Ed McBain by Learning to Kill: Stories

standing in the shadows, and I'd have missed him if he hadn't whispered, "Matt?"
    I stopped and peered into the darkened doorway. "Who's that?"
    "Me. Chink."
    "What is it?"
    "You got a minute, Matt?"
    "I've got a lifetime. What is it?"
    "Joey."
    "What about him?"
    "You were friends, no?"
    I stared into the darkness, trying to see Chink's face. It was rumored that he came originally from Shanghai and that he could speak twelve Chinese dialects. It was also rumored that he'd been a big man in China before he came to the States, that he'd come here because of a woman who'd two-timed him in the old country. That gave us a common bond.
    "You were friends, weren't you, Matt?"
    "We were friends. So?"
    "You know what happened?"
    "I know he was killed."
    "Do you know why?"
    "No." I stepped into the doorway. There was the sickish smell of opium about Chink, overpowering in the small hallway. "Do you?"
    "No."
    "Then why the hell are you wasting my time?"
    "I got an idea, Matt."
    "I'm listening."
    "Are you interested?"
    "What the hell are you driving at, Chink? Spit it out."
    "Joey. I think he was killed for some reason."
    "That's brilliant, Chink. That's real..."
    "I mean, I don't think this was just an ordinary mug-and-slug, you follow? This was a setup kill."
    "How do you figure?"
    "I think Joey saw too much."
    "Go smoke your pipe, Chink," I said. I started to shove past him. "Joey was usually too drunk to see his own hand in front of..."
    "Harry Tse," Chink said.
    It sounded like Harry Shoe. "Who's Harry Shoe?"
    "He was killed the other night, Matt. You heard about it, didn't you?"
    "No."
    "They thought it was a tong job. Harry was big in his own tong."
    "What is this, Fu Manchu?"
    "Don't joke, Matt."
    "Okay, Chink, no jokes. What makes you think they tie?"
    "Something Joey said when I told him about Harry."
    "When was this?"
    "Yesterday. He said, 'So
that's
who it was.'"
    "That doesn't mean a damned thing, Chink."
    "Or it could mean a lot."
    "Stop being inscrutable. So it means a lot, or it means nothing. Who gives a rat's backside?"
    "I thought Joey was your friend."
    "He was. He's dead now. What do you want me to do? The cops are already on it."
    "You used to be a shamus."
    "Used to be, is right. No more. Joey's dead. The cops'll get his killer."
    "You think so? They're already spreading talk he fell and cracked his head that way even though there's a bullet hole in him. They say he was drunk. You think they're gonna give a damn about one bum more or less?"
    "But you do, huh, Chink? You give a damn?"
    "I do."
    "Why? What difference does it make to you?"
    "Joey was good to me." His voice trailed off. "He was good to me, Matt." There was a catch in his voice, as if he were awed by the idea of
anybody
being good to him.
    "The good die young," I said. "Let me by, Chink. I need some sleep."
    "You're ... you're not going to do anything about it?"
    "I guess not. Maybe. I don't know. I'll think about it. Good night, Chink."
    I started up the stairs and Chink yelled, "He was your friend, too, Matt. Just remember that. Just remember it."
    "Sure," I said.
    It took me a long time to forget it.
    I still hadn't forgotten by the time I fell asleep.

    The morning was hot and sticky. My shirt stuck to my back and my skin was feverish and gummy, and I wanted to crawl out of it like a snake. I dug up a bottle of wine, taking four drinks before one would stay down. I faced the morning then, blinking at the fiery sun, wishing for a beach, or a mountain lake, or even a breeze. There was none. There was only the El, rusted and gaunt, and the baking pavements. I started walking, heading for Chinatown because things can look different in the blaze of a new day.
    I found Chink. He was lying on a pad, and there was opium in his eyes and the slack tilt of his mouth.
    He looked up at me sleepily, and then grinned blandly.
    "Hello, Matt."
    "This Harry Shoe," I said.
    "Harry Tse."
    "Yeah. Any survivors?"
    "His wife. Lotus Tse. Why, Matt? You going to do