Ed McBain - Downtown Read Free

..." "I'm not _going down the precinct ..." "Miss ..." "... or _up the precinct or _around the ..."
    "Miss, this individual here stole your ring ..."
    "Yes, but now we've got it back, so let me have it." "Miss ..."
    "I told you I don't want to make any trouble for him." "This individual is a _thief, miss."
    "I don't care what he is, just let me have the ring," Helen said. Cahill looked at her.
    "I do not wish to press charges, okay?" she said. "Do you understand that?"
    "That's how criminals go free in this city," Cahill said. "Because people are afraid to ..."
    "Just give me the goddamn _ring!" Helen said. "Here's the goddamn ring," Cahill said sourly, and handed it to her. "Thank you." She put the ring on her finger. "Good night," she said, and walked off.
    "You're a very lucky thief," Cahill said, and walked off in the opposite direction.
    "I'm not a goddamn _thief!" Michael shouted to the empty air.
    The words plumed out of his mouth, carried away on the wind, the vapor dissipating into the lazy swirl of snowflakes. His dark brown hair was covered with snow, the shoulders of his brown jacket were covered with snow, he had not been in a snowstorm for a good long time now--since before his mother sold the
    hardware business in Boston and loaned
    17 Michael the money for the groves in Florida--but now he was up to his ass in snow. Well, not quite. Not yet. Only up to the insteps of his shoes so far. He realized all at once that he was shivering. He shoved open the door to the bar.
    Mahogany and brass, green-shaded lamps, the gentle _chink of ice in glasses, the buzz of conversation, the friendly sound of laughter. Everything just as it had been before the blonde accused him of stealing her ring. Shaking his head, still amazed by what had happened, he went back to where he'd left his glass on the bar. He downed what was left of the scotch in two swallows and signaled to the bartender for another one. The bartender scooped ice into a glass, began pouring from the bottle of Dewar's. "What was _that all about?" he asked. "Don't ask," Michael said. "Was that guy a cop?" "Yeah." "What was it? The girl hit on you?" "What do you mean?" "Was he Vice?" "No, no, nothing like that."
    "'Cause I thought maybe she was a hooker ..." "No, she was a lawyer." "So what was it then?" "She said I stole her ... look, I don't want to discuss it," Michael said. "It's over and done with, I don't even want to _think about it anymore."
    Shaking his head again, he picked up the fresh drink and took a long swallow. A man sitting three stools down the bar said, "I was watching the whole thing." "With the hooker, you mean?" the bartender said, turning to him. "She was a lawyer," Michael said. "Hookers will often claim to be lawyers, bankers, university professors, what have you," the man down the bar said. He was tall and lanky, with a Lincolnesque face, a pronounced cleft in his chin, and a thick mane of white hair brushed back from a widow's peak. He was in his early to mid-fifties, Michael guessed, wearing a dark gray suit with a red-and-black silk rep tie. Brown eyes. Long-fingered hands. A deep, stentorian voice. "I've been chatted
    up by hookers who claimed to be investment
    19 counselors, architects, delegates to the U.N., and even children's book editors. They are all nonetheless hookers." "It's hard to tell a hooker, this day and age," the bartender said, nodding in agreement.
    "Until they name their price," the tall, thin man said, and then got off his stool and came up the bar to where Michael was sitting. Taking the stool the blonde had vacated, he said, "Arthur Crandall," and took from his vest pocket a business card made of very thin black plastic. The lettering on the card was in white, and it read:
    CRANDALL FILMS, LTD.
    Arthur Crandall, Director
    In the lower left-hand corner of the card, there was a New York address and telephone number. In the lower right-hand corner, there was a Beverly Hills address and telephone number. The card looked