around with Claire down here, well. Look, can’t we leave her out of this? What’s to gain? Is there anything wrong with a little fun?”
“Nothing,” Kling said. “Do you find murder funny? Do you find it comical, you terrifying creep?”
“No, but—”
“Where does she live?”
“Claire?”
“Yes.”
“Right on Peterson. What’s the address, Hud?”
“728, I think,” Hud said.
“Yeah, that sounds about right. But look, Officer, leave us out of it, will you?”
“How many of you do I have to protect?” Kling said dryly.
“Well…only Hud and me, actually,” Tommy said.
“The Bobbsey Twins.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing.” Kling started for the door. “Stay away from big girls,” he said. “Go lift some weights.”
“You’ll leave us out of it?” Tommy called.
“I may be back,” Kling said, and then he left them standing by the record player.
In Riverhead—and throughout the city, for that matter, but especially in Riverhead—the cave dwellers have thrown up a myriad number of dwellings, which they call middle-class apartment houses. These buildings are usually constructed of yellow brick, and they are carefully set on the street so that no wash is seen hanging on the lines, except when an inconsiderate city transit authority constructs an elevated structure that cuts through backyards.
The fronts of the buildings are usually hung with a different kind of wash. Here is where the women gather. They sit on bridge chairs and stools, and they knit, and they sun themselves, and they talk, and their talk is the dirty wash of the apartment building. In three minutes flat, a reputation can be ruined by these Mesdames Defarge. The ax drops with remarkable abruptness, whetted by a friendly discussion of last-night’s mah-jongg game. The head, with equally remarkable suddenness, rolls into thebasket, and the discussion idles on to topics like, “Should birth control be practiced in the Virgin Isles?”
Autumn was a bold seductress on that late Monday afternoon, September 18. The women lingered in front of the buildings, knowing their hungry men would soon be home for dinner, but lingering nonetheless, savoring the tantalizing bite of the air. When the tall, blond man stopped in front of 728 Peterson, paused to check the address over the arched doorway, and then stepped into the foyer, speculation ran rife among the women knitters. After a brief period of consultation, one of the women— a girl named Birdie—was chosen to sidle unobtrusively into the foyer and, if the opportunity were ripe, perhaps casually follow the good-looking stranger upstairs.
Birdie, so carefully unobtrusive was she, missed her golden opportunity. By the time she had wormed her way into the inner foyer, Kling was nowhere in sight.
He had checked the name Townsend in the long row of brass-plated mailboxes, pushed the bell button, and then leaned on the inner door until an answering buzz released its lock mechanism. He had then climbed to the fourth floor, found Apartment 47, and pushed another button.
He was now waiting.
He pushed the button again.
The door opened suddenly. He had heard no approaching footsteps, and the sudden opening of the door surprised him. Unconsciously, he looked first to the girl’s feet. She was barefoot.
“I was raised in the Ozarks,” she said, following his glance. “We own a vacuum cleaner, a carpet sweeper, a broiler, a set of encyclopedias, and subscriptions to most of the magazines. Whatever you’re selling, we’ve probably got it, and we’re not interested in putting you through college.”
Kling smiled. “I’m selling an automatic apple corer,” he said.
“We don’t eat apples,” the girl replied.
“This one mulches the seeds and converts them to fiber. The corer comes complete with an instruction booklet telling you how to weave fiber mats.”
The girl raised a speculative eyebrow.
“It comes in six colors,” Kling went on. “Toast Brown, Melba Peach, Tart
“Nothing,” Kling said. “Do you find murder funny? Do you find it comical, you terrifying creep?”
“No, but—”
“Where does she live?”
“Claire?”
“Yes.”
“Right on Peterson. What’s the address, Hud?”
“728, I think,” Hud said.
“Yeah, that sounds about right. But look, Officer, leave us out of it, will you?”
“How many of you do I have to protect?” Kling said dryly.
“Well…only Hud and me, actually,” Tommy said.
“The Bobbsey Twins.”
“Huh?”
“Nothing.” Kling started for the door. “Stay away from big girls,” he said. “Go lift some weights.”
“You’ll leave us out of it?” Tommy called.
“I may be back,” Kling said, and then he left them standing by the record player.
In Riverhead—and throughout the city, for that matter, but especially in Riverhead—the cave dwellers have thrown up a myriad number of dwellings, which they call middle-class apartment houses. These buildings are usually constructed of yellow brick, and they are carefully set on the street so that no wash is seen hanging on the lines, except when an inconsiderate city transit authority constructs an elevated structure that cuts through backyards.
The fronts of the buildings are usually hung with a different kind of wash. Here is where the women gather. They sit on bridge chairs and stools, and they knit, and they sun themselves, and they talk, and their talk is the dirty wash of the apartment building. In three minutes flat, a reputation can be ruined by these Mesdames Defarge. The ax drops with remarkable abruptness, whetted by a friendly discussion of last-night’s mah-jongg game. The head, with equally remarkable suddenness, rolls into thebasket, and the discussion idles on to topics like, “Should birth control be practiced in the Virgin Isles?”
Autumn was a bold seductress on that late Monday afternoon, September 18. The women lingered in front of the buildings, knowing their hungry men would soon be home for dinner, but lingering nonetheless, savoring the tantalizing bite of the air. When the tall, blond man stopped in front of 728 Peterson, paused to check the address over the arched doorway, and then stepped into the foyer, speculation ran rife among the women knitters. After a brief period of consultation, one of the women— a girl named Birdie—was chosen to sidle unobtrusively into the foyer and, if the opportunity were ripe, perhaps casually follow the good-looking stranger upstairs.
Birdie, so carefully unobtrusive was she, missed her golden opportunity. By the time she had wormed her way into the inner foyer, Kling was nowhere in sight.
He had checked the name Townsend in the long row of brass-plated mailboxes, pushed the bell button, and then leaned on the inner door until an answering buzz released its lock mechanism. He had then climbed to the fourth floor, found Apartment 47, and pushed another button.
He was now waiting.
He pushed the button again.
The door opened suddenly. He had heard no approaching footsteps, and the sudden opening of the door surprised him. Unconsciously, he looked first to the girl’s feet. She was barefoot.
“I was raised in the Ozarks,” she said, following his glance. “We own a vacuum cleaner, a carpet sweeper, a broiler, a set of encyclopedias, and subscriptions to most of the magazines. Whatever you’re selling, we’ve probably got it, and we’re not interested in putting you through college.”
Kling smiled. “I’m selling an automatic apple corer,” he said.
“We don’t eat apples,” the girl replied.
“This one mulches the seeds and converts them to fiber. The corer comes complete with an instruction booklet telling you how to weave fiber mats.”
The girl raised a speculative eyebrow.
“It comes in six colors,” Kling went on. “Toast Brown, Melba Peach, Tart
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