Read Online Bread (87th Precinct) by Ed McBain - Free Book Online Page B

fanning himself with a copy of Ebony, holding a bottle of Coca-Cola in which there were two twisted straws. The street gang members knew that Hawes was a cop. So did the fat man in the white undershirt. This was a slum.
    Hawes went into the vestibule and checked the mailboxes. There were twelve boxes in the row. Eight had broken locks. Only one of them had a name in the space provided, and the name was not Charles Harrod’s. Hawes came out onto the stoop again. The street gang members had disappeared. The fat man was watching the kids playing under the water.
    “Good morning,” Hawes said.
    “Morning,” the man replied briefly. He put both straws between his lips, sipped from the bottle, and kept looking at the kids.
    “I’m looking for a man named Charles Harrod…”
    “Don’t know him,” the man said.
    “He’s supposed to live in this building…”
    “Don’t know him,” the man repeated. He had not taken his eyes from the children playing near the fire hydrant.
    “I was wondering if you knew what apartment he lived in.”
    The man turned and looked up at Hawes. “I just told you I don’t know him,” he said.
    “Know where I can find the super of the building?”
    “Nope,” the fat man said.
    “Thanks a lot,” Hawes said, and walked down the flat steps to the pavement. He wiped the back of his hand across his sweating upper lip, and then went into the pool hall. There were two tables in the place, one of them empty, one of them occupied by the gang members he had seen standing outside a few minutes ago. Hawes walked over to the table. “I’m looking for a man named Charles Harrod,” he said. “Any of you fellows know him?”
    A young man, leaning over the table, stick in hand, said, “Never heard of him,” and triggered off a shot that sank two balls and left the cue ball in position for an easy chip shot. He was tall and thin, sporting a black beard and mustache, the back of his denim jacket ornately painted with the name of the gang— The Ancient Skulls —curving over an appropriate painting of a grinning white skull and crossbones. Hawes thought he had seen the last of the street gangs twenty years ago, but he supposed all goodthings—like plagues and locusts—returned at regularly spaced intervals.
    “He’s supposed to live in the building next door,” Hawes said.
    “We don’t live in the building next door,” another of the young men said. He was bigger than the bearded one, almost as big as Hawes, the pool cue looking undersized in his enormous hands.
    “Where do you live?” Hawes asked.
    “Who wants to know?”
    “I’m a police officer, let’s cut the crap,” Hawes said.
    “We’re shooting a friendly game of pool here,” the bearded one said, “and we don’t know Charlie whatever-his-name-is…”
    “Harrod.”
    “We don’t know him. So, like, what’s the beef, Officer?”
    “None at all,” Hawes said. “What’s your name?”
    “Avery Evans.”
    “And you?” Hawes said, turning to the big one.
    “Jamie Holder.”
    “And none of you know Harrod, huh?”
    “None of us,” Holder said.
    “Okay,” Hawes said, and walked out.
    The fat man was still sitting on the stoop. His Coke bottle was empty and he had placed it between his shoes. Hawes climbed onto the stoop and went into the vestibule. He opened the broken glass door dividing the vestibule from the inner hallway, and then started up the flight of steps to the first floor. The hallway stank of urine and cooking smells. He rapped at the first door he came to, and a woman inside said, “Who is it?”
    “Police officer,” he said. “Want to open up, please?”
    The door opened a crack. A woman with her hair tied in rags peered into the hallway. “What is it?” she said. “Nothing’s happened to Fred, has it?”
    “Nothing’s happened to anybody,” Hawes said. “I’m looking for a man named Charles Harrod…”
    “I don’t know him,” the woman said, and closed the door.
    Hawes stood in