And miraculously, she crawled to the open doorway, naked, running blood every inch of the way, and she crawled into the hallway, not screaming because there was no strength in her to scream with, crawling the long, long length of the hallway while her life drained out of her, running red into the bare brown wooden floor of the building, and then into the entryway with its mailboxes, and she reached up and managed to hold the doorknob in her tattered fingers, and managed to twist the doorknob, and then fell face forward onto the sidewalk, still bleeding.
A patrolman named Alf Levine found her a half hour later as he was making his round. He called an ambulance immediately.
There were four bulls in the Squad Room of the 87th on the night Maria Hernandez was stabbed.
Detectives Meyer and Willis were sitting at one of the desks, drinking coffee. Detective Bongiorno was typing up a DD report to be turned over to the Safe and Loft Squad. Detective Temple was sitting at the telephone, catching.
"I don't like coffee in containers," Meyer said to Willis. Meyer was a Jew whose father had a hilarious sense of humor. And since Meyer had been a change-of-life baby, which in a sense, had been a big practical joke on the old man, the old man had decided to play his own little joke on his son. And since his son's surname was Meyer, he could think of nothing more side-splitting than to make his son's given name Meyer, too. In those days, babies were born at home, delivered by midwives. There was none of the hospital pressure to name a child. Meyer's father withheld his choice of a name until the
Fortunately, Meyer Meyer emerged intact, if not altogether triumphant. A name like Meyer Meyer is a difficult burden to bear, especially if you live in a neighborhood where kids were wont to slit your throat if you happened to have blue eyes. Remarkably, considering the Meyer Meyer handle, and considering the unfortunate coincidence that had provided Meyer with blue eyes, he had managed to survive. He attributed his survival to an almost supernaturally patient attitude. Meyer Meyer was the most patient man in the world. But when a man bears the burden of a double-barreled name, and when a man is raised as an Orthodox Jew in a predominantly Gentile neighborhood, and when a man has made patience his credo, something's got to give. Meyer Meyer, though he was only thirty-seven years old, was as bald as a cue ball.
"It simply doesn't taste like coffee," he expanded.
"No? Then what does it taste like?" Willis asked, sipping.
"It tastes like cardboard, if you want to know. Now, don't misunderstand me. I like cardboard. My wife often serves cardboard for dinner. She has some wonderful recipes for cardboard."
"She must have got them from my wife," Temple called over.
"Well," Meyer said, "you know how wives are. Always exchanging recipes. But my point is that I wouldn't want you to believe I'm prejudiced against cardboard. Not at all. In fact, I might honestly say that the taste of cardboard is a taste cultivated among gourmets and civilized humans all over the world."
"Then what's your beef?" Willis asked, smiling.
"Expectancy," Meyer said patiently.
"I don't get it," Willis said.
"Hal, when my wife serves dinner, I
"So?"
"So the disappointment, after the great expectations, is almost too great to bear. I order coffee, and I'm forced to drink cardboard."
"Who's forcing you?" Willis asked.
"To tell you the truth," Meyer said, "I'm beginning to forget what coffee in a cup tastes like. Everything in my life tastes like cardboard now. It's a sad thing."
"I'm weeping," Temple said.
"There are compensations, I suppose," Meyer said wearily.
"And what are they?" Willis asked, still smiling.
"A friend of mine has a wife who has cultivated the knack of making everything taste like sawdust." Willis laughed aloud, and Meyer chuckled and then shrugged. "I suppose cardboard is better than sawdust, already."
"You should switch wives every now and then," Temple advised. "Break the monotony."
"Of the meals, you mean?" Meyer asked.
"What else?" Temple said, shrugging grandly.
"Knowing your filthy mind," Meyer began, and the telephone on Temple's desk rang. Temple lifted the receiver.
"87th Squad," he said, "Detective Temple." He listened. The Squad Room was silent. "Uh-huh," he said. "Okay, I'll send some men. Right." He hung up. "Knifing on South 14th," he said. "Levine's already called an ambulance. Meyer, Hal, you want to take this?"
