Free Til Death by Ed McBain Page A

peopled with the usual sprinkling of Sunday afternoon drinkers. Meyer and O’Brien entered the place,adjusted their vision to the dimness after the brilliant sunshine outside, and walked to the bar.
    Meyer flashed the tin instantly. The bartender studied his shield with great dispassion.
    “So?” he said.
    “We’re looking for a guy named Marty Sokolin. Know him?”
    “So?”
    “Yes or no?”
    “Yes. So?”
    “Is he here now?”
    “Don’t you know what he looks like?”
    “No. Is he here?”
    “No. What’d he do?”
    “Nothing. Are you expecting him today?”
    “Who knows? He’s in and out. He’s only been living in the neighborhood a short time. What’d he do?”
    “I told you. Nothing.”
    “Is he a little crazy?”
    “How do you mean?”
    “You know. A little crazy.” The bartender circled his temple with an extended forefinger. “Cuckoo.”
    “What makes you think he’s crazy?”
    “He’s got a fanatical gleam in his eyes. Especially when he’s drinking. Also, he’s a big bastard. I wouldn’t want to ever tangle with him. This guy chews railroad spikes and spits out carpet tacks.” He paused. “Pardon the cliché,” he said. He pronounced it “cleesh.”
    “You’re pardoned. Do you happen to know where he might be right now?”
    “You tried his house?”
    “Yes.”
    “He ain’t there, huh?”
    “No.”
    “What’d he do?”
    “Nothing. Would you mind, if you know, telling us where he might be?”
    “Well, I’m not sure I know. You tried his girl’s pad?”
    “No. Who’s she?”
    “A dame named Oona. Oona I don’t know what. How’s that for a fancy name? You should see her. She’s like a regular bombshell. Perfect for a nut like Sokolin.”
    “Oona, huh? And you don’t know her last name.”
    “That’s right. Just Oona. You won’t miss her if you see her. She’s a blonde with bazooms like pineapples.” He paused. “Pardon the cliché,” he said.
    “You’re pardoned. Any idea where she lives?”
    “Sure.”
    “Where?”
    “Up the street. There’s a rooming house on the corner. She’s new around here, too. The only reason I know where she lives is she mentioned she was at a place served meals. And the place on the corner is the only place serves meals. I mean, of the rooming houses.”
    “I see,” Meyer said. “Can you describe her a little more fully?”
    “Well, like I said, she’s got these enormous pineapples. And she’s got a mouth like a trap, and a pretty nose, and eyes like blue ice and blonde hair like a field of wheat.” He paused, retracing the path of his similes to see if he’d been guilty of another “cleesh.” Apparently satisfied of his innocence, he nodded and said, “If you find her, you can’t miss her.”
    “That’s reassuring,” Meyer said. “Has she been in today?”
    “No.”
    “Did Sokolin ever play a horn in here?”
    “A what?”
    “A horn.”
    “No. He plays a horn, does he? Boy, miracles will never cease.”
    “What’s the name of this rooming house? Where they serve meals?”
    “The Green Corner.” He shrugged. “The house is green, and it’s on the corner. Listen, who knows why people name places?”
    “Is this your place?” Meyer asked.
    “Yeah.”
    “Why’d you name it the Easy Dragon?”
    “Oh, that was a mistake. The sign painter misunderstood me on the telephone. So after all the signs were painted, I figured why bother changing it to what I wanted originally?”
    “What had you wanted originally?”
    “The place was supposed to be called the Easy Drag Inn.” He shrugged. “Listen, people goof all the time. That’s why they’ve got erasers on penc—” and he stopped himself before uttering the banality.
    “Well, come on, Bob,” Meyer said. “Thanks a lot for your time, mister.”
    “Not at all. Think you’ll get her?”
    “All we want to do is get him,” Meyer said.
    All I want to do, the sniper thought, is get him.
    What’s taking them so long in there? How many pictures do