Manhunt. Volume 9, Number 1, February 1961

When he was able to talk he called Perrozzi again. “Get handcuffs on Schell and get an ambulance up here for him — we don’t want anything to happen to the lug now, and get a Matron up here so Miss what-ever-her-name-is can get dressed. Bring her in for questioning, we’ll need her as a material witness. I’ll take care of Young myself.”

“Gee, thanks, Inspector,” I said.

He swooped up my coat with one hand and me with the other. He put his right arm around my shoulder and I thought I was dancing with a bear. He headed me across to the foyer, up the little stairs, and out into the hall, then rang for the elevator.

“What’s so funny about ‘One, Two, Three, O’Leary’?” I asked him when I could breathe again.

His eyes twinkled. “You wouldn’t understand, lad,” he said. “But it brings back the old days to me. When I was a rookie in Hell’s Kitchen I never locked anybody up unless I had three charges against them, and I always made them stick. I got the nickname ‘One, Two, Three, O’Leary’ those many long years ago. It just struck me funny coming from you.”

That didn’t clear it up at all. “Why was it so funny coming from me?” I asked him.

“Well, lad, it’s like this. When my men brought that other punk, Larry Coster in, I told him I’d personally unscrew his head from his shoulders unless he told me where this Schell guy was hiding. I figured you’d be up there with him. He came across fast enough, and on my way up here I guess I was pretty peeved at you. As a matter of fact when I got you I was going to book you on no less than sixteen different charges. But you did such a good job I’m going to forget all that now, I’ll let bygones be bygones.”

“You mean you won’t book me?” I asked hopefully.

“Oh, I have to book you, lad, you know that. But I’ll cut it down to three. Homicide, leaving the scene of a homicide, and failing to report a homicide.” He roared with laughter again.

The elevator came and we stepped in. This guy had the lousiest sense of humor I had ever seen in my life. All I could say was “Um.”

“Cheer up, lad,” he guffawed. “I’ll buy you a beer or two before I book you. No, I’ll make it three. Three for ‘One, Two, Three, O’Leary’.”

I wondered if I could talk him into five or six so I could get to sleep and maybe dream of Sandra LaCoeur.