Kiss - читать бесплатно онлайн полную версию книги автора Ed McBain (9.) #9

9.

"We never had this conversation," Jimmy said.

"What conversation?" Carella said.

"Good," Jimmy said, and Carella visualized him blinking. "This is what I understand from my people. There's this guy in no way connected to us who before now was running girls, very low-level, two or three in his stable, maybe four tops, from what I understand. Nobody to worry about, a flyspeck on a sand dune, you follow? Okay.

Two, three months ago he starts another little enterprise.”

"And what's that?”

"Housing for the homeless.”

"How very kind of him," Carella said.

"Not the crazies you see on the street,”

Jimmy said. "What this person does, he provides like a safe house for anybody who needs it and can pay for it. You read spy novels?”

"No.”

"Some of them are good.”

“I'll bet.”

"Anyway, he tucks these people in this pad while they're hiding, or working a job, or whatever.

Charges them plenty, covers his overhead and then some. A small-time player, working every shitty little angle.”

"Where's the pad?”

"On Lewiston. 321 South Lewiston.

Apartment 4C.”

"What's his name?”

"Ray Androtti.”

"For Raymond?”

"I guess. It don't ring a bell with me,”

Jimmy said. "A small-time player all around.”

"What's his connection with Denker?”

"My people think he recently rented the pad to this guy from Chicago who was looking to buy a gun.

Now whether or not this is your man, I don't know.”

"Where do I find Androtti?”

"That's another thing. He comes and goes like the night.”

"If he did rent to Denker, do your people have any idea who the target might be?”

"None.”

"Is Androtti from Chicago?”

"Not that I know of.”

"Then why would a Chicago hitter be going to him?”

"Well, there are roads and byways that lead to everyone and everyplace," Jimmy said philosophically. "I'm sure you know that.”

"Do you know any Chicago hitters? Off the top of your head?”

"I know hitters everywhere off the top of my head.”

"But you tell me Androtti's very small-time.”

"True.”

"So how would he know a Chicago hitter?”

"Maybe the man was recommended to him.”

"But your people don't know anything about him, huh?

Denker?”

"Nothing.”

"And you don't, either.”

"I don't.”

"Even though you know hitters everywhere off the top of your head.”

"I don't know any Denkers," Jimmy said, and paused, and probably blinked. "You want me to call Chicago?”

"Could you?”

"Sure. But that's the end of the favor.”

"That's the end of it. Andrew Denker. Or maybe Andrew Darrow.”

"Which one?”

"Take your pick.”

"I'll get back to you. It's still early in Chicago.”

There was a click on the line.

Carella pressed the cradle-bar rest, got a fresh dial tone, and called the I.S. The detective he spoke to up there listened to his request for whatever they had on a Ray-possibly-Raymond Androtti and then said, "I got a call on this already.”

"What do you mean?" Carella said.

"Ain't this the Eight-Seven?”

"Yes?”

"So talk to your people up there every now and then, okay? I already got a call from somebody named Kling. You know anybody named Kling?”

"Yes?”

"He called me yesterday. This is Saturday, ain't it? He called me yesterday, Friday. I got it written down right here.”

"Are you saying you've already given us this information?" Carella asked.

"No, Rome wasn't built in a day," the I.S. detective said.

"Well, when do you think you can get back to us?”

Carella asked. "This is a homicide we're working.”

"Yeah, homicide, homicide, everybody's working a homicide in this city. I'll get back to you soon as I pull anything up, okay?”

"I'd appreciate ...”

"Yeah, yeah," he said, and hung up.

He got back a half hour later.

There was quite a lot.

It seemed that Androtti's given name wasn't Raymond, as both Carella and Jimmy had surmised, but was instead Ramón. Nor was his last name even Androtti. It was Andros. This truly surprised Carella. It was not unusual in this country for someone with an ethnic name to change it to something more Anglo-Saxon. Carella could think of at least a hundred people who had done that, and not all of them were criminals. But to drop - one ethnic name only to adopt another?

Unheard of. Nonetheless, Ray Androtti was the only listed alias for Ramón Andros.

Ramón, or Ray, or whatever he called himself in the privacy of his own mind, had been a very busy fellow since his arrival from Puerto Rico some six years back. His B-sheet had him charged with a various assortment of crimes, starting with a couple of Dis Conds, and then graduating to a BandE and then doing a Burg-Three before something finally stuck and he was at last convicted and sent away on a 230.25, a Pros-Two, defined in the statutes as: "Advancing or profiting from prostitution by managing, supervising, controlling or owning, either alone or in association with others, a house of prostitution or a prostitution business or enterprise involving prostitution activity by two or more prostitutes.”

This was a Class-D felony, for which Andros could have taken a fall for a max of seven years.

But he was sentenced instead to a year in prison, and served only four months of it before he was paroled.

His alma mater was Castleview State Penitentiary. He had been there from March through June of last year. It occurred to Carella that the late Roger Turner Tilly had been up there at about the same time.

Andros's most recent Parole Board address was 1134 Barnstable, in a section of Riverhead that once had been largely Italian-American and was now almost exclusively Hispanic. The building in which Andros lived was a two-story clapboard house alongside an empty lot. The lot had a wooden fence around it, but this hadn't prevented anyone from tossing garbage over it. The fence was covered with graffiti, like many of the buildings and walls in this city. Maybe that was because if you couldn't get rich here, you could at least get famous by writing your name in spray paint all over town.

As if reading his mind, Meyer said, "I blame Norman Mailer.”

Carella looked at him.

"For calling it an art form," Meyer said.

They climbed a rickety exterior staircase to the second floor of the house and knocked on a glass-paneled door. From somewhere inside the apartment, they heard a radio playing Spanish music. An announcer came on, speaking Spanish. They knocked again.

"Quién es?" a man's voice shouted.

"La policía!" Carella shouted back.

"Abre la puerta!”

"Momento," the man said.

He came to the door in his pajamas. This was a little before noon. Striped pajamas. Red and white. Black hair tousled. Brown eyes bleary. Beard stubble on his narrow face.

Peering through the glass panels, squinting into the sun, bored to tears, he said, "Muestrame.”

"Talk English," Meyer said to the glass.

"Choe me you bachez," the man said.

He meant Show me your badges.

Carella flashed his shield. "Are you Ramón Andros?" he asked.

"Sí?" Puzzled look on his face.

"Qué quiere?”

"Talk English," Meyer said, louder this time.

"And open the door," Carella said.

Andros looked out at them one more time, pulled a sour face, and then unlocked the door.

"What do you want, man?" he said.

It came out, "Wah you wann, loco?”

"Okay to come in?" Carella asked.

Andros shrugged.

They moved past him into what they now saw was a long, narrow kitchen. Sink, window, cabinets, stove, and refrigerator on the left, table and chairs on the right, radiator on the far wall alongside a doorframe leading into the bedroom.

A teenage girl was sitting on the bed, the sheet tented over her knees. She was naked above the sheet. She did nothing to cover her breasts. The radio was on a night table alongside the bed.

She kept tossing her head in time to the Latin beat. They wondered if she was stoned.

"Thees a ba' time, loco," Andros said.

They were beginning to understand him.

What he meant was, "This is a bad time, man.”

"Want to close that door?" Carella said.

Andros shrugged again, went to the bedroom door, and closed it. From behind the door, the radio kept playing Spanish music.

"Have a seat," Carella said.

There were three chairs around the kitchen table, one on each end, one facing the wall. They pulled out the chairs and sat. Andros scratched his balls. This was his house, they guessed he was entitled. He had the bored air of a man who'd been hassled by cops more times than he could count.

He'd come through it before, and he'd come through it this time, too. Whatever this was, he'd come through it. So he scratched his balls, and he yawned, and he waited.

"Denker," Carella said.

The brown eyes flickered.

Just a flicker. Like a snake's tongue coming out, now you see it, now you don't. Sudden interest -and then boredom again.

"Andrew Denker," Meyer said.

"Ees thotta name?”

Coming through loud and clear now: Is that a name?

"It's a name, yes," Carella said.

"Do you know him?" Meyer asked.

"No.”

"We think you do.”

"I don't know him.”

"Then who's living in your apartment on Lewiston?”

" South Lewiston.”

"Apartment 4C.”

"Is that your apartment?”

He sat watching them through all this, not saying a word.

Then he said, "I don't know nobody named Albert Denker.”

"Andrew Denker," Carella said.

"Him either.”

"Then who's that in your apartment?”

"I don't know what apartment you're talking about.”

"An apartment you're renting from Bridge Realty," Carella said.

"On a one-year lease," Meyer said.

"Starting last July, right after you got out of the slammer.”

He kept watching them.

"You feel like coming downtown with us?" Meyer asked.

"Why would I feel like coming downtown?”

"So we can sort this out," Carella said.

"What's there to sort out?”

"You seem not to know about an apartment leased in your name.”

"Who says?”

"A woman named Charlotte Carmichael of Bridge Realty. Down near the Calm's Point Bridge, Ramón.”

"I don't know this person.”

"Okay, let's get out of our little peejays and into our street clothes," Meyer said.

"Hold on a minute, okay?”

"We're holding," Carella said.

"What's this about, anyway?”

He sounded like Desi Arnaz asking "Wha's thees abou', Lucy?" But they now understood him clearly, which showed the benefits of a second language, darling.

"This is about a man named Andrew Denker,”

Carella said patiently.

"Who's renting your apartment on Lewiston,”

Meyer said patiently.

"Okay," Andros said, and nodded.

"Okay, what?”

"Let's say that's true, okay?”

"Let's say so," Carella said.

"So what?" Andros said. "It's against the law to rent an apartment?”

Ees agains' dee law to renn an apar'menn?

"No, but it's against the law to arrange somebody's murder.”

"Peopleffffhhhhh," Andros said, and rolled his eyes. "Where did you get that from?”

"Do you know anybody named Martin Bowles?”

"Never heard of him.”

"You never heard of him, you never heard of Denker, how about Roger Tilly?”

"No, who's that?”

"Do you have a hat, Ramón?”

"I have a hat, yes.”

"Put it on. A coat, too. We're taking a ride downtown.”

"Now, listen, hold on a minute.”

"No, shithead, no more holding on. Get dressed, let's go.”

"Okay, okay," Andros said.

"Okay, okay, what?”

"Suppose I know who Tilly is?”

"Okay, suppose you do," Meyer said.

"So what?”

"So he's dead, that's what.”

Andros went "Peopleffffhhhhh" again.

"This is news to you, huh?”

"Absolutely.”

"How well did you know him?”

"He was in Castleview while I was - up there.”

"When's the last time you saw him?”

"Up there. He beat up one of our people, that's why he was there.”

"Uh-huh.”

"His ass wasn't worth a nickel up there.”

"What were you doing up there?”

"They framed me.”

"Sure, everybody up there got framed.”

"Sure, but this is true. They said I was running girls. Come on, loco.”

"They were wrong, right?”

"Hey, of course.”

"How so?”

"I done my time, okay? Why we bringing up all this shit?”

"Because we're still trying to find out how well you knew Tilly.”

"I wouldn't even talk to that son of a bitch.”

"You didn't like him, huh?”

"None of the Latinos liked him.”

"So now he's dead.”

"So go talk to the other ten thousand people could've juked him.”

A glance passed between them. They knew in that moment that Andros knew nothing at all about the Tilly murder. Because whatever else had happened to him, he certainly hadn't been "juked," no one had stabbed him. Juking was what you did on the prison yard. The association was a natural one for Andros to make, but it told them that he knew nothing about the mechanics of Tilly's murder.

Unless he was a hell of a lot smarter than either of them suspected he was.

"Ever hear of a woman named Emma Bowles?”

"Bowles?" he said.

It sounded like "bowels.”

The detectives almost burst out laughing.

"Bowles," Meyer said, trying to keep a straight face. "Bowles.”

"No, who's that?”

"Mrs. Martin Bowles," Carella said.

"I don't know this person.”

"Okay, now let's hear about Denker.”

"Denker," Andros said.

"Denker.”

"I never met him.”

"But you know him, right?”

"No, I don't know him.”

“Ramón, let's cut the shit, okay? We know it's your apartment, and we know Denker's in it. Now how about it?”

"Okay, okay," Andros said.

"You said that before.”

"Let's say I did rent the apartment to this Denker guy.”

"Never mind let's say. Did you or didn't you?”

"More or less.”

"What does that mean?”

"Not directly.”

"Then how?”

"Let's say a friend of mine said he needed a place for somebody to stay.”

"And the somebody was Denker, is that right?”

"The somebody was Denker.”

"And who was the friend?”

"Why you need to know that?”

"Who's paying the rent? Your friend or Denker?”

"Denker. But through my friend.”

"How much is the rent?”

"Twelve hundred a week. Cash.”

"That's a lot of bread, Ramón.”

"Well, nice apartments are hard to find these days.”

"He could stay in a luxury hotel for that kind of money.”

"But then he wouldn't have no privacy, verdad?”

"Okay, so who's your friend?”

"I don't want to get nobody in trouble.”

"Fine, get dressed.”

"What's the matter with you guys?”

Sounding like Desi talking to Lucy again.

They said nothing. In the other room, the radio station broke for a news broadcast. There was a lot of dial twirling in there until the girl finally found another station playing music. They waited. They had all the time in the world.

"Whatever this Denker did," Andros said at last, "I don't know, and my friend don't know, either.”

"Who said he did anything?”

"You said somebody was arranging a murder.”

Smarter than they thought.

"You know anything about that?”

"Nothing.”

"You ever hear of Denker before he took the apartment?”

“Never.”

"How'd your friend hear about him?”

"I don't know. He said he had this person was going to be in town a little while, he needed an apartment. That's all I know.”

"You always rent that apartment to strangers?”

"It's not a stranger if a friend comes to me.”

"You keep that apartment occupied most of the time?”

"There's always people need an apartment, one reason or another. It's a business investment," Andros said, and shrugged.

"A good one, I'll bet.”

"I can't complain. There's no law against renting an apartment to somebody.”

"Does your lease allow you to sublet?”

"It does.”

"You're sure about that?”

"You want to see it?”

"We'll take your word for it.”

"Anyway, even if it doesn't, that's civil, not criminal.”

Much smarter than they thought.

"So what's your friend's name?" Carella asked casually.

"Why do we keep coming back to that?”

"We'd like to meet him. In case we need an apartment one day.”

Andros pulled a face.

"So what do you say?" Carella asked.

"I say there's no way you can force me to tell you anything I don't want to tell you.”

"That's true," Meyer said. "How old is the little girl in there?”

"Old enough.”

"You auditioning her, or what?”

"'Cause you'd be looking at a Class-C if she's under sixteen.”

"She's twenty-one.”

"Has she got a birth certificate with her?”

"A Class-C can gross you fifteen.”

"At your favorite hotel.”

"So let's talk to her, huh?”

"No, we don't have to talk to her," Andros said.

"Find out how old she is.”

"See how far we can go with this," Meyer said.

"So what's your friend's name?" Carella asked again, not so casually this time.

"Elena. And she's twenty-one, I told you.”

"Not that friend. The one who contacted you about Denker.”

"I forget his name.”

“Okay, let's talk to the girl," Carella said, and shouted, "Elena! Put on your clothes and come out here!”

"She's twenty-one," Andros insisted.

"She looks fifteen," Meyer said.

From the look on Andros's face, he'd hit it right on the head. "Let's go, Elena!" Carella yelled.

"Ramón?" she said from behind the door.

"Quieres que salga?”

"Espera un momento," Andros said.

"You bueno?" Carella asked.

"Su nombre es Gofredo Cabrera," Andros said.

His name is Gofredo Cabrera.

"Muchas gracias," Meyer said.

The social club was called Las Palmas, a name designed to evoke fond memories of palm trees and azure seas and whispering sands.

But this section of the city was called L'Infierno by its residents, and it was a brick-and-concrete hell far from any sands, whispering or not, festering with poverty and drugs.

In what had once been the apartment's bedroom, there was a small bar against one wall, with shelves behind it on which were some bottles of scotch and vodka, but mostly bottles of rum. And there was a microwave oven and a coffee maker on a small table, and there were several tables with chairs around them. Three men were sitting at one of the tables, playing cards and drinking wine.

This was now about three in the afternoon, there were no women in the club at this hour. The women would drop in sometime after dinner, to talk in Spanish with other neighborhood women, or to dance in the apartment's largest room, the living room, where there was now a record player and hardly any furniture. A blue curtain hanging in the doorway separated this room from the other one. This used to be the super's apartment when the building still had one. Now it was a social club, where people in the building came to laugh a little and drink a little and talk their native language.

The detectives were standing outside the front door, looking into the apartment. The man who'd opened the door for them had been sitting at the table when they knocked. His cards were still lying facedown on the table, in front of the chair he'd vacated. They had just identified themselves as policemen. The man wanted to know what they wanted.

"We're looking for someone named Gofredo Cabrera.”

"Not here," the man said.

Faint Spanish accent, pale complexion, lean, handsome looks, small mustache under an aquiline nose.

"We were told he'd be here," Carella said.

"No," the man said, and shook his head.

"Know where we can find him?”

"No," the man said again.

"He's not in any trouble," Meyer explained.

"Mm," the man said.

"We'd really like to talk to him," Carella said.

"I don't know where he is," the man said.

"What's your name?" Meyer asked.

The man hesitated.

I'll be damned, Meyer thought.

"Are you Cabrera?" he asked.

The man's eyes darted nervously.

"Why do you want him?" he said.

"We have some questions.”

"Just a minute," the man said.

He went back into the room, spoke softly in Spanish to the three men still sitting at the table, and then came back to the door and took a coat from the rack just inside it.

"Let's go downstairs," he said. "Get some air.”

The air downstairs was virtually crystalline.

Meyer and Carella fell in on either side of the man, flanking him, hands in their pockets. He walked with his shoulders hunched, the wind whipping his long black hair. He still hadn't told them who he was. There were names written on the brick walls everywhere around them, but they still didn't know his. If this were a movie, the graffiti-covered walls would have made a good backdrop for a location shot. The art director would have congratulated himself on having found something so riotously colorful against which to play a low-keyed scene, such contrast! So far, this real-life scene the detectives were playing was so low-key it was almost nonexistent. The man just kept walking along between them, hair blowing in the wind, shoulders hunched, lips sealed.

"In here," he said at last, and led them into a small cuchi frito joint with four red leatherette booths on the left and a green Formica-topped counter on the right. The place smelled of cooking fat. The man nodded to the short-order cook behind the counter, and then kept right on walking through the place, to a door at the back, and through the doorway into another room where a round wooden table sat under a hanging light bulb covered with a tasseled pinkish shade. "Have a seat," he said, and motioned to the chairs around the table.

The detectives sat.

"You want some coffee or something?”

"No, we want Cabrera," Meyer said.

"Why?”

"Routine investigation," Carella said.

"What's your name?" Meyer asked.

"José Altaba.”

"Why all the hocus-pocus, José?”

"I don't know what you mean.”

"He means why'd you lead us halfway across the city on a day you could freeze your ass off, is what he means," Meyer said.

"To the back room of a crummy little ...”

"I own this place," Altaba said, offended.

"Why couldn't we talk at Las Palmas?”

Carella asked.

"Ears," Altaba said.

"Ears," Carella repeated.

"Sí.”

"What is it you didn't want anyone to hear?”

"There is a man there who wishes only harm to Gofredo.”

It sounded like a direct translation from the Spanish.

"And this man was at Las Palmas, is that it?”

"Sí, that's it.”

"So you didn't want him to hear any of this.”

"Because he would twist it to his own use,”

Altaba said, and nodded. "Make it seem as if Gofredo was doing something wrong. Instead of being an honest businessman.”

"Uh-huh," Meyer said. "And what is this business of his?”

"Not drugs," Altaba said. "Who said drugs?”

"You guys always think drugs.”

"What is he into?" Meyer asked.

"This other man would only use this to hurt Gofredo," Altaba said. "But I'm a good friend of his.”

"So let's hear it.”

"Guns," Altaba said.

"Guns," Carella repeated.

"Sí," Altaba said.

"Selling guns?" Meyer suggested.

Altaba nodded.

"So who'd he sell a gun to recently?”

Wanting him to say Andrew Denker.

"Somebody here to do a job.”

"What kind of job?”

Wanting him to say murder.

"A big one.”

"Like what? A bank heist? Something like that?”

Wanting it to come from him.

"No, no," he said.

"Then what?”

"I think you know.”

"No, we don't know.”

Like pulling teeth.

"Then what are you doing here?" Altaba asked.

"If you don't know why you're here, then why are you here?”

"We're here because Cabrera found a room for somebody," Meyer said, and glanced at Carella who gave a faint, almost indiscernible nod.

Run with it, he was saying. Tell him the truth, let's see where it takes us.

Altaba nodded, too. A big, knowing nod.

"Tell us," Meyer said.

"The same guy," Altaba said.

"The same guy what?" Meyer said, beginning to lose his patience.

"The guy he found the room for, this is the same guy he sold the gun to.”

"Ahh," Meyer said.

"You got it," Altaba said.

"Who was the guy?”

"I don't know. All I know is he came to the club ...”

"Who? What do you mean?”

"This guy he sold the gun to.”

"Came to Las Palmas?”

"That's what I'm telling you.”

"When?”

“After Christmas sometime. Right after Christmas.”

"Was he white, black, Hispan ...?was "White.”

"What'd he look like?”

"Big tall blond guy.”

"Okay, and?”

"And he ast for Gofredo. And the two of them went out together.”

"Why do you think he was there?”

"For a piece, I told you.”

"How do you know that?”

"'Cause Gofredo told me later he made a hun' fifty profit on the gun.”

"What kind of gun, would you know?”

"A forty-five. A Colt.”

"What else did he say?”

"Gofredo?”

"Yes. Did he say anything about a room?”

"He said he'd make another fifty on the room.”

"What do you mean?”

"His commission. For helping the guy find a room.”

"Did he say where he was going to get this room?”

"No.”

"Does the name Ray Androtti mean anything to you?”

"No.”

"How about Ramón Andros?”

"I think I heard that name.”

"Where'd you hear it?”

"I don't know.”

"Did Gofredo mention it?”

"Maybe.”

"In connection with finding this man a room?”

"Maybe, I don't remember.”

"Does the name Andrew Denker ring a bell?”

"No.”

"Do you know anybody named Tilly?”

"Is that a girl?”

"No, a man. Roger Tilly.”

"No.”

"Roger Turner Tilly.”

"Never heard of him.”

"Who's the man at Las Palmas?”

"What man?”

"The one who'd like to get Cabrera in trouble.”

"I can't tell you that.”

“Why does he want to get Cabrera in trouble?" Meyer asked.

"Because Gofredo is fucking his wife.”

"Ahh," Carella said.

"But you didn't hear this from me," Altaba said, and shrugged elaborately and innocently.

"Know where we can find Cabrera?" Carella asked.

"I wish I did," Altaba said. "I would tell you in a minute.”

And suddenly they knew that the wife he'd been talking about was his own wife, and that the man at Las Palmas who wished only harm to his good old buddy Cabrera was none other than José Altaba himself, in person.

Altaba shrugged again, confirming it.

You came crosstown to the bridge that ran over the Diamondback River at its narrowest point, and suddenly the accents were no longer Hispanic. You were in Diamondback now, and Diamondback was black, although this was a misnomer in that none of these people were black, they were merely varying shades of colors as old as time and as rich as loam. Up here was where the thousand points of light never shone. Black mayor or not, black commissioner or not, up here was where the fire would come when it came, if it came.

Ollie Weeks survived up here by hating every black man who crossed his path. Carella and Meyer were cut of quite a different cloth, and what troubled them most was the thought that up here they might be the ones who got killed for Ollie's sins.

So they drove carefully, not wanting to be responsible for the holocaust if it came, when it came. The car heater was on, but it contributed very little toward heating the car, what with the temperature outside hovering at the zero mark. Zero degrees Fahrenheit was about minus eighteen degrees Celsius. That was cold. That was unusually cold for this city. It sometimes got that cold here-as witness right now-but not very often and not for such long stretches of time.

Winter was beginning to get to them. In this kind of weather, they did not want to be shagging ass all over the city, chasing the killer or killers of a two-bit punk like Tilly. They did not want to be thinking up ways they could arrest Andrew Denker before he got around to killing Emma Bowles-if in fact he'd been hired - to kill her at all. It was possible, after all, that he was really a private eye from the Windy City, here to protect the lady.

"What the problem is," Meyer was saying, "is we can't bust this guy unless we can prove Bowles hired him to do the wife. That's conspiracy. And if murder's the crime ...”

"Or kidnapping," Carella said.

"Or kidnapping, right, then what we're looking at is a Class-C felony. But Bowles isn't going to come out and admit he hired him ...”

"Of course not.”

"... and they won't let us have a goddamn wiretap, so where does that leave us?”

They were approaching the Eight-Three. Meyer pulled the car into the curb, alongside a blue-and-white. Before they got out of the car, they checked the street left and right to make sure nobody was about to go on a rampage, because in any rampage blind hatred could not distinguish shades of white or brown.

The Eight-Three looked exactly like the Eight-Seven, except that it was further uptown.

The sergeant behind the desk could have been Dave Murchison, except that he was a little younger and not quite as paunchy. The walkie-talkies recharging on the wall alongside the Computer Room could just as easily have been taped with the words PROPERTY OF 87TH PCT. The iron-runged steps leading to the second floor had the same familiar ring to them.

And upstairs there were the same smells, the faint stink of urine as they passed the men's room, the aroma of coffee brewing in the Clerical Office, the stench of stale cigarette smoke as they approached the squadroom. The precincts in this city all looked and smelled alike. Even the new ones started to resemble the old ones before too long. There was a lot of crime in this city, and the station houses were used twenty-four hours a day. That was enough to make anything look older than it was.

Fat Ollie Weeks looked younger than he was. That was because he was fat. Fat people looked fat, but they also looked young. It was a phenomenon of nature. When they came in, he was talking to a black hooker at his desk. He motioned for them to take a seat, and then he turned to the girl again. - "Now, Marfelia," he said, "you know, don't you, that you are in very serious trouble here, don't you?”

The girl looked as if she knew she was in very serious trouble. Big brown eyes wide in a narrow fox face. Lipstick slash on her wide mouth. Hands nervously twisting in her lap and then tugging at the hem of a mini riding north.

Thin legs crossed. High-heeled ankle-strapped pumps. She looked about nineteen years old, but Ollie was laying a lot of heavy muscle on her. Carella figured he knew why. What he was trying to arrange was a little téte-à-téte for later on. Let the girl go for now, but tell her she owed him one. Drop by when he got relieved, ask her to pay her dues to Big Fat Daddy here.

It was now almost four-thirty. Ollie actually looked up at the wall clock, checking the time, almost licking his lips, leaning in closer to the girl, whispering to her now. The girl kept nodding. She was understanding how much trouble she was in.

She was listening to every word Ollie said. Ollie was her salvation. Yes, her head was saying. Yes, later. Yes, here's my address. Ollie was smiling like a crocodile about to eat a rabbit.

He wrote something on his pad. The girl got up, nodded, said something to him, looked at the clock, and swiveled out of the squadroom on heels far too high for her.

Ollie came over to where they were sitting at the other desk.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, smiling.

"Get it all set up?" Carella asked.

"I don't know what you're talking about.”

"You know what I'm talking about.”

"Whatever you're talking about, it's none of your business," Ollie said.

"What do you know about a man named Gofredo Cabrera?" Carella said. Make this short and sweet, he thought, get the hell out of here. The less time you had to spend with a cop like- "Who wants to know?" Ollie said.

"Two people who are shagging your fucking case,”

Meyer said.

"Oh, listen how tough they're making them these days," Ollie said.

He meant Jews. Meyer wanted to kill him.

"Ever hear about interdepartmental cooperation?" he said. - "What's a fuckin spic got to do with anything went down before?" Ollie said.

"Do you know him or not?”

"I know everything about everybody in this precinct.

Even a fuckin spic dumb enough to be living up here.”

Up here.

That said it all.

There were rules up here. You stay on your turf, I'll stay on mine. You come messin' up here, you got trouble, mister.

"Then you know who he is, right?" Carella asked.

"Sure.”

"Who?”

"A penny-ante gun-runner.”

"Who told you that?”

"Common knowledge. You guys work silk stocking, you don't know what it is to ...”

"Cut the shit, Ollie.”

Ollie looked at him.

"You hear me?" Carella said.

"I hear you.”

"So cut it. We're not silk stocking, and you know it. Just tell us whatever you know about Gofredo Cabrera. If you don't know anything, put us onto whoever does.”

"I know everything goes on in this fuckin precinct," Ollie said. "I'm gonna be lieutenant in this fuckin precinct one day, so don't give me I don't know anything about Cabrera. What do you wanna know?”

"Whatever you've got.”

"He lives up here 'cause his business is guns. And niggers need guns. Period.”

"Have you got anything that would connect him to Tilly?" Meyer said.

"No. Have you?”

"No, but ...”

"Tell me, wise man.”

He was treading the thin edge of open anti-Semitism. A wise man was a rabbi.

But Ollie knew that if he called Meyer "rabbi," he'd be searching for his teeth on the squadroom floor. He was a cautious bigot, Fat Ollie. Meyer was close to hitting him, anyway.

"We think Tilly was hired to kill Emma Bowles," he said, controlling his anger.

"Ah yes," Ollie said, "Emma Bowles, ah yes," falling into his W. C.

Fields imitation, hoping to charm Meyer out of his anger.

"And we think Cabrera sold a gun to the new boy in town ...”

"Ah yes.”

"Andrew Denker ...”

"Ah yes.”

"And also helped him find a room.”

"Wonderful connection, ah yes," Ollie said.

"We don't know how wonderful it is,”

Carella said, "but it's a connection.”

"Or a coincidence," Ollie said, abruptly dropping the Fields routine.