Suspects by Thomas Berger Page A

Merryweather said. “But just remember I got that youth program. We like to get the youngsters into sports and away from crime. We got hoops, we got boxing equipment, all equipment donated by local merchants like Mr. Sawyer here.”
    â€œBut most importantly of all, they got you, Winston. I’m still a fan.”
    â€œOpen to all colors,” the ex-football player said.
    Marevitch joined his partner and the young punk who called himself Bob Masters. He took the utility knife from McCall and tapped its end lightly against the back of his left hand. “I’m not even going to measure this blade to see if it violates the concealed-weapon ordinance. You lucked out this time. It’s too much trouble for all concerned to run you in. My advice is not be seen around these parts again, or your ass is ours.”
    The young man stared. “You’re letting me go?”
    â€œDon’t boast about it,” McCall told him.
    They escorted him to the doorway. “Now,” said Marevitch, “you walk straight down that aisle there and right out the door and don’t look left or right. If you stop for a second, we’ll change our minds.”
    Customers had reappeared, either new ones or those who assumed the threat was over. A place of business was usually quickly cleared out by anything that suggested crime. This had changed, in Marevitch’s memory, from the old days when for many curiosity took precedence over fright. Nowadays, for good reason, everybody was scared. Winston Merryweather’s escorting the shoplifter to the back room had probably been enough to empty the store, even though in this case the burly, menacing-looking black man represented virtue.
    Before the officers left, Sawyer thanked them and said, “Policemen and their family members are always entitled to ten percent off here. I know there’s some regulations against gifts, but I’m talking about a discount when you’re off duty and out of uniform, with wives and kids. You just say hi to me when you come in, and it’ll be taken care of.”
    McCall grinned and said, “Be seeing you, Mr. Sawyer.”
    Back in the car, he took the wheel. “He’s got clothes there. He’s got jeans and sneakers and all, over across from the toys.”
    Marevitch removed his cap and wiped the cracked leather sweat-band with a handkerchief. The balder he got, the more his head perspired: you might suppose it would be the other way around. “I’m just thinking about Winston Merryweather. What a tough break. I maintain he would have made All-American and probably gone on to become a rich man as a pro. Had it all, power, speed, and the killer spirit, though you wouldn’t know it to look at him.” He opened the glove compartment and tossed in the utility knife.
    McCall was nodding with reference to Merryweather’s gridiron days. He had himself attended the rival school and had football ambitions but was too small even by the sophomore year to go out for the team. With the irony that so often obtains in human affairs, he began to grow to his current size only after forgetting about his own participation in the game. He reminisced about this to Marevitch, who had heard it many times but listened politely now. McCall finally cut it short to say, “I wonder if we should have gotten that kid’s real name and run it. What do you think?”
    â€œYou know my policy of keeping down clutter,” Marevitch replied. “With the computers it hasn’t gotten better, but worse. Have you noticed any less paperwork?” He chewed his lip. “A kid steals a rubber duck ain’t going on to rob a bank any day soon.… Listen, Artie, you better wait awhile before taking even any discounts anyplace. I told you, Internal Affairs is going on the warpath right now. I know that for a fact.” As a veteran of the force, Marevitch had a few friends in the department, people in jobs