Read Online The McBain Brief by Ed McBain - Free Book Online Page B

don’t like punks,” Boglio said. He turned again to the bloody figure against the wall.
    Randolph rose, ripped the pages of notes from the black book, and put them on Boglio’s desk. He was going through the gate in the railing when Fields stopped him.
    â€œHow does it feel?” Fields asked.
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œBeing an accomplice.”
    â€œI don’t know what you’re talking about,” Randolph said.
    â€œDon’t you?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œYou beginning to think the way Boglio does? About punks, I mean?”
    â€œMy thoughts are my business, Dave,” Randolph said. “Keep out of them.”
    â€œBoglio’s thoughts are his business, too.”
    â€œHe’s questioning a punk who knifed somebody. What the hell do you want him to do?”
    â€œHe’s questioning a human being who maybe did and maybe didn’t knife somebody.”
    â€œWhat’s the matter, Dave? You in love with this precinct?”
    â€œI think it stinks,” Fields said. “I think it’s a big, stinking prison.”
    â€œAll right. So do I.”
    â€œBut for Christ’s sake, Frank, learn who the prisoners are! Don’t become—”
    â€œI can take care of myself,” Randolph said.
    Fields sighed. “What are your plans for the little girl outside?”
    â€œShe’s trash,” Randolph said.
    â€œSo?”
    â€œSo what do you want? Go back to the D.D. report you were typing, Dave. I’ll handle my own prisoners.”
    â€œSure,” Fields said, and turned and walked to his desk.
    Randolph watched his retreating back. Casually, he lighted a cigarette and then walked out into the corridor. The girl looked up as he approached. Her eyes looked very blue in the dimness of the corridor. Very blue and very frightened.
    â€œWhat’s your name?” Randolph asked.
    â€œBetty,” the girl said.
    â€œYou’re in trouble, Betty,” Randolph said flatly.
    â€œI . . . I know.”
    â€œHow old are you, Betty?”
    â€œTwenty-four.”
    â€œYou look younger.”
    The girl hesitated. “That’s . . . that’s because I’m so skinny,” she said.
    â€œYou’re not that skinny,” Randolph said harshly. “Don’t play the poor little slum kid with me.”
    â€œI wasn’t playing anything,” Betty said. “I am skinny. I know I am. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
    Her voice was very soft, the voice of a young girl, a frightened young girl. He looked at her, and he told himself, She’s a tramp, and his mind clicked shut like a trap.
    â€œLots of girls are skinny,” Betty said. “I know lots of girls who—”
    â€œLet’s lay off the skinny routine,” Randolph said drily. “We already made that point.” He paused. “You’re twenty-four, huh?”
    â€œYes.” She nodded and a quiet smile formed on her painted mouth. “How old are you?”
    â€œI’m thirty-two,” Randolph said before he could catch himself, and then he dropped his cigarette angrily to the floor and stepped on it. “You mind if I ask the questions?”
    â€œI was only curious. You seem . . . never mind.”
    â€œWhat do I seem?”
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œAll right, let’s get down to business. How long have you been a hooker?”
    The girl looked at him blankly. “What?”
    â€œDon’t you hear good?”
    â€œYes, but what does hooker mean?”
    Randolph sighed heavily. “Honey,” he said, “the sooner we drop the wide-eyed innocence, the better off we’ll both be.”
    â€œBut I don’t—”
    â€œA hooker is a prostitute!” Randolph said, his voice rising. “Now come off it!”
    â€œOh,” the girl said.
    â€œOh,” Randolph repeated sarcastically. “Now how long?”
    â€œThis . . . this was my first