Lady Killer

CHAPTER TWELVE

It started with the fat woman in the housedress, and her arrival at the slatted rail divider seemed to trip off a train of events none of which had any immediate bearing on the case. It was terribly unfortunate that the events intruded upon the smooth progress of the investigation. None of the 87th's cops would have had it that way if there had been a choice. They were, after all, rather intent upon preventing a murder that night. But the men of the 87th were working stiffs doing a job, and the things that happened within the next fifty minutes were not things that fit into place like the pieces of a jig-saw puzzle. They followed no pat line of development. They brought the cops not an iota closer to finding The Lady or the man who had threatened to kill. The train of events started at 5.15 in the late afternoon of Wednesday, 24 July. They did not end until 6.05 p.m. in the evening of that same day.

All they did was consume the most valuable commodity the detectives had: time.

The woman in the housedress puffed up to the slatted rail divider. She was holding the hand of a ten-year-old blond kid in dungarees and a red-striped tee shirt. The kid was Frankie Annuci. The woman was controlling a rage that threatened to burst her seams. Her face was livid, her eyes were sparkling black coals, her lips were compressed tightly into a narrow line that held back the flow of her anger. She charged up to the railing as if she would batter it down by sheer momentum, and then stopped abruptly. The steam building inside her pushed past the thin retaining line of her lips. Her mouth opened. The words came out in a roar.

'WHERE'S THE LIEUTENANT HERE?'

Meyer almost spilled his coffee and swallowed his cough drop. He whirled around in his chair. Willis, Carella, and Hawes stared at the woman as if she were the ghost of Criminals Past.

'THE LIEUTENANT!' she shouted. 'THE LIEUTENANT! Where is he?'

Carella rose and walked to the railing. He spotted the boy and said, 'Hello, Frankie. What can I do for you, ma'm? Is there-?'

'Don't say hello to him!' the woman shouted. 'Don't even look at him! Who are you?'

'Detective Carella.'

'Well, Detective Carella, I want to talk—' She stopped. 'Tu sei'taliano?'

'Si,' Carella said.

'Bene. Dov'è il tenente? Voglio parlare con—'

'I don't understand Italian too well,' Carella said.

'You don't? Why not? Where's the lieutenant?'

'Well, can I help you?'

'Did you have Frankie in here this afternoon?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'To ask him some questions.'

'I'm his mother. I'm Mrs Annuci. Mrs Rudolph Annuci. I'm a good woman, and my husband is a good man. Why did you have my son in here?'

'He delivered a letter for somebody this morning, Mrs Annuci. We're looking for the man who gave him the letter, that's all. We just asked him some questions.'

'YOU HAD NO RIGHT TO DO THAT!' Mrs Annuci shouted, 'HE IS NOT A CRIMINAL!'

'Nobody said he was,' Carella answered.

'THEN, WHAT WAS HE DOING IN A POLICE STATION!'

'I just told you…'

A phone began ringing somewhere in the squad-room. It synchronized with what Mrs Annuci screamed next so that all Carella heard was:

'WELL i WAS NEVERRRRRRING so EMBRRRRRRING IN MY LIFE!'

'Now, now, signora,' Carella said.

Meyer picked up the phone. 'Eighty-seventh Squad, Detective Meyer.'

'Don't signora me, I'm not your old grandmother! Humiliated! Humiliated! Vergogna, vergogna! He was picked up by one of the Snow Whites. Right in the street! Standing with a bunch of boys, and the Snow White pulls to the curb and two cops get out and grab him. Like—'

'What?' Meyer said.

Mrs Annuci turned to him. 'I said two cops—' and then she saw he was talking to the phone.

'Okay, we'll move!' Meyer said. He hung up rapidly. 'Willis, come on! Hold-up in progress on Tenth and Culver. The guy's shooting it out with the beat cop and two squad cars!'

'Holy Jesus!' Willis said.

They ran through the gate in the railing, nearly knocking Mrs Annuci down.

'Criminals!' she said as they rushed down the stairs. 'You deal with criminals. You take my son into the police station, and you mix him with thieves. He's a good boy, a boy who—' She stopped suddenly. 'Did you beat him? Did you use a hose on him?'

'No, no, of course not, Mrs Annuci,' Carella said, and then he was distracted by a sound on the metal steps outside. A man in handcuffs appeared at the top of the steps, and then another man stumbled in behind him, his face oozing blood. Mrs Annuci turned, following Carella's gaze, just as the patrolman came into view behind the pair. The patrolman shoved at the man with the handcuffs. Mrs Annuci gasped.

'Oh, my God!' she said. 'Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!'

Hawes was already on his feet, walking toward the railing.

'Mrs Annuci,' Carella was saying, 'why don't we sit down here on the bench where we can—'

'What've you got?' Hawes asked the patrolman.

'His head! Look at his head!' Mrs Annuci said, her face going white. 'Don't look, Frankie,' she added, contradicting herself.

The man's head was indeed a sorry-looking mess. The hair was matted with blood, which trickled on to his face and neck, staining his white tee shirt. There was an open cut on his forehead, too, and the cut streamed blood on to the bridge of his nose.

'This son of a bitch used a baseball bat on him, sir,' the patrolman said. 'The guy bleeding is a pusher. Desk lieutenant thought there might be a dope angle to this, figured you should question him.'

'I ain't no pusher,' the bleeding man said. 'I want him sent to prison! He hit me with a bat!'

'You'd better get him to a hospital,' Hawes said, looking at the bleeding man.

'No hospital! Not until he's in prison! He hit me with a ball bat! This son of a bitch—'

'Ohhhh,' Mrs Annuci said.

'Come on outside,' Carella said. 'We'll sit on that bench, all right? I'll explain everything that happened with your son.'

Hawes pulled the man with the handcuffs into the room.

'Get in there!' he said. 'Take off the cuffs, Alec,' he said to the patrolman. 'You better get to the hospital, mister,' he said to the bleeding man.

'No hospital!' the man insisted. 'Not until he's booked and sent to jail.'

The patrolman took the cuffs off the other man.

'Get some wet rags for this guy's head,' Hawes said, and the patrolman left. 'What's your name, mister?'

'Mendez,' the bleeder said. 'Raoul Mendez.'

'And you're no pusher, huh, Raoul?'

'I never pushed junk in my life. That's a crock, believe me. This guy just came over—'

Hawes turned to the other man. 'What's your name?'

'—you!' the man said.

Hawes looked at him steadily.

'Empty your pockets on that desk.'

The man did not move.

'I said—'

The man suddenly lunged at Hawes, his fists swinging wildly. Hawes clamped one hand into the man's shirt collar and rammed the other clenched fist into his face. The man staggered back several paces, bunched his fists again, and came at Hawes once more. Hawes chopped a quick right to his gut, and the man doubled over.

'Empty your pockets, punk,' Hawes said tightly.

The man emptied his pockets.

'Now. What's your name?' Hawes asked, as he went through the accumulation that had been in the man's trousers.

'John Begley. You hit me again, you son of a bitch, and I'll—'

'Shut your mouth!' Hawes snapped. Begley shut up instantly.

'Why'd you go at him with a ball bat?'

'That's my business,' Begley said.

'It's mine, too,' Hawes answered.

'He tried to kill me,' Mendez said. 'Assault! First-degree assault! That's Section 240. Assault with intent to kill!'

'I didn't try to kill him,' Begley said. 'If I wanted to kill him, he wouldn't be walking around right now!'

'You're familiar with the Penal Law, huh, Mendez?' Hawes asked.

'I hear guys talking about it in the neighbourhood,' Mendez said. 'Hell, everybody knows Section 240. Assault is common.'

'240's first-degree assault, Begley,' Hawes said. 'You can get ten years for that. 242 is assault in the second degree. No more than five years and a fine, maybe just the fine. Which are you trying for?'

'I didn't try to kill him.'

'Is he a pusher?'

'Ask him.'

'I'm asking you.'

'I'm no stoolie. I don't know what the hell he is. I didn't try to kill him. I just wanted to bust a couple of arms and legs. Legs, especially.'

'Why?'

'He's been chasing my wife.'

'What do you mean?'

'What the hell do you think I mean?'

'How about that, Mendez?'

'He's crazy. I don't even know his wife.'

'You lying son of a bitch!' Begley said, and he started for Mendez.

Hawes shoved him away. 'Cool off, Begley, or I'll knock you on your ass!'

'He knows my wife!' Begley shouted. 'He knows her too goddamn good! I'll get that bastard! If I go to jail, I'll get him when I get out!'

'He's crazy, I told you!' Mendez said. 'Crazy! I was standing on the corner minding my own business, and he came up with the ball bat and started swinging.'

'All right, all right, keep quiet,' Hawes said.

The patrolman came back with the wet cloths.

'We won't need those, Alec,' Hawes said. 'Get this man to a hospital before he bleeds to death right here in the squad-room.'

'Not until he goes to prison!' Mendez shouted. 'I ain't leav—'

'You want to go to prison yourself, Mendez?' Hawes said. 'For resisting an officer?'

'Who's—?'

'Get the hell out of here! Your pusher smell is stinking up the squad-room!'

'I'm no pusher!'

'He's a pusher, sir,' the patrolman said. 'He's been put away twice, already.'

'Get the hell out, Mendez,' Hawes said.

'A pusher? You got me wrong—'

'And if I ever catch you with any junk on you, I'll take a ball bat to you myself! Now clear out! Get him to the hospital, Alec.'

'Come on,' the patrolman said, taking Mendez's arm.

'A pusher,' Mendez mumbled, as they went through the railing. 'Man, a guy takes one fall, right away he's labelled.'

'Two falls,' the patrolman corrected.

'Okay, two, two,' Mendez said, as they went down the steps.

Mrs Annuci swallowed.

'So you see,' Carella said to her, 'all we did was ask some questions. Your son is something of a hero, Mrs Annuci. You can tell that to your neighbours.'

'And have this killer come after him next? No, thank you, no, thank you.'

In the squad-room, Hawes said, 'Were you trying to kill him, Begley?'

'I told you. No. Look—'

'What?'

Begley's voice trailed to a whisper. 'This is only second-degree assault. The guy was making it with my wife. I mean, what the hel1, suppose it was your wife?'

'I'm not married.'

'Okay, but suppose. You going to send me to jail for protecting my home?'

'That's up to the judge,' Hawes said.

Begley's voice went even lower. 'Let's judge it ourselves, huh?'

'What?'

'What'll it cost? Three bills? Half a century?'

'You've got the wrong cop,' Hawes said.

'Come on, come on,' Begley said, smiling.

Hawes picked up the phone and buzzed the desk. Artie Rnowles, the sergeant who'd relieved Murchison at 4.00 p.m., answered.

'Artie, this is Cotton Hawes. You can book this bum. Make it second-degree assault. Send somebody up for him, will you?'

'Right!' Knowles said.

'You kidding?' Begley asked.

'I'm serious,' Hawes said.

'You're turning down five hundred bucks?'

'Are you offering it? We can add that to the charge.'

'Never mind, never mind,' Begley said hastily. 'I ain't offering nothing. Boy!'

He was still 'Boy'-ing when the patrolman led him downstairs, passing Bert Kling in the hallway. Kling was a tall and youthful blond detective. He was wearing a leather jacket and dungarees. His denim shirt under the jacket was stained with sweat.

'Hi,' he said to Hawes. 'What's up?'

'Assault,' Hawes said. 'You finished for the day?'

'Yeah,' Kling said. 'This waterfront plant is for the birds. I'll never learn anything. There isn't a guy on the docks who doesn't know I'm a cop.'

'Have they really tipped to you?'

'I guess not, but nobody's talking about heroin, that's for sure. Why the hell doesn't Pete leave this to the Narcotics Squad?'

'He's trying to get a jump on the precinct pushers. Wants to know where the stuff's coming in. You know how Pete feels about dope.'

'Whose hand is Steve holding, outside?'

'Hysterical mother,' Hawes said, and then he heard Meyer's voice coming up the stairway. Kling took off his jacket.

'Brother, I'm hot,' he said. 'You ever try unloading a ship?'

'Nope,' Hawes said.

'Get in there, you rotten hood,' Meyer said, 'and don't give me any back talk.' He glanced at the woman on the bench only cursorily, and then shoved at his prisoner. The man he shoved was wearing handcuffs. The cuffs were tight on his wrists.

A pair of police handcuffs resembles the five-and-dime stuff purchased for kids, except the police stuff is for real. They are made out of steel, forged into a slender, narrow, impervious, portable jail. The movable arm is bolted into the body of the cuff. The movable arm has a saw-tooth edge that, when engaged with the body, catches and holds there. Like blood travelling through a vein, the saw-tooth edge cannot reverse its course; it can only move forward. It can, in fact, move completely through the body of the cuff itself, completing a full circle, so that a key is not necessary to open the wristlet before it is clamped on to the wrist. The arresting officer simply squeezes the movable arm into and through the body of the cuff until the arm emerges on the other side. He then clamps it on to the wrist and wedges it shut again. The wrist prevents the movable arm from making the full circle again. To take the cuff off the wrist, a key is necessary.

A trio of metal links attaches one wrist cuff to the other. The cuffs are not at all comfortable. If they are placed on the wrists with care, it is possible to keep them from biting into the flesh. But the average arresting officer squeezes the cuff to snap the movable arm into its open position, and then hastily clamps the cuff on to the wrist and squeezes again until the metal collides with flesh and bone. When a pair of handcuffs is taken off a prisoner, the prisoner's wrists are usually raw and lacerated—and sometimes bleeding.

Not very much delicacy had been used on the man Meyer led into the squad-room. He had just been shooting it out with a gang of policemen, and when they had finally collared him, they'd clamped the cuffs on to his wrists with barely controlled ferocity. The metal was biting into his flesh and paining him. Meyer shoved him into the room, and the metal cuffs bit further as he moved his arms trying to maintain his balance.

'Here's a big man,' Meyer said to Hawes. 'Tried to hold off half the precinct, didn't you, big man?'

The prisoner did not answer.

'The jewellery store on Tenth and Culver,' Meyer said. 'He was inside with a gun when the beat patrolman spotted him. Brave man. A daylight hold-up. You're a brave man, aren't you?'

The prisoner did not answer.

'He started shooting the minute he saw the patrolman. A cruising squad car heard the shots and joined the battle, and then radioed for another car. The second car called back here for help. A regular hero's siege, huh, big man?' Meyer asked.

The prisoner did not answer.

'Sit down, big man,' Meyer said.

The prisoner sat.

'What's your name?'

'Louis Gallagher.'

'You been in trouble before, Gallagher?'

'No.'

'We'll check it, so don't start with a snow job.'

'I've never been in trouble before,' Gallagher said.

'Miscolo got any coffee?' Kling asked, and he started down the corridor. Carella was just returning from the steps. 'Get rid of her, Steve?'

'Yeah,' Carella said. 'How were the docks?'

'Hot.'

'You plan on going home?'

'Yeah. Soon as I have some coffee.'

'You'd better stick around. We've got a nut loose.'

'What do you mean?'

'A letter. Going to kill a dame at eight tonight. Stick around. Pete may need you.'

'I'm bushed, Steve.'

'No kidding?' Carella said, and he walked into the squad-room.

'You've got a record, haven't you, Gallagher?' Meyer asked.

'No. I told you once already.'

'Gallagher, we've got a lot of unsolved hold-ups in this neighbourhood.'

'That's your problem. You're the cops.'

'You do them?'

'I held up the store today because I need dough. That's all. This is the first time I ever did anything like this. How about taking the cuffs off and letting me go?'

'Oh, brother, you slay me,' Willis said. He turned to Hawes. 'He tries to shoot us, and then he cops a plea.'

'Who's copping a plea?' Gallagher said. 'I'm asking you to forget the whole thing.'

Willis stared at the man as if he were a dangerous lunatic ready to begin slashing passers-by with a razor. 'It must be the heat,' he said unblinkingly.

'Come on,' Gallagher said. 'How about it? How about giving me a break?'

'Look—'

'What the hell did I do? Shoot a little? Did I hurt anybody? Hell, I gave you a little excitement. Come on, be good guys. Take off these cuffs and send me on my way.'

Willis mopped his brow. 'He isn't kidding, you know that, don't you, Meyer?'

'Come on, Meyer,' Gallagher said, 'be a sp—' and Meyer slapped him across the face.

'Don't talk to me, big man. Don't use my name, or I'll ram it down your throat. This your first hold-up?'

Gallagher looked at Meyer with hooded eyes, nursing his hurt cheek. 'You I wouldn't give the sweat off my—' he started, and Meyer hit him again.

'How many other hold-ups you pull in this precinct?'

Gallagher was silent.

'Somebody asked you a question,' Willis said.

Gallagher looked up at Willis, including him in his hatred.

Carella walked over to the group. 'Well, well, hello, Louie,' he said.

Gallagher looked at him blankly. 'I don't know you,' he said.

'Why, Louie,' Carella said, 'your memory is getting bad. Don't you remember me? Steve Carella. Think, Louie.'

'Is this guy a bull?' Gallagher asked. 'I never seen him before in my life.'

'The bakery, Louie? Nineteen forty-nine? South Third? Remember, Louie?'

'I don't eat cake,' Gallagher said.

'You weren't there buying cake, Louie. You were sticking up the joint. I happened to be walking by. Remember now?'

'Oh,' Gallagher said. 'That.'

'When'd you get out, Louie?' Carella'asked.

'What difference does it make? I'm out.'

'And back at the old pushcart,' Meyer said. 'When'd you get out?'

'You got ten years for armed robbery, Gallagher,' Carella said. 'What happened? Parole?'

'Yeah.'

'When did you get out?' Meyer repeated.

'About six months ago,' Gallagher said.

'I guess you enjoyed your stay with the state, huh?' Meyer asked. 'You're itching to get back.'

'Come on, let's forget the whole deal,' Gallagher said. 'Whattya wanna be rotten guys for, huh?'

'Why do you want to be a rotten guy, Gallagher?'

'Who, me? I don't want to be rotten,' Gallagher said. 'It's a compulsion.'

'Now I've seen everything,' Meyer said. 'Psychiatrist thieves! It's too much, too much. Come on, bum, the lieutenant's gonna want to talk to you. On your feet. Come on.'

One of the phones rang. Hawes picked it up.

'Eighty-seventh Squad, Hawes,' he said.

'Cotton, this is Sam Grossman.'

'Hello, Sam, what've you got?'

'Nothing much. Prints that match up with the ones on the glasses, but… Well, let's face it, Cotton. We haven't got time to give that apartment the going-over it should get. Not before eight o'clock, anyway.'

'Why? What time is it?' Hawes asked.

'It's past six already,' Grossman said, and Hawes looked up at the wall clock and saw that it was exactly five minutes past six. Where had the last hour gone?

'Yeah. Well…' he started, and then he couldn't think of anything to say.

'There's just one thing that might help you,' Grossman said. 'Maybe you saw it already.'

'What's that?'

'We picked it up in the kitchen. On the window sill over the sink. It has the suspect's prints on it, so maybe he used it. In any case, he handled it.'

'What, Sam?'

'A card. You know, a business card.'

'What's the business?' Hawes asked, picking up a pencil.

'It's a card for the Jo-George Diner. That's two words, hyphenated. No e on the Jo.'

'Address?'

'336 North Thirteenth.'

'Anything else on the card?'

'Right-hand corner of the card says "Fine Food". That's it.'

'Thanks, Sam. I'll get right over there.'

'Sure. Maybe the suspect eats there, who knows? Or maybe he's one of the owners.'

'Jo or George, huh?'

'It could be,' Grossman said. 'You don't figure this joker lived in that apartment, do you?'

'No. Do you?'

'A few signs of habitation, but all recent. Nothing prolonged. My guess is that he used it as a pied à terre, if you'll pardon the Japanese.'

'That's what I figure, too,' Hawes said quickly. 'Sam, I'd love to throw the bull with you, but it's getting late. I'd better hit that diner.'

'Go ahead,' Grossman said. 'Good luck.'