A GROUND HOG DAY INTERVIEW AT SMASHWORDS
Learn more about Sam Jenkins and me at this latest interview with the folks at SMASHWORDS.
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A TOO PERFECT CRIME…A New York Police Story
This piece was destined for a contest that required everyone to begin their story with the line, “Have we met before?” I got that far, but drastically exceeded the word limit. So here we are. I gave the detective/hero of this saga the name Ian MacDonald because I wanted it ending with him getting the girl. And it would have been inappropriate for the long time married Sam Jenkins to do that.
A Too Perfect Crime
By Wayne Zurl
2011
I stood in front of her desk holding a gold badge in my hand. She looked on the shy side of fifty and quite beautiful. Instead of delivering my usual line, “Detective MacDonald, county police,” like an idiot I said, “Have we met before?”
She took off a pair of half lens reading glasses, tossed them on her desk, and laughed—one of the sexiest things I’d heard in a long time.
Always the professional, it took me only a moment of feeling like a putz before I replied. “I guess that sounded foolish. Or just the worst line you’ve heard all week.”
Her smile lingered, like a fixed beacon in a dark channel.
“Probably both,” she said, “but you didn’t need the badge for either.”
It was my turn to laugh. “You’re right. I know I keep that thing in my pocket for a reason. Let me start over. Hi, I’m Ian MacDonald, 5th Squad Detectives. I understand you had a burglary last night.”
From somewhere in the office, a Connecticut FM station played soft elevator music.
“Yes, we did.” Her face looked full of mischief; strawberry blonde hair, gray-green eyes, and a smile big enough to make me forget why I was standing there.
“Then, madam,” I bowed my head an inch, “I am your humble and obedient servant. Show me what happened and I’ll bring the culprit to justice quicker than you can say Andy Sipowicz.”
“Who?”
“Never mind. Let’s start with how they got in.”
As I followed her to the back of the real estate office, I noticed she’d been packaged by someone who knew his business—and deserved an award for his creation. A woman half her age would have been proud of the figure covered by a pastel green wraparound dress.
We checked out a broken double-hung window at the end of a hallway and I asked, “Is the place alarmed?”
“No, there’s really nothing here to steal.”
“Did they take anything?”
She shook her head. “Not that I can tell. But they ransacked all three desks and tried to break into the safe.”
“Aha!”
“Aha?”
“It’s what detectives say when ‘The game’s afoot,’ is inappropriate.”
She offered another smile, one worth seven figures. “Are you sure you’re a detective?”
“Oh, yeah. Wanna see my W-2 form?”
“No, I believe you.”
“Good, let’s look at the safe.”
“It’s in Ron’s office, but he’s out with a client.”
“Who’s Ron?”
“Ron Saperstein, the broker. He owns the agency.”
“You’re not a broker?”
“I’m an agent.”
“What’s the difference?” I knew, but I asked anyway, just to hear her talk.
“He’s the boss with the license. I’m a worker on commission.”
I nodded. “What did you say your name was?”
She chuckled. “I didn’t. And you haven’t asked yet. I’m Maggie Bain.”
I listened to the radio again. Paul Mauriat and his orchestra began playing Love is Blue. I was only a kid when that song became popular. I fell in love easily then, too.
“Bain sounds Scottish,” I said.
“So it does, Mr. MacDonald.”
I spent another fifteen seconds staring at her like the village idiot. Then we stepped into Saperstein’s office and looked at a wall safe.
“Who do you think broke into your office, Ms. Bain?”
She shrugged a pair of lovely shoulders. “I have no idea.”
The safe was a recessed affair, hidden from view by an eighteen-by-twenty-four framed photo of the Montauk Lighthouse, hinged and able to swing to the left. Around the top and right side of the safe, the sheetrock had been broken and pulled away by, I guessed, a claw hammer. The door of the safe looked untouched.
I used my cell phone to call the dispatcher. “This is MacDonald, 5th Squad. Send a crime scene unit to South Country Realty, CC number for reference is 10-503,349.”
“You got it, detective,” he said. “Should be there within a half hour.” I closed my phone.
“Do you keep cash in the safe?” I asked Maggie.
“No, we’re not a cash business. Any checks we get go into the escrow account each night.”
“What’s in the safe?”
“Contracts, other documents. It’s more for fire protection than theft.”
“Can you open it?”
“Sure.”
“Go ahead, I won’t peek.” I handed her a pair of latex gloves.
She laughed again and shook her head, but began spinning the dial.
As she entered the combination to the safe, I watched a green bottle fly buzz around the room. I took a swing at it with my clipboard and chased it out the door and into the hallway. When I heard her twist the handle and the lock bolt clicked home, I turned to look at Maggie. She extended a hand toward the partially open safe door.
“I won’t know what I’m looking at,” I said. “See if anything’s missing.”
She pushed the door further to the right, pulled a short stack of legal-looking documents from the safe, and thumbed through them.
“As far as I can tell, nothing’s been disturbed.”
“Sounds about right.”
A few lines of shallow furrows crossed her brow. “What do you mean?”
“Look at how the desk drawers are pulled out. They’re all extended. Nothing’s pushed back in. The sign of a good burglar. Pushing a drawer back takes valuable time.”
“A good burglar?”
“Figure of speech. But a competent burglar, an adult, wouldn’t break into a real estate office. Too much risk for too little return. Even kids wouldn’t waste their time. If they did, they’d vandalize the place.”
“Really?”
“Trust me. I know what I’m talking about.”
She dropped the stack of papers on Saperstein’s desk and rested her hands on her hips. “Okay, but who trusts someone who says, ‘Trust me’?”
I thought she looked incredibly sexy.
“I’m shattered.”
She winked. “You don’t even look ruffled.”
Maggie was a cool customer.
“If you sit out there,” I poked my thumb in the direction of her desk, “and Ron uses this office, who sits at desk number three?”
“Her name’s Carol Saccio. She’s off today.”
“Does Carol have any big problems you know about?”
“I don’t think so. She’s been married for years, has no kids. No, I’ve never heard her mention anything.”
“How about Ron? Any family problems? Law suits? Gambling, drugs, or alcohol issues?
“No, to all of those.”
“Then who’s left?”
“What do you mean?” She wrinkled her forehead again and looked concerned.
“Watch now while I do my impersonation of Sherlock Holmes.”
Maggie rolled her eyes and made a face.
“You’ve been divorced less than thirty days.”
“How did . . .?”
“Pretty good, huh?”
She nodded. “How did you know?”
“It’s July and you have a wide white band around your left ring finger where the sun hasn’t tanned your skin yet. The ring you’re wearing has a narrow band.”
“Aren’t you so clever?”
“Yes, I am thanks. And modest, too. You dumped husband number two?”
“Number three.”
“Close enough.”
“I guess.”
The green fly reentered the office through the open door. I took a second swing and missed, but it flew into the hall again. Maggie paid no attention.
“You once told him you keep an extra set of house keys in your desk?” I said.
“Yes, how do you . . .?”
I held up a hand to stop her question. “Elementary, my dear woman.”
An old cottage clock in Ron’s office chimed eleven times. I know my antiques; it was worth at least four hundred bucks. No self-respecting burglar would have left without it.
I dropped the clipboard on the desktop, sat in the boss’s burgundy leather swivel chair, and did a quick three-sixty. It felt comfortable and smelled like the interior of an old English sports car. Saperstein had exquisite taste, but probably paid too much for the chair.
Maggie dropped into an armless side chair next to the expansive desk. “Oh, stop,” she said.
I smiled. “Okay, but just one or two more questions.”
“Sure, but you’re doing just fine without my help.”
I used my shy little boy smile to make her think she flattered me.
“Did you get to keep an expensive engagement ring?”
“No, I gave it back to him.”
“Very classy. I approve.”
She smiled this time.
“Any kids?” I asked.
“No.”
“How about a dog or cat?”
“A dog.”
“Good. I like dogs. What kind?”
“A West Highland terrier.”
“How appropriate. Is Bain your ex-husband’s name?”
“No, it’s my maiden name. He’s Stanley Lewandowski.”
I shook my head. “I’d keep Bain, too.”
She smiled again.
“Before you became a real estate agent, were you either a nurse or a waitress?”
“I used to wait tables at the Harborside.”
I touched my forehead with two fingers and closed my eyes. “I’m looking into my crystal ball and see a man in uniform, a blue uniform. Am I close?”
“On the nose.”
“Your ex is a cop?”
“He is. A desk sergeant in Coney Island.”
“Six-oh precinct?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Wanna bet he’s off today?”
“No bet, Sherlock. How’d you know?”
“The burglar wanted something in one desk. Searching the others and the damage around the safe is just a smoke screen. A cop would be that smart. He’d know how a burglar works. Your ex would know there was no alarm and about your keys because you told him. Was the dog mentioned in the divorce settlement?”
“No.”
“And your ex loves the dog?”
“He did.”
“Aha!”
“Aha again?”
“Sure. I’ll give you five to one you’ve been dog-knapped.”
“That bastard!”
“Sorry. Let’s make sure your keys are gone.”
I followed her into the outer office.
On the way, Maggie turned her head to speak. “He’ll pay for this.”
“Yeah, he probably will—more than you know.”
She rummaged around in her top desk drawer for a long moment, slammed it, and shook her head. “I have to go home and look for my dog.”
“Let’s get Ron back here first. He can watch the store, call someone to board up the window, and contact his insurance company.”
She nodded and tapped a number into the phone.
As she spoke into the receiver, a crime scene technician named Thomas walked into the office.
“Whaddaya say, Paul?”
He stood there holding a camera bag and forensics kit. “Hey, Ian, what’s up?”
I told him and pointed in the right direction. “See if you can locate a claw hammer or something that could have been used to break out the sheetrock. It might not be far off. I don’t think the burglar came here fully equipped.”
He nodded and headed for Saperstein’s office.
Forty-five minutes later, Maggie Bain and I stood in the living room of a neat little clapboard cottage on Fireplace Neck Road in Brookhaven. All the rooms were furnished Early American style. We found the back door ajar and her dog conspicuously absent.
“That bastard!” she said.
“You have his new address handy?”
She gave it to me.
“Stanley screwed up by breaking into Ron’s office,” I said. “Too much damage to a third party’s property to keep this quite. An insurance company is involved and he committed a couple felonies. That’s not good. Does Stanley have his twenty years in yet?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Then we have something in common.”
“What’s that?” She sounded surprised.
“I’ve also been a cop for twenty-six years and I’m attracted to his ex-wife.”
“Really?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Maybe Stanley can work a deal to retire and fade into the sunset.”
“The bastard should go to jail.”
“Jail is no place for a cop.”
“Who’s side are you on?”
“Yours. Does he pay you alimony?”
“Not much.”
“You’ll get even less cash if he goes in the slammer.”
“I see your point.”
I shrugged. “I’ll get your dog back for you.”
She pouted for a second. “Thanks.”
“What’s the dog’s name?”
“Lily.”
“Wow, Maggie and Lily. That’s nice. Did I mention I like dogs?”
She looked into my eyes and I watched the anger of a moment ago fade. Then she smiled. “I’m glad you were the detective they sent, Mr. MacDonald.”
“It’s Ian, Ms. Bain.”
“Maggie, Ian.”
“Mind if I go easy on Stanley?”
She frowned again.
“He’ll pay for what he did,” I said.
“What do you think will happen to him?”
“If he gets a good lawyer, three years probation and they’ll allow him to keep his pension. I have to make an arrest, but I don’t have to eviscerate him.”
“I just want Lily back,” she said.
“Lily I can get.”
“Thank you.” She fluttered a pair of long lashes.
A hint of pale orange lipstick complimented her hair and eyes.
I looked at my watch. “It’s long after noon. I’ll find Stanley later. Would you like lunch?”
She tilted her head seductively. “Yes, Ian, I’d love to have lunch with you.”
“Good. How about a drink first?”
“You drink on duty?”
“Only when it’s appropriate.”
“Okay, a glass of wine would be nice.”
She locked the house and as we walked down the driveway toward my car, Maggie slid her hand under my arm. Her blonde hair glistened in the sun’s backlighting.
“Primo’s Gym,” I said.
“What about Primo’s?”
“I just remembered. That’s where I’ve seen you.”
“You have?”
“Sure, who could forget that spandex you wear?”
She blushed a little.
“Have we actually met?” She sounded embarrassed.
“No, but I’ve been on the treadmill behind you a couple times.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Better than watching the TV.”
She gave my shoulder a soft punch.
“I guess you’re not shy, are you?” she said.
“You’re beautiful, and it helps to be honest.”
“I hope you’re not married, Ian.”
“No, ma’am, not lately.”
She kissed me on the cheek.
“Bring back Lily and I’ll have a nice surprise for you.”
“Gee, I’m wasting my time as a cop. I should have been a dog warden.”
“Dog wardens don’t investigate burglaries, do they?”
“You’ve got a point. You like the Carman’s River Inn?”
“Love it.”
The End
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LOOKING FOR REAL COP FICTION WRITTEN BY REAL COPS?
Author and retired NYPD Sergeant Andrew Nelson has prepared a list of possibilities for you and posted it on his blog. Take a look.
A New York City state of mind…
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For my writer friends: WHAT THE HELL CAN YOU DO WITH A NOVELETTE?
WHAT THE HELL CAN YOU DO WITH A NOVELETTE?
Practically speaking, not much—unless you get creative. Wikapedia and other Internet sources define novelette as a story ranging between 7,500 and 17,500 words. Try and sell one sometime. They’re too long for those who publish short stories and too short for a publisher who’s looking for a novella or full-length novel.
After I finished my first Sam Jenkins mystery novel, A NEW PROSPECT, and while peddling it to agents and publishers, I wrote stories for practice. Each was based on an actual incident I encountered while working as a cop in New York. And each ended up longer than the accepted short story ceiling of 7,500 words. But while the memories were fresh and my creative juices were flowing, I ended up with a bunch. So, I tried to flog them, too.
I hit a few of the mainstream mystery magazines and walked away disappointed. Each got rejected, but one acquisitions editor was kind enough to explain why. Basically, he said, “The story is good, but it’s too long.” I sighed. “Look, everybody writes stuff this length, but we can only publish one a year. So, if James Patterson sends me one and you send one, who do you think I’m going to accept?”
Nuts, I thought. Aced out by someone who didn’t need the exposure or the money. So, I began to scour the Internet for a publisher who might like longer, more detailed and developed stories—real cop fiction—a series featuring the same cast as in my novel.
I found a relatively new company whose sole mission was to produce one-hour audio books and simultaneously publish them as eBooks. Coincidentally, stories from between 8,000 and 11,000 words (those in the novelette range) translate to fifty-five to seventy minute audios—not unlike the old time one-hour radio dramas to which my mother used to listen while ironing or cooking.
I submitted what I thought was the pick of the litter and crossed my fingers. Then I received an email. I hadn’t opened a piece of correspondence with such trepidation since I found that letter from my local draft board back in 1967. But, ha, success! She (the publisher) wanted the novelette called A LABOR DAY MURDER. From there, we built a good relationship and she published eighteen more novelettes. I worked with her editors and a professional actor who read my work. I felt like I (almost) had my own TV series. Not exactly on one of the networks, or even on cable, but I had an audience and they liked the adventures of the boys and girls of Prospect PD. Then, years later, after she had accepted three more new pieces and I was waiting for the promised contracts, I received an unexpected email. “Sorry,” she said. “For personal reasons I must stop publishing new material. I won’t be sending the contracts. I’m not going out of business, but just won’t be producing anything new.”
I was back to my old dilemma: What do I do with three really good novelettes (I liked those a lot) plus the two more I had sitting in the hopper ready to send in? Head to the Internet.
After an exhaustive search—for me, because when it comes to computers, I’m a only step above clueless—I found Melange Books, LLC. They would accept submissions of novelettes and consider them for publication as eBooks. Okay, my “show” had been cancelled, but eBooks would be better than nothing.
I sent Melange a serial killer story called ANGEL OF THE LORD. The publisher liked it and asked if I had any others. I thought: Wow, a match made in heaven.
“Sure,” said I. “I just happen to have four more that have never seen a publisher’s contract.”
“Great,” said she. “Send them and we’ll see about putting them into an anthology and publish it in print and eBook.”
“Yahoo,” I said. Well, not really. But I did send them, and in April of 2015 they released FROM NEW YORK TO THE SMOKIES.
So, what’s my point? If Alfred Hitchcock, Ellery Queen, or The Strand aren’t interested in your very long stories, they can find a home. I did it the traditional way. But for those with more computer savvy than me and the ambition to self-publish, you can create audio books, eBooks, and nifty anthologies from your novelette length stories and people will buy them…thousands of them.
Now, here’s a bit of logistical reality. With audio books, MP3 downloads sell MUCH better than compact discs. I never incurred the expense of producing the CDs, but know it was considerable. So, if you’re producing your own audio books, stick with a downloadable version. You’ll find more distributors to handle it/them. And always back up your audio with a published eBook. They sell even more copies. You’ve already paid for the cover image, so use it on a second product. Then, after your series takes off, offer package deals or “bundles” of several episodes at a discount price.
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IT’S A WONDERFUL LIFE? A CHRISTMAS STORY
Merry Christmas 2015. I thought it was time to post an old holiday story which is based on two true incidents which I’ve composited into one. Follow Police Officers Sam & Louie as they patrol the streets of North Belloprt, NY circa 1974.
It’s a Wonderful life? A Christmas Story
By Wayne Zurl
Few people want to work a four-to-twelve shift on Christmas night.
My wife had made an early dinner the night before and we opened our presents on Christmas Eve, satisfying our holiday spirit. And working Christmas day paid double time and a half. That’s no humbug.
My partner, Louie Rodriguez, had just split up with his wife and it wasn’t his turn to have the kids.
So, he and I sat drinking Dunkin Donuts’ coffee watching the stop light at Station Road and Montauk Highway. There were no cars, much less violators lurking about on December 25th.
It was warm that year, about fifty degrees. I took the pile liner out of my leather jacket before I left home. The heat generated by the big 383 Plymouth engine and sent through the thin firewalls made the interior of the police car too warm for a jacket. We tossed them into the back seat with our brief cases.
And we drank more coffee.
“We haven’t heard shit on the radio for almost twenty minutes,” I said.
“If we could find another human being I’d run them for warrants,” Lou suggested, “just to keep the dispatcher awake.”
“Goddamn,” I said, “the things I do for money.”
Ten minutes passed and we sat in silence. Even with the caffeine slithering through my veins, I felt drowsy, barely able to hold my eyes open. The light changed once again. I felt myself beginning to drift off. Invisible east and westbound cars stopped. Similar north and southbound traffic accelerated. I blinked a few times, shook off the drowsiness, and thought I was losing my mind.
The dispatcher’s voice broke the radio silence. “Five-oh-three, unit five-zero-three. 10-17, disorderly subject. Main Street, Bellport, just east of Station. Complainant wishes to remain anonymous.”
Louie picked up the microphone. “10-4, headquarters.” He sounded like he just woke up.
I put the car into gear. I drove that night. I always drove. I turned right out of the Long Island Railroad parking lot and headed south on Station Road. Moments later at the red light at Station and Main, we spotted our disorderly subject. Less than twenty yards east of the intersection, a man sat in the doorway of a real estate office on the south side of the Street. He held a pint-sized bottle at arm’s length and, at the top of his lungs, sang The Battle Hymn of the Big Red One.
“Louis,” I said. “I am not going to arrest that bastard for public intox on Christmas night.”
“What the hell are we going to do with him?”
“I don’t know. We’ll see. But I’m not wasting an hour and a half of paperwork to give this guy a place to sleep and a free breakfast.”
I didn’t wait for the light to change as I turned left and stopped at the curb, twenty feet from our crooner.
“Spurgie,” I said, walking toward the man. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be somewhere celebrating Christmas?”
“That’s Sergeant Sneed to you, soldier.” He spoke seriously and then laughed and took a long pull from a bottle of Mogen-David 20/20.
“No shit, Spurgie,” Lou said, “you can’t sit here making all kinds of noise. The people are complaining.”
“Well, motha-fuck the people, private. I’m celebratin’. I’m havin’ a reunion.”
A sour smell emanated from the old man’s body. I turned my head away and took a breath before speaking.
“Spurgie,” I said, “we’ll take you wherever you want to go. But you can’t stay here.”
“Yes, I damn sure can. I’m havin’ a reunion with Brownie, Foster, Whatshisname, the B.A.R. man, and . . . I’ve got K Company with me tonight.”
I squatted down next to him. He offered me his bottle. I took the twist-off cap from his hand, capped the bottle, and stuck it into the pocket of his ragged overcoat. The wool felt like a dog too long without a bath.
“Nobody’s here except you and us, partner,” I said. “Your friends have all packed it in. They’re heading back to base camp. Let’s take a ride and find you some place to stay.”
“Goddamnit, soldier, I am K Company, 1st of the 18th. Sergeant Spurgeon Sneed, squad leader.”
“I know, Spurgie, I know. 1st of the 18th, the Big Red One. You were a good soldier—you still are, but we can’t stay here, we gotta get back and report to the C.O. Let’s go, Sarge.”
Reluctantly, he began to stand. Lou and I each took an arm—he needed help. We half walked, half dragged our man to the police car. I opened the back door.
“I swear to God, Spurgie,” Lou said, “if you puke in the back seat of my car I’ll fuckin’ kill you.”
Spurgeon laughed, sunk into the vinyl, and in ten seconds began snoring.
Lou and I looked at each other. He made a face and held his nose.
“Okay, genius,” my partner said, “what are we going to do with him if we don’t arrest him?”
“He’s got a wife. Maybe she doesn’t like him, but she’s still his wife.”
“Oh, she’ll be thrilled to see us on Christmas night.”
“Yeah, we’re just like Santa’s little elves,” I said. “Hang in there, buddy, everything’s under control.”
The normally busy street was deserted. Artificial wreaths with blinking white lights hung on every utility pole. I made a U-turn, a quick right, and took off going north. In less than a quarter mile we rolled down the windows, attempting to exorcise the smell of Spurgeon Sneed from the interior of the sector car.
“Why do you bother with him, Sam?” Lou asked.
“I feel sorry for him. He’s a genuine war hero.”
“What does that have to do with now? It’s 1974. World War Two was over almost thirty years ago. We’re veterans too, you know.”
“I do know. And that’s why you should understand,” I said. “The old guy got a silver star and a purple heart somewhere over in Europe. That K Company shit he talks about—he was the only survivor. I heard the story once, during one of his more lucid moments.”
“And you believe him?” Louis loved to act skeptical.
“I’ve seen his medals. He pawns them almost every month at Nate Levy’s hock shop,” I said.
“You should have been a social worker.”
“Up yours.”
In less than five minutes I turned onto the 600 block of Doane Avenue. We woke Spurgeon, helped him out of the car, and the three of us walked up to number 624. The old-timer seemed to have rejuvenated after his little nap. I knocked on the door.
A woman in her late-forties answered and immediately appeared less than excited to see us.
“What are you doin’ bringin’ him here?” she asked, shaking her head.
“He gives this as his address.” My answer sounded a bit lame.
“If he tol’ you he live on the moon, would you take him there?”
She had a point.
I heard Louie sigh. “Help us out here, Mrs. Sneed. Where is your husband living now?” he asked.
“My ex-husband, thank you,” she corrected him. “Last I heard he was stayin’ in that flop house down on Bay Avenue. But I don’t know for sure, I’m not his social secretary.”
A big man stepped up behind Margaret Sneed. It looked like he had decided to posture a little for his girlfriend.
“Whatchew officers doin’ bringin’ that derelict round here fo’? He and you ain’t welcome.”
I’d been about to speak when ex-Sergeant Sneed decided to stand up and protect his good name.
“Whatchew you doin’ in my house, Jesse Lester, you got-damn worthless nigger!”
“Shut up, Spurgie.” Lou began to hustle the old man down the brick steps.
Jesse started to open the screen door. I pushed it closed.
“Stay where you are, Mr. Lester. He’s leaving and you’re staying.”
He set his jaw and began flexing his shoulders. That kind of crap was wasted on me.
“No reason for you to come outside, Mr. Lester—understand?” I made it more of a command than a question.
“Officer,” Mrs. Sneed said softly, “please don’t ever bring him back here.”
I didn’t get a chance to speak before Jesse Lester stuck in his two cents.
“I catch him back here again, I’ll damn sure kill his ass.”
“Yeah, right.” I looked at Margaret Sneed. “Merry Christmas, folks.” I followed Lou and Spurgie back to the car.
“It’s nine-thirty,” Lou told me. “We missed our ring.”
“Big deal, we had an assignment.”
“You call this an assignment?”
Then we heard a voice from the back seat.
“Were y’all talkin’ ta me?”
Spurgeon, once again, seemed to be among the living. I’ve always been amazed how a drunk can regenerate and seem almost sober in a relatively short period of time.
“Give me a dollar,” I said to Louie.
“For what?”
“Just give me a damn dollar.”
He did, and I took one from my pocket.
With the two bills in my hand, I drove for a few minutes and stopped in front of Pete’s Luncheonette, a place close enough to the Bay Avenue flop house for Spurgie to walk home.
“Okay, Spurgie,” I said, “here’s two bucks. Go inside and get yourself a cup of coffee and a buttered roll. I don’t want to see you on the street again before the New Year.”
He took the two dollars, fumbled with the door handle, and exited the vehicle. Once outside, he stepped next to my window. I cranked it open again, wondering what he wanted.
“I thank ya gennelmens. Merry Christmas to y’all.” He flipped us a casual salute.
* * *
At twenty-to-twelve I parked next to the call box across from our relief point at the fire house, waiting for the midnight team to relieve us.
After dropping Spurgie off at Pete’s, we picked up several calls—two family fights, a first aid case where a young father skewered himself with a Phillips head screwdriver as he tried to assemble his son’s tricycle, and a false alarm active maternity handled by the pros from an ambulance crew.
Lou spoke on the phone with a deskman who typed a record of our calls into the blotter.
It hadn’t been an overly busy or difficult tour, but I had a headache and felt more than ready to go home. I pinched the bridge of my nose waiting for my partner to finish on the phone.
Not paying attention to much of anything, I suddenly noticed someone standing next to the car.
I cranked down the window and stared at Spurgie Sneed who looked really out of it. I assumed he had finished his pint of “Mad Dog” 20/20 and wandered up here rather than walking south on Bay Avenue to his furnished room.
He used his thumb to point at something behind him. He tried to talk, but I heard only gurgles.
“Goddamnit, Spurgie,” I said, “gimme a break. I’m ready to go home. I’m not arresting you on Christmas. Go lay down next to the fire house and the midnight guys will drive you home.”
He kept pointing behind him.
Lou finally finished with the deskman and looked to his left.
Spurgie managed to croak out, “Jesse fuckin’ Lester,” and he fell face-first onto the blacktop. An ancient garden sickle was lodged between his shoulder blades, his tattered gray herringbone overcoat soaked with blood.
Lou and I jumped out of the car. I lay two fingers over Spurgie’s neck checking for a carotid pulse. I looked at Lou and shook my head.
Former Buck Sergeant Spurgeon O. Sneed, United States Army, sole survivor of K Company, 1st Battalion, 18th Regiment, 1st Infantry Division lay dead on Dunton Avenue.
Two hours later we sat in the 5th Squad Detective’s building with Detective Angelo Ruffino processing the arrest of Jesse Lester for murder in the second degree.
Lou called Central Records to get case and arrest numbers and a record of Jesse’s priors. He tossed two sheets of paper on Angelo’s desk and walked toward the men’s room. I had just finished typing the supplementary report explaining our probable cause to believe Jesse killed Spurgeon.
“Sam,” Angelo said, “you the arresting officer on this?”
“Yeah, it’s my turn.”
He smashed the keys of an ancient Olivetti typewriter enough times to fill in my name.
“What’s your tin number?” he asked.
“Twenty-four sixty-two.”
The characters smacked the rubber roller four more times.
“Squad?”
“Fourteen.”
Smack, smack.
The radio in the Squad was set on WRIV for their forty-eight hours of Christmas music. Bing Crosby sang God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.
Angelo pulled the court information from the typewriter. He paper-clipped that and the other arrest reports together and held them in my direction.
“Here you go, pal. Go see the desk sergeant, sign your name, and swear all that’s true. I’ll take Jesse over for pictures and prints.”
“Thanks, Ange, see ya around the campus.”
Louie stepped out of the men’s room and walked over.
“Let’s go next door,” I said. “I’ll sign this and we’ll have the lieutenant credit us with some overtime.”
He nodded.
The next morning Jesse Lester drove to District Court with two cops in a prisoner van, not by Santa Claus in a sleigh pulled by eight flying reindeer. They, like me, were home asleep.
The End
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