Tales of the Animal Crime Squad

If I've Learned Anything in the years I've worn a shield, it's that there are two things that have an irresistible attraction for animals. One is any kind of fad, the sillier the better. The other is breaking the law. I'm Sergeant Vinnie DiFalco of the Animal Crime Squad, N.Y.P.D. My partner is a good-natured slob named Fogarty.

I'd say the average citizen is totally unaware of our job, and those who have heard of us assume we enforce the various city ordinances that have to do with pets. Nothing could be further from the truth. We couldn't care less about expired licenses, pooper scoopers and cats that scream all night on the fire escape. We're out to get the big fellow, like--But let me tell you about a typical recent case. You might learn something.

Now, at first, some people thought it was cute that a fox terrier would run a telephone-answering service, and in a few short weeks after this animal started his business, he had more subscribers than he could handle. So what did he offer that was so special? He answered the phone with a bark. That was it, and that was all. For the rest of it, he switched on the machine and tape-recorded the message, if you were leaving one. Or, if you were picking up the messages that came in while you were out, then he ran the tape back and played it for you. I mean, he wouldn't say a word, now, would he? But you know how people are--fact is, you might (continued on page 216)Animal Crime Squad(continued from page 200) say they love fads as much as any animal.

So all well and good then at the beginning, but another trait of an up-and-coming animal is a tendency to go too far. Before long, we began to get complaints that this fresh pooch was doing nothing but barking; in other words, didn't bother to record the calls in any way! Now, his ads continued to run in the metropolitan-area papers and he even started buying radio spots. If he was taking money for a service he failed to provide, he was breaking the law. Speaking for myself, from the first moment I heard of this dog's business, I figured it was only a matter of time before I'd be called in. Call me prejudiced, but I never saw a fox terrier who could keep his nose clean for long.

My plan was simplicity itself: to burst into his office by surprise and take the animal into custody with a minimum of fuss. We have one advantage in our squad that is not enjoyed by the rest of the force, and that is that a search warrant is not needed to enter premises occupied by a nonhuman tenant. (As a rookie, I didn't know that, and made a fool of myself once by bringing a warrant to the door of the tenement room where a Dalmatian suspected of bank robbery had holed up; he ripped the document from my hand and tore it to bits.)

The only weakness of my plan was soon revealed: I could not discover the dog's address. The fact was that the fox terrier had an unlisted phone number! The little so-and-so had shrewdly anticipated that the kind of people who would sign up with an answering service operated by a dog were probably most of them snobs who would pay a premium for exclusivity. It should have been a simple matter for me to get the address from the telephone company, but I'm afraid Ma Bell decided at this juncture to pose as a defender of animal rights. It seemed pretty hypocritical for my money, but I was told in no uncertain terms that either I came up with a court order or I might as well go home and practice the harmonica. Frankly, I think some funds may have changed hands earlier on; I can't see why otherwise the phone company would go to bat for a fox terrier.

But that did put me on my mettle. How to find one mutt in a city overpopulated with the four-footed? However, I did have one advantage: How many dogs operated answering services? Yet even with this clue, it would take a pretty piece of investigatory work to corner him. It might be tedious, but eventually it must prove effective if I went from door to door, street by street, district by district, until at some point I crossed the animal's trail. Or, again, I could save shoe leather by simply remaining at my desk at headquarters, dialing phone numbers at random or going in a sequence through the directory, until finally I was answered by a bark.

I decided to begin with the second of those tactics. In recent years, I have put on a bit of extra weight, and it tires me to haul it around on foot. The door-to-door approach would no doubt be the more certain to yield results, if pursued relentlessly, but, between you and me, the thought of all that walking was a horror. I picked up the telephone.

It's hard to believe that on only the fifth call I heard a loud bark at the other end of the wire! I could hardly contain myself.

"Say," I said, using my planned speech, "I've been looking for a good answering service, and yours has been recommended in the highest terms." There was no response. "Hello?" I cried. "Don't you want my business?"

Finally, a male human voice answered. "Sorry about that. I had to take the dog into the next room. She's jealous when I talk on the phone."

"Uh-huh," said I. "I don't suppose your dog runs an answering service?"

"No sirree," said the man. "Not Suzy. She keeps house for me. Before that, she was a nurse at Beth Israel. That's where we met, during my appendectomy."

The insolent answer annoyed me, and I hung up immediately, perhaps too soon. Now that I think about it, the guy may have had something to hide.

I dialed another ten, twelve numbers and took a lot of abuse from citizens who weren't amused by my questions. At this point, Fogarty came into the squad room, chewing on the inevitable unlighted cheroot. He had black circles around his eyes. His beefy face was haggard.

"I never got a wink all night," he complained. "The phone kept ringing, and when I would pick it up, it was the wrong number but always a different voice. The wrong numbers were honest, I figured, and not the work of somebody seeking revenge--unless, of course, he was a master at disguising his voice or went to the trouble of organizing at least twenty friends in the scheme. Anyway, I finally took the phone off the hook, but then the hum kept me awake."

"Hmm," I said, mostly to myself, "could there be a connection ... ?" To Fogarty, I said, "You didn't run across the bark of a dog?"

He glared at me. "You know, Vinnie, sometimes your idea of humor--"

"I'm serious, Fogarty. I'm working on that squeal about the dog who runs an answering service."

"If you want," Fogarty offered, "I'll ask around."

By this he meant among his regular informants, a motley crew of low-lifes, addicts of various kinds and a good many phonies, poseurs, perfectly respectable people who enjoy the thrill of being supposed by the police to be petty criminals. I expected little genuine assistance from this quarter.

Fogarty sat down at his own desk and began to work the dial of the telephone. He spoke to various persons, invariably greeting each of them with another alias, and a ludicrously outmoded one, at that. Who nowadays is actually known as Butch or Gertie or Slick? No matter; it was during his fifth or sixth conversation that he gestured violently toward me. I raised my eyebrows.

He took the phone away from his mouth for a moment and covered the instrument with a meaty fist. "Pay dirt?" he asked, his lips forming the letter Q, of which the tip of the tongue made a little tail. "Maybe."

"And maybe not," I said. I didn't want to encourage Fogarty in his sense of drama, which is always likely to turn maudlin.

"Well, Blackie," he said into the mouthpiece, while winking significantly at me, "do you know this for a fact? ... Now, don't get nasty. It was simply a question.... Yes ... yes ... no ... yes...."

"Oh, for God's sake," I grunted, and turned to my own telephone. I realized I had neglected, in my random calling, to put down any of the numbers I had dialed. I was therefore in danger of repeating some of the useless combinations. How careless can you get? I realized I was hardly in a position to be disdainful of Fogarty's help. I looked over at him with a certain humility.

At just that moment, he began violently to write in the notebook before him. He slammed down the phone, tore the page from his book and thrust it at me.

I took the paper and read silently: "Blonde at First and Seventy-second."

"It may not be much," said Fogarty, "but it's a beginning."

I sighed. "I know you're trying to (continued on page 325)Animal Crime Squad(continued from page 216) help, Fogarty, but there must be thousands of blondes on the sidewalks at any given time. Why would this one know anything about a dog who operated a telephone-answering service?"

Fogarty began to pout. Sometimes he can be oversensitive.

"Ok, what have I got to lose?" I said, with more cockiness than I felt, and I got up, put my belt on a tighter notch and headed uptown.

I work in an unmarked hardtop that has seen better days, but it's an effective cover. I expected the trip would be completely futile, but wonder of wonders, when I reached the designated corner, the blonde was still there. I must say, she looked too garish to be a streetwalker, but it did occur to me that she might well be a decoy cop, a male officer padded in the right places and dressed in women's clothes, with a purpose to attract a robbery or rape attempt.

To test my hypothesis, I left the car and sidled near her/him, displayed my shield in a cupped hand and said, "Di-Falco, Animal Crime Squad."

The blonde said, "If you don't go away, I'll call a cop."

"What do you think I am?"

"Some creep who bought a phony badge to shake people down with."

"Take a look at my I.D." I put my card under her nose. She squinted at it.

"Ok," she said. "Now what?"

"You wouldn't know of a dog who operates a telephone-answering service?"

"What if I do?" She reared back and put her hand on her hip.

"Don't get cute with me, baby," I said. "There's a loitering law in this town."

"I might know of such a party," said she. "You want to sign up for the service, is that it?"

"I'll say this, Blondie, you've got as much chutzpah as anyone I ever met."

"Listen, you got to survive."

I gave her a bill that was tightly rolled into a cylinder the size of a cigarette. "Pick your teeth on that," I said, hoping to give the impression it was a larger denomination than the dollar it was.

"Ok, buster," said she. "You bought yourself some information. I don't know the dog personally, but I've left a message or two with him--on his machine, that is. He just answers the phone and then switches on the recorder."

"It may be misrepresentation," I said sternly. "What about you, miss. Think he handles the business properly, or do you think subscribers have a right to complain?"

She sneered at me. "For God's sake, can't you find something better to do? There are vicious criminals all over the street, and you spend your time harassing doggy businessmen?"

Her attack really made me smart. "All we're trying to do is protect the public, young lady. It might be nice if we got some cooperation and not this incessant criticism."

She turned contrite. "Well, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, officer. You can find the dog in apartment fifteen twenty-six, in that building right over there, with the striped canopy." She pointed down the block.

"Thanks, miss. I appreciate it."

I lost no time in getting to the building and taking the elevator to the 15th floor. I found the door marked 1526, backed up and prepared to run at it with the battering-ram of my shoulder but prudently changed my mind and tried the knob. It turned easily. An unlocked door in Manhattan? I didn't like the bravado it implied, but I went on in.

I found myself in the typical entrance hall of a contemporary apartment. A mirror hung on the wall and under it stood a little table on which a week's junk mail had accumulated. Two pairs of overshoes had been negligently hurled into the corner. Here a sole was displayed, there a flopped-over upper. One fact was notable: These galoshes were positively tiny, too small, I'd say, for any child. In a word, they were just the right size for a small dog.

I drew my service revolver and stealthily approached a closed door at the end of a characterless hallway, passing on my right a living room full of what seemed indifferent modern furniture arranged around a bright-blue rug in an Oriental figure. It smacked of a dog's taste.

I put my ear against the door. Not a sound came from within. I turned the knob and hurled myself into the room.

There he was: a white fox terrier with one black patch across his face and another as back saddle. His beady eyes flickered negligently over me for a second, and then he turned back to his work.

The animal wore a headset. One earphone looked slightly askew, but the other was well seated, a pointed ear rising above it. A tape-recording rig was on the table before him. Even as I watched, a bell sounded, the machine kicked in and started its reel and the dog barked sharply into the mike that a U-shaped wire brought alongside but not quite to the end of his pointed jaw.

I had to admit that the operation seemed kosher in all respects, though maybe that was only because I was there. But what could I do if I couldn't find any violations?

"Ok, bud," I told the animal, "you look clean as a whistle right now, but just remember, we got our eye on you. We get any more complaints and--" Had I not got a bright idea at that point, the dog might have escaped being brought to justice for years.

On an impulse--it was really more curiosity than suspicion--I decided to listen to the kind of messages people left with the dog. I moved him out of the way and played back a few minutes of his tapes. It didn't take long.

I had put my gun away. I drew it now and with the other hand went for the two pair of pawcuffs I carry looped over my belt in the small of my back. These manacles permit a prisoner to walk slowly, at a mincing gait, but, of course, not to run.

I took the animal downtown and booked him on a charge of procuring. So why did the blonde finger him? I leaned on her pretty hard, of course, but these babies don't crack that easy. Here's my theory: Either she was under the management of a rival pimp or, as I had first suspected, she was working undercover for another law-enforcement agency and wanted to get rid of me before she was compromised. I suppose it doesn't matter.

As for the fox terrier, he was subsequently sentenced to six months in the animal correctional facility in the borough of Richmond. On appeal, that was reduced to three months and the sentence was suspended. Don't kid yourself; by now, that dog's back at work. But I have no regrets about doing my job. And I owe one to Fogarty.

The Pelican Felonies

Some citizens confuse us with the A.S.P.C.A. or a veterinary service, or even with the Department of Sanitation. Fogarty has a short fuse with people who call complaining about horse droppings on their block. "Put 'em in your window boxes!" he shouts, and hurls the phone down.

We also get complaints about dog bites, bee stings and anything connected with pigeons; and, of course, if somebody's pet alligator is missing, it is routine for us to get the squeal.

But, as it happens, none of these things are our affair.

"Then just what is it you do?" peevishly asked the old lady to whom I had just tried to explain that we could not look for her missing parakeet--unless, of course, there was good reason to believe it had committed a crime.

"You see, ma'am," I said, "a lot of people are reluctant to admit that crimes committed by animals are on the rise, and our squad is first to feel any budget cut. But the problem isn't likely to go away by itself."

The old lady made an obscene remark and hung up violently. Across the desk, Fogarty smirked in sympathy.

He moaned. "Oh, if they only understood!"

"That's asking for the moon, Fogarty," I barked. "Meanwhile, we can't lollygag around here; there's work to be done." I pushed my swivel chair away from the desk, went downstairs and hit the street.

Prevention is, or should be, part of our job, and I try to get out there where it's happening before it happens. By golly, I had hardly gone a block when I spotted a big striped cat twisting off the antenna of a parked car. These alley cats use a length of tube from the old-fashioned kind of aerial to form the barrel of a crude but lethal zip gun, and if the weapons were only employed in animal gang wars, we might well look the other way. (Who would cry if they all knocked off one another?) The trouble is, it doesn't stop there. Sooner or later, a big torn who carries such a piece will use it for a candy-store heist or street mugging.

So I drew my service revolver, spread-eagled this suspect against the car and frisked him. He wasn't carrying any heat, for one, and for another, he produced, from a fake-lizard wallet, a driver's license and a registration slip for the car. Both of these were current, and both were in his own name. It turned out that he had been trying to straighten the antenna, which some young punks had bent but had not been able to break off before he appeared and sent them packing.

I apologized. These things happen. He took it in good spirits, got into the car and drove away, too much blue smoke coming from his tail pipe. I suppose I could have cited him for that, but I didn't have the guts after my previous boo-boo.

I didn't get three blocks beyond the scene of this episode when I saw him, between the tailor and the deli, in the doorway of the empty shop where the gypsies used to live: a big French poodle, recently clipped by the look of him, and wearing a trench coat with the belt tied, not buckled. I admit I have a prejudice against any animal who affects such a style. I was only amazed that he wasn't also sporting a wide-brimmed fedora.

I felt certain it was only a matter of moments before he made his move, and sure enough, a nice-looking, well-dressed woman, say in her early 40s, came out of the deli, turned the corner, glanced at the dog for an instant and then quickly averted her face. Frenchy had whipped open his coat and, you guessed it: He wore nothing underneath.

I quickly closed in on him, but the wily devil saw me coming, and his legs proved a lot more nimble than mine. Suffice it to say that he was gone before I reached his doorway. But I'll know him when I see him next time.

Well, for a day that started off so briskly, it then settled down to a subsequent four hours of inconsequence. I left a lot of shoe leather on city sidewalks. I ate a frank, hold the onions, coffee with everything. The acid in the latter got to me, or maybe the milk was sour, and I went into a discount drugstore to look for relief. Having to make a choice among the various antacids made my indigestion worse. Tablets, liquids, all the labels were attractive and probably all the products contained much the same medicaments.

While I was studying the shelves, along came a big robust pelican, who apparently suffered from the same complaint as mine, for he, too, began to examine the aids to digestion. But from that point on, our styles showed a wide divergence. While I continued to deliberate, the bird opened his deep-pouched beak and began to fill it with an example of each pill and potion offered for sale. I thought that interesting, for these products are far from being cheap; he was obviously a well-to-do creature. And I'll admit to feeling some bitterness. I have to watch my pennies, while some damned bird can waddle in and buy anything he wants!

Well, I had enough of this, and started to leave. But he stepped back, as if to get a wider perspective on the shelves, and in an effort to avoid running into him, I swerved and, losing my balance, took a tumble. I'll say this for him: He was decent enough about offering to help me up. He put out a wing tip, but I declined with thanks and, thoroughly embarrassed by then, got out of that store as quickly as I could.

But scarcely had I reached the next corner, traveling briskly, when behind me I heard that cry which, veteran though I am, never fails to thrill me to the core. I think that, underneath it all, my principal motive for originally joining the force might well have been to hear a voice, seething with fear and outrage, cry, "Police!"

I ran back to the store. A pudgy man, wearing a Smile button that probably marked him as the manager, was pointing into the sky. I looked up. A pelican was flying heavily up the side of a nearby office building. There was some question as to whether or not he could clear its roof, though the structure was a modest one, say, of a dozen or so floors.

"They're not the most graceful of birds," I said. "Furthermore, if he's the one I think he is, he's weighed down by a beakful of Tums, Maalox, Pepto-Bismol bottles and more."

"And none of them paid for," said the flabby man. "He's a shoplifter. And where are the cops when you need them?"

"Say no more," I told him. "Sergeant Vinnie DiFalco, of the Animal Crime Squad, at your service."

"I'd like some I.D."

I considered this an insulting demand, but I went for my shield. I couldn't find it; that pelican was also a pickpocket! But apparently he was not a violent criminal, for my gun was still holstered at the left side of my belt.

I drew it now and pointed it up at the bird, who was really laboring with his wings in an all-out effort to gain the roof and get out of sight. One couldn't help feeling sympathetic to him, but I had a job to do. I squinted my eyes, took careful aim, allowing for his travel and the wind, and squeezed the trigger.

I missed him altogether and everything else as well. I've always wondered where such bullets end up--perhaps as the work of a mysterious sniper in Queens.

The pelican reached the level of the roof, went over it and could no longer be seen from my angle. I returned my gun to the holster, deciding not to make any excuses.

"Can I use your phone?" I asked the manager. "I'll put out an all-points on that baby."

"Cost you a dime," said he, and by golly, if he didn't stick out his hand.

I paid him, went inside and called Fogarty.

"What kind of pelican was it?"

"Don't be a wiseacre, Fogarty. We're not ornithologists. There's only one kind so far as we're concerned--the kind with the sack under his beak. He can haul away a lot of loot and take to the air when pursued. Frankly, I don't see how we can easily stop him. We could call in the air guard, but even the smallest of its weapons would probably miss him but devastate a strip of city. I can testify that a handgun, fired from street level, is not effective."

"What about a net?" asked my partner.

"With how long a handle? Think what you're saying, Fogarty."

"Naw. What I mean is a big square of netting, dropped from a copter."

"Hey," I said, "that's not bad, you know? Want to put the call in for me?"

Fogarty whined. "I got work of my own, Vinnie."

"All right, all right, signal the operator to put me on to the--" The connection went dead before I could finish my request that I be switched to the extension for the police helicopter service. I searched my pockets. That had been my last dime. The manager was cold to my request for a free call.

"Buddy," said he, "I just lost ten, twenty bucks' worth of merchandise. Don't make it worse."

Well, before the week was out, that pelican had hit ten stores in various parts of town, and the city was on the verge of mass hysteria. The mayor was burned in effigy, the police commissioner resigned in disgrace, and had I not been the only officer who could recognize the wanted bird, I wouldn't have had a job myself.

The pelican had refined his technique. It was damned hard to find a weakness in it. He would march into any store that took his fancy, that shield of mine dangling from his beak, and be taken everywhere for a legitimate cop. The irony was that the department was reluctant to issue me a replacement, and in the absence of my tin, the average civilian gave me no credence whatever.

But, like any man, a pelican has his weakness. With this particular bird, it wasn't booze or broads, nor any type of dope. In fact, by all counts, the pelican was an absolute abstainer when it came to any of the usual vices. He didn't even smoke. Tobacco stores were just about the only business establishments that were immune to his ravages. But the son of a gun had a sweet tooth that he simply could not control. So if he robbed a five-and-dime or other variety store with a candy counter, you can be sure that in making his exit, he spared a moment to stop and rake up a couple of pounds of chocolates with that great scoop of his beak, and according to the information furnished us by eyewitnesses, he would hurl his head back and swallow those right down. Remember that his neck pouch would at that point be filled with the other loot he had taken, generally hard goods, some pieces of which were of a surprising size and weight. At least once he stole a miniature Japanese TV set, and at another time, a large tape deck!

"He's got a childish streak, Vin," Fogarty said after listening to my latest report. The pelican had cut a swath through the diamond shops in midtown. Now, these places don't have candy departments, but there are little lunch counters tucked in among the jewelers, and the bird had stopped by a couple of those places and helped himself to the more gooey of their pies and jelly doughnuts--and paid no check, you can be sure.

"Well, he's a mighty rich kid now," I said. "What gets me is how he can dupe all the private security guards they've got everywhere in the jewelry trade. I know he shows the shield he took from me, but since when is a thing with feathers and a big beak a sergeant of detectives? Do those people believe everything they read on a badge?"

"Heck, Vinnie," said Fogarty, "I can't fault you in your low opinion of the average citizen's intelligence, but we can't use that as an excuse to let this pelican continue to make a fool of us. He's not supernatural, is he? If you ask me, he's all too human. Since you know he tends to work the same area of town until he's cleaned it out, why can't we dose all the candy and desserts in a given district with knockout drops? Then, when he--"

"Fogarty, Fogarty," I groaned. "What about all the other people who'll be eating those things?"

"A harmless drug, Vinnie!" he replied.

"A sleeping-pill formula or the like. So innocent people take it and fall asleep for a while. What's the damage?"

"I won't dignify that with a detailed answer," said I. "You should know better. But the basic idea, that the candy be treated somehow, is not bad.... A bird has no teeth, you know."

Fogarty had been stung by my remark. His reply was resentful. "Nor can a fish shake hands. So what?"

"I'm just trying ideas on for size," I said. "I suspect the answer to the problem lies somewhere in the differences between bird and man.... By George, you've hit on it, Fogarty!"

"Huh?" By his expression, I could see he was ready to be mollified, but I decided to let the suspense build. I've got a malicious streak.

It wasn't easy, getting cooperation on a plan like this. I was told at the first few stores I approached that they'd rather lose some merchandise to the bird than do what I suggested at their candy counters; the cure would cost them more than the kill. But then I got clever, and at my next port of call, introduced myself as a TV director, checking out locations for a study in depth of shoplifting. From there on, I encountered no more resistance, and by the end of the week, my trap was set in several score of the pelican's potential targets, along a four-block strip of the East Side, where our informants had reported seeing the bird window-shopping in recent days.

But we still weren't out of the woods, by a long shot. To begin with, the pelican suddenly and for no apparent reason did what has always been considered virtually impossible for any criminal: He changed his M.O. And I don't mean added or subtracted a minor trick or two. No, his entire act was transformed from start to finish. Now he would go into a shop disguised as another type of creature altogether, a golden retriever, say, or a raccoon, in town for a convention. Instead of my shield, he'd display, on the lapel of a natty tweed jacket, one of those cards that conventioners wear: HI! I'M __ Who are you? He'd fill in the blank with any one of a collection of common diminutives: Jerry, Walt, Richie or the like.

Nor was he any longer a shoplifter: Now his trick was to approach the nearest salesperson to the cash register and show a note that read:

Ten, count 'em, ten sticks of dynamyte is whyrd to my boddy. Give me all the money else I will blo us all upp.

Despite its spelling, this message was hand-printed impeccably. By whom? But did that matter? The bird was continuing to make a fool of us, and I, for one, was fed up.

"You know, Fogarty," I said, watching my partner open his hot hero sandwich and probe into its filling with the end of a ballpoint pen, "I think we should tell people to call his bluff. What do you think? Tell 'em to say, 'Ok, bud, then set off your dynamite.' I think he'd end up with egg on his face. Where would a bird get high explosives, plus a detonating system compact enough to be carried on his person?"

Fogarty was shaking his head over the mess in his sandwich. "Sausage, Vinnie. There's supposed to be sausage in this. I can't see nothing but the peppers, onions, tomatoes." Finally, he slammed down the lid of bread and took a bite. I had to wait till that was thoroughly masticated and swallowed. At last, he said: "But could you afford a mistake?"

"Thanks, Fogarty," I said. "I needed that reminder. You're right, of course. And I still think it was brilliant of you to suggest putting only caramels in the candy departments of all the midtown stores. If the bird gets a mouthful of those, he's had it; his beak will be glued shut."

"But I didn't give you that idea," said Fogarty, "and, anyway, it wouldn't stop him from flying away, would it?"

"Now, don't be a defeatist, partner!" I replied in a jolly voice, but I realized his argument was devastating. So much for the only idea with promise!

The fact is that we never did collar that pelican. But the one-bird crime wave ended soon after his adoption of the new modus operandi. Apparently, he really had got hold of some dynamite sticks and some means of detonating them, because within a day or so, he suddenly blew up while crossing at an intersection. Luckily, traffic was thin at that hour. No human beings were hurt, and aside from a lot of broken plate glass and an excavation in the middle of the street, no damage was done. They say feathers continued to float down for a quarter hour after the blast.

He was an enterprising bird, and, despite Fogarty's sneers, I frankly admit to having a certain admiration for such a worthy adversary.

The Snake with Stars in his Eyes

So far as I know, the only call there ever was for snakes in the world of entertainment was to accompany exotic dancers, and that's a thing of the past. Though I don't know why, it was a winning act in its day. But even then, the kind of serpent used was one of the big devils, boa or python, whereas the snake I'm talking about was a little garter type. Hell, he wouldn't have made more than a foot and a half in length if he, so to speak, stretched on tiptoe; and in girth, your ordinary frankfurter would be thicker. But it might truthfully be said that the little fellow was all heart.

If it sounds as though I liked him, you're right. But I can't ever allow emotion to interfere with my duty. If a pet of mine committed a crime, I'd bring it to justice, and my own brother Sal has never been able to forgive me for testifying in court against a Persian cat of his, an animal subsequently convicted of kiting checks and sent up the river.

I got to know the reptile in question through a squeal that came in from the stage-door man at a Broadway theater. Contrary to what you might think, this bald-headed, white-fringed old coot was called not Pop but Wayne.

It seems that the ingénue of the musical comedy then in performance claimed she was being harassed by a snake. Wayne was right to call us in. If this charge could be substantiated, the serpent would be guilty of an aggravated misdemeanor or a felony, depending on the length of his body and whether he carried a deadly weapon. Nevertheless, at first, the old doorman had failed to take the young woman seriously. One, how would a snake get into the dressing room of a theater in the middle of town? Unless, of course, he had been the partner of one of the aforementioned exotic dancers, none of whom had ever been known to perform on this stage. The second reason had to do with the notorious nearsightedness of the actress. In fact, coming to complain about the snake, the girl had fallen over Wayne as he sat near the door in his classic camp chair, reading a tabloid and, of course, wearing a battered old felt hat on the back of his head and exposed suspenders on his trunk.

"Ok," said I. "Just when and why did you correct your first impression--uh, sorry, I keep wanting to call you Pop, Wayne."

We exchanged stares for a moment, and then he went on: "The fact is, there really was a snake, all right. Not twenty-four hours went by before I seen him. I went to the water cooler, is when it was, just after the first-act intermission at the Wednesday matinee; house was full of ladies on theater parties--gee, I tell you, Falconi, I never get tired of that suspense just before the curtain goes up, when all the world is waiting for that moment of magic--"

"All right, let's drop the schmaltz and get to the details. And my name's DiFalco, Pop."

He shrugged and measured off maybe a foot, foot and a half, with two hands on edge. "Little bugger he was, there on the floor underneath the water cooler. Now, the impulse of a lot of people is when they see a snake to run get something to smash him with, but as it happens, I'm a farm boy, born and raised Upstate. I tell you, Falkowitz, you don't know what milk is until you drink it warm right after the cow gave it, maybe with a thick slice of homemade bread and--"

"Mouth's watering, Pop, but go on about the reptile."

"So what I meant was, you been around a farm, you never kill a snake. And this theater is full of mice that been around since it was built at the turn of the century."

"Say," I said, "this ingénue, is she a good-looker?"

He made his mouth sag and punched the air with an elbow. "Heck, there's all kind of taste. She's a bit skinny for my money, but I guess there's some who'd think her the cat's pajamas."

"Like 'em zaftig, personally, do you, Wayne?" I eyed him narrowly. In how many old movies was the doorman a sex maniac? I made a mental note to have Fogarty run a make on him when I got back to headquarters. "But go on about the snake. So you didn't do him any harm?"

"Far from it. I don't mind saying it gets pretty lonely back there when the performance is finished and you're waiting for the last few actors to clean their make-up off and leave."

"That's a notoriously melancholy time," I said.

He grinned at me, showing ill-fitting dental plates. "Have a showbiz background, Falkland?"

"Pop, my job has put my foot in many doorways. Don't try to make too much of it." I didn't like the way he immediately tried to get familiar. I'm nobody's buddy when I'm on a case.

My rebuff served the purpose of getting him back to the subject. "Fact is, far from doing damage to the little fella, I picked him up and carried him back to a little private corner I made for myself in the property room. I got a hot plate there and some powdered coffee, and I keep a little can of evaporated milk, and I poured some of that in a jar lid and set it down for the snake. I tell you, he lapped it up like he was famished, and did the same until the whole darn can was empty. Poor little devil obviously hadn't eaten in some time."

"Ok, you've brought me close to tears," I said, in the raspy voice I assume when I deal with certain members of the public. An officer is trusted more if he seems hard-bitten. "But if this serpent just became a pet of yours, you wouldn't have called the department, right?" He had been smiling, but now his old face fell. "I'm getting to that. First thing that happened, after Bobby had been with me only a day or so--I named him Hobby, after the son I never had."

This seemed warped to me, but I'm not paid to make judgments on the taste of civilians I come across in an investigation. I nodded in silence. But he wouldn't let well enough alone.

"I guess that seems warped to you?" he asked.

"Frankly, it does," I answered. "It's a snake, after all."

"To hell with you," he said. "It's my life." Suddenly, tears welled from his eyes and he took a balled handkerchief from a back pocket and daubed at his face.

"Turned on you, did he?" I asked, not without sympathy. "Well, console yourself with this thought: that then he was behaving like a real son. I did it to my own dad. As an old bootlegger, it broke his heart to see a boy of his become a cop."

Wayne stopped sniffling and assumed an almost cruel look. "No," he said, "it was not that way at all. But if you'll just let me tell my story. Where was I?"

"Giving evaporated milk to a snake," said I. "But first tell me, Wayne, isn't there a show tonight?" Have I failed to mention thus far that we were standing backstage in the dim light of one naked bulb?

He sneered. "Don't you know we're dark on Sundays?"

I gave it back to him: "I got more important things to do than memorize showbiz schedules and jargon."

He went on: "In a day or so, Bobby was helping himself to the evaporated milk. Next, he found some doughnuts I had brung along, and darn if he didn't wriggle through one and make like a Hula Hoop, you know?"

"That right?" I scowled, but actually I thought it was pretty cute.

"I got to admit," he said, "I thought it was pretty cute, even though he usually ruined the doughnut by getting it going so fast it would shoot over his head, bang against the wall and break apart. I guess I showed him I thought that was real clever, because the next thing I knew, he began to elaborate on the trick. He'd switch on the transistor radio I had back there, get some music to accompany the Hula Hoop act, and he'd really go to town. You know what happened next, don't you?"

"Haven't the slightest idea." I shivered a little. The theater was cold backstage, and awfully shabby. I don't know why they call Broadway glamorous.

Wayne must have noticed my shiver, for at this point, he pulls a flat bottle from the back pocket of his rumpled old gray pants. "Take a pull on this, sonny."

I wiped off the mouth of the bottle with a twist of my palm and took a swig. I suppose it was muscatel. Vicious stuff.

The old doorman reclaimed the bottle and drank a good quarter of its remaining contents in one breath. Then he said, "'I'll admit to having a taste for the juice. That's why my own career went no place. I was a pretty fair hoofer in my day--when I could stand up."

I realized belatedly that the old codger had been about two thirds drunk when I began to talk to him.

"Ok." I nevertheless persisted, "so the snake developed an act using doughnuts like a Hula Hoop."

Wayne nodded. "But they was too brittle, so he switched to bagels. But along about now, he finds a bottle I had put aside for a rainy day, gets the cap off and has a taste. Well, sir, he finds he don't mind if he takes another, and it ain't long before you got a little reptile lush."

I made a joke. "A snake who sees snakes, huh?"

But Wayne scowled. "He'd get real surly when he had a skinful, I tell you. There was no living with him at such times. Trouble was, though Bobby got better and better at his act, I didn't dare ask anybody to come to my little hideaway to watch him perform." He took another blast from his bottle. "They'd think I was having d.t.s."

"And they'd be right, you old bum," I said in disgust. "Get me over here on a Sunday afternoon to tell a drunken lie about a dancing snake. I ought to work you over." But part of this, anyway, was for the purpose of provoking him. Long experience with animals had prepared me to believe they are capable of anything, and I am, for example, personally convinced that a number of unsolved crimes could be explained if we found the animals involved.

In answer, Wayne took a battered wallet from his hip pocket. He found a snapshot within and handed it to me. The photograph was blurred to start with and had since acquired a patina of dirt and oil, but its subject could be discerned clearly enough: a snake, standing on his tail. About halfway along his length was a blurry thing that could have been a whirling doughnut or bagel.

"All right," I said, "but don't think that's conclusive proof. It could be faked. There's a funny smell to this whole thing, if you ask me. I'm beginning to suspect (hat if you did have this snake, it was long, long ago, but in your drunken stupor, you've got the idea it all happened only yesterday."

He stared silently at me for a long moment, through bleary eyes. Then he said sorrowfully: "Ok."

"You're admitting it?"

"Naw, I just pity you, fella," said he. "What do you know?"

"I don't want to be hardhearted," I said, "but you're going to have to do a lot better than you have so far in credibility. If this snake exists, where is he now? More importantly, what crime are you accusing him of?" I explained. "See, if he's wandered away and got lost, or if he's been stolen, that's not our business. We're called in only for animals that are suspected of committing crimes--using the term in the widest sense, embracing not just four-footed creatures but also fowl, amphibians, fish, even insects. You might be surprised to know that a significant number of vicious criminal acts are committed each year by such commonly overlooked creatures as centipedes, silver fish, and so on, and I don't think you'd relish finding yourself at the end of a dark alley with a grasshopper who had gone bad; they're fast and they're mean."

He was not impressed by this information. He resumed his narrative. "Unless he got his chance, I could see Bobby was going to drink himself to death. So I went to the producer of the show and told him about the little snake, crazy as it seemed, and lo and behold, Mr. Morgenstern not only listened to me but when I was done, he says, 'Come on, let's audition him!' So before he changed his mind, I went to my hideaway to get Bobby." He stopped, got out his pint and drained it dry before resuming. "That was yesterday afternoon."

"So?"

"So Bobby was gone, and so were a number of my valuables, which I had kept tucked away back there: diamond ring, silver-handled ebony cane--"

"Yeah, yeah," I said, "and your wallet containing a thousand in hundreds, no doubt. Wayne, if you ever had a ring, it went to the pawnbrokers years ago, along with your silver-handled cane. The truth is that the combination of the muscatel and your loneliness today in this empty theater has resulted in this snake-and-bull story."

He lowered his rheumy eyes and with a sad nod seemed to admit the justice of my account. "You going to run me in, Sarge?"

"No, Wayne. I told you I deal only with animal perpetrators. It's true that you've got a summons coming, taking up my time when I should have been out on cat patrol--for some reason, felines commit most felonies on Sunday--but I'd have to go to the trouble of getting a regular cop, and, frankly, you're not worth it." I glared at him, but he was looking past me.

I turned, and there was the little snake, on the floor just beyond me. His body was encircled by a diamond ring just behind his head, and in a loop of tail, he clasped the ebony cane with the silver handle, drawing it along in his wake.

"Bobby!" cried the old stage-door man. As if in answer, the snake somehow raised the cane and wound himself around it, balancing it erect on its tip! Now, that was quite a feat, in my book. I passed my hands through the air above him, but no invisible wires were there for support, nor was the cane embedded in a hole in the floor.

"By Godfrey, Wayne," I admitted, "I'm impressed."

"So am I," said he. "He must have learned that one in secret. That's what he's been doing for the past day. I feel lousy about calling you in, Sergeant."

"Not on your tintype," I said enthusiastically. "I wouldn't have wanted to miss this. Let's give him the hand he deserves."

So the two of us gave Bobby an ovation that would have done credit to a whole audience, and you can be sure he took more than one bow. Then Wayne produced a stale bagel and Bobby performed his Hula Hoop stunt.

"He's even better than you said," I told Wayne, who had broken out another pint. Perhaps it was my heightened mood, but this batch of muscatel was a great improvement over the first. I had a drink, and then Wayne wet his own whistle.

"What do you think?" he asked, nodding toward Bobby. "Hasn't he earned one?"

I certainly agreed to that.

Well, the bottle went around the three of us, and it wasn't long before there was none left, so I went out and up the street to see a guy who owed me one, and brought back a treat of my own, and so we killed that Sunday afternoon.

•

I had a thick tongue and a head full of pain next day, and Fogarty is always in a foul mood on Monday morning, having spent Sunday with his in-laws. Nevertheless, I told him my story.

When I concluded, he simply stared at me, silently and without expression.

"Mark my words," I said, "Bobby will make it one of these days. Just remember you heard it here first."

"I'll remember," Fogarty said dully.

"You're being sarcastic, aren't you?"

"Huh-uh."

But he was, I know he was. He's that contrary type who, if they really agree with you, won't show it, but always say yes when they're sure you have made a fool of yourself.

I produced that blurred photograph of Bobby in action, which I had begged from Wayne.

"Looks like a real cute pet," said my partner. "But where would an old rummy of a stage-door man get a diamond ring and a silver-handled cane?"

I sighed. "Don't try to take the magic away from this, Fogarty! Pop probably got them from the property room. So maybe they weren't real diamond and real silver. What does it matter? That's not the point! This is the enchanted world of showbiz. Performing animals are a breed apart. They should be granted a little more latitude than your plow horse or milch cow."

My partner's eyelids had become very heavy. "So what about the charge?"

"Huh?"

"That the serpent was allegedly harassing this actress."

A tiny man was running back and forth inside my cranium, banging its walls with a baseball bat. But I can't say this was my virgin hangover. Maybe I had been hitting the sauce a little too much lately. Was that what Fogarty was trying to tell me?

But you get to thinking negative in my line of work and you're finished.

"Ever hear of a bum rap, Fogarty?" I shot a finger toward his chest. "Let's face it, you're jealous! When was the last time you discovered a headliner of the future?"

"Sure you did, Vinnie. Sure you did," said my partner.

The trouble with Fogarty is that he came to me off the special task force against muggers. He spent too many nights wandering through the park as a decoy, wearing a dress, a wig and a sock-stuffed bra. Say what you want, that kind of thing makes its mark on a man.

"It's hard to believe that on only the fifth call I heard a loud bark at the other end of the wire!"

"His beady eyes flickered negligently over me for a second, and then he turned back to his work."