Bread (87th Precinct) by Ed McBain

long table near the windows. One of the men was tall and thin, light-complected, with a rather long nose and mild amber eyes. The other was quite dark, a heavyset man with brown eyes magnified by thick-lensed glasses. He was chewing on the stub of a dead cigar. The wall to the left of the table was hung with large photographic blowups of rows and rows of tenements, alongside of which were pinned architectural drawings for what looked like a city of the future. Half a dozen of the buildings in the blowups had large red Xs taped across their faces. The tabletop was covered with eight-by-ten glossies of tenements and empty lots. The heavyset man was holding a stack of photographs of gasoline stations and puttingthem on the table, one by one, before the amber-eyed man, who then consulted a typewritten sheet. Both of them looked up together as Ollie walked briskly toward the table.
    “Detective Weeks,” he said in his abrupt, direct manner. “This is Detective Hawes. Who’re you?”
    “Alfred Allen Chase,” the amber-eyed man said.
    “Robinson Worthy,” the man with the glasses said, and put down the gasoline-station pictures and shifted the dead cigar stub to the opposite side of his mouth.
    “I’m investigating the murder of Charles Harrod,” Ollie said. “I understand he worked here.”
    “Yes, that’s right,” Chase said.
    “You don’t seem too broken up over his untimely demise,” Ollie said. “Business as usual, huh?”
    “We’ve already called his mother, and we tried to reach his girlfriend,” Chase said. “What else would you like us to do? He’s dead. Ain’t nothing we can do about that.”
    “What kind of job did he have here?”
    “He took pictures for us,” Worthy said, and gestured toward the wall of tenement photographs and then the glossies on the desk.
    “Just went around taking pictures of old buildings, huh?” Ollie said.
    “We’re a development company,” Chase said. “We’re trying to reclaim this whole area.”
    “Sounds like a big job,” Ollie said in mock appreciation.
    “It is,” Worthy said flatly.
    “How much of it have you reclaimed so far?” Ollie said.
    “We’re just starting.”
    “How do you start reclaiming a shithole like Diamondback?” Ollie said.
    “Well, I don’t know as it’s incumbent upon us to explain our operation to you,” Worthy said.
    “No, it ain’t incumbent at all,” Ollie said. “How long’ve you been in business here?”
    “Close to a year.”
    “You sure you ain’t running a numbers drop?”
    “We’re sure,” Chase said.
    “This is just a nice legit operation, huh?”
    “That’s what it is,” Worthy said. “We’re trying to make Diamondback a decent place to live.”
    “Ah, yes, ain’t we all,” Ollie said, imitating W. C. Fields. “Ain’t we all.”
    “And we’re trying to make a buck besides,” Chase said. “Ain’t nothing wrong with the black man making a buck, is there?”
    “Don’t bleed on me about the black man,” Ollie said. “I ain’t interested. I got a black man lying on the floor downstairs, and chances are he was done in by another black man, and all I know is that black men give me trouble. If you’re so goddamn beautiful, how about starting to act beautiful?”
    “Reclaiming the area is a legal, responsible, and proud enterprise,” Worthy said with dignity. “Charles Harrod worked for us on a part-time basis. We have no idea why he was killed or who killed him. His murder in no way reflects on what we’re trying to do here.”
    “Well put, Professor,” Ollie said.
    “If you’re finished,” Worthy said, “we’ve got work to do.” He picked up the glossy photographs of the gasoline stations, turned to Chase, and said, “This one is on Ainsley and Thirty-first. Have you…?”
    Ollie suddenly reached over, clamped one hand into Worthy’s shirtfront, yanked him out of his chair, and slammed him against the wall of tenement blowups and architectural drawings. “Don’t get