The McBain Brief Read Free Page B

going to Denver with him, Marcia?”
    â€œOh, sure.”
    â€œWhen did you both decide to go? A few minutes ago?”
    â€œWe decided last week sometime.”
    â€œWere you going to Denver by way of the Grand Concourse?”
    â€œHuh?” Pete said.
    â€œYour car was parked on the Grand Concourse. What were you doing there with a carload of stolen goods?”
    â€œIt wasn’t stolen,” Pete said.
    â€œWe were on our way to Yonkers,” the woman said.
    â€œI thought you were going to Denver.”
    â€œYeah, but we had to get the car fixed first. There was something wrong with the . . .” She paused, turning to Pete. “What was it, Pete? That thing that was wrong?”
    Pete waited a long time before answering. “Uh . . . the . . . uh . . . the flywheel, yeah. There’s a garage up in Yonkers fixes them good, we heard. Flywheels, I mean.”
    â€œIf you were going to Yonkers, why were you parked on the Concourse?”
    â€œWell, we were having an argument.”
    â€œWhat kind of an argument?”
    â€œNot an argument, really. Just a discussion, sort of.”
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œAbout what to eat.”
    â€œWhat!”
    â€œAbout what to eat. I wanted to eat Chink’s, but Marcia wanted a glass of milk and a piece of pie. So we were trying to decide whether we should go to the Chink’s or the cafeteria. That’s why we were parked on the Concourse.”
    â€œWe found a wallet in your coat, Pete. It wasn’t yours, was it?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWhose was it?”
    â€œI don’t know.” He paused, then added hastily, “There wasn’t no money in it.”
    â€œNo, but there was identification. A Mr. Simon Granger. Where’d you get it, Pete?”
    â€œI found it in the subway. There wasn’t no money in it.”
    â€œDid you find all that other stuff in the subway, too?”
    â€œNo, sir, I bought that.” He paused. “I was going to return the wallet, but I forgot to stick it in the mail.”
    â€œToo busy planning for the Denver trip, huh?”
    â€œYeah, I guess so.”
    â€œWhen’s the last time you earned an honest dollar, Pete?”
    Pete grinned. “Oh, about two, three years ago, I guess.”
    â€œHere’s their records,” the Chief of Detectives said. “Marcia, 1938, Sullivan Law; 1939, Concealing Birth of Issue; 1940, Possession of Narcotics—you still on the stuff, Marcia?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œ1942, Dis Cond; 1943, Narcotics again; 1947—you had enough, Marcia?”
    Marcia didn’t answer.
    â€œPete,” the Chief of Detectives said, “1940, Attempted Rape; 1941, Selective Service Act; 1942, dis cond; 1943, Attempted Burglary; 1945, Living on Proceeds of Prostitution; 1947, Assault and Battery, did two years at Ossining.”
    â€œI never done no time,” Pete said.
    â€œAccording to this, you did.”
    â€œI never done no time,” he insisted.
    â€œ1950,” the Chief of Detectives went on, “Carnal Abuse of a Child.” He paused. “Want to tell us about that one, Pete?”
    â€œI . . . uh . . .” Pete swallowed. “I got nothing to say.”
    â€œYou’re ashamed of some things, that it?”
    Pete didn’t answer.
    â€œGet them out of here,” the Chief of Detectives said.
    â€œSee how long he kept them up there?” Skinner whispered. “He knows what they are, wants every bull in the city to recognize them if they . . .”
    â€œCome on,” a detective said, taking Skinner’s arm.
    Stevie watched as Skinner climbed the steps to the stage. Those two had really been something, all right. And just looking at them, you’d never know they were such operators. You’d never know they . . .
    â€œSkinner, James, Manhattan two. Aged fifty-one. Threw a garbage can through the plate glass window of a clothing store on Third Avenue.