Two columns of cops smartly marched out of the police station and stood at attention on the sidewalk. A sergeant dismissed them and as they broke ranks and walked away, more policemen began to approach the station house. They were changing tours. I watched like a hick until I told myself to snap out of it. I didn't have a friend in town, least of all the cops, and I had to borrow money to reach Rose. But wait—I did have one buddy in the big city.
Hal Anderson had said he lived in New York. If he wasn't at sea I could borrow from him. I walked into a drugstore and looked in the phone book. There were three Harold Andersons in Manhattan, two in the Bronx, and four in Brooklyn and Queens. I racked my brains but couldn't come up with the name of the steamship company Hal worked for, and even if I knew, they probably wouldn't give out his home address. When I asked the druggist if he could spare a hunk of paper and a pencil, he gave me a nervous look and mumbled he was busy. I didn't blame him. I saw myself in a shaving mirror on the counter and I looked like a goon who'd been worked over.
I walked out to find another store. I'd tear the pages out of the phone book. A highschool kid with a brush crewcut and wearing an old windbreaker was crossing the street toward a parked car. He waved at me and walked my way. It took me a second to recognize my young cop. He grinned as he said, “Better not hang around here, Mr. Anderson. The lieutenant can be a wild hair, and give you a hell of a rough time, when he feels nasty.”
“How come he let that guy go without getting his name and address?”
“Well, it was a bit unusual. He should have waited until I—as the investigating officer—showed up. I've covered myself in my memo book, though.”
“You know the dick's name?”
“No. But I wrote that upon reaching the precinct house I found the alleged assaulter, an 'unknown male,' had been released. Maybe the lieutenant was hasty, but consider things from his side, your story sounds fantastic. He...”
“Bull! He let him go before he ever heard my story!”
Babyface shrugged. “Strictly between us, the private badge must have been from a big agency. I shouldn't be telling you this, but the locker room grapevine says the dick was working for an oil company. Big stuff.”
“Oil? What's an oil outfit got to do with this?”
“You tell me. The point is, the lieutenant can't buck the big wheels. Nor can I buck the lieutenant. As I said, perhaps he did act too fast, but that's all. We police have to follow the law, too.”
“Don't talk to me about the law. In less than twenty-four hours I've been slugged, shot at, and rooked—mostly by jerks sporting badges of one kind or another!”
“I don't know what you're mixed up in, Mr. Anderson, but here's some straight advice. Don't hang around here or you'll have more badge trouble.”
“I've had my fill. Look, when I lost my wallet I also lost all my loose change. I haven't a penny, can't even board a bus or subway. Can you lend me a buck? Give me your name and address and I swear I'll mail you back five tomorrow. Or take this busted wrist watch. I broke it on those damn bricks.”
The cop dug in his pocket. “A buck? You must travel in style. A subway token costs fifteen cents. Here's thirty cents, which will get you any place in town. Don't worry about returning it. You're better than a cops-and-robbers movie. Now keep moving, chum.”
I took the quarter and nickel. He headed for his car, stopped, and called out, “I can drive you part of the way downtown.”
“Thanks, but I have to make a call. I don't exactly know where I'm going. I mean, I have to see which of my friends is in town.” I knew it sounded stupid but I didn't trust any cop now.
He said, “You're a real case, buddy,” and got in his car.
For a split second I wondered if I could make a deal, have him drive me to Asbury and give him fifty or a hundred bucks? But I couldn't afford that risk.
I walked down a few blocks and into a candy store, looked up the Harold Andersons in the phone books again. I had three chances out of nine of hitting the right one: three to one odds were rough. It seemed to me Hal had said something about a house and from the little I'd seen of Manhattan, it was all apartment houses. I decided to risk my money on the Bronx and Brooklyn. When I asked for change I thought the fat lady behind the counter was going to scream for help. But she gave me three dimes, even if her hand shook.
I dialed the first Hal Anderson in the Bronx, working the dial carefully—a wrong number would ruin me. A man answered and told me he certainly wasn't a ship's purser and hung up. Next I tried a Brooklyn Harold Anderson and didn't get any answer. I went through a bad moment waiting for the dime to return. I picked another Anderson number in Brooklyn and a woman's voice with a warm accent said, “Oui,” when I went into the ship's purser bit. I realized she had to be Hal's French wife and I couldn't have felt better if I'd hit the daily double. I said, “My name is Mickey Whalen. I was a friend of Hal's down in Florida. We had a boat together.”
There was a brief silence and I had a chill. Suppose Hal had never mentioned me to his wife?
“Ah, yes. He often talks about you.”
“Is Hal home?”
“No. His ship is not due for another week. Too bad, he would want to see you.”
“Mrs. Anderson, I'm in a kind of trouble. I know this sounds odd, but I fell down and lost my wallet. I need a few dollars and don't know a soul in the city but Hal— and you. I have no one else to turn to.”
“Well...” There was another silence, then she asked, “What was the name of the boat you two had?”
“The Sea Princess. Did Hal tell you he saw me down in Haiti a month or two ago?”
“Yes. How much money do you need, Mr. Whalen?”
“A few dollars. I arrived in New York this morning and had this accident with my wallet. Can I come over to your house, now?”
“Of course. Have you...?”
The operator cut in to ask for another nickel.
Hal's wife asked, “Have you a car?”
“No.”
“Where are you?”
“In Manhattan.”
“Then take the D metro, the subway marked D to...”
The operator demanded her nickel again and I said, “I'll be out, Mrs. Anderson, but I have to walk. Wait for me.
I hung up and used my last dime to dial the Anderson who'd been out, to erase the call in case I was being followed. I was getting worse than Rose, didn't put a thing beyond whoever was after us. The party was still not home. So I had a big fat dime, and the subway cost fifteen cents.
Stepping out of the phone booth I wiped the sweat from my face as I asked the old lady behind the counter, “Which way is Brooklyn?”
In a thick accent she said, “Walk two blocks down and turn right. That's the subway. Get on the downtown side and then ask the conductor for...”
“I'm walking. Which way is it, please?” I knew I was talking too much. If I was being followed and this plump lady told them about Brooklyn—but then Brooklyn must be a big place.