He Who Hesitates Page 3

  "Which ones? The big ones?"

  "Well, both."

  "How much did he give you, Rog?"

  "I sold him a dozen of the big ones for a dollar and a half each, Mom. That's more'n we get for them in the shop."

  "I know it is. Is the man in his right mind?"

  "Sure, he's going to mark them up quite a bit, Mom. I wouldn't be surprised he gets three, maybe even four dollars for those big ones."

  "What about the little ones? How much did he pay for those?"

  "He only took half a dozen of them."

  "How much?"

  "A dollar each." Roger paused. "We sell them for seventy-five at the shop, Mom."

  "I know," his mother said, and laughed. "Makes me wonder if we're not selling ourselves cheap."

  "Well, we don't get the crowd, you know."

  "That's right," his mother said. "When are you coming home, son?"

  "I sent you a money order for a hundred dollars, Mom, you look for it tomorrow, okay?"

  "Okay, when are you coming home?"

  "I'm not sure yet."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, there's—"

  "What do you mean, you're not sure yet?"

  "When I'll be home," Roger said, and the line went silent. He waited. "Mom?" he said.

  "I'm here."

  "How's ... uh ... how's Buddy?"

  "He's fine."

  "Mom?"

  "Yes?"

  "About ... uh ... coming home."

  "Yes?"

  "I don't know when."

  "Yes, I heard you say that the first time."

  "Well, there's something I've got to do, you see."

  "What is it you have to do?" his mother asked.

  "Well..." he said, and allowed his voice to trail into silence.

  "Yes?"

  "Actually," he said, "Buddy's there."

  "Buddy's only a boy."

  "Mom, he's twenty-two."

  "That's a boy."

  "I'm not much older than that myself, Mom." He paused. "I'm only twenty-seven, Mom. Not even."

  "That's a man," she said.

  "So I don't see—"

  "That's a man," she said again.

  "Anyway, I'm not sure what'll be. That's why I sent you the money order."

  "Thank you," she said coldly.

  "Mom?"

  "What?"

  "Are you sore?"

  "No."

  "You sound like you are."

  "I'm not. My oldest son wants to leave me alone up here in the dead of winter—"

  "Mom, you've got Buddy up there."

  "Buddy is just a boy! Who's going to run the shop while you're gone? You know I haven't been feeling well, you know I—"

  "Mom, this just can't be helped, that's all."

  "What can't be helped?"

  "This . . . thing I have to do."

  "Which is what?"

  "Mom, I guess if I wanted to tell you about it, I'd have done that already."

  "Don't get fresh with me," she said. "You're still not too big to take down your pants and give you a good whipping."

  "I'm sorry," he said.

  "Now, what is it that's happened?"

  "Nothing."

  "Roger—"

  "Nothing!" he said sharply. "I'm sorry, Mom, but it's nothing."

  The line was silent again.

  "You'll hear from me," he said, and before she could answer, he hung up.

  3

  The man huddled in the doorway of the building next to the candy store seemed to be about Roger's age, a tall thin man with a slight reddish-brown beard stubble. He was wearing a gray overcoat, the collar of which was turned up against his neck and held closed around his throat with one hand. He wore no hat and no gloves. His hand holding the coat collar was a deadly white. The other hand was in his pocket. He was watching the high school girls going up the street when Roger came out of the candy store. As Roger went past the building, he shifted his attention to him and came out of the doorway and down the steps.

  "Hey!" he said.

  Roger stopped and waited for the man, who walked up to him leisurely and without threat, smiling pleasantly.

  "You looking for something?" the man said.

  "No," Roger answered.

  "I mean, you're not from the neighborhood, are you?"

  "No."

  "I thought maybe somebody sent you up here."

  "For what?" Roger said.

  "Anything you want," the man answered, falling into step as Roger began walking again. "You name it, we got it."

  "There's nothing I want."

  "You want a woman?"

  "No, I—"

  "What color? White, black, brown? Tan? Yellow even, you name it. We've got a whole streetful of women up here."

  "No, I don't want a woman," Roger said.

  "You prefer little girls maybe? How old? Nine, ten, eleven? Name it"

  "No," Roger said.

  "What then? Junk?"

  "Junk?"

  "Heroin, cocaine, morphine, opium, codeine, demerol, benzedrine, marijuana, phenobarb, goofballs, speedballs, you name it."

  "Thanks, no," Roger said.

  "What do you need then? A gun? A pad? An alibi? A fence? Name it."

  "I'd like a cup of coffee," Roger said, and smiled.

  "That's easy," the man said, and shrugged. "Here you meet a genie ready to give you three wishes, and all you want's a cup of coffee." He shrugged again. "Right around the corner there on the avenue," he said. "Coffee and. Best in the neighborhood."

  "Good," Roger said.

  "I'll join you," the man offered.

  "How come everybody's so eager to join me this morning?" Roger asked.

  "Who knows?" the man said, and shrugged. "Maybe it's national brotherhood week, huh? Who knows? What's your name?"

  "Roger Broome."

  "Pleased to know you, Roger," he said and relaxed his grip on the coat collar just long enough to extend his hand, take Roger's, and shake it briefly. The hand returned immediately to the open collar, pulling it tight around the throat. "I'm Ralph Stafford, pleased to know you."

  "How are you, Ralph?" Roger said.

  They turned the corner now, and were walking toward a small luncheonette in the middle of the block. A vent blew condensing vapor out onto the sidewalk in an enormous white billow. There was the smell of frying food on the air, heavy and greasy. Roger hesitated outside the door, and Ralph said, "Come on, it's good."

  "Well, all right," Roger said, and they went in.

  The place was small and warm, with eight or nine stools covered in red leatherette and ranged before a plastic-topped counter. A fat man with hardly any hair was behind the counter, his sleeves rolled up over muscular forearms.

  "Yeah?" he said as they sat down.

  "Coffee for my friend," Ralph said. "Hot chocolate for me." He turned to Roger and lowered his voice confidentially. "Chocolate makes my back break out in pimples," he said, "but who gives a damn, huh? What is it you're up here for? You're not a bull, are you?"

  "What's that?" Roger asked.

  "A cop."

  "No."

  "What then? A T-man?"

  "No."

  "You sure?"

  "I'm sure."

  "We had a guy around here two, three months ago — wait a minute, it must've been just before Christmas, that's right — he was a T-man, trying to smell out some junk. He had some case." Ralph paused. "You don't look like a fed to me, I guess I can take a chance."

  "What kind of chance?"

  "I mean, man, suppose you're a fed, what then?"

  "What then?"

  "Suppose I'm holding?"

  "Holding what?"

  "Some junk."

  "Oh."

  "It could be bad for me, you know."

  "Sure," Roger said.

  "I'm taking a big chance just being nice to you."

  "Yes, I know." Roger said, and smiled.

  "You're not, are you?"

  "No."<
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  "The Law, I mean."

  "That's right."

  "Good."

  There was a pause as the man behind the counter brought their beverages and put them down. Ralph picked up his hot chocolate, sipped at it, and then turned to Roger again.

  "What are you?" he said. "If not The Law?"

  "Just a person. Ordinary person, that's all."

  "What are you doing around here?"

  "I took a room up here a few nights ago." ' "What for?"

  "I came to the city to take care of some business."

  "What kind of business?"

  "Some stuff I had to sell."

  "Hot bills?"

  "No."

  "You're not pushing, are you?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "No, I guess you're not." Ralph shrugged. "What did you come to sell?"

  "Bowls. And spoons. And benches. Things like that."

  "Yeah?" Ralph said skeptically.

  "That's right. We've got a little woodworking shop upstate, my brother and me."

  "Oh," Ralph said. He seemed disappointed.

  "So I brought the stuff in to try to sell it."

  "How'd you get here?"

  "In the truck. We've got a little pickup truck, my brother and me."

  "What kind of truck?"

  "A '59 Chevy."

  "Can you carry a lot in it?"

  "I guess so. Why?"

  "Well, I mean how big a load can it carry?"

  "I don't know exactly. It's not too big, but I suppose—"

  "Could a piano fit in it?"

  "I guess so. Why? Do you want to move a piano?"

  "No, I'm just trying to get an idea. There are times when guys I know could use a truck, you follow?"

  "For what?"

  "To move stuff."

  "What kind of stuff?"

  "Stolen," Ralph said conversationally, and took another sip at the chocolate.

  "Oh," Roger said.

  "What do you think?"

  "I don't think I could let you have the truck to move stolen goods."

  "Mmm," Ralph said, and studied him for a moment, and then sipped at the chocolate again.

  The door to the luncheonette opened. A tall heavy man wearing a brown overcoat came into the room, closed the door noisily, took off his coat, hung it on a wall hook, rubbed his hands together briskly, and came over to the counter.

  "Coffee and a French cruller," he said to the counterman, and then turned to glance at Roger, and noticed Ralph sitting at the end of the counter. "Well, well," the man said, "look what crawled out from under the rocks."

  Ralph looked up from his chocolate, nodded briefly, and said, "Good morning."

  "I thought you hibernated from Christmas to Easter, Ralphie."

  "No, only bears hibernate," Ralph said.

  "I thought what you did was hole up in that apartment of yours with enough heroin to last you through the whole winter, that's what I thought you did."

  "I don't know what you mean by heroin," Ralph said.

  "Who's your friend here?" the man asked. "One of your junkie playmates?"

  "Neither one of us are junkies," Ralph said. "You know I kicked the habit, what are you making a big fuss about?"

  "Yeah, sure," the man said. He turned to the counterman. "You see this guy, Chip?" he said. "This guy is the biggest junkie in the neighborhood. He'd steal his grandmother's glass eye to hock it for a fix. Am I right, Ralphie?"

  "Wrong," Ralph said. "Wrong as usual."

  "Sure. How many crooked deals do you get involved in every day, I mean besides the normal criminal act of possessing narcotics."

  "I'm not involved in any criminal activity," Ralph said, with dignity. "And if you care to shake me down right now, I'd be happy to have you do so. Voluntarily. If you think I'm holding."

  "You hear that, Chip?" the man said to the counterman. "He wants me to shake him down. I've got half a mind to do it. When they're so eager for a shakedown, it usually means they've got something to hide."

  "Argh, leave him alone, Andy," the counterman said.

  "Sure, leave him alone, Andy," Ralph said.

  "To you, pal, it's Detective Parker. And don't forget it."

  "Excuse me, Detective Parker. Pardon me for living."

  "Yeah," Parker said. "Thanks," he said to the counterman as he put down the coffee and cruller. He took a huge bite of the cruller, almost demolishing it with the single bite, and then picked up his coffee cup and took a quick noisy gulp and put the cup down on the saucer again, sloshing coffee over the sides. He belched and then turned to look at Ralph briefly, and then said to Roger, "Is he a friend of yours?"

  "We just met," Ralph answered.

  "Who asked you?" Parker said.

  "We're friends," Roger said.

  "What's your name?" Parker asked. He picked up the coffee and sipped at it without looking at Roger. When Roger did not answer, he turned toward him and said again, "What's your name?"

  "Why do you want to know?"

  "You're consorting with a known criminal. I have a right to ask you questions."

  "Are you a policeman?"

  "I'm a detective, and I work out of the 87th Squad, and here's my identification," Parker said. He threw his shield, pinned to a leather tab, on to the counter. "Now what's your name?"

  Roger looked at the shield. "Roger Broome," he said.

  "Where do you live, Roger?"

  "Upstate. In Carey."

  "Where's that?"

  "Near Huddleston."

  "Where the hell is Huddleston? I never heard of it."

  Roger shrugged. "About a hundred and eighty miles from here."

  "You got an address in the city?"

  "Yes, I'm staying in a place about four or five blocks from—"

  "The address."

  "I don't know the address offhand. A woman named—"

  "What street is it on?"

  "Twelfth."

  "And where?"

  "Off Culver."

  "You staying in Mrs. Dougherty's place?"

  "That's right," Roger said. "Agnes Dougherty."

  "What are you doing here in the city?"

  "I came in to sell the woodenware my brother and I make in our shop."

  "And did you sell it?"

  "Yes "

  "When?"

  "Yesterday."

  "When are you leaving the city?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "What are you doing with this junkie here?"

  "Come on, Parker," Ralph said. "I told you we just—"

  "Detective Parker."

  "All right, Detective Parker, Detective Parker, all right? We just met. Why don't you leave the guy alone?"

  "What is it you think I've done?" Roger asked suddenly.

  "Done?" Parker said. He picked up his shield and put it back into his coat pocket, turning on the stool and looking at Roger as though seeing him for the first time. "Who said you did anything?"

  "I mean, all these questions."

  "Your friend here has been in jail, how many times, Ralphie? Three, four? For possession once, I remember that, and weren't you in for burglary, and—"

  "Twice is all," Ralph said.

  "Twice is enough," Parker said. "That's why I'm asking you questions, Roger." Parker smiled. "Why? Did you do something?"

  "No."

  "You're sure now?"

  "I'm sure."

  "You didn't kill anybody with a hatchet, did you?" Parker said, and laughed. "We had a guy got killed with a hatchet only last month."

  "An ax," the counterman said.

  "What's the difference?" Parker asked.

  "There's a difference," the counterman said, and shrugged.

  "To who? To the guy who got hit with it? What does he care? He's already singing with the choir up there." He laughed again, rose, walked to where he had hung his coat, and put it on. He turned to the counterman. "What do I owe you, Chip?" he asked.

  "Forget it," the counterman said. "Mark it on the ice."<
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  "Uh-uh," Parker said, shaking his head. "You think I'm a coffee-and-cruller cop? You want to buy me, you got to come higher. What do I owe you?"

  The counterman shrugged. "Twenty-five," he said.

  "How much higher?" Ralph said. "I know guys who bought you for a fin, Parker."

  "Ha ha, very funny," Parker said. He put a quarter on the counter and then turned to face Ralph. "Why don't you try to buy me sometime, pal? Sometime when I catch you red-handed with a pile of shit in your pockets, you try to buy your way out of it, okay?"

  "You can't fix narcotics, Parker, you know that."

  "Yeah, worse luck for you, pal." He waved at the counterman. "So long, Chip," he said. "I'll see you."

  "Take it easy, Andy."

  At the door, Parker turned. He looked at Roger without a trace of a smile and said, "If I see you hanging around too long with our friend here, I may have to ask you some more questions, Roger."

  "All right," Roger said.

  "I just thought you might like to know."

  "Thanks for telling me."

  "Not at all," Parker said, and smiled. "Part of the service, all part of the service." He opened the door, went out into the street, and closed the door noisily behind him.

  "The son of a bitch," Ralph whispered.

  4

  It was just the idea of going in there that he didn't like. He stood across the street from the police station, looking at the cold gray front of the building and thinking he wouldn't mind telling them all about it if only it didn't mean going in there. He supposed he could have told that detective in the luncheonette, but he hadn't liked the fellow and he had the feeling that telling this could be easy or hard depending on whether he liked the fellow he was telling it to. It seemed to him that Ralph, who was a convicted burglar and a narcotics user (according to the detective, anyway), was a much nicer person than the detective had been. If he was sure he could find somebody like Ralph inside there, he'd have no qualms at all about just crossing the street and marching right in and saying he was Roger Broome, and then telling them about it.

  He supposed he would have to begin it with the girl, and end it with the girl, that would be difficult, too. Telling them about how he had met the girl. He couldn't see himself sitting opposite a stranger at a desk someplace inside there and telling them how he had met the girl, Molly was her name. Suppose they gave him a detective like that fellow Parker in the luncheonette, how could he possibly tell him about the girl, or about how they'd met or what they'd done. The more he thought about it the harder it all seemed. Walking across the street there and climbing those steps seemed very hard, and telling a detective about the girl seemed even harder, although the real thing, the important thing didn't seem too hard at all, if only he could get past the other parts that were so very difficult.