"Goodis, David - Street of No Return" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goodis David)

They were young policemen and their faces were expressionless. One of them was grabbing for a revolver and having trouble pulling it from the holster. The other policeman grabbed Whitey's shoulder, couldn't get a good grip on the shoulder, and decided to hook his fingers around the back of Whitey's neck.
"Let go," Whitey said. "I'm not running."
"You telling me?" the policeman said. He tightened his hold on Whitey's neck.
"That hurts," Whitey said.
"Shut up." The po.liceman pulled Whitey to his feet. The other policeman had managed to get the revolver from the holster and was now trying to put it back in. Finally he got it in and then he knelt beside the injured policeman, who was now face down in the alley. He rolled the man over on his side and looked at the face. The eyes were half open and the mouth sagged at the corners. The color of the face was gray with streams of red running down the cheeks and dripping from the lips.
"It's Gannon."
"Bad?"
"Dead."
The policeman stood up. He looked down at the body and then he looked at Whitey.


3

The station house of the Thirty-seventh District was on Clayton Street, six blocks west of the river and four blocks west of the Hellhole. It was a one-story brick structure that had been built some thirty years ago. At both sides of the front entrance there were frosted-glass lamps. In the glare of the lamplight Whitey stood between the two policemen. He was handcuffed but they weren't taking any chances with him. They were very young policemen and new to the force and this arrest was very important to them. One of them gripped Whitey's arm and the other had hold of his trousers. He looked very small standing there between the two tall policemen.
The entrance doors were wide open and Whitey could see it was very crowded in the station house. It was a noisy assemblage and some of them were shouting in Spanish. He saw a Puerto Rican woman pull away from the grip of a policeman and lunge at a yellow-haired man and her fingernails ripped the man's face. The man stepped back and hauled off and punched her in the breast. Three Puerto Rican men started toward the yellow-haired man and several policemen moved in and for some moments there was considerable activity. One of the Puerto Ricans was completely out of control and Whitey saw the worried looks on the faces of the policemen as they tried to handle him. They couldn't handle him and two of them were knocked down. Then a very large man wearing the uniform of a police captain came walking toward the Puerto Rican and grabbed his wrist and then very quickly and precisely lifted him in a wrestler's crotch hold, lifted him high in the air, held him there for a long moment, then hurled him to the floor. There was a very loud thud and the Puerto Rican stayed there on the floor, face down and not moving. Another Puerto Rican shouted something and the Captain walked over to him and shot a fist into his mouth. The Americanborn prisoners shouted encouragement to the Captain and one of them was grinning and aiming a kick at the Puerto Rican who'd been hit in the mouth. The Captain took hold of the American and put a short left hook in his midsection, chopped a right to his head, then hooked him again to send him flying against the wall, and when he bounced away from the wall the Captain hit him once more to put him on the floor on his knees.
"Next?" the Captain said very quietly, looking around at the Puerto Ricans and the Americans. "Who's next?"
"You can't do this," one of the Americans said.
"Can't I?" The Captain moved slowly toward the American, who had a black eye and a cut on his face.
"All right, hit me," the American said. He pointed to his damaged face. "As if I ain't hurt enough. Go ahead and hurt me some more."
"Sure," the Captain said. "Sure, I'll be glad to." He said it sort of sadly, somewhat like a doctor telling a patient it was necessary to operate. Then quickly and neatly he threw a combination of punches and the American went down and rolled over and began to moan.
The Captain looked at the other Americans and the Puerto Ricans. "You want riots?" the Captain said. "I'll give you riots. I'll give you all you want."
"We want to be left alone," a Puerto Rican said in accented English. He pointed to the Americans. "They won't leave us alone."
"You're a goddamn liar," an American said. "You bastards started it. You started it and we're gonna finish it."
"No," the Captain said. "I'll finish it."
"I wish you would," the American said. He had a swollen jaw and under his nose there was dried blood. His face was pale and he was breathing hard. As he spoke to the Captain he stared at the Puerto Ricans and his eyes glittered. "I wish you'd use a machine gun. Mow them down. Dump them in the river."
"Shut your mouth," the Captain said.
"Dirty no-good spics," the American said. He breathed harder. "They're no good, I tell you. They're lousy in their hearts, every last one of them."
"You gonna shut up?" the Captain said.
"They're filthy. Filthy."
"And you?" said the Puerto Rican who had spoken. "You're not filthy?"
"We're Americans," the American said, his voice cracking with the strain of holding himself back from leaping at the Puerto Rican. "We were here before you."
"Yes," the Puerto Rican said. "And so were the sewer rats."
The Captain stood there between them. He looked from one to the other. His big hands were clenched and his big body bulged with power. But now he couldn't move. He couldn't open his mouth to say anything. He stood there in the middle and his eyes were dull and had the helpless look of someone caught in the jaws of a slowly closing trap.
The American went on shouting at the Puerto Rican and finally the Captain growled very low in his throat, reached out, and grabbed the American's hand by the fingers, twisting the fingers to bend them back from the knuckles.
"I told you to shut up," the Captain said. He went on twisting the man's fingers. The man's knees were bent and he was halfway to the floor, his eyes shut tightly. The Captain growled again and said, "You'll shut up if I hafta rip your tongue outta your mouth."
Then it was quiet in there and Whitey saw the Captain releasing the man's hand and walking back to the big high desk at the far side of the room. The Captain called out someone's name and a policeman took hold of a man's arm and brought him toward the desk. At that moment a man wearing a gray overcoat came out of a side room and crossed the floor to the front door, coming outside to face the two policemen who held Whitey.
"What are you standing here for?" the plain-clothes man said. "Why don't you take him inside?"
"We were waiting, Lieutenant."
"Waiting for what?"
"For things to quiet down in there."
The plain-clothes man smiled dimly. "That's good thinking, Bolton. That's the kind of thinking gets promotions."
"I don't know what you mean, Lieutenant."
"I mean your timing. You were timing it just right. Waiting until it was quiet and you'd have the Captain's undivided attention. Then make the grand entrance. Come in with the murderer."
The policemen didn't say anything. They knew he was having fun with them. This one had a habit of having fun with everyone. Usually they didn't mind and they kidded him back. But now it was an important arrest, it was a homicide and the victim was a policeman. Certainly it was no time for the Lieutenant to be having fun.
The Lieutenant stood there smiling at them. He hadn't yet looked at Whitey. He was waiting for the policemen to say something. Behind him, inside the station house, another commotion had started, but he didn't turn to see what was happening in there.
Finally one of the policemen said, "We weren't timing it, Lieutenant. Only timing we did was according to the book. Used the radio and made the report. Waited there for the wagon to come and get the body. The wagon came and got it and now we're taking this man in. I don't see why we're getting criticized."
"You're not getting criticized," the Lieutenant said. His tone was mild and friendly and only slightly sarcastic as he went on: "I think you've done very nicely, Bolton. You too, Woodling."
The two policemen glanced at each other. They could feel the sarcasm and they wondered how to handle it.
The Lieutenant put his hands in the pockets of his overcoat and leaned back just a little on his heels. He said, "I'm sure you'll get a commendation from the Captain. He's gonna be very pleased with this arrest. It'll come as a pleasant surprise."
"Surprise?" Patrolman Bolton said. "I don't get that. Ain't he been told about the murder?"