Dancing had commenced under a starlit sky.
The Sal Martino Orchestra, having imbibed of good, clean, commercially bottled wines and champagnes and whiskies all afternoon and evening, having been treated to the sweet, exhilarating taste of Antonio Carella’s expensive elixir, played with a magnificently mellow lilt. Distant cousins embraced distant cousins with mounting fervor as the hours ran out. It would be a long time before the next wedding.
Steve Carella burst from the house and onto the dance floor, his eyes skirting his wife where she sat wriggling uncomfortably in her chair, darting over the dance floor in search of Tommy and Angela. They were nowhere in sight. He saw his mother dancing with Uncle Garibaldi from Scranton, and he rushed over to her and pulled her from the startled uncle’s arms and said, “Where are the kids?”
“What?” Louisa said.
“Tommy and Angela. Where are they?”
Louisa Carella winked.
“Mama, they didn’t leave, did they?”
Louisa Carella, who’d had a bit of the commercially bottled elixir herself, winked again.
“Mama, did they leave?”
“Yes, yes, they left. This is their wedding. What did you want them to do? Stand around and talk to the old folks?”
“Oh, Mama!” Carella said despairingly. “Did you see them go?”
“Yes, of course I saw them. I kissed Angela goodbye.”
“Were they carrying anything?”
“Suitcases, naturally. They’re going on a honeymoon, you know.”
“Che cosa?” Uncle Garibaldi from Scranton asked. “Che cosa, Louisa?”
“Niente. Sta zitto, Garibaldi,” she answered him, and then turned to her son. “What’s the matter?”
“Somebody put two small bottles of homemade wine on the table this afternoon. Did you happen to see them?”
“Yes. His and Hers. Very cute.”
“Did they have that wine with them when they left?”
“Yes. Yes, I think so. Yes, I saw Tommy put the bottles in one of the suitcases.”
“Oh, Jesus!” Carella said.
“Steve! I don’t like you to swear.”
“Where’d they go, Mama?”
“Go? How should I know? This is their honeymoon. Did you tell me where you went on your honeymoon?”
“Oh, Jesus,” Carella said again. “What did she tell me, what did she say? She talked about the hotel! Damnit, what did she say? Did she mention the name?”
“What’s the matter with you?” Louisa asked her son. “You act like a crazy man!”
“Bert!” Carella shouted, and Kling ran to where he was standing. “Bert, did you hear anybody mention the name of the hotel the kids were going to?”
“No? Why? Have they left with the wine?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Kling said.
“What do we do?”
“I don’t know.”
“A big hotel, she said. I’m sure she said that. Hold it, hold it. One of the biggest hotels in the world, she said. Right in this city. She said that.” He clutched Kling’s shoulders desperately. “Which is one of the biggest hotels in the world, Bert?”
“I don’t know,” Kling said helplessly.
“Do you think someone might have seen them drive away?” He turned to his mother. “Mama, did they take a car?”
“No, a taxi, Steve. What is the matter? Why are you—?”
“Che cosa?” Uncle Garibaldi from Scranton asked again.
“Sta zitto!” Louisa said more firmly.
“Did you hear Tommy tell the taxi driver where they were going?”
“No. My God, they only left a few minutes ago. If I knew it was important, I’d have asked them to…”
But Carella had left his mother and was running toward the front of the house and the sidewalk. He stopped at the gate and looked in both directions. Kling pulled up to a puffing halt beside him.
“See anything?”
“No.”
“There’s somebody.”
Carella looked to where Jody Lewis, the photographer, was packing his equipment into the trunk of his car. “Lewis,” he said. “Maybe he saw them. Come on.”
They walked to the car. Lewis slammed the trunk shut and then came around the side of the car quickly. “Nice wedding,” he said, and he got into the car and started the engine.
“Just a second,” Carella said. “Did you see my sister and her husband leave here?”
“The happy couple?” Lewis said. “Yes, indeed. Excuse me, but I’m in a hurry.” He released the hand brake.
“Did you happen to overhear the address they gave the cab driver?”
“No, I did not,” Lewis said. “I am not in the habit of eavesdropping. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to finish my work and get to bed. Good night. It was a wonderful wedding.”
“Finish your…?” Carella started, and he turned to Kling, and the same excited look crossed both their faces in the same instant. “You going to take another picture of them?”
“Yes, I’m—”
“At the hotel? Putting their shoes out?”
“Yes,” Lewis said, “so you can see I’m in a hurry. If you’ll—”
“You’ve got company, mister,” Carella said, and he threw open the car door. Kling piled into the sedan. Carella was following him when he heard his mother’s voice on the path behind him.
“Steve! Steve!”
He hesitated, one foot inside the car, the other on the pavement.
“What is it, Mama?”
“Teddy! It’s Teddy! It’s her time!”
“What?”
“Her time! The baby, Steve!”
“But the baby isn’t due until next we—”
“It’s her time!” Louisa Carella said firmly. “Get her to the hospital!”
Carella slammed the car door shut. He thrust his head through the open window and shouted, “Stop the kids, Bert! My wife’s gonna have a baby!” and he ran like hell up the path to the house.
“What hotel is it?” Kling asked.
“The Neptune.”
“Can’t you drive any faster?”
“I’m driving as fast as I can. I don’t want to get a ticket.”
“I’m a detective,” Kling said. “You can drive as fast as you want. Now step on it!”
“Yes, sir,” Lewis answered, and he rammed his foot down on the accelerator.
“Can’t you drive any faster?” Carella said to the cab driver.
“I’m driving as fast as I can,” the cabbie answered.
“Damnit! My wife’s about to have a baby!”
“Well, mister, I’m—”
“I’m a cop,” Carella said. “Get this heap moving.”
“What are you worried about?” the cabbie said, pressing his foot to the accelerator. “Between a cop and a cabbie, we sure as hell should be able to deliver a baby.”
A convention of Elks or Moose or Mice or Masons or something was cavorting in the lobby of the Neptune Hotel when Kling arrived with Jody Lewis. One of the Elks or Moose or Mice or whatever touched Kling with an electrically charged cane, and he leaped two feet in the air, and then rushed again toward the reception desk, thinking he would arrest that man as a public menace as soon as he finished this business with Tommy and Angela. God, it was past eight-thirty, Claire would have a fit when he finally got around to picking her up. Assuming the kids hadn’t tasted that wine yet—why was he calling them kids? Tommy was about his age—but assuming they hadn’t tasted the wine, assuming a stomach pump and a rush to the hospital wouldn’t be necessary, holy Moses what had happened to what had started out as a quiet Sunday?
“Mr. and Mrs. Giordano,” he said to the desk clerk.
“Yes, sir, they checked in a little while ago,” the clerk answered.
“What room are they in?”
“I’m sorry, sir, they left instructions not to be disturbed. They’re honeymooners, you see, and—”
“I’m from the police department,” Kling said, snapping open his wallet to his shield. “What room? Quick!”
“Is something…?”
“What room, damnit?”
“428. Is something…?”
Kling rushed to the elevator. Behind him, camera in hand, Jody Lewis dashed across the lobby.
“Four,” Kling said to the elevator boy. “Hurry!”
“What’s the rush?” the boy answered. Idling against the control panel, he gave Kling a bored sneer. Kling didn’t feel like arguing. Nor did he feel like earning the distinction of being the first Neptune guest to be treated with rudeness in the past ten years. He simply clutched one hand in the elevator boy’s tunic, yanked him away from the control panel, slammed him against the rear wall of the elevator just as Jody Lewis entered the car, and then pressed the button to close the doors and pressed another button marked with the numeral 4.
“Hey,” the elevator boy said, “you’re not allowed to—”
“Just shut the hell up,” Kling said, “or I’ll throw you down the shaft.”
The boy modulated into an injured silence. Sulking against the rear wall of the elevator, he silently cursed Kling as the car sped up the shaft. The doors slid open and Kling rushed into the hall with Lewis. Behind him, in a parting shot of defiance, the elevator boy yelled, “You louse!” and then hastily closed the doors.
“What room?” Lewis asked.
“428.”
“This way.”
“No, this way.”
“It says 420 to 428 here.”
“The arrow’s pointing this way.”
They rushed down the hall together.
“Here it is!” Lewis said.
Kling rapped on the door. “Open up!” he shouted.
“Who’s there?” Tommy’s voice shouted back.
“Police! Bert Kling! Open up! Hurry!”
“What? What?” Tommy said, his voice puzzled behind the wood of the door. A lock was thrown back. A key turned. The door opened. Tommy stood there with a wine glass in one hand. He was wearing a blue silk robe, and he seemed terribly embarrassed. Behind him, sitting in a love seat, Angela Giordano tilted a wine glass to her lips as she watched the door with a perplexed frown on her forehead.
Kling’s eyes opened wide. “Stop!” he shouted.
“Wh—?”
“Don’t drink that wine!”
He darted into the room past a startled Tommy Giordano, and then slapped the wine glass out of Angela’s hands.
“Hey, what the hell—” Tommy started and Kling said, “Did you drink any?”
“The wine?”
“Yes, yes, the wine!”
“No. We just opened one of the bottles. What…?”
“Which one?”
“I don’t know. They’re both on the table there. What is this? Did the fellows put you up to this?”
Kling ran to the table and lifted the open bottle of wine. The card still hung from its neck. For the Bride. Suddenly, he felt like a horse’s ass. He picked up the second bottle, the one marked For the Groom and, greatly embarrassed, he started for the door.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Sorry to bust in on you. Wine was no good. Sorry. Excuse me, excuse me,” he said, backing toward the door.
Behind him, Jody Lewis said, “One last picture, please. Just put your shoes in the hall for me, would you? One last picture?”
“Oh, go to hell,” Tommy said, and he slammed the door on his visitors.
“Boy,” Lewis said, “what a temper.” He paused. “Is that wine you’ve got there?”
“Yes,” Kling said, still embarrassed.
“Why don’t we open it and have a drink?” Lewis said. “I’m exhausted.”
Steve Carella paced the floor of the hospital waiting room. Meyer, Hawes, and O’Brien, who’d followed the meat wagon and Sokolin to the hospital after depositing Oona Blake with the local precinct, paced the floor behind him.
“What’s taking so long?” Carella asked. “My God, does it always take this long?”
“Relax,” Meyer said. “I’ve been through this three times already. It gets longer each time.”
“She’s been up there for close to an hour,” Carella moaned.
“She’ll be all right, don’t worry. What are you going to name the baby?”
“Mark if it’s a boy, and April if it’s a girl. Meyer, it shouldn’t be taking this long, should it?”
“Relax.”
“Relax, relax.” He paused. “I wonder if Kling got to the kids in time.”
“Relax,” Meyer said.
“Can you imagine a nut like that? Putting arsenic—half a cup of it—into a small bottle of wine and thinking it would only make Tommy sick! A dental student! Is that what they teach dentists about chemistry?” He shook his head. “Attempted murder, I make it. We throw the book at the bastard.”
“Relax,” Meyer said. “We’ll throw the book at all of them.”
“How’s Sokolin making out?”
“He’ll live,” Meyer said. “Did you see Cotton’s face?”
“I hear a girl beat you up, Cotton,” Carella said.
“Yeah,” Hawes said shamefacedly.
“Here comes a nurse,” O’Brien said.
Carella whirled. With starched precision, the nurse marched down the corridor. He walked rapidly to greet her, his heels clicking on the marble floor.
“Is she all right?” the detectives heard him ask, and the nurse nodded and then took Carella’s arm and brought him to the side of the corridor where they entered into a whispered consultation. Carella kept nodding. The detectives watched him. Then, in a louder voice, Carella asked, “Can I go see her now?”
“Yes,” the nurse answered. “The doctor’s still with her. Everything’s fine.”
Carella started down the hallway, not looking back at his colleagues.
“Hey!” Meyer shouted.
Carella turned.
“What is it?” Meyer said. “Mark or April?”
And Carella, a somewhat mystified grin on his face, shouted, “Both!” and then broke into a trot for the elevators.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photograph © Dragica Hunter
Ed McBain was one of the many pen names of the successful and prolific crime fiction author Evan Hunter (1926-2005). Born Salvatore Lambino in New York, McBain served aboard a destroyer in the US Navy during World War II and then earned a degree from Hunter College in English and psychology. After a short stint teaching in a high school, McBain went to work for a literary agency in New York, working with authors such as Arthur C. Clarke and P.G. Wodehouse, all the while working on his own writing on nights and weekends. He had his first breakthrough in 1954 with the novel The Blackboard Jungle, which was published under his newly legal name Evan Hunter and based on his time teaching in the Bronx.
Perhaps his most popular work, the 87th Precinct series (released mainly under the name Ed McBain) is one of the longest running crime series ever published, debuting in 1956 with Cop Hater and featuring over fifty novels. The series is set in a fictional locale called Isola and features a wide cast of detectives including the prevalent Detective Steve Carella.
McBain was also known as a screenwriter. Most famously he adapted a short story from Daphne Du Maurier into the screenplay for Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds (1963). In addition to writing for the silver screen, he wrote for many television series, including Columbo and the NBC series 87th Precinct (1961-1962), based on his popular novels.
McBain was awarded the Grand Master Award for lifetime achievement in 1986 by the Mystery Writers of America and was the first American to receive the Cartier Diamond Dagger award from the Crime Writers Association of Great Britain. He passed away in 2005 in his home in Connecticut after a battle with larynx cancer.