Til Death Read Free Page A

being played by six-year-old tots, one of those tots would miraculously draw a submachine gun and begin blasting away. That was Bob O’Brien. A hard-luck cop.
    And that, of course, was pure police exaggeration because O’Brien had been a cop for ten years, four of them with the 87th, and he’d only shot seven men in all that time. Still, that was a pretty good average.
    “How’s it going, Meyer?” he asked.
    “Oh, very nicely,” Meyer said. “Very nicely, thank you.”
    “I’ve been wondering.”
    “What about?”
    “Miscolo.”
    Miscolo was the patrolman in charge of the Clerical Office just down the corridor. Meyer very rarely wondered about him. In fact, he very rarely even thought about him.
    “What’s the matter with Miscolo?” he asked now.
    “His coffee,” O’Brien said.
    “Something wrong with his coffee?”
    “He used to make a good cup of coffee,” O’Brien said wistfully. “I can remember times, especially during the winter, when I’d come in here off a plant or something and there was a cup of Miscolo’s coffee waiting for me and I’m telling you, Meyer, itmade a man feel like a prince, a regular prince. It had rich body, and aroma, and flavor.”
    “You’re wasting your time with police work,” Meyer said. “I’m serious, Bob. You should become a television announcer. You can sell coffee the way—”
    “Come on, I’m trying to be serious.”
    “Excuse me. So what’s wrong with his coffee now?”
    “I don’t know. It just isn’t the same any more. You know when it changed?”
    “When?”
    “When he got shot. Remember when that nutty dame was up here with a bottle of TNT and she shot Miscolo? Remember that time?”
    “I remember,” Meyer said. He remembered very well. He still had scars as mementos of the pistol whipping he’d received from Virginia Dodge on that day last October. “Yes, I remember.”
    “Well, right after Miscolo got out of the hospital, the first day he was on the job again, the coffee began to stink. Now what do you suppose causes something like that, Meyer?”
    “Gee, I don’t know, Bob.”
    “Because, to me, it’s a phenomenon, I mean it. A man gets shot, and suddenly he can’t make good coffee any more. Now, to me, that’s one of the eight wonders of the world.”
    “Why don’t you ask Miscolo?”
    “Now how can I do that, Meyer? He takes pride in the cup of coffee he makes. Can I ask him how come his coffee is suddenly no good? How can I do that, Meyer?”
    “I guess you can’t.”
    “And I can’t go out to buy coffee or he’ll be offended. What should I do, Meyer?”
    “Gee, Bob, I don’t know. It seems to me you’ve got a problem. Why don’t you try some occupational therapy?”
    “Huh?”
    “Why don’t you call up some of the witnesses to that holdup we had the other day and see if you can’t get something more out of them?”
    “You think I’m goofing, you mean?”
    “Did I say that, Bob?”
    “I’m not goofing, Meyer,” O’Brien said. “I’ve just got a thirst for some coffee, and the thought of drinking Miscolo’s is making me sick.”
    “Have a glass of water instead.”
    “At nine-thirty in the morning?” O’Brien looked shocked. “Do you think we can call the desk and ask Murchison to sneak in some coffee from outside?”
    The telephone on Meyer’s desk rang. He snatched it from the cradle and said, “87th Squad, Detective Meyer.”
    “Meyer, this is Steve.”
    “Hi, boy. Lonely for the place, huh? Can’t resist calling in even on your day off.”
    “It’s your twinkling blue eyes I miss,” Carella said.
    “Yeah, everybody’s charmed by my eyes. I thought your sister was getting married today.”
    “She is.”
    “So what can I do for you? Need a few bucks for a wedding present?”
    “No. Meyer, would you take a look at the new schedule and see who’s on my team this week? I want to know who else is off today.”
    “You need a fourth for bridge? Hold on a second.” He opened his top