sat there looking at me without saying a word,” he said.
“She gets like that,” Sissie said. “She just sort of shuts out the world and quits seeing and hearing anything.”
“No wonder her grandson’s a halfwit,” the professor said, giving Sonny a malicious look.
“Well, what the hell are we going to do with them?” the sergeant said in a frustrated tone of voice.
The cops had no suggestions.
“Let’s run them all in,” the professor said.
The sergeant looked at him reflectively. “If we take in all the punks who look like them in this block, we’ll have a thousand prisoners,” he said.
“So what,” the professor said. “We can’t afford to risk losing Pickens because of a few hundred shines.”
“Well, maybe we’d better,” the sergeant said.
“Are you going to take her in too?” Sheik said, nodding toward Sugartit on the bed. “She’s Coffin Ed’s daughter.”
The sergeant wheeled on him. “What! What’s that aboutCoffin Ed?”
“Evelyn Johnson there is his daughter,” Sheik said evenly.
The cops turned as though their heads were synchronized and stared at her. No one spoke.
“Ask her,” Sheik said.
The sergeant’s face turned bright red.
It was the professor who spoke. “Well, girl? Are you Detective Johnson’s daughter?”
Sugartit hesitated.
“Go on and tell ’em,” Sheik said.
The red started crawling up the back of the sergeant’s neck and engulfed his ears. “I don’t like you,” he said to Sheik, his voice constricted.
Sheik threw him a careless look, started to say something, then bit it off.
“Yes, I am,” Sugartit said finally.
“We can soon check on that,” the professor said, moving toward the window. “He and his partner must be in the vicinity.”
“No, Jones might be, but Johnson was sent home,” the sergeant said.
“What! Suspended?” the professor asked in surprise.
Sugartit looked startled; Sheik grinned smugly; the others remained impassive.
“Yeah, for killing the Moslem punk.”
“For that?” the professor exclaimed indignantly. “Since when did they start penalizing policemen for shooting in self-defense?”
“I don’t blame the chief,” the sergeant said. “He’s protecting himself. The punk was under-age and the newpapers are sure to put up a squawk.”
“Anyway, Jones ought to know her,” the professor said, going out on the fire escape and shouting to the cops below.
He couldn’t make himself understood so he started down.
The sergeant asked Sugartit, “Have you got any identification?”
She drew a red leather card case from her skirt pocket andhanded it to him without speaking.
It held a black, white-lettered identification card with her photograph and thumbprint, similar to the one issued to policemen. It had been given to her as a souvenir for her sixteenth birthday and was signed by the chief of police.
The sergeant studied it for a moment and handed it back. He had seen others like it, his own daughter had one.
“Does your father know you’re here visiting these hoodlums?” he asked.
“Certainly,” Sugartit said. “They’re friends of mine.”
“You’re lying,” the sergeant said wearily.
“He doesn’t know she’s over here,” Sissie put in.
“I know damn well he doesn’t,” the sergeant said.
“She’s supposed to be visiting me.”
“Well, do your folks know you’re here?”
She dropped her gaze. “No.”
“Eve and I are engaged,” Sheik said with a smirk.
The sergeant wheeled toward him with his right cocked high. Sheik ducked automatically, his guard coming up. The sergeant hooked a left to his stomach underneath his guard, and when Sheik’s guard dropped, he crossed his right to the side of Sheik’s head, knocking him into a spinning stagger. Then he kicked him in the side of the stomach as he spun and, when he doubled over, the sergeant chopped him across the back of the neck with the meaty edge of his right hand. Sheik shuddered as though poleaxed and
“She gets like that,” Sissie said. “She just sort of shuts out the world and quits seeing and hearing anything.”
“No wonder her grandson’s a halfwit,” the professor said, giving Sonny a malicious look.
“Well, what the hell are we going to do with them?” the sergeant said in a frustrated tone of voice.
The cops had no suggestions.
“Let’s run them all in,” the professor said.
The sergeant looked at him reflectively. “If we take in all the punks who look like them in this block, we’ll have a thousand prisoners,” he said.
“So what,” the professor said. “We can’t afford to risk losing Pickens because of a few hundred shines.”
“Well, maybe we’d better,” the sergeant said.
“Are you going to take her in too?” Sheik said, nodding toward Sugartit on the bed. “She’s Coffin Ed’s daughter.”
The sergeant wheeled on him. “What! What’s that aboutCoffin Ed?”
“Evelyn Johnson there is his daughter,” Sheik said evenly.
The cops turned as though their heads were synchronized and stared at her. No one spoke.
“Ask her,” Sheik said.
The sergeant’s face turned bright red.
It was the professor who spoke. “Well, girl? Are you Detective Johnson’s daughter?”
Sugartit hesitated.
“Go on and tell ’em,” Sheik said.
The red started crawling up the back of the sergeant’s neck and engulfed his ears. “I don’t like you,” he said to Sheik, his voice constricted.
Sheik threw him a careless look, started to say something, then bit it off.
“Yes, I am,” Sugartit said finally.
“We can soon check on that,” the professor said, moving toward the window. “He and his partner must be in the vicinity.”
“No, Jones might be, but Johnson was sent home,” the sergeant said.
“What! Suspended?” the professor asked in surprise.
Sugartit looked startled; Sheik grinned smugly; the others remained impassive.
“Yeah, for killing the Moslem punk.”
“For that?” the professor exclaimed indignantly. “Since when did they start penalizing policemen for shooting in self-defense?”
“I don’t blame the chief,” the sergeant said. “He’s protecting himself. The punk was under-age and the newpapers are sure to put up a squawk.”
“Anyway, Jones ought to know her,” the professor said, going out on the fire escape and shouting to the cops below.
He couldn’t make himself understood so he started down.
The sergeant asked Sugartit, “Have you got any identification?”
She drew a red leather card case from her skirt pocket andhanded it to him without speaking.
It held a black, white-lettered identification card with her photograph and thumbprint, similar to the one issued to policemen. It had been given to her as a souvenir for her sixteenth birthday and was signed by the chief of police.
The sergeant studied it for a moment and handed it back. He had seen others like it, his own daughter had one.
“Does your father know you’re here visiting these hoodlums?” he asked.
“Certainly,” Sugartit said. “They’re friends of mine.”
“You’re lying,” the sergeant said wearily.
“He doesn’t know she’s over here,” Sissie put in.
“I know damn well he doesn’t,” the sergeant said.
“She’s supposed to be visiting me.”
“Well, do your folks know you’re here?”
She dropped her gaze. “No.”
“Eve and I are engaged,” Sheik said with a smirk.
The sergeant wheeled toward him with his right cocked high. Sheik ducked automatically, his guard coming up. The sergeant hooked a left to his stomach underneath his guard, and when Sheik’s guard dropped, he crossed his right to the side of Sheik’s head, knocking him into a spinning stagger. Then he kicked him in the side of the stomach as he spun and, when he doubled over, the sergeant chopped him across the back of the neck with the meaty edge of his right hand. Sheik shuddered as though poleaxed and
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