Free Goodey's Last Stand: A Hard Boiled Mystery (Joe Goodey) by Charles Alverson

they had a date somewhere. So they left.”
    Maher wasn’t the exploding type. His face turned to stone. “ Goodey,” he said quietly, “are you telling me that you let two potential suspects leave here after you knew a murder had been committed?”
    “That’s right,” I said easily. “I had no right to stop them. I’m not a cop anymore.” I didn’t bother going into the unlikelihood of a sick girl and her volunteer nurse sneaking out into the hall and knifing Chub. Anderson was having enough problems with the first bit of information I’d dropped. He kept boggling and looked as though he was wondering who to slug.
    Maher took it quite well. Too well, in fact. “Right,” he said smoothly, “you’re not a cop anymore. But you are a suspect, and so are you, Charlie Chan.” He whipped a pair of cuffs out of his back pocket and flipped them to Anderson.
    “Tie these monkeys together, Andy,” he said. “Frisk them and take them downtown. Have them put in detention until I get there, and then come right back.”
    “You haven’t read us Miranda,” I said, anxious that Maher shouldn’t do anything to imperil his new stripes.
    “Fuck Miranda,” he said. “You know it, and you can explain it to your friend in the lockup.”
    “You see,” I told Fong, “there’s nothing to worry about. Cops like Maher only skip the finer legal points when they don’t expect an arrest to stick. He’s pissed because we let Mickey and Fsui-tang leave.”
    “Cuffs!” snapped Maher.
    Relieved to have something to do, Andy did an expert job of cuffing me to Gabriel and then himself to me. He had to be good at something.
    ‘It’s the city’s gasoline,” I told Maher as Anderson started tugging us out the door, “but you’re wasting it. Do you know who Mr. Fong is?”
    Maher signaled for Andy to stop. “I’ll bite,” he said. “Who is Mr. Fong?”
    “The mayor’s cousin. His other cousin.”
    Maher didn’t even bother to respond to that. He just thumbed Andy and us out the door.
    Andy didn’t have a lot to say on the way down to headquarters. Neither did Fong and I, but there in the caged-in back seat we got in a few whispers.
    "What will happen now, Joe?” Fong asked.
    "They’ll lock us up for a little while,” I said. “But don’t worry. I’ll have us out within a couple of hours.”
    “I hope you’re right,” he said. So did I.

 
    9
    If you think the average law-abiding citizen feels strange finding himself in a cell, imagine how a cop feels. It’s not natural. It’s like a dog being peed on by a lamppost. I’d known Archie Meltzer, the chief turnkey on duty, for over ten years, but you wouldn’t have known it from the way he processed me for the cells.
    “Hello, Archie,” I said in a friendly way.
    “Empty out all your pockets,” said Archie. “Put your money, car keys, other valuables on the table.”
    “Sure, Archie,” I said, turning out my pockets. “How’s your kid brother? He still racing those pigeons?”
    “Remove your belt, tie, if any, and shoelaces,” Archie said, “and place them on the table next to the long, brown envelope.” Another turnkey I didn’t know was busy counting the money we’d put on the table and making an itemized list of the other things.
    “Right,” I said. “You know best. But, Archie, there is one thing. I’d kind of like to make that telephone call. You know, the one ev erybody talks about. It’s important.”
    “Plenty of time for that later,” said Archie, “Read the itemized list, initial each entry and sign your accustomed signature and the date at the bottom.” We’d done all this like good boys, and Archie was telling his helper where to stash us. “Okay,” he said, deadpan, “this way.”
    “Archie,” I said, “I don’t want to be a nag, but I’d really like to make that phone call. And my friend, Mr. Fong, would probably like to make one, too. It is the law, you know.”
    “I know the law, Joe,” Archie said, using my