Cop Hater (87th Precinct) by Ed McBain

Author:Ed McBain [McBain, Ed]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: General Fiction
ISBN: 9781612183701
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2013-03-12T00:00:00+00:00

The Squadroom of the 87th resembled nothing so much as the locker room of the Boys’ Club when Bush arrived. There must have been at least two dozen teenagers crammed in behind the dividing rail and the desks beyond it. Add to this a dozen or so detectives who were firing questions, the answers to which were coming in two languages, and the bedlam was equivalent to the hush of a hydrogen bomb explosion.

The boys were all wearing brilliantly contrasting purple‐and‐gold jackets, and the words THE GROVERS decorated the back of each jacket. Bush looked for Carella in the crowded room, spotted him, and walked over toward him quickly. Havilland, a tough cop with a cherubic face, shouted at one of the boys, “Don’t give me any guff, you little punk, or I’ll break your goddamn arm.”

“You try it, dick,” the kid answered, and Havilland cuffed him across the mouth. The boy staggered back, slamming into Bush as he went by. Bush shrugged his shoulders, and the boy flew back into Havilland’s arms, as if he’d been brushed aside by a rhinoceros.

Carella was talking to two boys when Bush approached him.

“Who fired the gun?” he asked.

The boys shrugged.

“We’ll throw you all in jail as accessories,” Carella promised.

“What the hell happened?” Bush wanted to know.

“I was having a beer with Kling. Nice, peaceful off‐duty beer. I left him there, and ten minutes later, when he’s leaving the joint, he gets jumped by these punks. One of them put a slug in him.”

“How is he?”

“He’s at the hospital. The slug was a .22, went through his right shoulder. We figure a zip gun.”

“You think this ties with the other kills?”

“I doubt it. The M.O.’s way off.”

“Then why?”

“How the hell do I know? Looks like the whole city figures it’s open season on cops.” Carella turned back to the boys. “Were you with the gang when the cop was jumped?”

The boys would not answer.

“Okay, fellas,” Carella said, “play it smart. See what that gets you. See how long The Grovers are gonna last under a rap like this one.”

“We din’ shoot no cop,” one of the boys said.

“No? What happened, he shoot himself?”

“You ting we crazy?” the other boy said. “Shoot a bull?”

“This was a patrolman,” Carella said, “not a detective.”

“He wass wear a suit,” the first boy said.

“Cops wear suits off duty,” Bush said. “Now how about it?”

“Nobody shoot a cop,” the first boy said.

“No, except somebody did.”

Lieutenant Byrnes came out of his office and shouted, “All right, knock it off! KNOCK IT OFF!”

The room fell immediately silent.

“Who’s your talk man?” Byrnes asked.

“I am,” a tall boy answered.

“What’s your name?”

“Do‐Do.”

“What’s your full name?”

“Salvador Jesus Santez.”

“All right, come here, Salvador.”

“The guys call me Do‐Do.”

“Okay, come here.”

Santez walked over to where Byrnes was standing. He walked with a shuffle which was considered both hip and cool. The boys in the room visibly relaxed. This was their talk man, and Do‐Do was a real gone stud. Do‐Do would know how to handle this jive.

“What happened?” Byrnes asked.

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