Mrs. Owens pointed to the leather chairs and we put it down and she sat on the couch and said, “I suppose you want to know about Ed.” She spoke in a faraway voice.
“As a police officer's wife, you know we need all the information we can get to help us track down your husband's killer,” Austin said like an idiot, as though he was selling something. “Do you live here alone, Mrs. Owens?”
“I do now. The Sarasohns who live upstairs have been most helpful, they did all they could for me last night. I even slept up there. My daughter Susan is down in Venezuela. She's wired she's flying up for the funeral. Our son, Edward Junior,” she nodded toward the picture on the piano, “was taken from us many years ago. Now Ed... I just can't seem to think straight or believe it. He is dead, isn't he?”
“Yes, he is. I understand what you're going through and I'll try to make the questioning brief as possible. Now...”
“That's all right. I can talk about things. Only at times... Well, when Junior died it was bad but Ed was at my side. Now without Ed I feel lost, alone... kind of empty.” She looked around the room helplessly. “I was in the kitchen when you rang. You know his garden tools are still beside the tub where he left them yesterday morning. Said he might use them in the evening before it got too dark.”
“What gardening tools?” Austin asked.
“A spade and a rake. We have a nice little back yard and Ed loved to raise flowers and things. It's time for planting. Ed always had a green thumb. That's what he dreamt about, retiring to a place in California where he could really grow things.”
“We all want a house in the country,” Austin said. “Now about—”
“But we've been dreaming about it for so many years,” Mrs. Owens said, as if talking to herself. “From way back when Ed was first appointed. Then the children came. We put money aside for their education but that went for Junior's burial, although Susan finished business school. But children, payments on the house, not much left out of a policeman's salary. Not that I complained but... I'm sorry, all this is no concern of yours. Ed always joked about my chattering too much. What is it you want to ask me?”
“A few routine questions. We're sure Mr. Owens was the victim of a nervous stick-up punk but we're not overlooking any other possibilities, of course. £)id your husband have any enemies? Did he seem worried?”
“You wouldn't ask that if you'd known my Ed. He was always an easygoing man. His only troubles were financial and he never let them get him down. If anything he was in better spirits than ever lately. A few weeks ago he came home and started dancing me around. 'Janie,' he says, 'we have that California cottage, be raising oranges soon.' He's—was—in a gay mood all the time lately.”
“About this cottage, do you think he came into some money?” I asked, although as junior man it was up to Austin to do the questioning.
“No. You see Ed had one vice, he loved to play the horses. I didn't mind, a person has to relax some way, I say. Whenever he had a spare dollar or two he would make a bet. Naturally most times he lost but whenever he won, maybe five or ten dollars, he was like a small boy who thinks he has the world by the tail. I imagine Ed must have made himself a few dollars and was talking big. That's all it was.”
Austin asked, “Is it possible Mr. Owens was playing the races big and might have gotten in over his head with a gambling mob?”
The old lady stroked her coiled braids. “I hope I haven't given you a bad impression of Ed. He wasn't a gambler. He merely played a few dollars now and then like I play bingo or even put a few pennies on a number if I have a dream.”
“Did he drink much?”
“No, sir, beer was all my Ed touched and not much of that. I never saw Edward Owens drunk except once, when sickness took our Junior. Now Al—Mr. Wales—he began to drink something frightful and Ed was always on him to stop it. That was after his dear wife died of cancer back in nineteen and forty-nine. Al's a good man but a strange one. He never seemed too emotional about things but he went to pieces when Dora passed on. That was one reason why Ed got him to work at the brokerage house. Did Al a world of good, although he still goes off on toots at times. Poor Al, he talked to me on the phone last night and actually cried.”
“About this brokerage house, did your husband like the job? Was he happy there?”
Mrs. Owens tried to smile. “He liked the job very much. I think Ed liked most the idea that he didn't have to work. We needed the few dollars he made but we could have gotten along without them, too. It was more like it gave him something to do. He was always nosy and liked going to these big offices, the rich houses.”
“Why did he carry a gun?”
She looked puzzled. “My goodness, Ed's worn a gun every day for as long as I can remember. Be like asking why he wore pants.”
“Did your husband usually drop into any bars around here, for a beer, and perhaps talk about the bonds he was carrying, some of the rich homes he'd been to?”
She shook her head. “No, sir, not Ed. Did his beer drinking right here while watching the TV. In the mornings he'd fool around in his garden. When he came home from work we'd have supper and watch TV, maybe play rummy, or he'd get out his books and booklets and try to figure a winner in the races. He was strictly a homebody, always was.”
“Do you know where he placed his bets?”
“No. Some cigar stand downtown. I imagine Al Wales could tell you, although Al never gambled.”
“Now, Mrs. Owens, think carefully: was there anybody who had any reason, no matter how slight, to be angry at your husband? Or was Mr. Owens mad at anybody?”
“Not a soul.”
Austin stood up. “I think that's all. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Owens. And don't worry, we'll get the rats who did this.”
“Yes, I suppose you will. But that won't bring Ed back, to me. Everyplace I look I see something of his, his tools, his clothes, his beers in the icebox,” Mrs. Owens said, getting up. “Would you like to see his garden?”
“Best we run....”
“I'd like very much to see it,” I said. Austin looked at me as if to say, “Shut up.”
We followed her down a short hallway with two bedrooms opening off it, through a large clean kitchen, out to a back yard that was about twenty feet wide and maybe thirty feet long. Except for something growing under two old windows, it was just a lot of dirt to me.
She pointed to the windows which were about six inches off the ground and walled in with loose bricks. “This is Ed's hothouse. I think he has some tulip bulbs growing there now. By the end of July he'll have this whole yard full of pansies and other flowers, maybe a few rows of carrots and some tomato vines. Once, he even raised some good corn here. One summer he spelled out 'Owens' across the yard in red, white and blue flowers. They had a picture of that in the Bronx Home News.”
There was a moment of silence till I asked, “Mrs. Owens, did you like being a policeman's wife? The changing hours, little pay, the danger?”
She looked astonished. “Why, of course I liked it, young man, it was my husband's job. Sometimes I worried a little about Ed but he could take care of himself. As for the pay, it wasn't much, but then what job pays enough? Best thing was it being steady, no lay-off. My father was a house painter and always working crazy hours. And near every winter there would be months when he didn't work and we'd be worried sick. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering,” I said stupidly.
“Nice seeing your garden, Mrs. Owens, but we have to leave,” Austin said.
“I don't want to keep you. The force has certainly changed, you two all dressed so smartly. And this young man who looks like he's a college student. Yes indeed, I liked Ed being a policeman, I felt he was helping people. Of course sometimes there were dirty jobs and long hours, but like I say, no job is all good. Wouldn't be a job if it was.”
When we were in the car Austin asked, “What are you conducting, a lonely hearts column for cops' wives? 'Mrs. Owens, did you like being a policeman's wife? For crying out loud, Winstein, you're a prize dummy.”
“The name is Wintino. What's so dumb about it? Everybody keeps yapping Owens was killed by a goon, a stick-up punk. Maybe. But he was in an alley and never went for his gun so it might have been with somebody he was friendly, like another woman.”
Austin shook his head. “Naw, you and me might be lovers, but not the Owens type. How long you been on the force?”
“Less than a year. So what?”
“You'll learn we haven't time to investigate every cockeyed angle to a case. Most times the common-sense angles are the right ones. Owens was held up, and by an amateur, that's the common-sense angle. Look, by, this afternoon I'll be off the case and it will be left in the open files. They'll let it stand till we get a break. You want to speculate, a guy in a flying saucer might have dropped down and knocked off Owens?” “Are you satisfied with the case?”
He gave me his superior smile. “Satisfied? This isn't a restaurant, it's a job. Not up to me to be satisfied or not satisfied. We do the best we can and that's the way the ball bounces.”
“Okay, so if I'm not satisfied I keep digging till I come up with something that fits.”
“Make sense, Winston. You can keep digging for the next three years. We haven't the time. In a few hours you'll be looking into a forced entry case, a mugging, something like that. And I'll be working on another killing.”
“Maybe. But I'm going to keep sifting this one. When an ex-cop is killed it makes you think.” “It does? About what?”
“About myself. I'll be retired like Owens was someday and I don't want to end up in an alley.” Nor in a run-down flat with an ancient radio and the same furniture I had when I first moved in, I thought. Although Mom and Pa, their place is like the Owens', the inside of a poor museum. Wonder what a guy has to do to make a good buck in this crazy world without being a bastard. “You married?” I asked Austin. “You starting on me? Sure I'm married.”
“Wife like your job?”
“I never asked her. What's with you, Watson?” “Nothing. My wife isn't hot about my job.” He chuckled. “Wives need a slap across the teeth now and then. That's my best advice.”
I didn't bother telling this dope where to stick his advice. As we waited for a light on the Concourse I considered shooting up to Ogden Avenue for a second, seeing Mom. Might have done it if I was alone or with Danny. Been near a month since I'd been up there. I didn't like to go up Without Mary because that was an admission on my part she wasn't comfortable around my folks.
There was another reason too. The old neighborhood gave me a funny feeling. Guys I'd been pals with since we were old enough to play hide and seek, guys who couldn't wait to slap me on the back when I won a fight, now treating me with that cold politeness most citizens reserve for cops. The cagey distrustful look, as if they expected me to belt them over the head with a night stick any minute. Still, I'd better go up and put away one of Mom's big Friday night meals before the summer heat hit us.
We passed the Yankee Stadium and Austin talked baseball all the way back to the precinct. I didn't listen. I kept seeing Owens' place, old and falling apart. As I parked the car I stared at the station house for a moment, a short ugly building that must be a hundred years old. A firetrap that was like ice in the winter, full of mice and bugs. Everything about the job seemed old, stagnant, so—
“Asleep at the wheel, wonder boy?”
Austin was standing outside the car, smiling at me—if you can call a sneer a smile. I got out, followed him up the worn steps, nodded at the desk lieutenant, the sergeant at the switchboard listening to the calls from the post cops and the guys driving on radio motor patrol.
A former cop was shot dead and everything went as usual in this old building.
Austin went to the John and I went up to the detective room. A quiet joker named Larson was at the desk, doing some paper work. He was a giant, a real mister six by six, one of these strong silent guys who keep to themselves. He told me, “Dave, your wife called. Wants you to ring her at her office. Called about ten minutes ago.”
I said thanks and dialed the agency. Mary said in the low voice you have to use in a crowded office, trying not to make it sound like a whisper, “Dave? Don Tills is having two tables of bridge tonight and he's asked us over. I told you about him, one of our top copywriters, the golden boy of the office. Be a great help to me if I get in with his crowd.”
“I don't mind some bridge. That all you wanted to tell me?”
“Yes and be sure to be home on time. They're counting on us to be there at nine sharp.”
“You know I always come home when I'm done here.”
“Just be 'done' by five so we can eat together like normal married people and get dressed and go out together, for a change.”
“Okay, we'll be normal married people. See you for supper, Babes.”
As I hung up I saw Larson grinning at me as he bent over his desk. I said, “Tough for a wife to take our hours. Your wife complain much?”
“Sometimes. She's a nurse and her shifts are almost as bad as ours. But then when we do get some time together we enjoy it more.”
“Anything new?”
He shook his big head. “Quiet. The lieutenant is down in Captain Lampkin's office. Stolen auto reported over on the avenue. I just came back from a busted store window on Adams Street. That's about all. Get anything from Mrs. Owens?”
“Nope.” It was seven after ten; Mom wouldn't be out shopping yet—not till the crappy soap operas she listened to every morning were over. I dialed her and we asked each other how we were and how was Pop and how was Mary? Could they come to our place this Sunday? Mom said after all Mary worked hard all week, no sense in her cooking for them. Could we come up this Friday? I said maybe but I was pretty busy. I'd check with Mary and call back. Mom said she would have fresh gefullte fish, chopped chicken liver, and her best lasagna. I told her she was making my mouth drool at the mention of her lasagna and gefullte fish but I'd have to see how I was fixed for time, check with Mary. Give Pop my love and I'll call Friday morning before ten.
I hung up and Austin was standing at the table, the big grin on his big puss. He asked, “What's your name again?” “You got a hell of a memory for a detective. Get it straight for once. Dave Wintino.”
