5 Detective Novels Magazine Cover — page 124: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

shrugged—“clean. Quiet. Friendly. Look at the concrete wall over there where the kids probably play handball.” Gomez’ brown eyes flicked. “A walk- up,” he corrected mildly. “Not an apart- ment. A walkup where sometimes on dark nights beer bottles go through the walls like bullets. Where a woman’s scream is nothing, just a scream, and no one notices. No lawns, of course, for grass doesn’t grow in sand. And that concrete wall. The children throw dice up against it. Nevada _ shuffleboard, they call it. Was there anything else?” Gomez got out of the car, and Hart followed. The two walked silently past the few doors to the building. It wasn’t a place where you punch a button and stand on thick carpeting and wait for someone inside to press the buzzer for the downstairs door. Nevertheless, Captain Hart pulled up the belt on his nts, flicked nervous fingers at his coat. Sweat beads formed on his forehead. “You got no heart, boy,” he grunted softly. He rapped on a thin, paneled door. She was young. In her stocking feet, she stood four feet eleven, perhaps. Her hair was black, long, with wide waves in it and blue-black highlights. Her eyes were brown, soft looking, and just now vague with something not natural. “Mrs. Ramirez?” said Hart. “You’ll have to pardon us.” The woman said, “Reporters?” “From Police Headquarters, Mrs. Ramirez. I’m Captain Hart, and this is Lieutenant Gomez. I—” He swallowed. He turned his eyes to Gomez and glared weakly. “We'd like to come in,” said Gomez. It was a place. People lived here. People will live most anywhere. Gomez’ eyes scanned the small room. Worn fur- niture. A radio with peeling veneer and a half-filled wine bottle on top. A brand new television set in one corner, looking as out of place as plumbing in a log cabin. “Police?” The woman mouthed it. “Yeah, Mrs. Ramirez,” said Hart quickly. “We just dropped in to see if there was anything we could do. I mean, in your moment of sorrow.” Something that might have been a bitter laugh came from the woman’s lips. She went to the radio, picked up the wine bottle, put it to her mouth. “Cops,” she said. “Sure. Who else? All right, killers, hear it hard. The city’s going to pay for this.” Her smoky dark eyes flashed. “Pay—understand?” “One moment.” It was Gomez. The woman snapped a look at him. Her tongue darted. Something in Span- ish cracked like wild, unclean lightning in the small room. “What’d she say?” asked Hart un- easily. “She called me a name. Would you care to hear it in English?” Gomez’ voice was flat. Hart swallowed. The woman’s voice cracked sharply again. It was heat lightning this time with hate for a backdrop, and it seemed to make the air writhe. As suddenly as it began, it stopped. The woman’s hands shook. Her shoulders shook, so that the wine in the bottle frothed. The only sound in the room now was an acid popeing from somewhere deep within er. “Jeez, let’s get outa here,” whispered Hart. He led the way downstairs, went up the street to the department car, got in. He slammed the door shut. “You and your damned ideas!” he snarled. “So we had to go up there and churn up a woman whose husband’s just. been shot dead by the boys in our own backyard. So we had to make ourselves big-hearted sympathy boys. Damn it! I can just see the commissioner pinning medals on us for this!” Gomez made no answer. He slid be- hind the wheel, pulled out from the curb. He said softly: “A wino.” “Holy hell! What you expect at a time like this? Cripes, Gomez, I don’t get you at all! Your own people, and you act like what-the-hell.” Gomez sighed. “A drunken widow,” he murmured. “And her husband said ‘Immanuel,’ you said... .” HE electric clock on the wall indi- cated three twenty-four. The door of homicide opened, and the desk ser- geant stuck his head in, looked over at Gomez. (Turn to page 126) 124 CoOnniclooo S (S| Q) mM