Ed Makbejn - Barking at Butterflies and other stories

He sat in the police van with the collar of his leather jacket turned up, the bright silver studs sharp against the otherwise unrelieved black. He was seventeen years old, and he wore his hair in a high black crown. He carried his head high and erect because he knew he had a good profile, and he carried his mouth like a switch knife, ready to spring open at the slightest provocation. His hands were thrust deep into his jacket pockets, and his gray eyes reflected the walls of the van. There was excitement in his eyes, too, an almost holiday excitement. He tried to tell himself he was in trouble, but he couldnt quite believe it. His gradual descent to disbelief had been a spiral that had spun dizzily through the range of his emotions. Terror when the cops flash had picked him out; blind panic when hed started to run; rebellion when the cops firm hand had closed around the leather sleeve of his jacket; sullen resignation when the cop had thrown him into the RMP car; and then cocky stubbornness when theyd booked him at the local precinct.

The desk sergeant had looked him over curiously, with a strange aloofness in his Irish eyes.

Whats the matter, Fatty? hed asked.

The sergeant stared at him implacably. Put him away for the night, the sergeant said.

Hed slept overnight in the precinct cell block, and hed awakened with this strange excitement pulsing through his narrow body, and it was the excitement that had caused his disbelief. Trouble, hell! Hed been in trouble before, but it had never felt like this. This was different. This was a ball, man. This was like being initiated into a secret society someplace. His contempt for the police had grown when they refused him the opportunity to shave after breakfast. He was only seventeen, but he had a fairly decent beard, and a man should be allowed to shave in the morning, what the hell! But even the beard had somehow lent to the unreality of the situation, made him appear in his own eyes somehow more desperate, more sinister-looking. He knew he was in trouble, but the trouble was glamorous, and he surrounded it with the gossamer lie of make-believe. He was living the storybook legend. He was big time now. Theyd caught him and booked him, and he should have been scared but he was excited instead.

There was one other person in the van with him, a guy whod spent the night in the cell block, too. The guy was an obvious bum, and his breath stank of cheap wine, but he was better than nobody to talk to.

Hey! he said.

The bum looked up. You talking to me?

Yeah. Where we going?

The lineup, kid, the bum said. This your first offense?

Thiss the first time I got caught, he answered cockily.

All felonies go to the lineup, the bum told him. And also some special types of misdemeanors. You commit a felony?

Yeah, he said, hoping he sounded nonchalant. Whatd they have this bum in for anyway? Sleeping on a park bench?

Well, thats why youre goin to the lineup. They have guys from every detective squad in the city there, to look you over. So theyll remember you next time. They put you on a stage, and they read off the offense, and the Chief of Detectives starts firing questions at you. Whats your name, kid?

Whats it to you?

Dont get smart, punk, or Ill break your arm, the bum said.

He looked at the bum curiously. He was a pretty big guy, with a heavy growth of beard, and powerful shoulders. My names Stevie, he said.

Im Jim Skinner, the bum said. When somebodys trying to give you advice, dont go hip on him...

Yeah, well, whats your advice? he asked, not wanting to back down completely.

When they get you up there, you dont have to answer anything. Theyll throw questions but you dont have to answer. Did you make a statement at the scene?

No, he answered.

Good. Then dont make no statement now, either. They cant force you to. Just keep your mouth shut, and dont tell them nothing.

I aint afraid. They know all about it anyway, Stevie said.

The bum shrugged and gathered around him the sullen pearls of his scattered wisdom. Stevie sat in the van whistling, listening to the accompanying hum of the tires, hearing the secret hum of his blood beneath the other louder sound. He sat at the core of a self-imposed importance, basking in its warm glow, whistling contentedly, secretly happy. Beside him, Skinner leaned back against the wall of the van.

When they arrived at the Center Street Headquarters, they put them in detention cells, awaiting the lineup which began at nine. At ten minutes to nine they led him out of his cell, and the cop whod arrested him originally took him into the special prisoners elevator.

Hows it feel being an elevator boy? he asked the cop.

The cop didnt answer him. They went upstairs to the big room where the lineup was being held. A detective in front of them was pinning on his shield so he could get past the cop at the desk. They crossed the large gymnasium-like compartment, walking past the men sitting in folded chairs before the stage.

Get a nice turnout, dont you? Stevie said.

You ever tried vaudeville? the cop answered.

The blinds in the room had not been drawn yet, and Stevie could see everything clearly. The stage itself with the permanently fixed microphone hanging from a narrow metal tube above; the height markers four feet, five feet, six feet behind the mike on the wide white wall. The men in the seats, he knew, were all detectives and his sense of importance suddenly flared again when he realized these bulls had come from all over the city just to look at him. Behind the bulls was a raised platform with a sort of lecturers stand on it. A microphone rested on the stand, and a chair was behind it, and he assumed this was where the Chief bull would sit. There were uniformed cops stationed here and there around the room, and there was one man in civilian clothing who sat at a desk in front of the stage.

Whos that? Stevie asked the cop.

Police stenographer, the cop answered. Hes going to take down your words for posterity.

They walked behind the stage, and Stevie watched as other felony offenders from all over the city joined them. There was one woman, but all the rest were men, and he studied their faces carefully, hoping to pick up some tricks from them, hoping to learn the subtlety of their expressions. They didnt look like much. He was better-looking than all of them, and the knowledge pleased him. Hed be the star of this little shindig. The cop whod been with him moved over to talk to a big broad who was obviously a policewoman. Stevie looked around, spotted Skinner, and walked over to him.

What happens now? he asked.

Theyre gonna pull the shades in a few minutes, Skinner said. Then theyll turn on the spots and start the lineup. The spots wont blind you, but you wont be able to see the faces of any of the bulls out there.

Who wants to see them mugs? Stevie asked.

Skinner shrugged. When your case is called, your arresting officer goes back and stands near the Chief of Detectives, just in case the Chief needs more dope from him. The Chiefll read off your name and the borough where you was pinched. A numberll follow the borough. Like hell say Manhattan one or Manhattan two. Thats just the number of the case from that borough. Youre first, you get number one, you follow?

Yeah, Stevie said.

Hell tell the bulls what they got you on, and then hell say either Statement or No statement. If you made a statement, chances are he wont ask many questions cause he wont want you to contradict anything damaging you already said. If theres no statement, hell fire questions like a machine gun. But you dont have to answer nothing.

Then what?

When hes through, you go downstairs to get mugged and printed. Then they take you over to the Criminal Courts Building for arraignment.