Killer's Choice

CHAPTER TEN

On Boxer Lane, there walked a man who felt like a horse's ass.

The man had adhesive tape all over his face. The man was six feet two inches tall and weighed one hundred and ninety pounds. He had blue eyes and a square jaw with a cleft chin. His hair was red, except for a streak over his left temple where he had once been knifed and where the hair had curiously grown in white after the wound healed.

The man's name was Cotton Hawes.

The man was off duty, but he had none the less come back to Boxer Lane because he wanted to find out more about the man who'd thrown four slugs through the door and then beaten him silly. His pride was injured and his face was injured, but most of all he felt pretty stupid. He did not like to feel stupid. He'd have felt even more stupid had Carella been killed. He thought again of the absurdity of his knocking, thought again of those four shocking explosions which had sent Carella plummeting to the floor. Carella could be dead now, he thought. I could have killed Carella this afternoon.

The thought was not a pleasant one. For perhaps Hawes was an opinionated man, and perhaps he'd been raised on a squad where murderers were not too frequent guests, and perhaps he was impatient, and perhaps he was somewhat snide and disrespectful at times, but he thought highly of his profession, and he had a heart as wide as the Grand Canyon. He would no more have wanted Steve Carella dead than he'd have wanted himself dead. Nor had he wanted to commit such a stupid blunder that afternoon. He supposed he'd been too eager. He hadn't stopped to think. Failure to think was a bad habit for a cop to develop, especially in a precinct like the 87th. It was becoming increasingly clear to Hawes that the 87th was a little bit different from anything he'd come across in his years on the force. Curiously, he enjoyed the challenge. He was a cop because he wanted to fight crime. There had been crime in the 30th, to be sure, but the crime there when compared to the crime in the 87th was somewhat like a glass of ginger ale set alongside a vodka martini.

Hawes had the feeling he could learn a lot in the 87th. He had the further feeling that Steve Carella was the man to teach him. He never would have given Carella the satisfaction of knowing it, but it was what he thought none the less. Naturally, his blunder that afternoon was not the sort of thing which endeared man to man, or so he thought. He did not know that Carella had already chalked off the incident. Had he known Carella, Hawes also would have known he was not a man to harbour grudges. He did not know Carella. He himself was at that stage of maturity where harbouring grudges seemed like the right thing to do. And so, using his own personality as a sounding board, he automatically assumed that Carella would be harbouring a grudge for what had happened that afternoon.

At the same time, it was important to Hawes that Carella like him. He knew that Carella was a good cop and an intelligent man. His instinct had told him that much. He wanted to learn from the good cop, and be liked by the intelligent man. It was as simple as that. But he could do neither if Carella looked upon him as an idiot.

This was the reasoning which had brought him to Boxer Lane that evening of 15 June. It was a Saturday night, and a young man of thirty-two conceivably could have found something more entertaining to do on a Saturday night—but Hawes, in his own mind, had a blunder to eradicate.

He had, in a sense, compounded his own felony that afternoon. Immediately after the shooting, Carella had insisted upon getting him to a hospital. He had flatly refused. He realized now that his refusal had been only an extension of his original stupidity. He had been in no condition to search an apartment, and he did not imagine that a man like Carella appreciated petty heroics. They had gone over the room for ten minutes when Carella came over to him.

'Look, Hawes,' he'd said, 'you're bleeding badly. If I have to knock you out and personally carry you to the hospital, I'll do it. Do I have to knock you out?'

Hawes had sheepishly shaken his head, and Carella had driven him to the hospital. As a result, they had not got around to questioning any of the tenants. Hawes hoped to accomplish that tonight.

He found the superintendent in a basement room. The super was sprawled out face downward on a cot. The small room stank of whisky fumes. Hawes went to the cot and shook him. The old man rolled over.

'Whuzzit?' he said. 'Whoozzit?'

'Police,' Hawes said. 'Wake up.'

The old man sat up and rubbed his eyes sleepily. 'Whuddyawant?' he asked.

'Answers,' Hawes said.

'Whudtime'zit?' the old man asked.

'Eight-thirty.'

'Too early to get up. Too early in the morning.'

'It's night. How long did Charles Fetterick live here?' Hawes asked.

'Lemme see your badge,' the super said.

'I was here this afternoon,' Hawes said. He flipped open his wallet to where his shield was pinned to the leather. 'Are you sober?'

'I'm soberezza judge,' the super said.

'Can you understand me?'

'Sure.'

'Can you answer me?'

'Sure.'

'How long did Fetterick live here?'

'Month, two months. About that. He do something? Hey, heeeeey!'

'What is it?'

The super pointed a bony finger at Hawes's face. 'You're the cop he beat up this afternoon, ain't you?'

'Yes,' Hawes admitted.

'Then he sure did do something, huh?'

'He did worse than that,' Hawes said.

'What?'

'Nothing. Did he have any friends in the building?'

'I don't know. I don't bother with the tenants much. I make the steam, fix the plumbing, the electricity, stuff like that. I don't socialize much. I'm what you call a non-mixer. I'm what you call a professional non-joiner.'

'Fetterick married?'

'Nope.'

'Notice him here with girls?'

'Girls?'

'Girls.'

The super shrugged. 'Never did notice. Long as a man doesn't bang on the pipes for heat, I don't much care what he does in his own apartment. I don't own this building. I just make the steam, fix the plumb…'

'Yes, I know.'

'You might ask some of the tenants on his floor. They might know. Me, I don't socialize much. I'm what you call a non…'

'I know,' Hawes said. 'Thanks a lot.'

'Glad to be of assistance,' the old man said. He lay down and rolled over as Hawes left the room.

Hawes climbed to the third floor and knocked on Apartment 31. He knocked again. There was no answer. He kept knocking. A door opened. It was not the door upon which he knocked. It was the door to Apartment 32 next door. A girl stood in the doorway.

'They aren't home,' she said.

The girl wore black slacks and a black sweater. Her blond hair was pulled back into a pony tail. At first glance, she seemed out of place in the tenement doorway, too chic, too sophisticated. She should have been standing in the entrance doorway to a penthouse, holding a martini.

'I'm a cop,' Hawes said. 'Mind if I ask you a few questions?'

'You were knockin' on 31,' the girl said. 'This is 32.'

'I'm really interested in 34,' Hawes said.

'What cup?' the girl asked, and Hawes didn't get it. She looked at him glumly. 'This about Fetterick?' she asked, apparently deciding to play it straight.

'Yes.'

'Come on in.'

Hawes followed her into the apartment. It was then that he noticed the black sweater was worn through at the elbows. The girl flicked on a light. 'Want a drink?' she asked.

'No, thanks.'

'What a drag, huh? Saturday night, and no date.'

'Yeah,' Hawes said. 'About Fetterick…'

'A jerk,' the girl said, shrugging.

'You knew him?'

The girl shrugged again, 'Only to talk to. We took in the milk together, so to speak. Whenever it wasn't stolen.'

'What was he like?'

'A jerk,' the girl said, 'like I told you. Inferiority complex. Probably wanted to sleep with his mother when he was a kid. Like that.'

'Huh?' Hawes said.

'Oedipus,' the girl said. 'Aggravated. Made him feel inferior. His father was a big man. He never could shape up to the fact.'

'You got all this taking in the milk?' Hawes asked, astonished.

'I figured it out for myself. I'm speculating,' the girl said. 'What'd he do?'

'We think he killed a cop.'

'Oh. Too bad for him, huh? You guys'll beat the crap outa him when you get him.'

'Who said?'

'Everybody knows that. Cop killer? Boom! Right on his dome. How old are you?'

'Thirty-two.'

'That's a good age. You married?'

'No.'

'Mmm,' the girl said, and she looked at him speculatively.

'Oedipus,' Hawes said. 'Aggravated.'

'Huh? Oh.' The girl grinned. 'Humour on a cop. Wonders never cease. You sure you don't want a drink?'

'I'm sure,' Hawes said.

'I'll have one,' the girl said. 'My name's Jenny. Jenny Pelenco. Euphemistic, huh?'

'Very,' Hawes said, smiling.

'Saturday night, no date. What a drag. Jesus!' She went to the sink and poured herself a shot of rye. 'I think I'll get crocked. Get crocked with me?'

'No, thanks.'

'What are you scared of?' the girl asked. 'My husband's in the Navy.'

'Where?'

'Far enough,' she said, laughing. 'The Pacific.'

'What about Fetterick?'

'Who wants to get crocked with him?'

'I didn't mean that. What do you know about him?'

'What do you want to know? Ask Jenny Pelenco. I'm the barber's wife. That's an Italian expression. It means like the barber's wife knows everything goes on in town because she hears it from the barber. You get it?'

'Vaguely. Know what kind of work Fetterick did?'

'No. He never said. A bum, I think.'

'Ever see him leave the house with gloves?'

'Yeah. Hey, yeah. Is that important?'

'Not very. He never mentioned his job?'

'No. I figure him for either a bum or something very low. Like a ditch digger. Or a bricklayer.'

'Those are both honest jobs,' Hawes said.

'So? Honest makes them good? A bricklayer is a jerk. Fetterick is a jerk, so he must be a bricklayer.'

'He never said where he worked?'

'No.'

'Did you ever see him leaving for work in the morning?'

'Yeah.'

'What time?'

'Eight, eight-thirty.'

'Did he work in Riverhead?'

'Beats me. Mind if I have another drink?'

'Go right ahead. Did you ever notice any of his friends? People who came or went to the apartment?'

'He was a lone wolf,' Jenny said. She tossed off the shot. 'I better go easy,' she said, grinning. 'I get wild when I'm crocked.'

'Mmm,' Hawes said.

'I get the urge when I'm crocked,' she said, still grinning.

'Then you'd better go easy,' Hawes said. 'Anything else you can tell me about Fetterick?'

'No. A jerk. A bum. A bricklayer. Common. I invited him in for a drink once. He refused. A jerk, huh?'

'Did he have any girl friends?'

'None that I saw. A jerk. Pretty girl asks him into her apartment for a drink, he refuses. What d'you suppose he was afraid of?'

'I can't imagine,' Hawes said. 'You never saw any girls in his place, huh?'

'No. Who'd bother with a bricklayer? I think I'll have another.' She poured another. 'You want one?'

'No, thanks.'

'You might as well make yourself comfortable,' she said.

'I've got a lot of other people to question.'

'That must be a drag,' she answered. 'Specially on Saturday night. Don't you drink?'

'I drink.'

'So have one.'

'Not now, thanks.'

'Look, everybody else on this floor is out. This is Saturday night. This is the night everybody goes out to howl, you know? Saturday, you know? Don't you know what Saturday is?'

'Sure, I know,' Hawes said.

'So don't you know how to howl?'

'Sure, I know how to howl.'

'So have a drink. There ain't nobody on this floor left to question, anyway. 'Cept me. And I'm all alone. Just me, huh? You ask the questions. I got all the answers. Jenny Pelenco's got all the answers.'

'Except the ones I want,' Hawes said.

'Huh?'

'You don't know anything at all about Fetterick, huh?'

'I told you. A jerk. A bum. A bricklayer. A jerk. A guy who lays bricks.'

'Well, thanks a lot,' Hawes said, rising.

Jenny Pelenco drank her whisky and then looked at Hawes steadily. 'What do you lay?' she asked.

Hawes moved to the door. 'Good night, Mrs Pelenco,' he said. 'When you write to your husband, tell him the police department appreciated all the help you gave them. That should please him.' He opened the door.

Jenny Pelenco did not take her eyes from him. 'What do you lay, cop?' she asked.

'Carpets,' Hawes said politely, and he walked out of the apartment.

As he walked down the steps, Jenny yelled after him, 'Carpets?'

They walked on each side of the black coffin, the men who had worked with him. They walked in solemn regularity. The coffin seemed light, but only because its weight was evenly distributed upon the shoulders of the detectives.

They put the coffin into the hearse, and then the black cars followed the hearse out to Sands Spit and the cemetery. There were some of Havilland's relatives there, but not many. Havilland was a man who'd lived almost entirely alone. The priest said some words over the open grave, and then the coffin was lowered on its canvas strips, and the detectives bent their heads and watched their erstwhile colleague enter the ground. It was a beautiful June day. Havilland could not have asked for a nicer day.

The gravediggers began shovelling earth into the hole as the funeral party dispersed.

The cars drove away in the bright June sunshine, and the detectives got back to work. There were still two murders to be solved.

Roger Havilland lay in the ground, no longer a part of it. A stone would be erected over his grave within the next two weeks. Relatives might visit his grave with flowers annually, and then perhaps the relatives might stop their visits, the flowers would stop.

Roger Havilland would never know or care.

Roger Havilland was no longer a part of it.

Roger Havilland was dead and buried.