City of the Dead

»52«

“Yeah, that’s ours. We did that job.”

“You did?”

“Sure—come right outta this shop. What about it?”

“Can you tell me somethin’ about it?”

Mr. Murray Bloom bites deeply into a corned beef on rye. Chewing energetically, he waves with almost pontific grandeur at the piece of torn and crumpled newsprint held by Flynn. “Sure. What can I tell you?”

Flynn reaches across the desk and lays the page before him. “Says there you printed this paper on March thirty-first.”

“Wrong. It was distributed on March thirty-first.” Mr. Bloom bites deeply into a sour pickle, then sucks Coke noisily up through a straw. “Ran it off about a week and a half before.” He dabs hectically with a napkin at the pickle juice that has squirted onto his tie.

The phone rings on Mr. Bloom’s desk. He snatches it up, listens a moment, making a series of long-suffering, explanatory faces at Flynn. “Listen—can’t talk now. I got someone here. Call me back in half an hour.” He hangs up, reaches once more for his corned beef on rye, and nods at Flynn to resume.

“Says here,” Flynn goes on, “in the upper right-hand corner, number 3118. What’s that?”

“Serial number.”

“That mean that this here is the three thousand one hundred and eighteenth copy of the paper you printed?”

“Right.” Mr Bloom’s jaws clamp neatly over a full quarter of his sandwich. ‘That’s what that means.”

“Every paper you print have a serial number?”

“That’s right.’ Mr. Bloom nods and chews.

“Can you tell me how many you printed?”

“Oh, Jesus—how the hell would I know? You gotta know that?”

Flynn smiles. “It’d help.”

Bloom presses a buzzer on his desk and stares impatiently out of the glass wall partition of his office. Beyond the glass can be seen rows of Linotype and huge offset machines making monstrous clanking sounds Men wearing sun visors and elbow garters are seated at each. Proofreaders and messengers, galley runners and secretaries, swarm back and forth outside the glass like innumerable small fish in an aquarium.

Shortly an enormous woman of Buddha-like proportions waddles toward the glass door of the office She has a Kewpie-doll face, heavily made up, and she is sweating profusely.

“Come on in, Tessie.” Bloom, sucking his Coke, waves her in. “Tessie, this is Sergeant Flynn of the police. Tessie Balbato.”

They mumble hellos, and for a moment the heavy girl is flustered, overwhelmed with shyness.

“Tessie”—Bloom holds up the sheet of newsprint—“offhand, can you give us the print run on this Clintonian job?”

“We pulled seven thousand five hundred copies,” the girl replies instantly.

“So that this one was pretty near the middle of the run?” Flynn asks.

“If it says 3118”—Bloom ingests the second half of his pickle—“you know then we pulled some four thousand more—right?”

“Four thousand three hundred and eighty-two more,” says the fat girl, instantly supplying the exact number.

Mr. Bloom glances sharply at her. “Right—four thousand three hundred and eighty-two more.”

Momentarily baffled, Flynn glances back and forth at both of them.

Mr Bloom bites hard into his corned beef on rye. “So what’s next?”

“So,” says Flynn, “where do these papers go after they leave here?”

“Jobbers, wholesalers. They then distribute it to the newsstands and cigar stores in the area. That particular paper’s only distributed in the Clinton district. Comes out four times a year. Is that through the News or the Post, Tessie?”

“The News,” says the big girl. “They slip it right in at the stand.”

Flynn nods and makes a note on his pad. “These jobbers—how many of them take care of the Clinton district?”

Bloom’s chewing comes to an abrupt halt, a bit of corned beef still sticking out of the corner of his mouth. He glances toward the girl. “Tessie?”

“We deal with four in that area,” she replies instantly. “Spiegel Kristofos Wagoner Brothers, and Charles.”

“Charles pay that bill yet Tessie?” Bloom snaps.

“No.” The girl looks uneasily at him. “Marty went over to see him today They promise for next Friday.”

“I’m not holding my breath Bloom inserts the final quarter of the sandwich into his mouth, continuing to speak all the while. “Go right ahead, Sergeant. Sorry to interrupt.”

“That’s okay.” Flynn smiles. “I’m almost finished anyway. Just one more question. You got any way of tellin’ me which one of those four distributors handled this particular piece of paper?”

Bloom chews pensively for a moment. “You got the invoice slips for that run, Tessie?”

“I’m pretty sure.” She glances nervously at Flynn. “Hold on. I’ll be back in a minute.”

She waddles quickly from the office with that curious, light-toed grace not uncharacteristic of very fat people. For a few moments the two men chat inanely about the weather while Bloom goes about the business of polishing off the remainder of his lunch. He now has before him a macaroon and a large paper container of tea with lemon.

Shortly the fat girl is back in the office with a thick folder of invoice sheets. Licking her thumb periodically, she flicks swiftly through them. “Okay—here it is,” she says, evidently pleased. “Clintonian—Spiegel took the first two thousand, Charles took the next two thousand. The Wagoners took the next eight hundred, so that’d start with number 4001 and run through 4800. And Kristofos took all the rest—4801 through 7500. What number were you interested in again, Sergeant?”

“3118.”

“That’d have to be Charles,” Tessie says, snapping her invoice folder shut.

“Charles—my good friend Charles.” Mr. Bloom belches softly.

“Where is this Charles located?” asks Flynn.

The fat girl glances down at her invoice sheet. “452 West 49th.”

“Over by Tenth Avenue,” Bloom says. “You going over there?”

“Right now,” says Flynn.

“If you talk to Stanley, see if you can’t get my money.” Blooms chuckles. “Tell him you’re the police and I sent you over.”

Bloom laughs out loud; then, so does the fat girl.

“Say, what’s all this about, anyway?” Bloom bites deeply into his macaroon and waves the crumpled page of news-sheet at Flynn. “What’s all the big fuss about this piece of paper anyway?”

“Nothin’ much.” Flynn laughs along with him. “We just found a severed head wrapped up in it. We’re trying to find out who did the choppin’, that’s all.”

For a moment there’s complete silence as the laughter wanes on Mr. Bloom’s lips and his jaws cease to chew. Then the page of crumpled newssheet slips from his fingers, wafting languidly downward to his desktop like a snowflake. For a man who only moments before had been hooting with glee, who was even then still savoring the mingled flavors of his lunch, he appears suddenly green and queasy.

“Finish up your macaroon,” says Flynn, grinning broadly, “it looks very good. And thanks for everything.” He reaches across the desk and snatches up the torn, crumpled page from where it has lighted on the waxed paper and various leavings of Mr. Bloom’s lunch.

As he passes the fat girl on his way out, he tips his hat rafiishly and winks.