5 Detective Novels Magazine Cover — page 99: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE LITTLE SLEEP The 21st has seven cars, and we passed all seven. “Okay,” said the Inspector, “we'll go around again.” After some chow in a diner, with him glaring at me while he shoveled it away, we went back around the 21st. We'd spotted the third car for the second time when a call came in on our radio. “Car 90,” the announcer said, “Call your station. Car 90, call your station.” Car 90 was one of those we’d passed on the first trip around. “the boy has “Well,” said Pratt, friends.” Car 90 didn’t acknowledge the call. We made the fourth and fifth 21st Precinct cars, 87 and 88. Then car 89. A half-hour passed. No car 90. The kid was asleep. Sure as shooting, he was parked in some spot where he thought he wouldn’t be seen, sawing it off. And here was Pratt, with that nasty grin, ready to pounce. About ten o’clock we hit East River Drive, headed north. On one side was the river, on the other side the cemetery, and behind the cemetery a big bluff with the Wildcat Brewery on top. For a mile there’s no road intersecting, except a lane behind the cemetery. “Sergeant,” Pratt said “take a right.” “Yes, sir,” I said. I headed for the next stop light. “Sergeant!” he yelled. “Pull up!” I pulled up. “Sergeant,” he roared, “you know who I am, don’t you ?” I said, “Yes, sir.” “Then, by heaven, you make a right turn when I tell you to!” I said, “I thought you meant the next through street, Inspector.” “Turn around!” he screamed. So I turned around and headed into that lane. “Turn off your lights!” the Inspector yelled when we hit it. I turned ’em off. It was just a little dirt lane, and we bounced in and out of the ruts like a Martini in a shaker. The brewery atop the bluff had a neon cat on its roof, and the red from the neon was the only light. suddenly, 99 No ‘THERE’S nary a bit of black magic in the Murphy clan. I didn’t know the kid would be there. But if any- body can tell where a cop’s likely to hide for forty winks, it’s two other cops. Sure enough, there it was, halfway up that lane, parked behind a couple of trees—car 90. Fat Pratt leaned forward and whis- pered, “Pull up behind him and don’t make a sound. Don’t blow your horn, don’t show your lights.” Sure and he forgot about the brakes. Sure and so did I. We hit the rear of car 90 like a fullback hitting the line. “By heaven!” Pratt bellowed. “Mur- phy, that was intentional! I’ll get your badge!” The kid came bounding out then. You could see the sleep in his face—cheeks puffed, eyes half closed, hair mussed. Pratt climbed out and met him, and I followed. “Officer,” Pratt bellowed, and the headstones rippled, “you were sleeping on duty!” Like he’d been struck, the kid stopped. A yawn stuck halfway, and he stood there with his mouth open. “Officer,” Pratt hollered, “what’s your name?” “Why, it’s Flannigan,” the kid said. “You know me, Inspector. I’m Sally’s—” “Officer,” Pratt boomed, “do you know what this means?” He pointed to the fancywork on his shoulders. “Why, sure. You’re an inspector.” “It means you're supposed to salute me, Officer!” Flannigan slowly straightened up and saluted.. Pratt brought out his _ notebook. “What’s your name, Officer ?” “Flannigan. Joseph Flannigan, sir.” “Number ?” “Hight thirty-four, sir.” “You know what this means, don’t you, Officer ?” Flannigan poked around in the dirt with one shoe. “Yes, sir. But I wasn’t asleep, sir.” “Then, by heaven,” Pratt roared, “what were you doing out here? Look- ing for a ghost?” The inspector has a sense of humor like the rest of him. Sloppy. AMICLOOO@ (ei QO) (C(O) mn