A Horse’s Head

8. Bozzaris

At eight o’clock on Saturday morning, Mullaney was brought up to the lieutenant’s office, together with the eight other prisoners who had spent the night downstairs in the precinct’s detention cells.

The lieutenants name was Bozzaris, and he sat behind a scarred wooden desk in the only two-window office in the squad-room, puffing on a cigar and studying the men who stood before the desk in various attitudes of discomfort. He had very black hair parted in the middle. The part seemed to lead directly into a rather long cleaving nose which bisected his face, pointing toward the long cigar in the exact center of his mouth, which seemed in turn to join the cleft in the exact center of his chin, so that Bozzaris seemed to possess a face that had been formed by folding an ink blot in half, thereby producing two equal and identical sides.

“Well,” he said, “I don’t know how many of you folks who were arrested last night are familiar with the procedure here in New York City, but I thought I might fill you in on it for your own benefit and also because I have always been a maverick, witness my name.”

Mullaney had never heard of a maverick named Bozzaris, but he made a mental note to look it up in his encyclopedia when he got the chance and also when his landlady let him back into his room.

“We used to have a thing here in New York, oh maybe two three years ago, which has now been abolished, but which was a very good thing while it lasted. I am referring to the lineup, which I am sure at least some of you folks are familiar with, and which has been discontinued oh these past two three years. Now the lineup was a very good thing, I will repeat that, a very good thing, because it enabled detectives from squads all over the city to go down to Police Headquarters on Centre Street and get an actual glimpse of all the people who were committing crimes all over this fair metropolis, that was the purpose of the lineup. As some of you folks here may know, only felony offenders were taken to the lineup, and a felony is a crime punishable by death or imprisonment in a state prison, so we used to get quite a show down there every morning from Monday to Thursday. But unfortunately that’s all been done away with, be that as it may, we won’t go into police policies right now, let’s just say the loss has been keenly felt, especially by nonconformists like myself, witness my name.

“Well, I want to tell you that whereas the Police Department of the City of New York may have done away with the lineup, Detective-Lieutenant Alexander Bozzaris has not done away with it here in his private bailiwick, which happens to be this squad-room in this precinct right here. Every morning before we take you people down to the Criminal Courts Building to be arraigned, I have my own personal lineup for the felony offenders we pulled in the night before, just for the enlightenment of all the hard-working detectives on my squad. Now I want to assure you folks that this is just an informal little gathering, but in keeping with the landmark ruling of the Supreme Court of our land, I am compelled to mention several things to you which you may or may not care to take advantage of. I must advise you, first of all, that you don’t have to answer any questions I ask you, and also that anything you say can and will be used against you in court, though I’m sure you know we won’t take unfair advantage, nossir. Next, in keeping with the protection afforded to you by the Fifth Amendment of our Constitution, which gives you the right to choose between silence and speech, I have to tell you that you can ask for a lawyer, and if you can’t afford one, the state will have to get one for you, though I’m sure none of you is going to need a lawyer at this informal little get-together. And lastly, I want you to know that if you make any statements without a lawyer being present, the burden’s going to be on us to prove that you waived your rights. So, as you can see, we’re pretty much hamstrung here, and I’m sure none of you is going to have any objections about this little private lineup, do any of you have any objections?”

Mullaney thought for a minute that he might object, but then saw that none of the other prisoners were objecting, and decided he wouldn’t be a spoilsport.

“Okay then,” Bozzaris said, “if there are no objections, and I appreciate that, folks, I sincerely do, then I guess we can get on with our little lineup here. Please take seats on that bench over against the wall there, and I’ll bring my fellows in, and we can get this show on the road, I hope you all had a good night’s rest downstairs in our comfortable detention cells.”

Bozzaris pushed a button on his desk, and a detective appeared at the door. “All right, Sam,” he said, “bring the other fellows in, and let’s get this show on the road.”

“Right,” Sam said, and went out, and came back again not two minutes later with five other detectives who nodded at the lieutenant and then began to perform certain routine chores and duties around the room. One of them drew the green shades on the mesh-covered windows; another of them turned out the overhead light; yet another pulled down a white screen that was hanging on the wall opposite the lieutenant’s desk. Even in the semidarkness, Mullaney could sec that the screen was marked with graduated height readings: five-foot-four, five-foot-six, five-foot-eight, and so on. The detective named Sam turned on a spotlight that hit the screen in a sudden explosion of intense whiteness, and then the lieutenant cleared his throat and said, “Well, let’s begin.”

“Ready to begin, sir,” the detective named Sam said.

Bozzaris cleared his throat again. “Well, let’s sec what we have here this morning,” he said in a friendly cheerful manner, and then called off the name and the age of the first offender.

The man who got off the bench and walked to the screen was nattily dressed in a dark brown suit, white shirt, yellow tie, and polished brown shoes. He looked like a jockey. He stood against the screen and Mullaney saw that his height was just five feet six inches. In the same cheerful friendly voice, Bozzaris told the assembled detectives why the man had been arrested, and then said, “No statement,” which Mullaney took to mean the prisoner hadn’t said anything when they’d apprehended him, a gambit he himself had employed the night before, mainly because he had been unconscious at the time.

“Well now,” Bozzaris said, “it seems that you picked somebody’s pocket last night, Jerry, is that right?”

“No,” Jerry said, “I’m innocent.”

“Be that as it may,” Bozzaris said in his friendly familiar voice, “two off-duty detectives saw you stick your hand into a man’s pocket and remove his wallet from it, isn’t that right, Jerry?”

“No, I’m innocent,” Jerry said, which Mullaney wished he wouldn’t say quite so often or quite so strenuously.

“Well, Jerry,” Bozzaris said, “when you were arrested we found a man’s wallet in your pocket, and the name in that wallet was David Gross. Now your name doesn’t happen to be David Gross, does it, Jerry?”

“No, it’s Jerry Cooke” Jerry said, sounding astonished.

“That’s what I thought, Jerry.”

“Yes, that’s what it is,” Jerry said, sounding even more astonished.

“So how did this wallet with a driver’s license for a man named David Gross, and a Diners Club card for this man David Gross, and oh all sorts of identification for this man David Gross, happen to come into your possession? Would you happen to know, Jerry?”

“Gee, I wouldn’t happen to know,” Jerry said.

“Unless you picked it out of his pocket, isn’t that right, Jerry?”

“Gee, I wouldn’t know,” Jerry said.

“Well, what do you think, Jerry?”

“I think I’m innocent.”

“You didn’t pick Mr. Gross’s pocket?”

“No, sir. That I definitely did not do.”

“Are you a pickpocket, Jerry?”

“Yes, sir, I am. And a very good one, I’m proud to say.”

“Jerry, I have your B-sheet here, and I think these gentlemen might be interested in knowing that you have been arrested for picking pockets on three separate occasions, and convicted on two of those occasions, so just how good a pickpocket you are would seem to be a matter for debate. Did you or did you not pick Mr. Gross’s pocket?”

“No, sir, I did not. I am innocent.”

“Jerry, you had better have new stationery made,” Bozzaris said. “Next case.”

One of the detectives took Jerry’s arm and led him to the door, where a uniformed policeman was waiting to escort him out. Mullaney watched with rising anticipation, knowing very well that he, personally, had not committed a felony or, for that matter, any crime — and hoping to tell that to Bozzaris at the earliest opportunity. But there were eight other prisoners in the room (including a woman, he now saw), and he wondered how long it would take Bozzaris to get to him.

“Harrison, Randolph, age twenty-six,” Bozzaris said, “beat a man over the head with a stickball bat. No statement.”

Harrison got off the bench and walked over to the white screen, shading his eyes with his hand and trying to see past the glaring spotlight. He was a man of medium height and build, wearing a plaid sports jacket and dark-blue slacks. His white shirt was open at the throat, and he wore no tie.

“Well now,” Bozzaris said, “why did you hit a man over the head with a stickball bat, Randy?”

“Who says I did?” Randy answered.

“Well, the man you hit over the head with the bat, for one.”

“If I hit him with anything at all, which I didn’t, it was definitely not a stickball bat.”

“What was it?”

“A broom handle.”

“What’s the difference between a stickball bat and a broom handle?”

“A stickball bat has had the broom part taken off of it, whereas what it is claimed I hit him with had the broom part still attached. Therefore, if I hit him, it was with a broom handle which was never a stickball bat.”

“Be that as it may, why did you hit him?”

“If I hit him, which I didn’t, it was because of a tip.”

“A tip?”

“On a horse.”

“You gave him a tip on a horse.”

“No. He refused to give me a tip on a horse.”

“So you hit him.”

“I persuaded him to give me the tip.”

“On which horse?” Bozzaris asked, and Mullaney looked toward the desk, where he saw Bozzaris picking up a pencil and moving a small pad into place.

“Well, I don’t know if I should reveal such a confidence,” Randy said, “especially since it is claimed I hit a man with a stickball bat.”

“Perhaps the charge will be dropped, who knows?” Bozzaris said.

“Who knows indeed?” Randy said. “But in the meantime, why should I give away a perfectly good tip on a horse which was supposed to run yesterday and got scratched, but which is running today instead. At twenty-to-one on the morning line.”

“Twenty-to-one?” Bozzaris asked.

“Twenty-to-one,” Randy said.

There was a new flurry of activity in the room. Mullaney noticed that all the gathered detectives were opening their black books in which they took notes on criminals and criminal activities, and reaching for pens and pencils.

“Where is this horse running?” Bozzaris asked.

“Aqueduct.”

“Which race?”

“The second race.”

“And the horse’s name?”

“It is too bad about this charge against me,” Randy said.

“It certainly is,” Bozzaris agreed, “but people are talking to the D.A. all the time, and who knows what will fall upon his ear? I personally, in fact, do not see how anyone could get hurt with a broom handle. It had been my impression that this person was assaulted with a stickball bat, which is a horse of another color.”

“A stickball bat can be a very dangerous weapon,” Randy agreed.

“Certainly. But I don’t see how a broom handle, especially with the broom attached, could be at all dangerous.”

“Neither do I.”

“Ask him the horse’s name,” one of the detectives said.

“By the way, what is the horse’s name?” Bozzaris said.

“I will tell you in confidence if you promise to respect the confidence,” Randy said.

“I will certainly respect the confidence,” Bozzaris promised.

Randy walked to the desk, bent over it, and whispered something into the lieutenant’s ear. Bozzaris nodded and scribbled a word onto the pad in front of him. Mullaney tried to see what was written on the pad, but the room was too dark and the desk too distant.

“Thank you,” Bozzaris said, “I certainly appreciate this confidence.”

“Please say hello to the district attorney for me,” Randy said.

“Next ease,” Bozzaris said. “Hawley, Michael, age fifty-seven, and Ryan, Diana, age fifty-five, broke into a jewelry store on West Forty-seventh Street, no statement. How about it, folks?”

There seemed to be a new excitement in the air, and Mullaney realized it had nothing to do with the tip Randy had just given the lieutenant, which tip was still secretly nestled under Bozzaris’ large protecting hand. The detectives were leaning forward avidly, their eyes fixed on the man and woman who now stood against the illuminated white screen. Mullaney found himself leaning forward as well, intently studying the pair and trying to determine what accounted for their undeniable star quality. There was no question that they were the leading performers thus far, though not next-to-closing, and Mullaney could not imagine why. They seemed to be the most ordinary sort of aging couple, the man a lanky fellow in a dark-green raincoat, his hands in his pockets, his hair long and unruly, a dazed look on his face; the woman a frizzled redhead wearing too much makeup, a wrinkled blue dress, and the same dazed expression. Yet every detective in the office was giving them his undivided attention, and even Bozzaris’ voice dropped a decibel or two, so that it now seemed he was talking to a pair of honored guests in his own living room, the governor and his wife perhaps, his voice friendly and warm, the port sparkling in the light of a cozy fire, intimate and relaxed; Mullaney heard himself sighing.

“What were you doing in that jewelry store, Mike?” Bozzaris asked.

“Looking,” Mike said.

“For what?”

“A ring.” Mike smiled in embarrassment. “For Diana,” he said.

“For who?”

“Diana.”

“Me,” the woman said. “He was looking for a ring for me.”

“At three o’clock in the morning?” Bozzaris said.

“Yes,” Diana said, and blushed.

“Why?”

“Because we just got engaged,” Diana said, and smiled.

“What?”

“Last night. And we needed an engagement ring.”

“At three o’clock in the morning?”

“Yes. Well no. We got engaged at two-thirty. So Mike said we needed a ring.”

“So we went out shopping for one,” Mike said.

“But all the stores were closed,” Diana said.

“So you decided to open one,” Bozzaris said.

“That’s right,” Mike said. “But we didn’t mean any harm.”

“It’s just we’re in love,” Diana said, and squeezed her fiance’s hand.

“Let me get this straight,” Bozzaris said. “You got engaged...”

“I love you, darling,” Diana said.

“I love you, too, sweetheart,” Mike said.

“... last night at two-thirty and decided you needed a ring...”

“Yes, to seal the engagement. I love you, honey.”

“Oh darling, yes, I love you, too.”

“Now cut it out!” Bozzaris said. “There happens to be a law against breaking into jewelry stores.”

“What do jewelers know about love?” Mike asked.

“Or policemen, for that matter,” Diana said.

“Be that as it may, you’d better listen to me, you two, because this is something pretty serious here, and I want some honest answers.”

“All our answers so far have been honest, Lieutenant,” Mike said sincerely, and blew a kiss at Diana.

“Good, and I hope they’ll continue to be that way because we appreciate honesty here, don’t we, fellows?”

The detectives grunted.

“I love you,” Mike said.

“I adore you,” Diana replied.

“This is what I want to ask you,” Bozzaris said, “and I’d appreciate an honest answer: Did you know that a large jewelry concern on Forty-seventh Street was broken into on Thursday night?”

“What’s that got to do with last night?” Mike asked.

“I love you,” Diana said.

“Last night was Friday night,” Mike said.

“That’s true, and I’m glad you’re still being honest with us,” Bozzaris said. “But I’m asking you about Thursday night, and I want to know whether or not you were aware of the information I just gave you.”

“What information?”

“That a large jewelry store on Forty-seventh Street was broken into on Thursday night.”

“No, I was not aware of that information,” Mike said.

“Now that you’re aware of it, what do you think?”

“I don’t know anything about it,” Mike said.

“Neither do I,” Diana said. “All I know is I love him, oooh, I love him, love him, love him.”

“Would it surprise you to learn,” Bozzaris asked, “that several very expensive gems were stolen from that concern on Thursday night?”

“It would surprise me,” Mike said, “because I have no knowledge whatever of the heist.”

“I adore you,” Diana said.

“The stolen gems were diamonds, Mike.”

“That’s very interesting.”

“There were three very large diamonds stolen, Mike, each about ten carats, and there were also eight smaller diamonds stolen, about five or six carats each.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mike said, “but what’s it got to do with love?”

“Lots of money involved here, Mike.”

“Can money buy love?” Mike asked.

“I worship you,” Diana said.

“Mike, when our patrolman found you and Diana there in the jewelry store with the alarm ringing, you were stuffing your pockets with diamond rings, kid stuff compared to the Thursday-night heist, oh maybe one or two carats each, some a little larger, maybe something like twenty thousand dollars involved, small potatoes. But don’t you think it’s possible, Mike, that someone who knocked over a place on Thursday night — and got away with it — might decide to come back to the same street on Friday night and knock over another place?”

“It’s possible,” Mike said. “Are you saying I knocked over that place on Thursday night?”

“You just said it was possible.”

“Why would I do a thing like that?”

“Why not?”

“We weren’t even engaged on Thursday night. In fact, we hadn’t even met on Thursday night.”

“Kiss me,” Diana said.

“Why’d you need so many rings?” Bozzaris asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You had seven or eight rings in your pockets. Why’d you need so many?”

“A girl like Diana should have a choice,” Mike said.

“He’s mad about me,” Diana said.

“I’m mad about you,” Mike admitted.

“So your story is you know nothing about that other heist, huh?” Bozzaris said.

“What’s your favorite color?” Mike asked Diana.

“Yellow,” she said. “What’s yours?”

“Blue. Who’s your favorite singer?”

“Sinatra. Who’s yours?”

“Yes, oh yes! Do you want boys or girls?”

“Three of each.”

“Get them out of here,” Bozzaris said.

“Do you like walking in the rain?”

“I love it. What’s your favorite pie?”

“Blueberry.”

“I love you.”

“I adore you.”

Mullaney watched as they led the engaged couple out of the room, trying to figure out how he could sneak over to Bozzaris’ desk for a look at the nag’s name on the pad there under his hand. If this really was a bona-fide tip, and if the jacket at the library really did contain the clue to the whereabouts of five hundred thousand dollars, “... age thirty-nine,” Bozzaris was saying, “charged with Burglary in the First Degree. No statement.”

The room was silent. No one rose from the bench to walk toward the screen.

“Is he here?” Bozzaris asked.

“Mullaney, Andrew,” the detective named Sam said. “Are you here?”

“Present!” Mullaney said, and rose swiftly.

“All right, Andy, let’s get up there,” Bozzaris said.

Mullaney nodded and walked toward the screen. The spotlight was blinding, he could see only the detective sitting closest to the screen; beyond him, the room was a black void. Bozzaris’ voice came out of that void, friendly and familiar. “Shall I read that again, Andy?”

“Please,” Mullaney said.

“Mullaney, Andrew, age thirty-nine,” Bozzaris said. “You’re charged with Burglary One, what do you have to say?”

“I don’t understand the charge,” Mullaney said.

“I will explain the charge, or at least the part that applies to you,” Bozzaris said. “You are charged with violation of Section 402 of the Penal Law of New York State, Burglary in the First Degree, which is defined thusly: A person who, with intent to commit some crime therein, breaks and enters in the night time, the dwelling house of another, in which there is at the time a human being and who, while engaged in the night time in effecting such entrance, or in committing any crime in such a building, or in escaping therefrom, assaults any person. That is the charge as it applies to you, Andy. How about it?”

“I didn’t break and enter any building.”

“You broke and entered a cottage owned by a Mr. Roger McReady of McReady’s Monument Works in the borough of Queens, at or about midnight last night.”

“I was invited into the cottage.”

“You broke and entered in the night time the dwelling of another at which time Roger McReady, who I’m told is a human being, was present. And in attempting to escape from this dwelling, you assaulted a friend of Mr. McReady’s by tackling him and knocking him to the ground in the cemetery where he was giving chase. What do you say, Andy? Burglary One happens to be punishable by no less than ten and no more than thirty.”

“Years?” Mullaney asked.

“Years.”

“That’s a long time.”

“That’s a very long time. What do you have to say, Andy?”

“What is it I’m supposed to have burgled?”

“You’re supposed to have burgled a considerable amount of whiskey, as well as some very good cheese and salami. Is this your first offense?”

“I’ve never had any trouble with the law before,” Mullaney said.

“In that case,” Bozzaris said, “the arraigning magistrate may wish to set bail for you since this is your first offense. So what we’ll do is take you downtown to be mugged and printed, and then you’ll go over to the Criminal Courts Building where you’ll be arraigned and a date for your trial will be set. Do you have anything to say before you go?”

“Yes, but I would like to tell it to you in confidence,” Mullaney said, “if you promise to respect the confidence.”

“I will most certainly respect the confidence,” Bozzaris said.

Mullaney walked to the desk and bent over it. He stepped carefully to Bozzaris’ left, so that Bozzaris had to lean over slightly, his hand moving away from the pad upon which he had scribbled the horse’s name. Mullaney put his mouth close to the lieutenant’s ear, and then glanced swiftly at the penciled lettering on the pad:

“I’m innocent,” Mullaney whispered.

“Be that as it may,” Bozzaris said.

The name Jawbone was blinking on and off inside Mullaney’s skull as he was led to the door and out of the office, letters ten feet high, JAWBONE, jawbone, JAWBONE, jawbone, the nag who was supposed to have run in the fourth race yesterday, apparently scratched — according to Harrison, Randolph, age twenty-six — and running today instead, twenty to one on the morning line. If that jacket at the library could really tell him where to find the five hundred thousand dollars, and if Aqueduct would take all the money he could bet in the half hour between races — Mullaney was so lost in thanking God for the good fortune that had caused him to get arrested, so lost in counting the profit he would make on that wonderful marvelous horse Jawbone, that he scarcely realized he was being led with the other prisoners into a police van and taken downtown to 100 Centre Street, where they were photographed and fingerprinted, JAWBONE, jawbone, JAWBONE, and then marched across the street for arraignment. The presiding magistrate was a man who looked like Spencer Tracy in Judgment at Nuremburg. Apparently thinking Mullaney was Heinrich Himmler, he sternly read the charge against him and asked whether Mullaney understood it. Mullaney said he did. The judge then asked Mullaney how he chose to plead, and Mullaney said, “Not guilty.” The judge then asked him whether or not he could afford a lawyer because if he couldn’t the court would supply one from the Legal Aid Society, but Mullaney said he would find his own lawyer, thanking the judge just the same, and having in mind Marvin Pitkin who had done so well for Feinstein before his comical demise. The judge then told Mullaney that he personally considered First Degree Burglary a heinous crime since it involved the violation of a man’s sanctum sanctorum, the breaking and entering into his home of homes, his dwelling place, in the night time, all of which sounded very familiar to Mullaney and almost put him to sleep. Because of the serious nature of the crime, the judge said, he was going to set an extremely high bail for a first offense, and that bail would be five hundred dollars. Mullaney was about to tell the judge that meeting such a bail was an impossibility, when a voice at the back of the courtroom said, “I’ll pay this man’s bail, your Honor.”

“Your name, sir?” the judge asked.

“Arthur Purcell, your Honor,” the voice from the rear of the courtroom said.

Mullaney turned and saw Purcell — a blond, pleasant-looking man of about thirty-three, wearing a grey suit, white shirt and black tie — walking toward the front of the courtroom. The judge told him to settle things with the bailiff, and Purcell immediately went to the right-hand side of the courtroom where someone, presumably the bailiff, was sitting behind a desk covered with rubber stamps and inked pads, and officially banging away at all the documents spread before him. Mullaney saw Purcell reaching into his back pants pocket for a wallet, and then the judge cleared his throat and Mullaney turned toward the bench again. The judge informed him that he was expected to appear in court on May seventeenth, and that if he did not appear on that date, the bail would be forfeited and a warrant issued for his arrest. He asked Mullaney whether or not he understood that. Mullaney said that he understood it completely. Very well, the judge said, you are released on five hundred dollars bail until the seventeenth of May, try to stay out of trouble until then. Mullaney assured the judge that he would try very hard to stay out of trouble, meanwhile thinking of the jacket in the library and of how many tickets on Jawbone he could buy and of how he would spend the money plus all of his winnings on a life of romantic adventure in Monaco, Rio de Janeiro or perhaps even Jakarta. Purcell fell into step beside him as he walked toward the leather-padded doors at the rear of the courtroom.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Purcell,” Mullaney said. “I certainly appreciate your generosity and kindness.”

“Don’t thank me,” Purcell said, and held the door open for Mullaney to precede him into the marble corridor.

“Who should I thank?” Mullaney asked, and immediately saw K standing by the corridor window.

K no longer wore his torn and tattered rags of the night before. Instead, he was dressed in a freshly pressed blue suit. He looked very grim, if extremely neat, the small gold K still holding his tie in place. He beckoned to Mullaney, and Mullaney figured there was no sense arguing with him now, especially since Purcell had a rather large and unsightly bulge on the left-hand side of his coat, which could not have been caused by his wallet because Mullaney remembered that he kept his wallet in the back pocket of his trousers. He also remembered that K had put a hole in his jasmine shirt the night before (something for which he would never entirely forgive him). Someone — probably Feinstein — had once taught him never to argue with gentlemen who were heeled, so he decided to chat instead and desperately searched for an opening conversational gambit that might possibly eradicate the very grim look K — and now even Purcell — was wearing.

“I heard you were dead,” Mullaney said at last.

“No, I am alive,” K assured him.

“I see that.”

“Yes.”

“That’s a very nice suit.”

“Thank you. It was made for me by the same person who tailored your burial garments.”

“Oh,” Mullaney said.

“Yes. Which brings up a small matter...”

“You weren’t dressed nearly as well last night,” Mullaney said.

“That’s because I was in an automobile accident and then was forced to make my way through the brambles and bushes lining the parkway in order to avoid getting killed by the people who had engineered the accident.”

“I see,” Mullaney said.

“Yes. Some people by the name of Adolph Kruger and his fellows, with whom I understand you have become acquainted.”

“I didn’t know his name was Adolph,” Mullaney said.

“Well, there is oft ignorance afoot,” K quoted, “but it neither dims nor extinguishes the true light.”

“I’m sure,” Mullaney said.

“About the jacket...”

“But on the other hand...”

“... Roger McReady tells me that you know where the jacket is, and that...”

“... on the other hand, there is oft true light afoot, but it neither dims nor extinguishes the ignorance.”

“On the other hand,” K said, “people have oft had their heads broken for not listening to reason and answering questions that have been put to them.”

“What was the question?” Mullaney asked.

“The question was: Where’s the jacket?”

Mullaney suddenly remembered that he was inside a courthouse (a sign over the entrance doors advised him that this was PART 1A, and a second sign on a metal stand to the left of the doors read JUDGE LUTHER HORTON PRESIDING) and further remembered that this was a criminal courthouse. It was then that he noticed how many policemen of every stripe were swarming all over this second-floor corridor, and wondered whether K or Purcell would risk shooting at him with so many uniformed minions of the law abounding, not to mention untold invisible plainclothesmen. How could they risk shooting, how could they even risk giving chase?

“Why should I tell you where the jacket is?” Mullaney asked, stalling while he made his decision. He didn’t feel like running again (he had been doing so goddamn much running lately), but neither did he feel like getting shot at again, or even hit on the head again.

“You should tell us where the jacket is,” K said logically and smoothly and calmly, “because if you do, I will induce Mr. McReady to drop the criminal charges against you, which charges — as you may or may not know — could lead to at least ten years in a state penitentiary.”

“Yes, I know that,” Mullaney said, thinking furiously. “But what’s so important about that jacket?”

“Let us say it has sentimental value,” K said.

“Let us say bullshit,” Mullaney said.

“Mr. Mullaney,” K said, “the possibility also exists that we will kill you if you do not tell us where the jacket is. Have you weighed that possibility?”

“Yes,” Mullaney said, thinking Why, I don’t have to run at all! All I have to do is turn swiftly and economically and begin walking toward the elevator bank in the middle of the corridor. “I have weighed the possibility,” he said, “and I’ve decided you can’t lay a finger on me.”

He smiled politely, and would have tipped his hat if he were wearing one. Then he turned swiftly on his heel and began walking as fast as he could toward the elevators. Behind him, K and Purcell held a hurried, whispered consultation, and then immediately began walking after him, as fast as they could without attracting the attention of any of the corridor policemen. Mullaney reached the elevator bank just as the doors on one of the cars were closing. He walked in swiftly, caught a quick glimpse of K and Purcell just before the doors closed, heard another elevator operator in another car shout “Down!” and realized they would not be very far behind him when he reached the street floor. His heart was pounding, and his hands were sweating, but he stood very calmly in the midst of lawyers and clients and policemen and bailiffs and judges while the car dropped soundlessly in its shaft. Ignoring the several ladies present, he stepped out of the car before them the moment it stopped, and walked rapidly toward the entrance doors and the street. He did not look back at the building until he had reached the corner of Leonard Street, and then he turned and saw K and Purcell bounding down the steps. The horses are on the track, Mullaney thought, trying to sound like Freddie Capossela in his mind, It is now post time. He took a deep breath, said aloud, “They’re off!” and began running.

It was a nice day for a run.

If a fellow has to run, Mullaney thought, he certainly couldn’t wish for a nicer day than this one. He could remember fishing for blue crabs one night off a Fire Island dock, Irene luring the crabs in with a flashlight and he scooping them up into a net before it began raining. They had run that night because the rain was suddenly upon them in torrents and they were positive they could be drowned just standing still on the dock. The house they had rented for the month of August was at the far end of the boardwalk, adjacent to Saltaire, and they were both barefoot and afraid they would pick up wood splinters, neither of them dressed for the sudden summer storm, there had been stars and a moon in the sky when they’d begun their solitary crabbing. But they ran nonetheless into the pelting rain and were drenched within minutes. And then, suddenly, there was no point in running any longer, they were both as wet as they ever would be. So they said the hell with it, and joined hands and idly ambled up the boardwalk, laughing and singing, and waking at least two irate neighbors who shouted for quiet, thereby waking at least two more. They were wet to the marrow when they finally reached the house, shivering on the front porch while Mullaney tried to extricate the key from the sodden pocket of his dungaree trousers. They each drank a shot of medicinal brandy, and Mullaney lighted a fire in the old fireplace, filling the house with smoke that sent them out laughing into the rain again.

He could remember that nights running with great pleasure, and he wondered now whether they hadn’t done the very sensible thing, whether it wasn’t advisable to stop running when you really had nothing further to lose, and realized that what he had to lose right now was his life, and tried again to understand what was so terribly important about that jacket lying in the stacks of the New York Public Library, and couldn’t. He knew he should hurry back there to pick it up before someone found it, but he also knew he could not go there with K and Purcell in hot pursuit. So he kept running east, away from the library, coming out into Chinatown, and then continuing eastward and northward until he hit Houston Street, and then running past the pushcarts and the dry-goods stores and the catering places and the delicatessens, and looking behind him to sec that K and Purcell were still with him, closer than they were before. He was convinced that they would get him now. For the first time since last night in McReady’s cottage, when he thought he was looking at K’s ghost, he knew fear — fear that this would be the end of everything, the end of all hope, he would not escape them, he would be unable to circle uptown to the library to claim the jacket and unlock its secret, he would never place his monstrous bet on Jawbone or flee to Rio or Jakarta where dusky sloe-eyed maidens would drop grapes into his mouth — all at once the man with the beard stepped into his path.

The man had black beetling brows and burning black eyes. His beard was wild and unkempt, black too, he was dressed entirely in black except for a white handkerchief knotted cowboy-fashion around his neck, black coat, black hat, black shoes, black socks, Mullaney’s fear rocketed into his skull. Behind him he could hear K and Purcell rounding the comer, It’s an international ring, he thought, there’s no escape, there’s no goddamn escape, they’ve got me surrounded.

The man clutched Mullaney’s arm and leaned closer.

He’ll kill me, Mullaney thought. He’ll kill me on the spot and take my head to K.

“Are you Jewish?” the man asked.

“Yes!” Mullaney shouted, hoping he would pass.

“Good,” the man said. “We need you for a minyen.”