The Frumious Bandersnatch by Ed McBain Page A

case. His kids listened to rock, but he was tone deaf when it came to anything more recent than the Beatles. Kling, on the other hand, was familiar with all the new groups, and even listened to rap on occasion. He had never heard of Tamar Valparaiso, even though her face and her story were splashed all over that morning’s tabloids.
    The two men signed in at seven-forty-five, were briefed by Carella and Hawes—who were exhausted after a long night on the water—and then headed out at eight-thirty, to pick up where the departing team had left off.
    Sandy McIntosh had reported stopping a twenty-seven-foot Rinker at around nine-fifteen, nine-thirty last night, heading inbound toward Capshaw Boats, its home marina, at Fairfield and the river, just off Pier Seven. Three passengers aboard. Two men and a woman. Name on the boat’s transom was Hurley Girl. Serial number stenciled on each of her sides was XL721G. Capshaw Boats was where Meyer and Kling were headed on this misty Sunday morning.
    Today was the fourth of May.
    Meyer had celebrated his wife’s birthday the night before, ordering champagne for everyone in the small French restaurant where they’d dined—not an enormously big deal in that there’d been only half a dozen other patrons. He’d sure as hell impressed Sarah, though. Sarah Lipkin when he met her all those years ago. “Nobody’s lips kin like Sarah’s lips kin” was what the fraternity banter maintained, a premise Meyer was eager to test. Married all these years now, never tired of her lips. Married all these years now, he could still impress her with six bottles of champagne. Veuve Cliquot, though, don’t forget.
    Clear-eyed this morning, despite the full bottle of bubbly he and Sarah had shared last night, he was at the wheel of the police sedan, wondering out loud if the Feds would be coming in on this one.
    â€œThing I don’t like about working with them,” he said, “is they have this superior…”
    â€œWay I understand it, it’s a dead cinch they’ll come in,” Kling said.
    â€œThen why are we shlepping all the way downtown?”
    â€œWay the Loot wants it. Guess he’d like a heads up, case there’s static later on.”
    â€œ What’s her name again?” Meyer asked.
    â€œTamar Valparaiso.”
    â€œNever heard of her.”
    This was the third time he’d said this.
    â€œMe, neither,” Kling said.
    Third time for him, too.
    The two made a good pair.
    Both men were some six feet tall, but Meyer presented a burlier look, perhaps because he was entirely bald, perhaps because he was possessed of a steady, patient demeanor that made him seem somewhat plodding in contrast to Kling’s more open, enthusiastic country-boy style. Born and bred in this city, Kling nonetheless looked like he’d been found in a basket in a corn field. He was the perfect Good Cop to Meyer’s Bad Cop, although often they switched roles for the fun of it, blond, hazel-eyed, fuzzy-cheeked Kling suddenly snarling like a pit bull, steely blue-eyed big bald Meyer purring like a pussy cat.
    The man who owned Capshaw Boats and its adjoining marina was a one-eyed former Navy SEAL who called himself Popeye, not to anyone’s great surprise. He had opened the marina at a little before six this morning…
    â€œLots of skippers like to get out on the water before all the river traffic begins. That’s a nice calm time of day, you know,” he said, “that time just before sunrise. It’s called morngloam, not many people know that.”
    Meyer certainly didn’t know it.
    Neither did Kling.
    â€œI think it’s a Scottish word,” Popeye said. “Morngloam. The opposite of it is evengloam. That’s the time just before sunset. Evengloam. I think it comes from the word ‘gloaming.’ I think that’s a Scottish word. The derivation, I mean. I think it’s