"And in just a few minutes, you'll see the last of me, too. What I'm going to do, kids, I'm going to step inside this box hellip;"
He opened the door on the face of the box.
"And I'm going to ask you all to count to ten hellip; out loud hellip; one, two, three, four, and so on mdash;you all know how to count to ten, don't you?"
Laughter from the kids.
"And I'm going to ask your principal, Mr. Ellington, to come up here mdash;Mr. Ellington, would you come up here now, please? mdash;and when you reach the number ten, he's going to open the door of this box, and Sebastian the Great will be gone, kids, I will have disappeared, vanished, poof! So hellip; ah, good, Mr. Ellington, if you'll just stand here beside the box, thank you. That's very good." He took off his top hat. Stepping partially into the box, he said, "I'm going to say good-bye to you now hellip;"
Applause and cheering from the kids.
"Thank you, thank you," he said, "and I want to remind you again to please have a safe and sane Halloween out there. Now the minute I close this door, I want you to start counting out loud. And when you reach ten, Mr. Ellington will open the door and I'll be gone but not forgotten. Mr. Ellington? Are you ready?"
"Ready," Ellington said, feeling like an asshole.
"Good-bye, kids," Sebastian said, and closed the door behind him.
"One!" the kids began chanting. "Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Nine! Ten!"
Ellington opened the door on the box.
Sebastian the Great had indeed vanished.
The kids began applauding.
Ellington went to the front of the stage, and held up his hands for silence.
He would have to remind the kids not to try sawing anybody in half, because that had been only a trick.
The station wagon pulled up to the curb in front of the liquor store on Culver and Ninth. The big woman behind the wheel was a curly-haired blonde in her late forties, wearing a blue dress with a tiny white floral print, a cardigan sweater over it. A kid was sitting beside her on the front seat. Three more kids were in the back of the car. The kids looked perhaps eleven or twelve years old, no older than that.
They threw open the doors and got out of the car.
"Have fun, kids," the blonde behind the wheel said.
The kids were all dressed like robbers.
Little black leather jackets, and little blue jeans, and little white sneakers, and little billed caps on their little heads, and little black masks over their eyes. They were all carrying shopping bags decorated with little orange pumpkins. They were all holding little toy pistols in their little hands. They went across the sidewalk in a chattering little excited group, and one of them opened the door to the liquor store. The clock on the wall behind the counter read 5:15 p.m. The owner of the store looked up the moment the bell over the door sounded.
"Trick or treat!" the little kids squealed in unison.
"Come on, kids, get out of here," the owner said impatiently. "This is a place of business."
And one of the little kids shot him in the head.
Parker had shaved and was back in the squadroom, rummaging through the file cabinets containing folders for all the cases the detectives had successfully closed. In police work, there was no such thing as a solution. You neversolved a case, you closed it out. Or it remainedopen , which meant the perpetrator was already in Buenos Aires or Nome, Alaska, and you'dnever catch him. The Open File was the graveyard of police detection.
"I feel like a new man," Parker said. In fact, he looked like the same old Parker, except that he had shaved. "Muldoon," he said, "Muldoon, where are you, Muldoon?"
"You really gonna call a sixty-year-old lady?" Brown asked.
"Peaches Muldoon, correct," Parker said. "If she was well-preserved at fifty, she's prolly still got it all in the right places. Where the fuck's the file?"
"Look under Aging Nurses," Hawes said.
"Look under Decrepit Broads," Brown said.
"Yeah, bullshit, wait'll you see her picture," Parker said.
The clock on the squadroom wall read 5:30 p.m.
"Muldoon, here we go," Parker said, and yanked a thick file from the drawer.
The telephone rang.
"Who's catching?" Parker asked.
"I thought you were," Brown said.
"Me? No, no. You're up, Artie."
Brown sighed and picked up the phone.
"Eighty-Seventh Squad," he said, "Brown."
"Artie, this is Dave downstairs."
Sergeant Murchison, at the muster desk.
"Yeah, Dave."
"Adam Four just responded to a 10-20 on Culver and Ninth. Liquor store called Adams Wine Spirits."
"Yeah?"
"They got a homicide there."
"Okay," Brown said.
"You got some people out, don't you?"