The Heckler

“Who’s catching up there?”

“Steve.”

Savage frowned, picked up the press card and, without another word, walked out of the muster room. He walked down the low flat steps onto the sidewalk and then he turned right and walked two blocks in the April sunshine to a candy store on Grover Avenue. He made change at the counter, walked to the telephone booth at the rear of the shop, dug a small black address book from his back pocket, and searched for an 87TH PRECINCT listing. There was none. He looked upBYRNES ,PETER , and found a number for the precinct, Frederick 7-8024. He put his dime into the slot and dialed it.

“Eighty-seventh Precinct, Sergeant Murchison,” a voice on the other end said.

“You ran a picture of a dead man in the newspaper today,” Savage said.

“Yeah? What about it?”

“I know who he is. I’d like to talk to the detective handling the case.”

“One moment, sir,” Murchison said.

Savage nodded, grinned, and then waited. In a moment, another voice came onto the line.

“Eighty-seventh Squad, Detective Carella.”

“Are you the cop in charge of the case involving the man they found in the park?”

“That’s right,” Carella said. “Who’s this, please?”

“Are you the cop who sent the pictures out to the newspapers?”

“That’s right. Sir, the desk sergeant tells me—”

“Why didn’t you send one to my paper, Carella?”

“Wha—” There was a long pause on the line. “Is that you, Savage?”

“Yeah, this is me.”

“Didn’t you get my message?”

“It would be inconvenient for me to drop dead at the moment.”

“Look, Savage, I’m not a polite feuder. I’m not interested in mixing clever talk with you. You almost got my wife killed once, you son of a bitch, and if you ever show your face around here I’ll throw you out the window. Does that make it clear?”

“The Commissioner might like to know why every other paper in the city—”

“The hell with you and the Commissioner both! Goodbye, Savage,” Carella said, and he hung up.

Savage held the dead receiver in his hand for just a moment, then he slammed it onto the hook and stormed out of the booth.

*   *   *

THE PUERTO RICAN GIRL’Sname was Margarita. She had been in the city for only six months, and she didn’t speak English too well. She enjoyed working for Mr. Raskin because he was a nice cheerful man who did not shout too much. It was important to Margarita that the person for whom she worked did not shout. Margarita reported for work at nine o’clock each morning. The Culver Avenue loft was only five blocks from her house, and she enjoyed the walk to and from work each day. Once she got to the loft, she went into the bathroom and changed from her street clothes to a smock which she wore while pressing. Since she lived so close to the loft, someone had once suggested to her that she wear the smock to work rather than changing after she got there. But Margarita felt that the smock was not suitable attire for the street. And so every morning she put on a sweater and a skirt and then changed to the smock after she got to the loft. She never wore anything under the smock. She pressed dresses all day long, and it got very hot in that loft and she didn’t want the bother of panties and brassiere.

She was a very well-formed girl, Margarita, and as she hefted that steam iron her breasts frolicked beneath the loose smock in time to the accompanying jiggle of her buttocks. Which was another thing she liked about Mr. Raskin. Mr. Raskin never came up behind her and pinched her. She had worked for another man before him, and he was always pinching her. Mr. Raskin was a very cheerful man who kept his hands to himself and who didn’t mind the girls telling jokes in Spanish every now and then. So long as they got the work done.

There were two other girls besides Margarita, but Margarita was the unofficial foreman of the group. Each morning, when all the girls had had their second cup of coffee and changed into their smocks and fixed their makeup, Margarita would roll over the dollies with the cartons of dresses which Mr. Raskin had bought in wholesale lots, and she would turn them over to the girls who would press out all the wrinkles. Margarita would work right alongside them, that iron flashing over the creased skirts and bodices, those breasts jutting and bouncing. Then she would have a consultation with Mr. Raskin about pricing the dresses, and then she and the girls would mark each of the dresses and that evening Mr. Raskin would take them to the retail stores or to the farmers’ markets, depending on which outlets needed merchandise. It was a very smooth-running operation. Sometimes, when she discussed prices with Mr. Raskin, he would try to see into the low front of her dress because he knew she wore nothing underneath, but she didn’t mind him looking because he never touched. He was a gentleman, and she liked working for him. As far as Margarita was concerned, David Raskin was the nicest man in the world.

Which is why she couldn’t understand the threatening calls.