Free Long Time No See by Ed McBain

the heavyweight champ of the world, or you want to be a dance star?” Clarke asked. “All I see you doin’ is dancin’ and jabbin’, dancin’ and jabbin’. You want to knock down a man the size of Jody there, you got to hit him, man. You got to knock his fuckin’ head off, not go dancin’ with him.” He turned abruptly from the ring and said, “What is it, Officers?”
    “What you want us to do now?” Jackson asked.
    “Go work out on the bag a while,” Clarke said over his shoulder.
    “Which bag?”
    “The big one.”
    Jackson turned and began walking toward the far side of the ring. The larger fighter followed him. Together they ducked through the ropes. A loudspeaker erupted into the sweaty rhythm of the huge echoing room. “Andrew Henderson, call your mother. Andrew Henderson, call your mother.”
    “So what is it?” Clarke asked.
    “Jimmy and Isabel Harris,” Carella said.
    “You’re kidding me,” Clarke said. “What’ve I got to do with that?”
    “Is it true you asked Sophie Harris to marry you?”
    “That’s right,” Clarke said. “Listen, what is this, man? Is this you’re lookin’ for information about somebody you think done this thing, or is it you’re tryin’ to hang it on me? Cause, man, from what I read in the papers, that boy was killed at around seven-thirty last night, and I was right here then, man, workin’ my fighter.”
    “Don’t get excited,” Meyer said.
    “I ain’t excited,” Clarke said. “I just know some things. You don’t get to be sixty years old in Diamondback without gettin’ to know a few things.”
    “What are these things you know, Mr. Clarke?”
    “I know when a black man’s been killed, the cops go lookin’ for another black man. I don’t know why you’re here, but I’ll give you six-to-five it’s cause I’m black.”
    “You’d lose,” Carella said.
    “Then enlighten me,” Clarke said.
    “We’re here because you asked Sophie Harris to marry you, and you know she’s contingent beneficiary of a twenty-five-thousand-dollar insurance policy. That’s why we’re here.”
    “You think I killed those two kids so I could latch onto the twenty-five, is that it?”
    “What time did you get here last night?”
    “Shit, man, I got half a mind—”
    “If you’re clean, we’ll be out of here in three minutes flat. Just tell us when you got here and when you left.”
    “I was here at seven and I left at midnight.”
    “Anybody see you?”
    “I was workin’ with Warren and a sparring partner.”
    “Warren?”
    “Warren Jackson. My boy.”
    “Who was the sparring partner? Same guy there?”
    “No, a kid named Donald Rivers. I don’t see him around, I don’t think he’s here right now.”
    “Anybody else?”
    “Only every fighter and manager in Diamondback. Warren’s got a fight Tuesday night. I been workin’ his ass off. Ask anybody in the gym—pick anybody you see on the floor—ask them was I here workin’ the boy last night. Seven o’clock to midnight. Had ring time from eight to nine, you can check that downstairs. Rest of the time I had him runnin’ and jumpin’ and punchin’ the bags and the whole damn shit.”
    “Where’d you go when you left here?” Meyer said.
    “Coffee shop up the street. I don’t know the name of it, everybody from the gym rolls in there. It’s right on the corner of Holman and Seventy-sixth. They know me there, you ask them was I in there last night.”
    “We’ll ask them,” Meyer said. “What’s your middle name?”
    “None of your fuckin’ business,” Clarke said.
    They checked around the gymnasium and learned that at least half a dozen people had seen Clarke on the premises the night before, between the hours of 7:00 and midnight. They checked with the owner of the coffee shop up the street, and he told them Clarke and his fighter came in shortly after midnight last night, sat around talking till at least 1:00 in the morning, maybe 1:30. According to the coroner’s