened together. From far off down the darkened street, they could hear the steady clatter of a woman’s high-heeled shoes on the pavement. The city was silent around them, like an immense cathedral closed for the night. Only the hollow, piercing chatter of the wooden heels broke the stillness. They sat in silence, waiting, watching.

The girl went past the car, not turning her head to look at it. She walked quickly, her head high. She was in her early thirties, a tall girl with long blonde hair. She swept past the car, and the sound of her heels faded, and still the men were silent, listening.

The even cadence of a second pair of heels came to them. Not the light, empty chatter a woman’s feet make. This was heavy conversation. These were the footsteps of a man.

“Clifford?” Temple asked.

“Maybe.”

They waited. The footsteps came closer. They watched the man approaching in the rearview mirror. Then, simultaneously, both Temple and Meyer stepped out of the car from opposite sides.

The man stopped, fright darting into his eyes.

“What…” he said. “What is this? A holdup?”

Meyer cut around behind the car and came up alongside of the man. Temple was already blocking his path.

“Your name Clifford?” Temple asked.

“Wah?”

“Clifford.”

“No,” the man said, shaking his head violently. “You got the wrong party. Look, I—”

“Police,” Temple said tersely, and he flashed the tin.

“P—p—police? What’d I do?”

“Where’re you going?” Meyer asked.

“Home. I just come from a movie.”

“Little late to be getting out of a movie, isn’t it?”

“Wah? Oh, yeah, we stopped in a bar.”

“Where do you live?”

“Right down the street.” The man pointed, perplexed, frightened.

“What’s your name?”

“Frankie’s my name.” He paused. “Ask anybody.”

“Frankie