The Con Man by Ed McBain Page A

try to sell her butterfly, but man say he wants heart. She say she wants heart, too. Stars in eyes, you know? Big love, big thing, shining all over. I show them big hearts. Very pretty hearts, very complicated, many colors.”
    “They didn’t want a big heart?”
    “Man wants small heart. He show me where.” Chen spread his thumb and forefinger. “Here. Very difficult. Skinny flesh, needle could go through. Very painful. Very difficult. He say he wants it there. Say if he wants it there, she wants it there. Crazy.”
    “Who suggested what lettering to put into the heart?”
    “Man. He say, ‘You put M-A-C in heart.’”
    “He said to put the name Mac into that heart?”
    “He no say name Mac. He say put M-A-C.”
    “And what did she say?”
    “She say, ‘Yes, M-A-C.’”
    “Go on.”
    “I do. Very painful. Girl scream. He hold her shoulders. Very painful. Tender spot.” Chen shrugged. “Butterfly on shoulder better.”
    “Did she mention his name while she was here?”
    “No.”
    “Did she call him Mac?”
    “She call him nothing.” Chen thought a moment. “Yes, she call him darling, dear, sweetheart. Love words. No name.”
    Carella sighed. He lifted the flap of the manila envelope in his hands and drew out the glossy prints that were inside it. “Is this the girl?” he asked Chen.
    Chen looked at the pictures. “That she,” he said. “She dead, huh?”
    “Yes, she’s dead.”
    “He kill her?”
    “We don’t know.”
    “She love him,” Chen said, wagging his head. “Love very special. Nobody should kill love.”
    Teddy looked at the little round Chinese, and she suddenly felt very much like allowing him to tattoo his prize butterfly design on her shoulder. Carella took the pictures back and put them into the envelope.
    “Has this man ever come into your shop again?” Carella asked. “With another woman, perhaps?”
    “No, never,” Chen said.
    “Well,” Carella said, “thanks a lot, Mr. Chen. If you remember anything more about him, give me a call, won’t you?” He opened his wallet. “Here’s my card. Just ask for Detective Carella.”
    “You come back,” Chen said. “You ask for Charlie Chan, big detective, with stupid sons. You bring wife. I make pretty butterfly on shoulder.” He extended his hand, and Carella took it. For a moment, Chen’s eyes went serious. “You lucky,” he said. “You not so pretty, have very pretty lady. Love very special.” He turned to Teddy. “Someday, if you want butterfly, you come back. I make very pretty.” He winked. “Detective husband like. I promise. Any color. Ask for Charlie Chan. That’s me.”
    He grinned and wagged his head, and Carella and Teddy left the shop, heading for the police sedan up the street.

“Nice guy, wasn’t he?” Carella said.
    Teddy nodded.
    “I wish they were all like him. A lot of them aren’t. With many people, the presence of a cop automatically produces a feeling of guilt. That’s the truth, Teddy. They instantly feel that they’re under suspicion, and everything they say becomes defensive. I guess that’s because there are skeletons in the cleanest closets. Are you very hungry?”
    Teddy made a face that indicated she was famished.
    “Shall we find a place in the neighborhood, or do you want to wait until we get uptown?”
    Teddy pointed to the ground.
    “Here?”
    Yes, she nodded.
    “Chinese?”
    No.
    “Italian?”
    Yes.
    “You shouldn’t have married a guy of Italian descent,” Carella said. “Whenever such a guy eats in an Italian restaurant, he can’t help comparing his spaghetti with what his mother used to cook. He then becomes dissatisfied with what he’s eating, and the dissatisfaction spreads to include his wife. The next thing you know, he’s suing for divorce.”
    Teddy put her forefingers to her eyes, stretching the skin so that her eyes became slitted.
    “Right,” Carella said. “You should have married a Chinese. But then, of course, you wouldn’t be able to eat