The Mugger 87th Precinct Series, Book 2 - By Ed McBain Page 0,8

what?”

“Oroglio. With a g.”

“What were you doing following that girl?” Meyer shot.

“Wah? Girl? Hey, whatta you nuts or something?”

“You were following a girl!” Temple said. “Why?”

“Me?” Oroglio pointed both hands at his chest. “Me? Hey, listen, you made a mistake, fellers. I mean it. You got the wrong guy.”

“A blonde just walked down this street,” Temple said, “and you came along behind her. If you weren’t following—”

“A blonde?” Oroglio said.

“Yes, a blonde,” Temple said, his voice rising. “Now how about it, mister?”

“In a blue coat?” Oroglio asked. “Like in a little blue coat? Is that who you mean?”

“That’s who we mean,” Temple said.

“Oh my God,” Oroglio said.

“HOW ABOUT IT?” Temple shouted.

“That’s my wife!”

“What?”

“My wife, my wife, Conchetta.” Oroglio was wagging his head wildly now. “My wife, Conchetta. She ain’t no blonde. She bleaches it.”

“Look, mister.”

“I swear. We went to the show together, and then we stopped for a few beers. We had a fight in the bar. So she walked out alone. She always does that. She’s nuts.”

“Yeah?” Meyer said.

“I swear on my Aunt Christina’s hair. She blows up, and she takes off, and I give her four, five minutes. Then I follow her. That’s all there is to it. Lord, I wouldn’t follow no blonde.”

Temple looked at Meyer.

“I’ll take you up to the house,” Oroglio said, plunging on. “I’ll introduce you. She’s my wife! Listen, what do you want? She’s my wife!”

“I’ll bet she is,” Meyer said resignedly. Patiently, he turned to Temple. “Go back to the car, George,” he said. “I’ll check this out.”

Oroglio sighed. “Gee, this is kind of funny, you know that?” he said, relieved. “I mean being accused of following my own wife. It’s kind of funny.”

“It could’ve been funnier,” Meyer said.

“Yeah? How?”

“She could’ve been somebody else’s wife.”

He stood in the shadows of the alley, wearing the night like a cloak. He could hear his own shallow breathing and beyond that the vast murmur of the city, the murmur of a big-bellied woman in sleep. There were lights in some of the apartments, solitary sentinels piercing the blackness with unblinking yellow. It was dark where he stood, though, and the darkness was a friend to him, and they stood shoulder to shoulder. Only his eyes glowed in the darkness, watching, waiting.

He saw the woman long before she crossed the street.

She was wearing flats, rubber-soled and rubber-heeled, and she made no sound, but he saw her instantly, and he tensed himself against the sooty brick wall of the building, waiting, studying her, watching the careless way in which she carried her purse.

She looked athletic, this one.

A beer barrel with squat legs. He liked them better when they looked feminine. This one didn’t wear high heels, and there was a springy bounce to her walk; she was probably one of these walkers, one of these girls who do six miles before breakfast. She was closer now, still with that bounce in her step as if she were on a pogo stick. She was grinning, too, grinning like a big baboon picking lice; maybe she was coming home from bingo or maybe a poker session; maybe she’d just made a big killing, and maybe this big bouncing baby’s bag was just crammed full of juicy bills.

He reached out.

His arm circled her neck, and he pulled her to him before she could scream, yanking her into the blackened mouth of the alley. He swung her around then, releasing her neck, catching her sweater up in one big hand, holding it bunched in his fist, slamming her against the brick wall of the building.

“Quiet,” he said. His voice was very low. He looked at her face. She had hard green eyes, and the eyes were narrow now, watching him. She had a thick nose and leathery skin.

“What do you want from me?” she asked. Her voice was gruff.

“Your purse,” he answered. “Quick.”

“Why are you wearing sunglasses?”

“Give me your purse!”

He reached for it, and she swung it away from him. His hand tightened on the sweater. He pulled her off the wall for an instant and then slammed her back against the bricks again. “The purse!”

“No!”

He bunched his left fist and hurled it at her mouth. The woman’s head rocked back. She shook it, dazed.

“Listen,” he said, “listen to me. I don’t want to hurt you, you hear? That was just a warning. Now, give me the purse, and don’t make a peep after I’m gone, you hear? Not a peep!”

The woman slowly wiped the back of her hand across her