Ed McBain - Give the Boys a Great Big Hand

It was raining.

It had been raining for three days now, an ugly March rain that washed the brilliance of near-spring with a monochromatic, unrelenting gray. The television forecasters had correctly predicted rain for today and estimated that it would rain tomorrow also. Beyond that, they would not venture an opinion.

But it seemed to Patrolman Richard Genero that it had been raining forever, and that it would continue to rain forever, and that eventually he would be washed away into the gutters and then carried into the sewers of Isola and dumped unceremoniously with the other garbage into either the River Harb or the River Dix. North or south, it didnt make a damn bit of difference: both rivers were polluted; both stank of human waste.

Like a man up to his ankles in water in a rapidly sinking rowboat, Genero stood on the corner and surveyed the near-empty streets. His rubber rain cape was as black and as shining as the asphalt that stretched before him. It was still early afternoon, but there was hardly a soul in sight, and Genero felt lonely and deserted. He felt, too, as if he were the only human being in the entire city who didnt know enough to come in out of the rain. Im going to drown here in the goddamn streets, he thought, and he belched sourly, consoling himself with the fact that he would be relieved on post at 3:45. It would take him about five minutes to get back to the station house and no more than ten minutes to change into his street clothes. Figure a half hour on the subway to Riverhead, and he would be home at 4:30. He wouldnt have to pick up Gilda until 7:30, so that gave him time for a little nap before dinner. Thinking of the nap, Genero yawned, tilting his head.

A drop of cold water ran down his neck, and he said, Oh hell! out loud, and then hurriedly glanced around him to make sure he hadnt been overheard by any conscientious citizen of the city. Satisfied that the image of the pure American law-enforcer had not been destroyed, Genero began walking up the street, his rubber-encased shoes sloshing water every inch of the way.

Rain, rain, go away, he thought.

Oddly, the rain persisted.

Well, rain isnt so bad, he thought. Its better than snow, anyway. The thought made him shudder a little, partially because the very thought of snow was a chilling one, and partially because he could never think of snow or winter without forming an immediate association with the boy he had found in the basement so long ago.

Now cut that out, he thought. Its bad enough its raining. We dont have to start thinking of creepy cadavers.

The boys face had been blue, really blue, and hed been leaning forward on the cot, and it had taken Genero several moments to realize that a rope was around the boys neck and that the boy was dead.

Listen, lets not even think about it. It makes me itchy.

Well, listen, youre a cop, he reminded himself. What do you think cops do? Turn off fire hydrants all the time? Break up stickball games? I mean, now lets face it, every now and then a cop has got to find a stiff.

Listen, this makes me itchy.

I mean, thats what you get paid for, man. I mean, lets face it. A cop has every now and then got to come up against a little violence. And besides, that kid was a long time ago, all water under the...

Water. Jesus, aint it never going to stop raining?

Im getting out of this rain, he thought. Im going over to Maxs tailor shop and maybe I can get him to take out some of that sweet Passover wine, and well drink a toast to Bermuda. Man, I wish I was in Bermuda. He walked down the street and opened the door to the tailor shop. A bell tinkled. The shop smelled of steam and clean garments. Genero felt better the moment he stepped inside.

Hello, Max, he said.

Max was a round-faced man with a fringe of white hair that clung to his balding pate like a halo. He looked up from his sewing machine and said, I aint got no wine.

Who wants wine? Genero answered, grinning a bit sheepishly. Would you kick me out of your shop on a miserable day like this?

On any day, miserable or otherwise, I wouldnt kick you out mine shop, Max said, so dont make wisecracks. But I warn you, already, even before you begin, I aint got no wine.

So who wants wine? Genero said. He moved closer to the radiator and pulled off his gloves. What are you doing, Max?

What does it look like Im doing? Im making a plan for the White House. Im going to blow it up. What else would I be doing on a sewing machine?

I mean, whats that thing youre working on?

Its a Salvation Army uniform, Max said.

Yeah? How about that?

Theres still a few tailors left in this city, you know, Max said. It aint by all of us a matter of cleaning and pressing. Cleaning and pressing is for machines. Tailoring is for men. Max Mandel is a tailor, not a pressing machine.

And a damn good tailor, Genero said, and he watched for Maxs reaction.

I still aint got no wine, Max said. Why aint you in the street stopping crime already?

On a day like this, nobodys interested in crime, Genero said. The only crime going on today is prostitution.

Genero watched Maxs face, saw the quick gleam of appreciation in the old mans eyes and grinned. He was getting closer to that wine all the time. Max was beginning to enjoy his jokes, and that was a good sign. Now all he had to do was work up a little sympathy.

A rain like todays, Genero said, it seeps right into a mans bones. Right into his bones.

So?

So nothing. Im just saying. Right to the marrow. And the worst part is, a man cant even stop off in a bar or something to get a shot. To warm him up, I mean. It aint allowed, you know.

So?

So nothing. Im just saying. Genero paused. Youre sure doing a fine job with that uniform, Max.

Thanks.

The shop went silent. Outside, the rain spattered against the sidewalk in continuous drumming monotony.

Right to the marrow, Genero said.

All right already. Right to the marrow.

Chills a man.

All right, it chills a man.

Yes, sir, Genero said, shaking his head.

The wine is in the back near the pressing machine, Max said without looking up. Dont drink too much, youll get drunk already and Ill be arrested for corrupting an officer.

You mean you have wine, Max? Genero asked innocently.

Listen to Mr. Baby-Blue Eyes, hes asking if I got wine. Go, go in the back. Drink, choke, but leave some in the bottle.

Thats awfully nice of you, Max, Genero said, beaming. I had no idea you

Go, go before I change my mind.

Genero went into the back room and found the bottle of wine on the table near the pressing machine. He uncapped it, rinsed a glass at the sink near the small grime-smeared window and poured it full to the brim. He tilted the glass to his mouth, drank until it was empty, and then licked his lips.

You want some of this, Max? he called.

The Salvation Army doesnt like I should drink when Im sewing their uniforms.

Its very good, Max, Genero said teasingly.

So have another glass and stop bothering me. Youre making my stitches go all fermisht.

Genero drank another glassful, recapped the bottle, and came out into the shop again, rubbing his hands briskly.

Now Im ready for anything, he said, grinning.

What is there to be ready for? On a day like this, you already said theres nothing but prostitution.

Im ready for that, too, Genero answered. Come on, Max. Close up the shop, and well go find two delicious broads. What do you say?

Stop giving an old man ideas. My wife should only find me with a delicious broad. A knife shell stick in my back. Get out, get out, go walk your beat. Go arrest the other drunkards and vagrants. Leave me in peace. Im running here a bar and grill instead of a tailor shop. Every drunkard cop on the beat, he stops in for wine. The government should allow me to deduct the wine as part of my overhead. One day, in the wine bottle, Im going to put poison instead of wine. Then maybe the