Free Til Death by Ed McBain

was not a very practical one. It provided the young boy with a ready-made millstone. To say that Meyer Meyer’s childhood had been only an endless round of fist fights provoked by either his name or his religion would have been a complete understatement. For coupled with the fist fights came the slow development of a diplomat. Meyer learned that only some battles could be won with his hands. The rest had to be won with his tongue. And so he acquired a veneer of extreme patience to cover the scars of his father’s little jibe. Patiently, he even learned to forgive the old man before he died. Now, at the age of thirty-seven, the only scar he carried from an excruciatingly anxious childhood (or, to be more precise, the only scar that showed) was a head as bald as the famed American eagle.
    Patiently, he repeated, “And what is your name, madam?”
    “Mary Murdoch. What’s it to you?”
    “Nothing,” Meyer said. He glanced at O’Brien. O’Brien stepped back a pace, as if anxious to sever whatever national ties bound him to the woman. “You said Mr. Sokolin was not in. When did he leave, might we ask?”
    “Early this morning. He took his damn horn with him, thank the good Lord.”
    “His horn?”
    “His trumpet, his trombone, his saxophone, whatever you call the damn thing. He practices it morning and night. You never heard such unholy screeches. I wouldn’t have rented him the apartment if I’d known he played a horn. I might kick him out, matter of fact.”
    “You don’t like horn players?”
    “Put it this way,” Mary Murdoch said. “They make me vomit.”
    “That’s a unique way of putting it,” Meyer said, and he cleared his throat. “How do you know Sokolin left with his horn?”
    “I seen him. He’s got a case for the thing. A black case. That’s what he carries the damn thing in. A case.”
    “A trumpet case?”
    “Or a trombone, or a saxophone, some damn thing. It sure makes an unholy racket, whatever it is.”
    “How long has he been living here, Miss Murdoch?”
    “Mrs. Murdoch, if you please. He’s been living here for two weeks. If he keeps blasting away on that damn saxophone, he won’t be living here much longer, I can tell you that.”
    “Oh, is it a saxophone?”
    “Or a trumpet, or a trombone, or some damn thing,” she said. “Is he in trouble with the police?”
    “No, not really. Do you have any idea where he went when he left this morning?”
    “No. He didn’t say. I just happened to see him go, that’s all. But he usually hangs out in a bar on the Avenue.”
    “What avenue is that, Mrs. Murdoch?”
    “Dover Plains Avenue. Everybody knows the Avenue. Don’t you know the Avenue?”
    “No, we’re not too familiar—”
    “Two blocks down and under the elevated structure. Dover Plains Avenue. Everybody knows the Avenue. He hangs out in a bar there. It’s called the Easy Dragon, that’s some name for a bar, isn’t it? It sounds more like a Chinese restaurant.” Mrs. Murdoch grinned with death’s head simplicity.
    “You’re sure he hangs out there?”
    “Sure, I’m sure.”
    “How can you be sure?”
    “Put it this way,” Mrs. Murdoch said. “I’m not above taking a little nip every now and then myself.”
    “I see.”
    “Which don’t make me a drunkard.”
    “I know.”
    “All right. You finished?”
    “I guess so. We may be back.”
    “What for?”
    “You’re so pleasant to talk to,” Meyer said, and Mrs. Murdoch slammed the door.
    “Well!” O’Brien said.
    “Luckily, she didn’t start shooting,” Meyer said. “With you along, I always expect bullets.”
    “Maybe she’ll shoot when we come back. If we come back.”
    “Maybe so. Keep your fingers crossed.”
    “Where to now?”
    “The Easy Dragon,” Meyer said. “Where else?”
    The Easy Dragon was named the Easy Dragon for no apparent reason. The decor was not Chinese. There was not a Chinese in sight anywhere. The Easy Dragon looked like any tavern in any suburban neighborhood,