McBain's Ladies: The Women of the 87th Precinct

Teddy Carella

He had not seen Teddy Franklin since Mike took the slugs.

Generally, in the course of running down something, he would drop in to see her, spending a few minutes with her before rushing off again. And, of course, he spent all his free time with her because he was in love with the girl.

He had met her less than six months ago, when she’d been working addressing envelopes for a small firm on the fringe of the precinct territory. The firm reported a burglary, and Carella had been assigned to it. He had been taken instantly with her buoyant beauty, asked her out, and that had been the beginning. He had also, in the course of investigation, cracked the burglary — but that didn’t seem important now. The important thing now was Teddy. Even the firm had gone the way of most small firms, fading into the abyss of a corporate dissolution, leaving her without a job but with enough saved money to maintain herself for a while. He honestly hoped it would only be for a while, a short while at that. This was the girl he wanted to marry. This was the girl he wanted for his own.

Thinking, of her, thinking of the progression of slow traffic lights which kept him from racing to her side, he cursed ballistics reports and coroner’s reports, and people who shot cops in the back of the head, and he cursed the devilish instrument known as the telephone and the fact that the instrument was worthless with a girl like Teddy. He glanced at his watch. It was close to midnight, and she didn’t know he was coming, but he’d take the chance, anyway. He wanted to see her.

When he reached her apartment building in Riverhead, he parked the car and locked it. The street was very quiet. The building was old and sedate, covered with lush ivy. A few windows blinked wide-eyed at the stifling heat of the night, but most of the tenants were asleep or trying to sleep. He glanced up at her window, pleased when he saw the light was still burning. Quickly, he mounted the steps, stopping outside her door.

He did not knock.

Knocking was no good with Teddy.

He took the knob in his hand and twisted it back and forth, back and forth. In a few moments, he hears her footsteps, and then the door opened a crack, and then the door opened wide.

She was wearing prisoner pajamas, white-and-black-striped cotton top and pants she’d picked up as a gag. Her hair was raven black, and the light in the foyer put a high sheen onto it. He closed the door behind him, and she went instantly into his arms, and then she moved back from him, and he marveled at the expressiveness of her eyes and her mouth. There was joy in her eyes, pure soaring joy. Her lips parted, edging back over small white teeth, and then she lifted her face to his, and he look her kiss, and he felt the warmth of her body beneath the cotton pajamas.

“Hello,” he said, and she kissed the words on his mouth, and then broke away, holding only his hand, pulling him into the warmly lighted living room.

She held her right index finger alongside her face, calling for his attention.

“Yes?” he said, and then she shook her head, changing her mind, wanting him to sit first. She fluffed a pillow for him, and he sat in the easy chair, and she perched herself on the arm of the chair and cocked her head to one side, repeating the extended index finger gesture.

“Go ahead,” he said, “I’m listening.”

She watched his lips carefully, and then she smiled. Her index finger dropped. There was a white tag sewed onto the prisoner pajama top close to the mound of her left breast. She ran the extended finger across the tag. He looked at it closely.

“I’m not examining your feminine attributes,” he said, smiling, and she shook her head, understanding. She had inked numbers onto the lag, carrying out the prison garb motif. He studied the numbers closely.

“My shield numbers,” he said, and the smile flowered on her mouth. “You deserve a kiss for that,” he told her.

She shook her head.

“No kiss?”

She shook her head again.

“Why not?”

She opened and closed the fingers on her right hand.

“You want to talk?” he asked.

She nodded.

“What about?”

She left the arm of the chair suddenly. He watched her walking across the room, his eyes inadvertently following the swing of her small, rounded backside. She went to an end table and picked up a newspaper. She carried it back to him and then pointed to the picture of Mike Reardon on page one, his brains spilling out onto the sidewalk.

“Yeah,” he said dully.

There was sadness on her face now, an exaggerated sadness because Teddy could not give tongue to words, Teddy could neither hear words, and so her face was her speaking tool, and she spoke in exaggerated syllables, even to Carella, who understood the slightest nuance of expression in her eyes or on her mouth. But the exaggeration did not lie, for there was genuineness to the grief she felt. She had never met Mike Reardon, but Carella had talked of him often, and she felt that she knew him well.

She raised her eyebrows and spread her hands simultaneously, asking Carella “Who?” and Carella, understanding instantly, said, “We don’t know yet. That’s why I haven’t been around. We’ve been working on it.” He saw puzzlement in her eyes. “Am I going too fast for you?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“What then? What’s the matter?”

She threw herself into his arms and she was weeping suddenly and fiercely, and he said, “Hey, hey, come on, now,” and then realized she could not read his lips because her head was buried in his shoulder. He lilted her chin.

“You’re getting my shirt wet,” he said.

She nodded, trying to hold back the tears.

“What’s the matter?”

She lifted her hand slowly, and she touched his cheek gently, so that it felt like the passing of a mild breeze, and then her fingers touched his lips and lingered there, caressing them.

“You’re worried about me?”

She nodded.

“There’s nothing to worry about.”

She tossed her hair at the first page of the newspaper again.

“That was probably some crackpot,” Carella said.

She lifted her face, and her eyes met his fully, wide and brown, still moist from the tears.

“I’ll be careful,” he said. “Do you love me?”

She nodded, and then ducked her head.

“What’s the matter?”

She shrugged and smiled, an embarrassed, shy smile.

“You missed me?”

She nodded again.

“I missed you, too.”

She lifted her head again, and there was something else in her eyes this lime, a challenge to him to read her eyes correctly this time, because she had truly missed him but he had not uncovered the subtlety of her meaning as yet. He studied her eyes, and then he knew what she was saying, and he said only, “Oh.”

She knew that he knew then, and she cocked one eyebrow saucily, and slowly gave one exaggerated nod of her head, repeating his “Oh,” soundlessly rounding her lips.

“You’re just a fleshpot,” he said jokingly.

She nodded.

“You only love me because I have a clean, strong, young body.”

She nodded.

“Will you marry me?”

She nodded.

“I’ve only asked you about a dozen times so far.”

She shrugged and nodded, enjoying herself immensely.

“When?”

She pointed at him.

“All right, I’ll set the date. I’m getting my vacation in August. I’ll marry you then, okay?”

She sat perfectly still, staring at him.

“I mean it.”

She seemed ready to cry again. He took her in his arms and said, “I mean it, Teddy. Teddy, darling, I mean it. Don’t be silly about this, Teddy, because I honestly, truly mean it. I love you, and I want to marry you, and I’ve wanted to marry you for a long, long time now, and if I have to keep asking you, I’ll go nuts. I love you just the way you are, I wouldn’t change any of you, darling, so don’t get silly, please don’t get silly again. It… it doesn’t matter to me, Teddy. Little Teddy, little Theodora, it doesn’t matter to me, can you understand that? You’re more than any other woman, so much more, so please many me.”

She looked up at him, wishing she could speak because she could not trust her eyes now, wondering why someone as beautiful as Steve Carella, as wonderful as Steve Carella, as brave and as strong and as marvelous as Steve Carella would want to marry a girl like her, a girl who could never say, “I love you, darling. I adore you.” But he had asked her again, and now, close in the circle of his arms, now she could believe that it didn’t really matter to him, that to him she was as whole as any woman, “more than any other woman,” he had said.

“Okay?” he asked. “Will you let me make you honest?”

She nodded. The nod was a very small one.

“You mean it this time?”

She did not nod again. She lifted her mouth, and she put her answer into her lips, and his arms tightened around her, and she knew that he understood her. She broke away from him, and he said “Hey!” but she trotted away from his reach and went to the kitchen.

When she brought back the champagne, he said, “I’ll be damned!”

She sighed, agreeing that he undoubtedly would be damned, and he slapped her playfully on the fanny.

She handed him the bottle, did a deep curtsy which was ludicrous in the prisoner pajamas and then sat on the floor cross-legged while he struggled with the cork.

The champagne exploded with an enormous pop, and though she did not hear the sound, she saw the cork leave the neck of the bottle and ricochet off the ceiling, and she saw the bubbly white fluid overspilling the lip and running over his hands.

She began to clap, and then she got to her feet and went for glasses, and he poured first a little of the wine into his, saying, “That’s the way it’s done, you know. It’s supposed to take off the skim and the bugs and everything,” and then filling her glass, and then going back to pour his to the brim.

“To us,” he toasted.

She opened her arms slowly, wider and wider and wider.

“A long, long, happy love,” he supplied.

She nodded happily.

“And our marriage in August.” They clinked glasses, and then sipped at the wine, and she opened her eyes wide in pleasure and rocked her head appreciatively.

“Are you happy?” he asked.

Yes, her eyes said, yes, yes.

“Did you mean what you said before?”

She raised one brow inquisitively.

“About… missing me?”

Yes, yes, yes, yes, her eyes said.

“You’re beautiful.”

She curtsied again.

“Everything about you. I love you, Teddy. Jesus, how I love you.”

She put down the wineglass and then took his hand. She kissed the palm of the hand, and the back, and then she led him into the bedroom, and she unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it out of his trousers, her hands moving gently. He lay down on the bed, and she turned off the light and then, unselfconsciously, unembarrassedly, she look off the pajamas and went to him.

She stood by the window when the rain stopped.

She swore mentally, and she reminded herself that she would have to teach Steve sign language, so that he’d know when she was swearing. He had promised to come tonight, and the promise filled her now, and she wondered what she should wear for him.

“Nothing” was probably the best answer. She was pleased with her joke. She must remember it. To tell him when he came.

The street was suddenly very sad. The rain had brought gaiety, but now the rain was gone, and there was only the solemn gray of the street, as solemn as death.

Death.

Two dead, two men he worked with and knew well. Why couldn’t he have been a streetcleaner or a flagpole sitter or something, why a policeman, why a cop?

She turned to look at the clock, wondering what time it was, wondering how long it would be before he came, how long it would be before she spotted the slow, back-and-forth twisting of the knob, before she rushed to the door to open it for him. The clock was no comfort. It would be hours yet. If he came, of course. If nothing else happened, something to keep him at the station house, another killing, another…

No, I mustn’t think of that.

It’s not fair to Steve to think that.

If I think of harm coming to him…

Nothing will happen to him… no. Steve is strong, Steve is a good cop, Steve can take care of himself. But Reardon was a good cop, and Foster, and they’re dead now. How good can a cop be when he’s shot in the back with a .45? How good is any cop against a killer in ambush?

No, don’t think these things.

The murders are over now. There will be no more. Foster was the end. It’s done. Done.

Steve, hurry.

She sat facing the door, knowing it would be hours yet, but waiting for the knob to turn, waiting for the knob to tell her he was there.

The bar was air-conditioned, a welcome sanctuary from the stifling heat outdoors. They ordered their drinks and then sat opposite each other at the booth alongside the left-hand wall.

“All I want to know,” Savage said, “is what you think.”

“Do you mean me personally, or the department?”

“You, of course. I can’t expect you to speak for the department.”

“Is this for publication?” Carella asked.

“Hell, no. I’m just trying to jell my own ideas on it. Once this thing is broken, there’ll be a lot of feature coverage. To do a good job, I want to be acquainted with every facet of the investigation.”

“It’d be a little difficult for a layman to understand every facet of police investigation,” Carella said.

“Of course, of course. But you can at least tell me what you think.”

“Sure. Provided it’s not for publication.”

“Scout’s honor,” Savage said.

“The department doesn’t like individual cops trying to glorify…”

“Not a word of this will get into print,” Savage said. “Believe me.”

“What do you want to know?”

“We’ve got the means, we’ve got the opportunity,” Savage said. “What’s the motive?”

“Every cop in the city would like the answer to that one,” Carella said.

“A nut maybe.”

“Maybe.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No. Some of us do. I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Just like that.”

“Do you have a reason?”

“No, just a feeling. When you’ve been working on a case for any length of time, you begin to get feelings about it. I just don’t happen to believe a maniac’s involved here.”

“What do you believe?”

“Well, I have a few ideas.”

“Like what?”

“I’d rather not say right now.”

“Oh, come on, Steve.”

“Look, police work is like any other kind of work — except we happen to deal with crime. If you run an import-export business, you play certain hunches and others you don’t. It’s the same with us. If you have a hunch, you don’t go around making a million-dollar deal on it until you’ve checked it.”

“Then you do have a hunch you want to check?”

“Not even a hunch, really. Just an idea.”

“What kind of an idea?”

“About motive.”

“What about motive?”

Carella smiled. “You’re a pretty tenacious guy, aren’t you?”

“I’m a good reporter. I already told you that.”

“All right, look at it this way. These men were cops. Three of them were killed in a row. What’s the automatic conclusion?”

“Somebody doesn’t like cops.”

“Right. A cop hater.”

“So?”

“Take off their uniforms. What have you got then?”

“They weren’t wearing uniforms. None of them were uniform cops.”

“I know. I was speaking figuratively. I meant, make them ordinary citizens. Not cops. What do you have then? Certainly not a cop hater.”

“But they were cops.”

“They were men first. Cops only coincidentally and secondarily.”

“You feel, then, that the fact that they were cops had nothing to do with the reason they were killed.”

“Maybe. That’s what I want to dig into a little deeper.”

“I’m not sure I understand you.”

“It’s this,” Carella said. “We knew these men well, we worked with them every day. Cops. We knew them as cops. We didn’t know them as men. They may have been killed because they were men, and not because they were cops.”

“Interesting,” Savage said.

“It means digging into their lives on a more personal level. It won’t be fun because murder has a strange way of dragging skeletons out of the neatest closets.”

“You mean, for example…” Savage paused. “Well, let’s say Reardon was playing around with another dame, or Foster was a horseplayer, or Bush was taking money from a racketeer, something like that.”

“To stretch the point, yes.”

“And somehow, their separate activities were perhaps tied together to one person who wanted them all dead for various reasons. Is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s a little complicated,” Carella said. “I’m not sure the deaths are connected in such a complicated way.”

“But we do know the same person killed all three cops.”

“Yes, we’re fairly certain of that.”

“Then the deaths are connected.”

“Yes, of course. But perhaps…” Carella shrugged. “It’s difficult to discuss this with you because I’m not sure I know what I’m talking about. I only have this idea, that’s all. This idea that motive may go deeper than the shields these men wore.”

“I see.” Savage sighed. “Well, you can console yourself with the knowledge that every cop in the city probably has his own ideas on how to solve this one.”

Carella nodded, not exactly understanding Savage, but not willing to get into a lengthier discussion. He glanced at his watch.

“I’ve got to go soon,” he said. “I’ve got a date.”

“Your girlfriend?”

“Yes.”

“What’s her name?”

“Teddy. Well, Theodora really.”

“Theodora what?”

“Franklin.”

“Nice,” Savage said. “Is this a serious thing?”

“As serious as they come.”

“These ideas of yours,” Savage said. “About motive. Have you discussed them with your superiors?”

“Hell, no. You don’t discuss every little pang of inspiration you get. You look into it, and then if you turn up anything that looks remotely promising, well, then you air the idea.”

“I see. Have you discussed it with Teddy?”

“Teddy? Why, no, not yet.”

“Think she’ll go for it?”

Carella smiled uneasily. “She thinks I can do no wrong.”

“Sounds like a wonderful girl.”

“The best. And I’d better get to her before I lose her.”

“Certainly,” Savage said understandingly. Carella glanced at his watch again. “Where does she live?”

“Riverhead,” Carella said.

“Theodora Franklin of Riverhead,” Savage said.

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ve appreciated listening to your ideas.”

Carella rose. “None of that was for print, remember,” he said.

“Of course not,” Savage assured him.

“Thanks for the drink,” Carella said.

The man in the black suit stood outside the apartment door, listening. A copy of the afternoon newspaper stuck up from the righthand pocket of his jacket. His left shoulder throbbed with pain, and the weight of the .45 automatic tugged at the other pocket of his jacket, so that — favoring the wound, bearing the weight of the gun — he leaned slightly to his left while he listened.

There was no sound from within the apartment.

He had read the name very carefully in the newspaper, Theodora Franklin, and then he had checked the Riverhead directory and come up with the address. He wanted to talk to this girl. He wanted to find out how much Carella knew. He had to find out.

She’s very quiet in there, he thought. What’s she doing?

Cautiously, he tried the doorknob. He wiggled it slowly from side to side. The door was locked.

He heard footsteps. He tried to back away from the door too late. He reached for the gun in his pocket. The door was opening, wide, wider.

The girl stood there, surprised. She was a pretty girl, small, dark-haired, wide brown eyes. She wore a white terry robe. The robe was damp in spots. He assumed she had just come from the shower. Her eves went to his face, and then to the gun in his hand. Her mouth opened, but no sound came from it. She tried to slam the door, but he rammed his foot into the wedge and then shoved it back.

She moved away from him, deeper into the room. He closed the door and locked it.

“Miss Franklin?” he asked.

She nodded, terrified. She had seen the drawing on the front pages of all the newspapers, had seen it broadcast on all the television programs. There was no mistake, this was the man Steve was looking for.

“Let’s have a little talk, shall we?” he asked.

His voice was a nice voice, smooth, almost suave. He was a good-looking man, why had he killed those cops? Why would a man like this…?

“Did you hear me?” he asked.

She nodded. She could read his lips, could understand everything he said, but…

“What does your boyfriend know?” he asked.

He held the .45 loosely, as if he were accustomed to its lethal power now, as if he considered it a toy more than a dangerous weapon.

“What’s the matter, you scared?”

She touched her hands to her lips, pulled them away in a gesture of futility.

“What?”

She repealed the gesture.

“Come on,” he said, “talk, for Christ’s sake! You’re not that scared!”

Again, she repeated the gesture, shook her head this time. He watched her curiously.

“I’ll he damned,” he said at last. “A dummy!” He began laughing. The laugh filled the apartment, reverberating from the walls. “A dummy! That don’t take the cake! A dummy!” His laughter died. He studied her carefully. “You’re not trying to pull something, are you?”

She shook her head vigorously. Her hands went to the opening of her robe, clutching the terry to her more tightly.

“Now this has definite advantages, doesn’t it?” he said, grinning. “You can’t scream, you can’t use the phone, you can’t do a damned tiling, can you?”

Teddy swallowed, watching him.

“What does Carella know?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“The paper said he’s got a lead. Does he know about me? Does he have any idea who I am?”

Again, she shook her head.

“I don’t believe you.”

She nodded, trying to convince him that Steve knew nothing. What paper was he referring to? What did he mean? She spread her hands wide, indicating innocence, hoping he would understand.

He reached into his jacket pocket and tossed the newspaper to her.

“Page four,” he said. “Read it. I’ve got to sit down. This goddamn shoulder…”

He sat, the gun leveled at her. She opened the paper and read the story, shaking her head as she read.

“Well?” he asked.

She kept shaking her head. No, this is not true. No, Steve would never say things like these. Steve would…

“What’d he tell you?” the man asked.

Her eyes opened wide with pleading. Nothing, he told me nothing.

“The newspaper says…”

She hurled the paper to the floor.

“Lies, huh?”

Yes, she nodded.

His eyes narrowed. “Newspapers don’t lie,” he said.

They do, they do!

“When’s he coming here?”

She stood motionless, controlling her face, not wanting her face to betray anything to the man with the gun.

“Is he coming?”

She shook her head.

“You’re lying. It’s all over your face. He’s coming here, isn’t he?”

She bolted for the door. He caught her arm and flung her back across the room. The robe pulled back over her legs when she fell to the floor. She pulled it together quickly and stared up at him.

“Don’t try that again,” he said.

Her breath came heavily now. She sensed a coiled spring within this man, a spring which would unleash itself at the door the moment Steve opened it. But he’d said he would not be there until midnight. He had told her that, and there were a lot of hours between now and midnight. In that time…

“You just get out of the shower?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Those are good legs,” he said, and she felt his eyes on her. “Dames,” he said philosophically. “What’ve you got on under that robe?”

Her eyes widened.

He began laughing. “Just what I thought. Smart. Good way to beat the heat. When’s Carella coming?”

She did not answer.

“Seven, eight, nine? Is he on duty today?” He watched her. “Nothing from you, huh? What’s he got, the four to midnight? Sure, otherwise he’d probably be with you right this minute. Well, we might as well make ourselves comfortable, we got a long wait. Anything to drink in this place?”

Teddy nodded.

“What’ve you got? Gin? Rye? Bourbon?” He watched her. “Gin? You got tonic? No, huh? Club soda? Okay, mix me a Collins. Hey, where you going?”

Teddy gestured to the kitchen.

“I’ll come with you,” he said. He followed her into the kitchen. She opened the refrigerator and took out an opened bottle of club soda.

“Haven’t you got a fresh one?” he asked. Her back was to him, and so she could not read his lips. He seized her shoulder and swung her around. His hand did not leave her shoulder.

“I asked you if you had a fresh bottle,” he said.

She nodded and knelt, taking an unopened bottle from the lowest shelf of the refrigerator. She took lemons from the fruit drawer, and then went to the cupboard for the bottle of gin.

“Dames,” he said again.

She poured a double shot of gin into a tall glass. She spooned sugar into the glass, and then she went to one of the drawers.

“Hey!”

He saw the knife in her hand.

“Don’t get ideas with that. Just slice the lemon.”

She sliced the lemon and squeezed both halves into the glass. She poured club soda until the glass was three-quarters full, and then she went back to the refrigerator for the ice cubes. When the drink was finished, she handed it to him.

“Make one for yourself,” he said.

She shook her head.

“I said make one for yourself! I don’t like to drink alone.”

Patiently, wearily, she made herself a drink.

“Come on. Back in the living room.”

They went into the living room, and he sat in an easy chair, wincing as he adjusted himself so that his shoulder was comfortable.

“When the knock comes on that door,” he said, “you just sit tight, understand? Go unlock it now.”

She went to the door and unlocked it. And now, knowing that the door was open, knowing that Steve would enter and be faced with a blazing .45, she felt fear crawl into her head like a nest of spiders.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

She shrugged. She walked back into the room and sat opposite him, lacing the door.

“This is a good drink,” he said. “Come on, drink.”

She sipped at the Collins, her mind working ahead to the moment of Steve’s arrival.

“I’m going to kill him, you know,” he said.

She watched him, her eyes wide.

“Won’t make any difference now, anyway, will it? One cop more or less. Make it look a little better, don’t you think?”

She was puzzled, and the puzzlement showed on her face.

“It’s the best way,” he explained. “If he knows something, well, it won’t do to have him around. And if he doesn’t know anything, it’ll round out the picture.” He struggled in the chair. “Jesus, I’ve got to get this shoulder fixed. How’d you like that lousy doctor? That was something, wasn’t it? I thought they were supposed to be healers.”

He talks the way anyone does, she thought. Except that he talks so casually of death. He is going to kill Steve.

“We were figuring on Mexico, anyway. Going to leave this afternoon, until your boyfriend came up with his bright idea. We’ll take off in the morning, though. Soon as I take care of this.” He paused. “Do you suppose I can get a good doctor in Mexico? Jesus, the things a guy will do, huh?” he watched her face carefully. “You ever been in love?”

She studied him, puzzled, confused. He did not seem like a killer. She nodded.

“Who with? This cop?”

She nodded again.

“Well, it’s a shame.” He seemed sincerely sorry. “It’s a damn shame, honey, but what hasta be hasta be. There’s no other way, you can see that, can’t you? I mean, there was no other way right from the start, from the minute I started this thing. And when you start something, you’ve got to see it through right to the finish. It’s a matter of survival now, you realize that? Jesus, the things a guy will do. Well, you know.” he paused. “You’d kill for him, wouldn’t you?”

She hesitated.

“To keep him, you’d kill for him, wouldn’t you?” he repeated.

She nodded.

“So? So there.” He smiled. “I’m not a professional, you know. I’m a mechanic. That’s my line. I’m a damn good mechanic, too. Think I’ll be able to get work in Mexico?”

Teddy shrugged.

“Sure, they must have cars down there. They’ve got cars everywhere. Then, later, when things have cooled down, we’ll come back to the States. Hell, things should cool down sooner or later. But what I’m trying to tell you, I’m not a professional killer, so don’t get that idea. I’m just a regular guy.”

Her eyes did not believe him.

“No, huh? Well, I’m telling you. Sometimes, there’s no other way out. If you see something’s hopeless, and somebody explains to you where there’s some hope, okay, you take it. I never harmed nobody until I killed those cops. You think I wanted to kill them? Survival, that’s all. Some things, you’ve got to do. Agh, what the hell do you understand? You’re just a dummy.”

She sat silent, watching him.

“A woman gets under your skin. Some women are like that. Listen, I’ve been around. I’ve been around plenty. I had me more dames than you could count. But this one — different. Different right from the beginning. She just got under my skin. Right under it. When it gets you like that, you can’t eat, you can’t sleep, nothing. You just think about her all day long. And what can you do when you realize you can’t really have her unless….well…unless you…hell, didn’t she ask him for a divorce? Is it my fault he was a stubborn son of a bitch? Well, he’s still stubborn — only now he’s dead.”

Teddy’s eyes moved from his face. They covered the door behind him, and then dropped to the doorknob.

“And he took two of his pals with him.” He stared into his glass. “Those are the breaks. He should’ve listened to reason. A woman like her…Jesus, you’d do anything for a woman like her. Anything! Just being in the same room with her, you want to…”

Teddy watched the knob with fascination. She rose suddenly. She brought back her glass and then threw it at him. It grazed his forehead, the liquid splashing out of the glass and cascading over his shoulder. He leaped to his feet, his face twisted in fury, the .45 pointed at her.

“You stupid bitch!” he bellowed. “Why the hell did you do that?”

Carella left the precinct at six-thirty on the button. Havilland had not yet come back from supper, but he could wait no longer. He did not want to leave Teddy alone in that apartment, not after the fool stunt Savage had pulled.

He drove to Riverhead quickly. He ignored traffic lights and full stop signs. He ignored everything. There was an all-consuming thought in his mind, and that thought included a man with a .45 and a girl with no tongue.

When he reached her apartment building, he glanced up at her window. The shades were not drawn. The apartment looked very quiet. He breathed a little more easily, and then entered the building. He climbed the steps, his heart pounding. He knew he shouldn’t be alarmed but he could not shake the persistent feeling that Savage’s column had invited danger for Teddy.

He stopped outside her door. He could hear the persistent drone of what sounded like the radio going inside. He reached for the knob. In his usual manner, he twisted it slowly from side to side, waiting for her footsteps, knowing she would come to the door the moment she saw his signal.

He heard the sound of a chair scraping back and then someone shouted, “You stupid bitch! Why the hell did you do that?”

His brain came alive. He reached for his .38 and snapped the door open with his other hand.

The man turned.

“You…!” he shouted, and the .45 bucked in his hand.

Carella fired low, dropping to the floor the instant he entered the room. His first two shots took the man in the thigh. The man fell face forward, the .45 pitching out of his fist. Carella kicked back the hammer on the .38, waiting.

“You bastard,” the man on the floor said. “You bastard.”

Carella got to his feet. He picked up the .45 and stuck it into his back pocket.

“Get up,” he said. “You all right, Teddy?”

Teddy nodded. She was breathing heavily, watching the man on the floor.

“Thanks for the warning,” Carella said. He turned to the man again. “Get up!”

“I can’t, you bastard. Why’d you shoot me? For Christ’s sake, why’d you shoot me?”

“Why’d you shoot three cops?”

The man went silent.

“What’s your name?” Carella asked.

“Mercer. Paul Mercer.”

“Don’t you like cops?”

“I love them.”

“What’s the story, then?”

“I suppose you’re going to check my gun with what you’ve already got.”

“Damn right,” Carella said. “You haven’t got a chance, Mercer.”

“She put me up to it,” Mercer said, a scowl on his dark face. “She’s the real murderer. All I done was pull the trigger. She said we had to kill him, said it was the only way. We threw the others in just to make it look good, just to make it look as if a cop hater was loose. But it was her idea. Why should I take the rap alone?”

“Whose idea?” Carella asked.

“Alice’s,” Mercer said. “You see… we wanted to make it look like a cop hater. We wanted…”

“It was,” Carella said.

When they brought Alice Bush in, she was dressed in gray, a quiet gray. She sat in the squad room, crossing her legs. “Do you have a cigarette, Steve?” she asked.

Carella gave her one. He did not light it for her. She sat with the cigarette dangling from her lips until it was apparent she would have to light it herself. Unruffled, she struck a match.

“What about it?” Carella asked.

“What about it?” she repeated, shrugging. “It’s all over, isn’t it?”

“You must have really hated him. You must have hated him like poison.”

“You’re directing,” Alice said. “I’m only the star.”

“Don’t get glib, Alice!” Carella said angrily. “I’ve never hit a woman in my life, but I swear to God…”

“Relax,” she told him. “It’s all over. You’ll get your gold star, and then you’ll…”

“Alice…”

“What the hell do you want me to do? Break down and cry? I hated him, all right? I hated his big, pawing hands and I hated his stupid red hair, and I hated everything about him, all right?”

“Mercer said you’d asked for a divorce. Is that true?”

“No, I didn’t ask for a divorce. Hank never would’ve agreed to one.”

“Why didn’t you give him a chance?”

“What for? Did he ever give me a chance? Cooped up in that goddamn apartment, waiting for him to come off some burglary or some knifing or some mugging? What kind of life is that for a woman?”

“You knew he was a cop when you married him.”

Alice didn’t answer.

“You could’ve asked for a divorce, Alice. You could’ve tried.”

“I didn’t want to, damnit. I wanted him dead.”

“Well, you’ve got him dead. Him and two others. You must be tickled now.”

Alice smiled suddenly. “I’m not too worried, Steve.”

“No?”

“There have to be some men on the jury.” She paused. “Men like me.”

There were, in fact, eight men on the jury.

The jury brought in a verdict in six minutes flat.

Mercer was sobbing as the jury foreman read off the verdict and the judge gave sentence. Alice listened to the judge with calm indifference, her shoulders thrown back, her head erect.

The jury had found them both guilty of murder in the first degree, and the judge sentenced them to death in the electric chair.

On August 19, Stephen Carella and Theodora Franklin listened to their own sentence.

“Do either of you know of any reason why you both should not be legally joined in marriage, or if there be any present who can show any just cause why these parties should not be legally joined together, let him now speak or hereafter hold his peace.”

Lieutenant Byrnes held his peace. Detective Hal Willis said nothing. The small gathering of friends and relatives watched, dewy-eyed.

The city clerk turned to Carella.

“Do you, Stephen Louis Carella, take this woman as your lawfully wedded wife to live together in the state of matrimony? Will you love, honor, and keep her as a faithful man is bound to do, in health, sickness, prosperity, and adversity, and forsaking all others keep you alone unto her as long as you both shall live?”

“Yes,” Carella said. “Yes, I will. I do. Yes.”

“Do you, Theodora Franklin, take this man as your lawfully wedded husband to live together in the state of matrimony? Will you love, honor, and cherish him as a faithful woman is bound to do, in health, sickness, prosperity, and adversity, and forsaking all others keep you alone unto him as long as you both shall live?”

Teddy nodded. There were tears in her eyes, but she could not keep the ecstatic smile off her face.

“For as you both have consented in wedlock and have acknowledged it before this company, I do by virtue of the authority vested in me by the laws of this state now pronounce you husband and wife. And may God bless your union.”

Carella look her in his arms and kissed her. The clerk smiled. Lieutenant Byrnes cleared his throat. Willis looked up at the ceiling. The clerk kissed Teddy when Carella released her. Byrnes kissed her. Willis kissed her. All the male relatives and friends came up to kiss her.

Carella smiled idiotically.

“You hurry back,” Byrnes said to him.

“Hurry back? I’m going on my honeymoon, Pete!”

“Well, hurry anyway. How are we going to run that precinct without you? You’re the only cop in the city who has the courage to buck the decisions of stubborn, opinionated Detective-Lieutenant Byrnes of the…”

“Oh, go to hell,” Carella said, smiling.

Willis shook his hand. “Good luck, Steve. She’s a wonderful gal.”

“Thank you, Hal.”

Teddy came to him. He put his arm around her.

“Well,” he said, “let’s go.”

They went out of the room together.

Byrnes stared after them wistfully.

“He’s a good cop,” he said.

“Yeah,” Willis answered.

From Cop Hater, 1956

He was bushed when he got home that night. Teddy greeted him at the door, and he kissed her in a perfunctory, most unnewlywedlike way. She looked at him curiously, led him to a drink waiting in the living room, and then, attuned to his uncommunicative mood, went out to the kitchen to finish dinner. When she served the meal, Carella remained silent.

She looked at him often, wondering if she had offended him in some way, longing to see words on his lips, words she could read and understand. And finally, she reached across the table and touched his hand, and her eyes opened wide in entreaty, brown eyes against an oval face.

“No, it’s nothing,” Carella said gently.

But still her eyes asked their questions. She cocked her head to one side, the short raven hair sharply detailed against the white wall behind her.

“This case,” he admitted.

She nodded, waiting, relieved that he was troubled with his work and not with his wife.

“Well, why the hell would anyone leave a perfect set of fingerprints on a goddamn murder weapon, and then leave the weapon where every rookie cop in the world could find it?”

Teddy shrugged sympathetically, and then nodded.

“And why try to simulate a hanging afterward? Does the killer think he’s dealing with a pack of nitwits, for Christ’s sake?” He shook his head angrily. Teddy shoved back her chair and then came around the table and plunked herself down in his lap. She took his arm and wrapped it around her waist, and then she snuggled up close to him and kissed his neck.

“Stop that,” he told her, and then — realizing she could not see his lips because her face was buried in his throat — he caught her hair and gently yanked back her head, and repeated, “Stop it. How can I think about the case with you doing that?”

Teddy gave an emphatic nod of her head, telling her husband that he had exactly understood her motivations.

“You’ll destroy me,” Carella said, smiling. “Do you think…”

Teddy kissed his mouth.

Carella moved back gently. “Do you think you’d leave a…”

She kissed him again, and this time he lingered awhile before moving away.

“… syringe with fingerprints all over it on a mmmmmmmm…”

Her face was very close to his, and he could see the brightness in her eye’s, and the fullness of her mouth when she drew back.

“Oh God, woman,” he said.

She rose and took his hand and as she was leading him from the room he turned her around and said, “The dishes. We have to…” and she tossed up her back skirts in reply, the way cancan dancers do. In the living room, she handed him a sheet of paper, neatly folded in half.

“I didn’t know you wanted to answer the mail,” Carella said. “I somehow suspected I was being seduced.”

Impatiently, Teddy gestured to the paper in his hand. Carella unfolded it. The white sheet was covered with four typewritten stanzas. The stanzas were titled “Ode for Steve.”

“For me? he asked.

Yes, she nodded.

“Is this what you do all day, instead of slaving around the house?”

She wiggled her forefinger, urging him to read the poem.

“The last stanza doesn’t rhyme,” Carella said.

Teddy pulled a mock mask of stunned disgust.

“Also, methinks I read sexual connotations into this thing,” Carella added.

Teddy waved one hand airily, shrugged innocently, and then — like a burlesque queen imitating a high-priced fashion model — walked gracefully and suggestively into the bedroom, her buttocks wiggling exaggeratedly.

Carella grinned and folded the sheet of paper. He put it into his wallet, walked to the bedroom door, and leaned against the jamb. “You know,” he said, “you don’t have to write poems.” Teddy stared at him across the length of the room. “All you have to do is ask,” he said huskily.

The only warning was the tightening of Gonzo’s eyes. Carella saw them squinch up, and he tried to move sideways, but the gun was already speaking. He did not see it buck in the boy’s fist. He felt searing pain lash at his chest, and he heard the shocking declaration of three explosions and then he was falling, and he felt very warm, and he also felt very ridiculous because his legs simply would not hold him up, how silly, how very silly, and his chest was on fire, and the sky was lilting to meet the earth, and then his face struck the ground. He did not put out his arms to stop his fall because his arms were somehow powerless. His face struck the loose stones, and his body crumpled behind it, and he shuddered and felt a warm stickiness beneath him, and only then did he try to move and then he realized he was lying in a spreading pool of his own blood. He wanted to laugh and he wanted to cry at the same time. He opened his mouth, but no sound came from it. And then the waves of blackness came at him, and he fought to keep them away, unaware that Gonzo was running off through the trees, aware only of the engulfing blackness, and suddenly sure that he was about to die.

Teddy sat in the room with her husband, watching him. The blinds were drawn, but she could see his face clearly in the dimness, the mouth open, the eyes closed. Beside the bed, the plasma ran from an upturned bottle, slid through a tube, and entered Carella’s arm. He lay without stirring, the blankets pulled up over the jagged wounds in his chest. The wounds were dressed now, but they had leaked their blood, they had done their damage, and he lay pale and unmoving, as if death were already inside him.

No, she thought, he won’t die.

Please, God, please, dear God, don’t let this man die, please.

Her thoughts ran freely, and she didn’t realize she was praying because her thoughts sounded only like thoughts to her, simple thoughts, the thoughts a girl thinks. But she was praying.

She was remembering how she’d met Carella. She could remember exactly how he had come into the room, he and another man, a detective who was later transferred to another precinct, a detective whose face she could no longer remember. She had been concerned only with the face of Steve Carella that day. He had entered the office, and he was tall, and he walked erect, and he wore his clothes as if he were a high-priced men’s fashion model rather than a cop. He had shown her his shield and introduced himself, and she had scribbled on a sheet of paper, explaining that she could neither hear nor speak, explaining that the receptionist was out, that she was hired as a typist, but that her employer would see him in a moment, as soon as she went to tell him the police were there. His face had registered mild surprise. When she rose from her desk and went to the boss’s office, she could feel his eyes on her all the way.

She was not surprised when he asked her out.

She had seen interest in his eyes, and so the surprise was not in his asking, the surprise was that he could find her interesting at all. She supposed, of course, that there were men who would try anything once, just for kicks. Why not a girl who couldn’t hear or talk? Might be interesting. She supposed, at first, that this was what had motivated Steve Carella, but after their first date, she knew this wasn’t the case at all. He was not interested in her ears or her tongue. He was interested in the girl Teddy Franklin. He told her so, repeatedly. It look her a long while to believe it, even though she intuitively suspected its truth. And then one day, belief came, the way belief suddenly comes, and she realized he really and truly did want her for his wife. And now he lay in a hospital bed, and it seemed he might die, it seemed possible he might die, the doctors had told her that her husband might die.

She did not concern herself with the unfairness of the situation. The situation was shockingly unfair, her husband should not have been shot, her husband should not now be fighting for his life on a hospital bed. The unfairness shrieked within her, but she did not concern herself with it, because what was done was done.

But he was good, and he was gentle, and he was her man, the only man in the world for her. There were those who held that any two people can make a go of it. If not one, then another. Throw them in bed together and things will work out all right. There’s always another streetcar. Teddy did not believe this. Teddy did not believe that there was another man anywhere in the world who was as right for her as Steve Carella. Somehow, quite miraculously, he had been delivered to her doorstep, a gift, a wonderful gift.

She could not now believe he would be torn rudely from her. She could not believe it, she would not believe it. She had told him what she wanted for Christmas. She wanted him. She had said it earnestly, knowing he took it as jest, but she had meant every word of it. And now, her words were being hurled back into her face by a cruel wind. Because now she really wanted him for Christmas, now he was the only thing she really wanted for Christmas. Earlier, she had been secure when she asked for him, knowing she would certainly have him. But now the security was gone, now there was left only a burning desire for her man to live. She would never again want anything more than Steve Carella.

Byrnes hung up and then put on his overcoat. He was suddenly feeling quite good about everything. He was sure Carella would pull through. Damnit, you can’t shoot a good cop and expect him to die! Not a cop like Carella!

He walked all the way to the hospital. The temperature was dipping close to zero, but he walked all the way, and he shouted “Merry Christmas!” to a pair of drunks who passed him. When he reached the hospital, his face was tingling, and he was out of breath, but he was more sure than ever before that everything would work out all right.

He took the elevator up to the eighth floor, and the doors slid open and he stepped into the corridor. It took a moment to orient himself and then he started off toward Carella’s room, and it took another moment for the new feeling to attack him. For here in the cool antiseptic sterility of the hospital, he was no longer certain about Steve Carella. Here he had his first doubts, and his step slowed as he approached the room.

He saw Teddy then.

At first she was only a small figure at the end of the corridor, and then she walked closer and he watched her. Her hands were wrung together at her waist, and her head was bent, and Byrnes watched her and felt a new dread, a dread that attacked his stomach and his mind. There was defeat in the curve of her body, defeat in the droop of her head.

Carella, he thought. Oh God, Steve, no…

He rushed to her, and she looked up at him, and her face was streaked with tears, and when he saw the tears on the face of Steve Carella’s wife, he was suddenly barren inside, barren and cold, and he wanted to break from her and run down the corridor, break from her and escape the pain in her eyes.

And then he saw her mouth.

And it was curious, because she was smiling. She was smiling and the shock of seeing that smile opened his eyes wide. The tears coursed down her face, but they ran past a beaming smile, and he took her shoulders and he spoke very clearly and very distinctly and he said, “Steve? Is he all right?”

She read the words on his mouth, and then she nodded, a small nod at first, and then an exaggerated delirious nod, and she threw herself into Byrnes’s arms, and Byrnes held her close to him, feeling for all the world as if she were his daughter, surprised to find tears on his own face.

Outside the hospital, the church bells tolled.

It was Christmas Day, and all was right with the world.

From The Pusher, 1956

The beauty of being a shoemaker, Teddy Carella thought, is that you don’t take your work home with you. You cobble so many shoes, and then you go home to your wife, and you don’t think about soles and heels until the next day.

A cop thinks about heels all the time.

A cop like Steve Carella thinks about souls, too.

She would not, of course, have been married to anyone else but it pained her nonetheless to see him sitting by the window brooding. His brooding position was almost classical, almost like the Rodin statue. He sat slumped in the easy chair, his chin cupped in one large hand, his legs crossed. He sat barefoot, and she loved his feet, that was ridiculous, you don’t love a man’s feet, well the hell with you, I love his feet. They’ve got good clean arches and nice toes, sue me.

She walked to where he was sitting.

She was not a tall girl, but she somehow gave an impression of height. She held her head high, and her shoulders erect, and she walked lightly with a regal grace that added inches to her stature.

Standing spread-legged before her brooding husband, she put her hands on her hips and stared down at him. She wore a red wraparound skirt, a huge gold safety pin fastening it just above her left knee. She wore red Capezio flats, and a white blouse swooped low at the throat to the first swelling rise of her breasts. She had caught her hair back with a blight red ribbon, and she stood before him now and defied him to continue with his sullen brooding.

Neither spoke. Teddy because she could not, and Carella because he would not. The silent skirmish filled the small apartment.

Al last, Carella said, “All right, all right.”

Teddy nodded and cocked one eyebrow.

“Yes,” he said, “I’m emerging from my shell.”

She hinged her hands together at the wrist and opened them slowly, and then snapped them shut.

“You’re right,” Carella said. “I’m a clam.”

She pointed a pistol-finger at him and squeezed the trigger.

“Yes, my work,” he said.

Abruptly, without warning, she moved onto his lap. His arms circled her, and she cuddled up into a warm ball, pulling her knees up, snuggling her head against his chest. She looked up at him, and her eyes said, Tell me.

“This girl,” he said. “Mary Louise Proschek.”

Teddy nodded.

“Thirty-three years old, comes to the city to start a new life. Turns up floating in the Harb. Letter to her folks was full of good spirits. Even if we suspected suicide, which we don’t, the letter would fairly well eliminate that. The M.E. says she was dead before she hit the water. Cause of death was acute arsenic poisoning. You following me?

Teddy nodded, her eyes wide.

“She’s got a tattoo mark right here…” He showed the spot on his right hand. “… the word ‘Mac’ in a heart. Didn’t have it when she left Scranton, her hometown. How many Macs do you suppose there are in this city?”

Teddy rolled her eyes.

“You said it. Did she come here to meet this Mac? Did she just run into him by accident? Is he the one who threw her in the river after poisoning her? How do you go about locating a guy named Mac?”

Teddy pointed to the flap of skin between her thumb and forefinger.

“The tattoo parlors? I’ve already started checking them. We may get a break because not many women wear tattoos.

“What’d you do all day?” he asked, holding her close, beginning to relax, succumbing to the warmth of her.

Teddy opened her hands like a book.

“Read?” Carella watched while she nodded. “What’d you read?”

Teddy scrambled off his lap and then clutched her middle, indicating that she had read something that was very funny. She walked across the room and he watched her when she stooped alongside the magazine rack.

“If you’re not careful,” he said, “I’m going to undo that damn safety pin.”

She put the magazines on the floor, stood up, and undid the safety pin. The skirt hung loose, one flap over the other. When she stooped to pick up the magazine again, it opened in a wide slit from her knee to almost her waist. Wiggling like the burlesque queen Carella had described, she walked back to him and dumped the magazines in his lap.

“Pen pal magazines?” Carella asked, astonished.

Teddy hunched up her shoulders, grinned, and then covered her mouth with one hand.

“My God!” he said. “Why?”

With her hands on her hips, Teddy kicked at the ceiling with one foot, the skirt opening over the clean line of her leg.

“For kicks?” Carella asked, shrugging. “What kind of stuff is in here? ‘Dear Pen Pal: I am a cocker spaniel who always wanted to be in the movies…’”

Teddy grinned and opened one of the magazines for him. Carella thumbed through it. She sat on the arm of his chair, and the skirt opened again. He looked at the magazine, and then he looked at his woman, and then he said, “The hell with this noise,” and he threw the magazine to the floor and pulled Teddy onto his lap.

The magazine fell open to the Personals column.

It lay on the floor while Steve Carella kissed his wife. It lay on the floor when he picked her up and carried her into the next room.

There was a small ad in the Personals column.

It read:

The idea was to combine business with pleasure.

It was an idea Steve Carella didn’t particularly relish, but he’d promised Teddy he’d meet her downtown at eight on the button, and the call from the tattoo parlor had been clocked in at seven forty-five, and he knew it was too late to reach her at the house. He couldn’t have called her in any case because the telephone was one instrument Carella’s wife could never use. But he had, on other occasions, illegally dispatched a radio motor patrol car to his own apartment with the express purpose of delivering a message to Teddy. The police commissioner, even while allowing that Carella was a good cop, might have frowned upon such extracurricular squad car activity. So Carella, sneak that he was, never told him.

He stood now on the corner under the big bank clock, partially covered by the canopy which spread out over the entrance, shielding the big metal doors. He hoped there would not be an attempted bank robbery. If there was anything he disliked, it was foiling attempted bank robberies when he was off duty and waiting for the most beautiful woman in the world. Naturally, he was never off duty. A cop, as he well knew, is on duty twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year, three hundred and sixty-six days in leap year. Then, too, there was the tattoo parlor to visit, and he couldn’t consider himself officially clocked out until he’d made that call, and then reported the findings back to whoever was catching at the squad.

He hoped there would not be an attempted bank robbery, and he also hoped it would stop drizzling because the rain was seeping into his bones and making his wounds ache, oh, my aching wounds!

He put his aches out of his mind and fell to woolgathering. Carella’s favorite form of woolgathering was thinking about his wife. He knew there was something hopelessly adolescent about the way he loved her, but those were the facts, ma’m, and there wasn’t much he could do to change his feelings. There were probably more-beautiful women in the world, but he didn’t know who they were. There were probably sweeter, purer, warmer, more-passionate women, too. He doubted it. He very strongly doubted it. The simple truth was that she pleased him. Hell, she delighted him. She had a face he would never tire of watching, a face which was a thousand faces, each linked subtly by a slender chain of beauty. Fully made up, her brown eyes glowing, the lashes darkened with mascara, her lips cleanly stamped with lipstick, she was one person — and he loved the meticulously calculated beauty, the freshly combed, freshly powdered veneer of that person.

In the morning, she was another person. Warm with sleep, her eyes would open, and her face would be undecorated, her full lips swollen, the black hair tangled like wild weeds, her body supple and pliable. He loved her this way, too, loved the small smile on her mouth and the sudden eager alertness of her eyes.

Her face was a thousand faces, quiet and introspective when they walked along a lonely shore barefoot and the only sound was the distant sound of breakers on the beach, a sound she could not hear in her silent world. Alive with fury, her face could change in an instant, the black brows swooping down over suddenly incandescent eyes, her lips skinning back over even white teeth, her body taut with invective she could not hurl because she could not speak, her fists clenched. Tears transformed her face again. She did not cry often, and when she did cry it was with completely unself-conscious anguish. It was almost as if, secure in the knowledge of her beauty, she could allow her lace to be torn by agony.

Many men longed for the day when their ship would come in.

Carella’s ship had come in — and it had launched a thousand faces.

There were times, of course, like now when he wished the ship could do a little more than fifteen knots. It was eight-twenty, and she’d promised to be there at eight on the dot, and whereas he never grew weary of her mental image he much preferred her in person.

Now! For the first time! Live! On our stage! In person! Imported from the Cirque d’Hiver in Paris…

There must be something wrong with me, Carella thought. I’m… never really here. I’m always…

He spotted her instantly. By this time, he was not surprised by what the sight of her could do to him. He had come to accept the instant quickening of his heart and the automatic smile on his face. She had not yet seen him, and he watched her from his secret vantage point, feeling somewhat sneaky, but what the hell!

She wore a black skirt and a red sweater, and over that a black cardigan with red piping. The cardigan hung open, ending just below her hips. She had a feminine walk which was completely unconscious, completely uncalculated. She walked rapidly because she was late, and he heard the steady clatter of the black pumps on the pavement and he watched with delighted amusement the men who turned for a second look at his wife.

When she saw him, she broke into a run. He did not know what it was between them that made the shortest separation seem like a ten-year stretch at Alcatraz. Whatever it was, they had it. She came into his aims, and he kissed her soundly, and he wouldn’t have given a damn if 20th Century-Fox had been filming the entire sequence for a film titled The Mating Season Jungle.

“You’re late,” he said. “Don’t apologize. You look lovely. We have to make a stop, do you mind?”

Her eyes questioned his face.

“A tattoo parlor downtown. Guy thinks he may remember Mary Louise Proschek. We’re lucky. This is business, so I was able to check out a sedan. Means we don’t have to take the train home tonight. Some provider, your husband, huh?”

Teddy grinned and squeezed his arm.

“The car’s around the corner. You look beautiful. You smell nice, too. What’ve you got on?”

Teddy dry-washed her hands.

“Just soap and water? You’re amazing! Look how nice you can make soap smell. Honey, this won’t take more than a few minutes. I’ve got some pictures of the Proschek girl in the car, and maybe we can get a make on them from this guy. After that, we’ll eat and whatever you like. I can use a drink, can’t you?”

Teddy nodded.

“Why do people always say they can ‘use’ a drink? What, when you get right down to it, can they use it for?” He studied her and added, “I’m too talkative tonight. I guess I’m excited. We haven’t had a night out in a long while. And you look beautiful. Don’t you get tired of my saving that?”

Teddy shook her head, and there was a curious tenderness in the movement. He had grown used to her eyes, and perhaps he missed what they were saying to him, over and over again, repeatedly. Teddy Carella didn’t need a tongue.

They walked to the car, and he opened the door for her, went around to the other side, and then started the motor. The police radio erupted into the closed sedan.

“Car 21, Car 21, Signal 1. Silvermine at North 40th…”

“I’ll be conscientious and leave it on,” Carella said to Teddy. “Some pretty redhead may be trying to reach me.”

Teddy’s brows lowered menacingly.

“In connection with a case, of course,” he explained.

Of course, she nodded mockingly.

“God, I love you,” he said, his hand moving to her thigh. He squeezed her quickly, an almost unconscious gesture, and then he put his hand back on the wheel.

They drove steadily through the maze of city traffic. At one stoplight, a traffic cop yelled at Carella because he anticipated the changing of the light from red to green. The cop’s rain gear was slick with water. Carella felt suddenly like a heel.

The windshield wipers snicked at the steady drizzle. The tires whispered against the asphalt of the city. The city was locked in against the rain. People stood in doorways, leaned out of windows. There was a gray quietness to the city, as if the rain had suspended all activity, had caused the game of life to be called off. There was a rain smell to the city, too, all the smells of the day captured in the steady canopy of water and washed clean by it. There was, too, and strange for the city, a curious sense of peace.

“I love Paris when it drizzles,” Carella said suddenly, and he did not have to explain the meaning of his words because she knew at once what he meant, she knew that he was not talking about Paris or Wichita, that he was talking about this city, his city, and that he had been horn in it and into it and that it, in turn, had been born into him.

The expensive apartment houses fell away behind them, as did the line of high-fashion stores, and the advertising agency towers, and the publishing shrines, and the gaudy brilliance of the amusement area, and the stilled emptiness of the garment district at night, and the tangled intricacy of the narrow side streets far downtown, the pushcarts lining the streets, filled with fruits and vegetables, the store windows behind them, the Italian salami, and the provolone, and the pepperoni hanging in bright red strings.

The tattoo parlor nestled in a side street on the fringe of Chinatown, straddled by a bar and a laundromat. The combination of the three was somewhat absurd, ranging from the exotica of tattooing into the netherworld of intoxication and from there to the plebeian task of laundering clothes. The neighborhood had seen its days of glory perhaps, but they were all behind it. Far behind it. Like an old man with cancer, the neighborhood patiently and painfully awaited the end and the end was the inevitable city housing project. And in the meantime, nobody bothered to change the soiled bedclothes. Why bother when something was going to die anyway?

The man who ran the tattoo parlor was Chinese. The name on the plate glass window was Charlie Chen.

“Everybody call me Charlie Chan,” he explained. “Big detective, Charlie Chan. But me Chen, Chen. You know Charlie Chan, detective?”

“Yes,” Carella said, smiling.

“Big detective,” Chen said. “Got stupid sons.” Chen laughed. “Me got stupid sons, too, but me no detective.” He was a round fat man, and everything he owned shook when he laughed. He had a small mustache on his upper lip, and he had thick fingers, and there was an oval jade ring on the forefinger of his left hand. “You detective, huh?” he asked.

“Yes,” Carella said.

“This lady police lady?” Chen asked.

“No. This lady’s my wife.”

“Oh. Very good. Very good,” Chen said. “Very pretty. She wants tattoo, maybe? Do nice butterfly for her on shoulder. Very good for strapless gowns. Very pretty. Very decorative.”

Teddy shook her head, smiling.

“Very pretty lady. You very lucky detective,” Chen said. He turned to Teddy. “Nice yellow butterfly maybe? Very pretty?” He opened his eyes seductively. “Everybody say very pretty.”

Teddy shook her head again.

“Maybe you like red better? Red your color, maybe? Nice red butterfly?”

Teddy could not keep herself from smiling. She kept shaking her head and smiling, feeling very much a part of her husband’s work, happy that he’d had to make the call, and happy that he’d taken her with him. It was curious, she supposed, but she did not know him as a cop. His function as a cop was something almost completely alien to her, even though he talked about his work. She knew that he dealt with crime, and the perpetrators of crime, and she often wondered what kind of man he was when he was on the job. Heartless? She could not imagine that in her man. Cruel? No. Hard, tough? Perhaps.

“About this girl,” Carella said to Chen. “When did she come in for the tattoo?”

“Oh, long, lime ago,” Chen said. “Maybe five months, maybe six. Nice lady. Not so pretty like your lady, but very nice.”

“Was she alone?”

“No. She with tall man.” Chen scrutinized Carella’s face. “Prettier than you, detective.”

Carella grinned. “What did he look like?”

“Tall. Movie star. Very handsome. Muscles.”

“What color was his hair?”

“Yellow,” Chen said.

“His eyes?”

Chen shrugged.

“Anything you remember about him?”

“He smile all the time,” Chen said. “Big white teeth. Very pretty teeth. Very handsome man. Movie star.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“They come in together. She hold his arm. She look at him, stars in her eyes.” Chen paused. “Like your lady. But not so pretty.”

“Were they married?”

Chen shrugged.

“Did you see an engagement ring or a wedding band on her finger?”

“I don’t see,” Chen said. He grinned at Teddy. Teddy grinned back. “You like black butterfly? Pretty black wings? Come, I show you.” He led them into the shop. A beaded curtain led to the back room. The walls of the shop were covered with tattoo designs. A calendar with a nude girl on it hung on the wall near the beaded curtain. Someone had jokingly inked tattoos onto her entire body. The tattooer had drawn a pair of clutching hands on the girl’s full breasts. Chen pointed to a butterfly design on one of the walls.

“This butterfly. You like? You pick color. Any color. I do. I put on your shoulder. Very pretty.”

“Tell me what happened with the girl,” Carella said, gently insistent. Teddy looked at him curiously. Her husband was enjoying the byplay between herself and Chen, but he was not losing sight of his objective. He was here in this shop for a possible lead to the man who had killed Mary Louise Proschek. She suddenly felt that if the byplay got too involved, her husband would call a screaming halt to it.

“They come in shop. He say the girl want tattoo. I show them the signs on wall. I try to sell her butterfly. Nobody like butterfly. Butterfly my own design. Very pretty. Good for shoulder. I do butterfly for one lady’s back, near base of spine. Very pretty, only nobody see. Good for shoulder. I try to sell her butterfly, but man say he wants heart. She say she wants heart, too. Stars in eyes, you know? Big love, big thing, shining all over. I show them big hearts. Very pretty hearts, very complicated, many colors.”

“They didn’t want a big heart?”

“Man wants small heart. He show me where.” Chen spread his thumb and forefinger. “Here. Very difficult. Skinny flesh, needle could go through. Very painful. Very difficult. He say he wants it there. She say if he wants it there, she wants it there. Crazy.”

“Who suggested what lettering to put into the heart?”

“Man. He say you put M, A, C in heart.”

“he said to put the name Mac into that heart?”

“He no say name Mac. He say put M, A, C.”

“And what did she say?”

“She say yes, M, A, C.”

“Go on.”

“I do. Very painful. Girl scream. He hold her shoulders. Very painful. Tender spot.” Chen shrugged. “Butterfly on shoulder better.”

“Did she mention his name while she was here?”

“No.”

“Did she call him Mac?”

“She call him nothing.” Chen thought a moment. “Yes, she call him darling, dear, sweetheart. Love words. No name.”

Carella sighed. He lifted the flap of the manila envelope in his hands and drew out the glossy prints that were inside it. “Is this the girl?” he asked Chen.

Chen looked at the pictures. “That she,” he said. “She dead, huh?”

“Yes, she’s dead.”

“He kill her?”

“We don’t know.”

“She love him,” Chen said, wagging his head. “Love very special. Nobody should kill love.”

Teddy looked at the little round Chinese, and she suddenly felt very much like allowing him to tattoo his prize butterfly design on her shoulder. Carella took the pictures back and put them into the envelope.

“Has this man ever come into your shop again?” Carella asked. “With another woman perhaps?”

“No, never,” Chen said.

“Well,” Carella said, “thanks a lot, Mr. Chen. If you remember anything more about him, give me a call, won’t you?” He opened his wallet. “Here’s my card. Just ask for Detective Carella.”

“You come back,” Chen said, “you ask for Charlie Chan, big detective with stupid sons. You bring wife. I make pretty butterfly on shoulder.” He extended his hand and Carella took it. For a moment, Chen’s eyes went serious. “You lucky,” he said. “You not so pretty, have very pretty lady. Love very special.” He turned to Teddy. “Someday, if you want butterfly, you come back. I make very pretty.” He winked. “Detective husband like. I promise. Any color. Ask for Charlie Chan. That’s me.”

He grinned and wagged his head, and Carella and Teddy left the shop, heading for the police sedan up the street.

“Nice guy, wasn’t he?” Carella said.

Teddy nodded.

“I wish they were all like him. A lot of them aren’t. With many people, the presence of a cop automatically produces a feeling of guilt. That’s the truth, Teddy. They instantly feel that they’re under suspicion, and everything they say becomes defensive. I guess that’s because there are skeletons in the cleanest closets. Are you very hungry?”

Teddy made a face which indicated she was famished.

“Shall we find a place in the neighborhood, or do you want to wait until we get uptown?”

Teddy pointed to the ground.

“Here?”

Yes, she nodded.

“Chinese?”

No.

“Italian?”

Yes.

“You shouldn’t have married a guy of Italian descent,” Carella said. “Whenever such a guy eats in an Italian restaurant, he can’t help comparing his spaghetti with what his mother used to cook. He then becomes dissatisfied with what he’s eating, and the dissatisfaction spreads to include his wife. The next thing you know, he’s suing for divorce.”

Teddy put her forefingers to her eyes, stretching the skin so that her ryes became slitted.

“Right,” Carella said. “You should have married a Chinese. But then, of course, you wouldn’t be able to eat in Chinese restaurants.” He paused and grinned. “All this eating talk is making me hungry. How about that place up the street?”

They walked to it rapidly, and Carella looked through the plate-glass window.

“Not too crowded,” he said, “and it looks clean. You game?”

Teddy took his arm, and he led her into the place.

It was, perhaps, not the cleanest place in the world. As sharp as Carella’s eyes were, a cursory glance through a plate-glass window is not always a good evaluation of cleanliness. And, perhaps, the reason it wasn’t too crowded was that the food wasn’t too good. Not that it mattered very much, since both Carella and Teddy were really very hungry and probably would have eaten sautéed grasshoppers if they were served.

The place did have nice checkered tablecloths and candles stuck into the necks of old wine bottles, the wax frozen to the glass. The place did have a long bar which ran the length of the wall opposite the dining room, bottles stacked behind it, amber lights illuminating the bottles. The place did have a phone booth, and Carella still had to make his call back to the squad.

The waiter who came over to their table seemed happy to see them.

“Something to drink before you order?” he asked.

“Two martinis,” Carella said. “Olives.”

“Would you care to see a menu now or later, sir?”

“Might as well look at it now,” Carella said. The waiter brought them two menus. Carella glanced at his briefly and then put it down. “I’m bucking for a divorce,” he said. “I’ll have spaghetti.”

While Teddy scanned the menu, Carella looked around the room. An elderly couple were quietly eating at a table near the phone booth. There was no one else in the dining room. At the bar, a man in a leather jacket sat with a shot glass and a glass of water before him. The man was looking into the bar mirror. His eyes were on Teddy.

Behind the bar, the bartender was mixing the martinis Carella had ordered.

“I’m so damn hungry I could eat the bartender,” Carella said.

When the waiter came with their drinks, he ordered spaghetti for himself and then asked Teddy what she wanted. Teddy pointed to the lasagna dish on the menu, and Carella gave it to the waiter. When the waiter was gone, they picked up their glasses.

“Here’s to ships that come in,” Carella said.

Teddy stared at him, puzzled.

“All loaded with treasures from the East,” he went on, “smelling of rich spices, with golden sails.”

She was still staring at him, still puzzled.

“I’m drinking to you, darling,” he explained. He watched the smile form on her mouth. “Poetic cops this city can do without,” he said, and he sipped at the martini and then put the glass down. “I want to call the squad, honey. I’ll be back in a minute.” He touched her hand briefly, and then went toward the phone booth, digging in his pocket for change as he walked away from the table.

She watched him walk from her, pleased with the long athletic strides he took, pleased with the impatience of his hand as it dug for change, pleased with the way he held his head. She realized abruptly that one of the first things that had attracted her to Carella was the way he moved. There was an economy and simplicity of motion about him, a sense of directness. You got the feeling that before he moved he knew exactly where he was going and what he was going to do, and so there was a tremendous sense of security attached to being with him.

Teddy sipped at the martini and then took a long swallow. She had not eaten since noon, and so she was not surprised by the rapidity with which the martini worked its alcoholic wonders. She watched her husband enter the phone booth, watched as he dialed quickly. She wondered how he would speak to the desk sergeant and then to the detective who was catching in the squad room. Would they know he’d been talking of treasure ships just a few moments before? What kind of a cop was he? What did the other cops think of him? She felt a sudden exclusion. Faced with the impenetrable privacy which was any man’s work, she felt alone and unwanted. Quickly, she drained the martini glass.

A shadow fell over the table.

At first she thought it was only a trick of her eyes, and then she looked up. The man who’d been sitting at the bar, the man in the leather jacket, was standing at the table, grinning.

“Hi,” he said.

She glanced hastily at the phone booth. Carella had his back to the dining room.

“What’re you doing with a creep like that?” the man said.

Teddy turned away from him and fastened her eyes to the napkin in her lap.

“You’re just about the cutest doll that ever walked into this dump,” the man in the leather jacket said. “Why don’t you ditch that creep and meet me later. How about it?”

She could smell whiskey on the man’s breath. There was something frightening about his eyes, something insulting about the way they roamed her body with open candor. She wished she were not wearing a sweater. Unconsciously, she pulled the cardigan closed over the lulling cones of her breasts.

“Come on,” the man said, “don’t cover them up.”

She looked up at him and shook her head. Her eyes pleaded with him to go away. She glanced again to the phone booth. Carella was talking animatedly.

“My name’s Dave,” the man said. “That’s a nice name, ain’t it? Dave. What’s your name?”

She could not answer him. She would not have answered him even if she could.

“Come on, loosen up,” Dave said. He stared at her, and his eyes changed, and he said, “Jesus, you’re beautiful, you know that? Ditch him, will you? Ditch him and meet me.”

Teddy shook her head.

“Let me hear you talk,” Dave said.

She shook her head again, pleadingly this time.

“I want to hear your voice. I’ll bet it’s the sexiest goddamn voice in the world. Let me hear it.”

Teddy squeezed her eyes shut tightly. Her hands were trembling in her lap. She wanted this man to go away, wanted him to leave her alone, wanted him to be gone before Steve came out of that booth, before Steve came back to the table. She was slightly dizzy from the martini, and her mind could only think that Steve would be displeased, Steve might think she had invited this.

“Look, what do you have to be such a cold tomato for, huh? I’ll bet you’re not so cold. I’ll bet you’re pretty warm. Let me hear your voice.”

She shook her head again, and then she saw Carella hang up the phone and open the door of the booth. He was grinning, and then he looked toward the table and the grin dropped from his mouth, and she felt a sudden sick panic at the pit of her stomach. Carella moved out of the booth quickly. His eyes had tightened into focus on the man with the leather jacket.

“Come on,” Dave said, “what you got to be that way for, huh? All I’m asking…”

“What’s the trouble, mister?” Carella said suddenly. She looked up at her husband, wanting him to know she had not asked for this, hoping it was in her eyes. Carella did not turn to look at her. His eyes were riveted to Dave’s face.

“No trouble at all,” Dave said, turning, facing Carella with an arrogant smile.

“You’re annoying my wife,” Carella said. “Take off.”

“Oh, was I annoying her? Is the little lady your wife?” He spread his legs wide and let his arms dangle at his sides, and Carella knew instantly that he was looking for trouble and wouldn’t be happy until he found it.

“You were, and she is,” Carella said. “Go crawl back to the bar. It’s been nice knowing you.”

Dave continued smiling. “I ain’t crawling back nowhere,” he said. “This is a free country. I’m staying right here.”

Carella shrugged and pulled out his chair. Dave continued standing by the table. Carella took Teddy’s hand.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Teddy nodded.

“Ain’t that sweet?” Dave said. “Big handsome hubby comes back from…”

Carella dropped his wife’s hand and stood suddenly. At the other end of the dining room, the elderly couple looked up from their meal.

“Mister,” Carella said slowly, “you’re bothering the hell out of me. You’d better…”

“Am I bothering you?” Dave said. “Hell, all I’m doing is admiring a nice piece of…” and Carella hit him.

He hit him suddenly with the full force of his arm and shoulder behind the blow. He hit him suddenly and full in the mouth, and Dave staggered back from the table and slammed into the next table, knocking the wine bottle candle to the floor. He leaned on the table for a moment, and when he looked up his mouth was bleeding, but he was still smiling.

“I was hoping you’d do that, pal,” he said. He studied Carella for a moment, and then he lunged at him.

Teddy sat with her hands clenched in her lap, her face white. She saw her husband’s face, and it was not the face of the man she knew and loved. The face was completely expressionless, the mouth a hard light line that slashed it horizontally, the eyes narrowed so that the pupils were barely visible, the nostrils wide and flaring. He stood spread-legged with his fists balled, and she looked at his hands and they seemed bigger than they’d ever seemed before, big and powerful, lethal weapons which hung at his sides, waiting. His entire body seemed to be waiting. She could feel the coiled-spring tautness of him as he waited for Dave’s rush, and he seemed like a smoothly functioning, well-oiled machine in that moment, a machine which would react automatically as soon as the right button was pushed, as soon as the right lever was pressed. There was nothing human about the machine. All humanity had left Steve Carella the moment his fist had lashed out at Dave. What Teddy saw now was a highly trained and a highly skilled technician about to do his work, waiting for the response buttons to be pushed.

Dave did not know he was fighting a machine. Ignorantly, he pushed out at the buttons.

Carella’s left fist hit him in the gut, and he doubled over in pain and then Carella threw a flashing uppercut which caught Dave under the chin and sent him sprawling backward against the table again. Carella moved quickly and effortlessly, like a cue ball under the hands of an expert pool player, sinking one ball and then rolling to position for a good shot at the next ball. Before Dave clambered off the table, Carella was in position again, waiting.

When Teddy saw Dave pick up the wine bottle, her mouth opened in shocked anguish. But she knew somehow this did not come as a surprise to her husband. His eyes, his face did not change. He watched dispassionately while Dave hit the bottle against the table. The jagged shards of the bottle neck clutched in Dave’s fist frightened her until she wanted to scream, until she wished she had a voice so that she could scream until her throat ached. She knew her husband would be cut, she knew that Dave was drunk enough to cut him, and she watched Dave advancing with the broken bottle, but Carella did not budge an inch, he stood there motionless, his body balanced on the balls of his feet, his right hand open, the fingers widespread, his left hand flat and stiff at his side.

Dave lunged with the broken bottle. He passed low, aiming for Carella’s groin. A look of surprise crossed his face when he felt Carella’s right hand clamp onto his wrist. He felt himself falling forward suddenly, pulled by Carella who had stepped back lightly on his light foot, and who was raising his left hand high over his head, the hand still stiff and rigid.

And then Carella’s left hand descended. Hard and straight, like the sharp biting edge of an ax, it moved downward with remarkable swiftness. Dave felt the impact of the blow. The hard calloused edge of Carella’s hand struck him on the side of his neck, and then Dave bellowed and Carella swung his left hand across his own body and again the hand fell, this time on the opposite side of Dave’s neck, and he fell to the floor, both arms paralyzed for the moment, unable to move.

Carella stood over him, waiting.

“Lay… lay off,” Dave said.

The waiter stood at the entrance to the dining room, his eyes wide.

“Get the police,” Carella said, his voice curiously toneless.

“But…” the waiter started.

“I’m a detective,” Carella said. “Get the patrolman on the beat. Hurry up!”

“Yes,” the waiter said. “Yes, sir.”

Carella did not move from where he stood over Dave. He did not once look at Teddy. When the patrolman arrived, he showed his shield and told him to book Dave for disorderly conduct, generously neglecting to mention assault. He gave the patrolman all the information he needed, walked out with him to the squad car, was gone for some five minutes. When he came back to the table, the elderly couple had gone. Teddy sat staring at her napkin.

“Hi,” he said, and he grinned.

She looked across the table at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t want trouble.”

She shook her head.

“He’ll be better off locked up for the night. He’d only have picked on someone else, hon. He was spoiling for a fight.” He paused. “The next guy he might have succeeded in cutting.”

Teddy Carella nodded and sighed heavily. She had just had a visit to her husband’s office and seen him at work. And she could still remember the terrible swiftness of his hands, hands which she had only known tenderly before.

And so she sighed heavily because she had just discovered the world was not populated with gentle little boys playing games.

And then she reached across the table, and she took his right hand and brought it to her mouth, and she kissed the knuckles, and she kissed the palm, and Carella was surprised to feel the wetness of her tears against his flesh.

To say that Charlie Chen was surprised to see Teddy Carella would be complete understatement.

The door to his shop had been closed, and he heard the small tinkle of the bell when the door opened, and he glanced up momentarily and then lifted his bulk from the chair in which he sat smoking and went to the front of the shop.

“Oh!” he said, and then his round face broke into a delighted grin. “Pretty detective lady come back,” he said. “Charlie Chen is much honored. Charlie Chen is much flattered. Come, sit down, Mrs…” He paused. “Charlie Chen forget name.”

Teddy touched her lips with the tips of her fingers and then shook her head. Chen stared at her, uncomprehending. She repeated the gesture.

“You can’t talk maybe?” he asked. “Laryngitis?”

Teddy smiled, shook her head, and then her hand traveled swiftly from her mouth to her ears, and Chen at last understood.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh.” His eyes clouded. “Very sorry, very sorry.”

Teddy gave a slight shake of her head and a slight lift of her shoulders and a slight twist of her hands, explaining to Chen that there was nothing to be sorry for.

“But you understand me?” he asked. “You know what I say?”

Yes, she nodded.

“Good. You most beautiful lady ever come into Charlie Chen’s poor shop. I speak this from my heart. Beauty is not plentiful in the world today. There is not much beauty. To see true beauty, this gladdens me. Makes me very happy, very happy. I talk too fast for you?”

Teddy shook her head.

“You read my lips?” He nodded appreciatively. “That very clever. Very clever. Why you come visit Charlie Chen?”

Teddy looped her thumbs together and then moved her hands as if they were in flight.

“The butterfly?” Chen asked, astounded. “You want the butterfly?”

Yes, she nodded, delighted by his response.

“Oh,” he said, “ohhhhhh,” as if her acknowledgment were the fulfillment of his wildest dream. “I make very pretty. I make big pretty butterfly.”

Teddy shook her head.

“No big butterfly? Small butterfly?”

Yes.

“Ah, very clever, very clever. Delicate butterfly for pretty lady. Big butterfly no good. Small, little, pretty butterfly better. You very smart. You very beautiful, and you very smart. I do. Come. Come in. Please. Come in.”

He parted the curtains leading to the back of the shop, and then gallantly bowed and stepped aside while Teddy passed through. She went directly to the butterfly design pinned to the wall. Chen smiled, and then seemed to notice for the first time the calendar with its naked woman on the other wall.

“Excuse other pretty lady, please,” he said. “Stupid sons do.”

Teddy glanced at the calendar and smiled.

“You decide color?” Chen asked.

She nodded.

“Which?”

Teddy touched her hair.

“Black? Ah, good. Black very good. Little black butterfly. Come, sit. I do. No pain. Charlie Chen be very careful.”

He sat her down, and she watched him, beginning to get a little frightened now. Deciding to get one’s shoulder decorated was one thing. Going ahead with it was another thing again. She watched his movements as he walked around the shop preparing his tools. Her eyes were saucer wide.

“You frightened?” he asked.

She gave a very small nod.

“No be. Everything go hunky-dory. I promise. Very clean, very sanitary, very harmless.” He smiled. “Very painless, too.”

Teddy kept watching him, her heart in her mouth.

“I use very deep black. Black no good unless really black. Otherwise is gray. Life is all full of grays, pretty lady. No sharp whites, no sharp blacks. All grays. Very sad, life is.” Chen brought a pencil and a sheet of paper to the table. He drew several circles on it, one the size of a dime, the next the size of a nickel, then the size of a quarter, and lastly the size of a half-dollar.

“Which size you want butterfly?” he asked.

Teddy studied the circles.

“Biggest one too big, no?” Chen asked.

Teddy nodded.

“Okay. We disintegrate.” He made a large cross over the half-dollar circle.

“Littlest one too little, yes?” he asked.

Again, Teddy nodded.

“Poof!” Chen said, and he crossed out the dime-sized circle. “Which of these two?” he asked, pointing to the nickel and the quarter.

Teddy shrugged.

“I think bigger one, no? Then Charlie can do nice lace on wings. Too small, is difficult. Can do, but is difficult. Bigger one, we get nice effect, all lacy. Very pretty.” He cocked his head to one side and extended his forefinger. “But not too big. Too big, no good.” He nodded. “Most things in life too big. Gray, and too big. People forget blacks and whites, people forget little things. I tell you something.”

Teddy watched him, wondering if he was talking to put her at ease, realizing at the same time that he was succeeding. The panic she had felt just a few moments earlier was rapidly dissolving.

“You want listen?” Chen asked.

Teddy nodded.

“I was married very pretty lady. Shanghai. You know Shanghai?”

Teddy nodded again.

“Very nice city, Shanghai. I was tattoo there, too. Very skill art in China, tattoo. I tattoo many people. Then I marry very pretty lady. Prettiest lady in all Shanghai. Prettiest lady in all China! She give me three sons. She make me very happy. Life blacks and whites with her. Sharp good contrast. Everything clear and bright. Everything clean. No grays. Big concern for little things. Very joyous, very happy.” Chen was nodding, lost in his reminiscence. His eyes had glazed somewhat, and Teddy watched him, feeling a sadness in the man even before he spoke his next words.

“She die,” he said. “Life very funny. Good things die early, bad ones never die. She die, life is gray again. Have three sons, but no laughter. No more lights in Shanghai. No more people talking. No more happiness. Only empty Charlie Chen. Empty.”

He paused, and she wanted to reach out to touch his hand, to comfort him.

“I come here America. Very good country. I have trade, tattoo.” He wagged his head. “I get by, make living. Send oldest son to college, he not so stupid as I say. Younger ones good in school, too. I learn to live. Only one thing missing. Beauty. Very hard to find beauty.” Chen smiled. “You bring beauty to my shop. I am very grateful. I do beautiful butterfly. My fingers wither and dry if I do not do beautiful butterfly. This I promise. I promise, too, no pain. This, too, I promise. You relax, yes? You unbutton blouse just a little, move off shoulder.” He paused. “Which shoulder? Left or right? Very important to decide.”

Teddy touched her left shoulder.

“Ah, no, butterfly on left shoulder bad omen. We do right, okay? You no mind? We put small pretty black lacy butterfly on right shoulder, okay?”

Teddy nodded. She unbuttoned the top button of her blouse, and then slipped the blouse off her shoulder.

Chen looked up from his needle suddenly.

The bell over his front door had just sounded.

Someone had entered the shop.

Chen may not have recognized the tall blond man were it not for the fact that Teddy Carella was in the back of his shop, waiting to be tattooed.

For whereas the handsome blond had been an impressive figure, Chen had only seen him once and that had been a long time ago. But now, with Teddy in the rear of the shop, with Chen keenly reminded of Teddy’s relationship to a husband who was a cop, he recognized the blond man the instant he stepped through the beaded curtains to confront him.

“Yes?” he said, and he saw the man’s face and, curiously, he automatically began thinking in Chinese. This is the man the detective seeks, he thought. The husband of the beauty who now waits to be tattooed. This is the man.

“Hello, there,” Donaldson said. “We’ve got some work for you.”

Chen’s eyes fled to the girl beside Donaldson. She was not pretty. Her hair was a mousy brown, and her eyes were a faded brown, and she wore glasses, and she peered through the glasses, she was not pretty at all. She also looked a little sick. There was a tight drawn repression to her face, and her skin was pallid, she did not look good at all.

“What kind of work, please?” Chen asked.

“A tattoo,” Donaldson said, smiling.

Chen nodded. “A tattoo for the gentleman, yessir,” he said.

“No,” Donaldson corrected, “a tattoo for the lady,” and there was no longer the slightest doubt in Chen’s mind. This was the man. A girl was dead, perhaps because of this man. Chen eyed him narrowly. This man was dangerous.

“You will sit down, please?” he asked. “I be with you in one minute.”

“Hurry, won’t you?” Donaldson said. “We haven’t got much time.”

“I be with you two shakes,” Chen said, and he parted the curtains and moved quickly to the back of the shop. He walked directly to Teddy. She saw the anxiety on his face immediately. She gave him her complete attention at once. Something had happened, and Chen was very troubled.

In a whisper, he said, “Man here. One your husband wants. Do you understand?”

For a moment, she didn’t understand. Man here? One my husband…? And then the meaning became clear, and she felt a sudden chill at the base of her spine, felt her scalp begin to prickle.

“He here with girl,” Chen said. “Want tattoo. You understand?”

She swallowed hard, and then she nodded.

“What I should do?” Chen asked.

“I… I don’t feel too well,” Priscilla Ames said.

“This won’t take but a moment,” Donaldson assured her.

“Chris, I really don’t feel well. My stomach…” She shook her head. “Do you suppose that food was all right?”

“I’m sure it was, darling. Look, we’ll get the tattoo, and then we’ll stop for a bromo or something, all right? We have a long drive ahead, and I wouldn’t want you to be sick.”

“Chris, do we… do we have to get the tattoo? I feel awful. I’ve never felt like this before in my life.”

“It’ll pass, darling. Perhaps the food was a little too rich.”

“Yes, it must have been something. Chris, I feel awful.”

Carella opened the door to his apartment.

“Teddy?” he called, and then he realized that calling her name was useless if she could not see his lips. He closed the door behind him and walked into the living room. He took off his jacket, threw it onto one of the easy chairs, and then walked through to the kitchen.

The kitchen was empty.

Carella shrugged, went back to the living room, and then opened the door leading to their bedroom. Teddy wasn’t in the bedroom, either.

He stood looking into the room for several moments, then he sighed, went into the living room again, and opened the window wide. He picked up the newspaper, kicked off his shoes, loosened his tie, and then sat down to read and wait for his wayward wife.

He was dog-tired.

In ten minutes, he was sound asleep in the easy chair.

“I adore you, Chris,” Priscilla said, “and I want to do this for you, but I just… don’t… feel well.”

“You’ll feel better in a little while,” Donaldson said. He paused and smiled. “Would you like some chewing gum?” he asked pleasantly.

“Call him, would you, Chris? Please call him. Let’s get this over with.”

Call him, Teddy wrote on the sheet of paper under the circles Chen had drawn. My husband, Detective Carella. Call him. FRederick 7-8024. Tell him.

“Now?” Chen whispered.

Teddy nodded urgently. On the paper, she wrote, You must keep that man here. You must not allow him to leave the shop.

“The phone,” Chen said. “The phone is out front. How I can call?”

“Hey there!” Donaldson said. “Are you coming out?”

The beaded curtains parted. Chen stepped through them. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “Slight delay. Sit a moment, please. Must call friend.”

“Can’t that wait?” Donaldson asked. “We’re in something of a hurry.”

“No can wait, sir, sorry. Be with you one moment. Promised dear friend to call. Must do.” He moved toward the phone quickly. Quickly, he dialed. FR7-8024. He waited. He could hear the phone ringing on the other end. Then…

“87th Precinct, Sergeant Murchison.”

“I speak to Mr. Carella, please?” Chen said. Donaldson stood not three feet from him, impatiently toeing the floor. The girl sat in the chair opposite the phone, her head cradled in her hands.

“Just a second,” the desk sergeant said. “I’ll connect you with the Detective Division.”

Chen listened to the clicking on the line.

A voice said, “87th Squad, Havilland speaking.”

“Mr. Carella, please,” Chen said.

“Carella’s not here right now,” Havilland said. “Can I help you?”

Chen looked at Donaldson. Donaldson looked at his watch. “The…ah…the tattoo design he wanted,” Chen said. “Is in the shop now.”

“Just a minute,” Havilland said. “Let me take that down. Tattoo design he wanted, in shop now. Okay. Who’s this, please?”

“Charlie Chen.”

“Charlie Chan? What is this, a gag?”

“No, no. You tell Mr. Carella. You tell him call me back soon as he get there. Tell him I try to hold design.”

“He may not even come back to the squad,” Havilland said. “He’s…”

“You tell him,” Chen said. “Please.”

“Okay,” Havilland said, sighing. “I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you,” Chen said, and he hung up.

Bert Kling walked over to Havilland’s desk.

“Who was that?” he asked.

“Charlie Chan,” Havilland said. “A crackpot.”

“Oh,” Kling said. He had half hoped it was Claire, even though he’d talked to her not five minutes earlier.

“Guys got nothing to do but bug police stations,” Havilland said. “There ought to be a law against some of the calls we get!”

“Was your friend out?” Donaldson asked.

“Yes. He call me back. What kind tattoo you want?”

“A small heart with initials in it,” Donaldson said.

“What initials?”

“P, A, C.”

“Where you want heart?”

“On the young lady’s hand.” Donaldson smiled. “Right here between the thumb and forefinger.”

“Very difficult to do,” Chen said. “Hurt young lady.”

Priscilla Ames looked up. “Chris,” she said, “I…I don’t feel well, honestly I don’t. Couldn’t we… couldn’t we let this wait?”

Donaldson took one quick look at Priscilla. His face grew suddenly hard. “Yes,” he said, “it will have to wait. Until another time. Come, Pris.” He took her elbow, pulled her to her feet, held her arm in a firm grip. He turned to Chen. “Thank you,” he said, “We’ll have to go now.”

“Can do now,” Chen said desperately. “You sit lady down, I make tattoo. Do very pretty heart with initials. Very pretty.”

“No,” Donaldson said. “Not now.”

Chen grabbed Donaldson’s arm. “Take very quick. I do good job.”

“Take your hand off me,” Donaldson said, and he opened the door. The tinkle of the bell was loud in the small shop. The door slammed. Chen rushed into the back room.

“They go!” he said. “Can’t keep them! They go!”

Teddy was buttoning her blouse. She scooped the pencil and paper from the tabletop and threw them into her bag.

“His name Chris,” Chen said. “She call him Chris.”

Teddy nodded and started for the door.

“Where you go?” Chen shouted. “Where you go?”

She turned and smiled at him fleetingly. Then the door slammed again, and she was gone.

Chen stood in the middle of his shop, listening to the reverberating tinkle of the bell.

“What I do now?” he said aloud.

She followed behind them closely. They were not easy to lose, he as tall as a giant, his blond hair catching the afternoon sunlight. She, unsteady on her feet, his arm circling her waist, holding her. She followed behind them closely, and she could feel her heart hammering inside her rib cage.

What do I do now? she wondered, but she kept following because this was the man her husband wanted.

When she saw them stop before an automobile, she suddenly lost heart. The chase seemed to be a futile one. He opened the door for the girl and helped her in, and Teddy watched as he walked to the other side of the car and then the taxicab appeared and she knew the chase was not over but that it was just beginning. She hailed the cab, and it pulled to the side of the curb, and the cabbie flicked open the rear door, and Teddy climbed in. He turned to face her and quickly she gestured to her ears and her mouth, and miraculously he understood her at once. She pointed through the windshield where Donaldson was just entering his car. She took a long hard look at the rear of the car.

“What, lady?” the cabbie asked.

Again, she pointed.

“You want me to follow him?” The cabbie watched Teddy nod, watched the door of Donaldson’s car slam shut, and then watched as the sedan pulled away from the curb. The cabbie couldn’t resist the crack.

“What happened, lady?” he asked. “That guy steal your voice?”

He gunned away from the curb, following Donaldson, and then he glanced over his shoulder to see if Teddy had appreciated his humor.

Teddy wasn’t even looking at him.

She had taken Chen’s pencil and paper from her purse and was scribbling furiously.

He hoped she would not die in the car.

It did not seem possible or likely that she would, but he planned ahead for the eventuality because if it happened he didn’t want to be caught short. It would be difficult getting her out of the car. This had never happened to him before, and he felt a tenseness in his hands as he gripped the wheel and navigated the car through the afternoon traffic. He must not panic. Whatever happened, he must not panic. Things had gone too well up to now. Panic could throw everything out the window. Whatever happened, he had to keep a clear head. Whatever happened, there was too much at stake, too much to lose. He had to think clearly and coolly. He had to face each situation as it presented itself. He had to face it and handle it.

“I’m sick, Chris,” Priscilla said. “I’m very sick.”

You don’t know just how sick, he thought. He kept his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel. He did not answer her.

“Chris, I’m… I’m going to throw up.”

“Can’t you…?”

“Please stop the car, Chris. I’m going to throw up.”

“I can’t stop the car,” he said. He looked at her briefly, a side glance that took in the pale white face, the watery eyes. Roughly, he pulled a neatly folded white handkerchief from his breast pocket, thrusting it at her, “Use this,” he said.

“Chris, can’t you stop? Can’t you please…”

“Use the handkerchief,” he said, and there was something strange and new in his voice, and she was suddenly frightened. She could not think of her fright very long. In the next moment, she was violently ill and violently ashamed of herself for being ill.

“That guy’s going to Riverhead,” the cabbie said, turning to Teddy. “See, he’s crossing the bridge. You sure you want me to follow him?”

Teddy nodded. Riverhead. She lived in Riverhead. She and Steve lived in Riverhead, but Riverhead was a big part of the city, where in Riverhead was the man taking the girl? And where was Steve? Was he at the squad? Was he home? Was he still out canvassing tattoo parlors? Was it possible he’d visit Charlie Chen again? She tore off a slip of paper, put it with the growing pile of slips beside her on the seat. Then she began writing again.

And then, as if to check the accuracy of her first observation, she looked at the rear of Donaldson’s car again.

“Are you a writer or something?” the cabbie asked.

It bothered Kling.

He got up and walked to where Havilland was reading a true-detective magazine, his feet propped up on the desk.

“What’d you say that guy’s name was?”

“What?” Havilland asked, looking up from the magazine. “Here’s a case about a guy who cut up his victims. Put them in trunks.”

“This guy who called for Steve,” Kling said. “What’d you say his name was?”

“A crackpot. Sam Spade or something.”

“Didn’t you say Charlie Chan?”

“Yeah, Charlie Chan. A crackpot.”

“What’d he say to you?”

“Said Carella’s tattoo design was in the shop. Said he’d try to keep it there.”

“Charlie Chen,” Kling said thoughtfully. “Carella questioned him. Chen. He was the man who tattooed Mary Proschek.” He thought again. Then he said, “What’s his number?”

“He didn’t leave any,” Havilland said.

“It’s probably in the book,” Kling said, starting back for his own desk.

“The hell of this thing is that the cops didn’t tip to this guy for three years,” Havilland said, wagging his head. “Cutting up dames for three years, and they didn’t tip.” He wagged his head again. “Jesus, how Could they be so stupid!”

“It looks like he’s pulling over, lady,” the cabbie said. “You want I should pull in right behind him?”

Teddy shook her head.

The cabbie sighed. “So where, then? Right here okay?” Teddy nodded. The cabbie pulled in and stopped his meter. Up ahead, Donaldson had parked and was helping Priscilla from the car. Teddy watched them as she fished in her purse for money to pay the cabbie. She paid him, and then she scooped up the pile of paper slips from the seal beside her. She handed one to the cabbie, stepped out, and began running because Donaldson and Priscilla had just turned the corner.

“What…?” the cabbie said, but his fare was gone.

He looked at the narrow slip of paper. In a hurried hand, Teddy had written:

The cabbie stared at the note.

He sighed heavily.

“Women writers!” he said aloud, and he crumpled the slip, threw it out the window, and gunned away from the curb.

Kling found the number in the yellow pages. He asked the desk sargeant for a line, and then he dialed.

He could hear the phone ringing on the other end. Methodically, he began counting the rings.

Three… four… five…

Kling waited.

Six… seven… eight…

Come on, Chen, he thought. Answer the damn thing!

And then he remembered the message Chen had given Havilland. He would try to keep the tattoo design in the shop. Jesus, had something happened to Chen?

He hung up on the tenth ring.

“I’m checking out a car,” he shouted to Havilland. “I’ll be back later.”

Havilland looked up from his magazine. “What?” he asked.

But Kling was already through the gate in the slatted railing and heading for the steps leading to the first floor.

Besides, the phone on Havilland’s desk was ringing.

Chen was walking away from the shop when he heard the telephone. He had left the shop a moment earlier, fired with the decision to go directly to the 87th Precinct, find Carella, and tell him what had happened. He had locked up, and was walking toward his car when the telephone began ringing.

Perhaps there is no difference in the way a telephone rings. It does not ring differently for sweethearts making lover’s calls, it does not ring differently when it carries bad news, or when it carries news of a big deal being closed.

Chen was in a hurry. He had to see Carella, had to talk to him.

So perhaps the ring of the telephone in his closed and locked shop was not really so urgent. Perhaps it did not really sound so terribly important. It was, after all, only a telephone ring.

It was, nonetheless, urgent-sounding enough to pull him back from the curb and over to the locked door. It sounded urgent enough to force him to reach for his keys rapidly, find the right key, shove it into the hanging padlock, snap open the lock, and then throw open the door and rush to the phone.

It sounded urgent as hell until it stopped ringing.

By the time Chen lifted the receiver, all he got was a dial tone.

And since he had a dial tone, he used it.

He called FRederick 7-8024.

“87th Precinct, Sergeant Murchison,” the voice said.

“Detective Carella, please,” Chen said.

“Second,” the desk sergeant answered. Chen waited. He was right, then. Carella was back. He listened to the clicking on the line.

“87th Squad, Detective Havilland,” Havilland said.

“I speak to Detective Carella, please?”

“Not here,” Havilland said. “Who’s this?” From the corner of his eye, he saw Kling disappear into the stairwell leading to the first floor.

“Charlie Chen. When he be back?”

“Just a second,” Havilland said. He covered the mouthpiece. “Hey, Bert!” he shouted. “Bert!” There was no answer from the stairwell. Into the phone, Havilland said, “I’m a cop, too, mister. What’s on your mind?”

“Man who tattoo girl,” Chen said. “He was here shop. With Mrs. Carella.”

“Slow down,” Havilland said. “What man? What girl?”

“Carella knows,” Chen said. “Tell him man’s name is Chris. Big blond man. Tell him wife follows. When he be back? Don’t you know when he be back?”

“Listen…” Havilland started, and Chen impatiently said, “I come. I come tell him. You ask him wait.”

“He may not even…” Havilland said, but he was talking to a dead line.

The girl was bent over double, the handkerchief pressed to her mouth. The tall blond man kept his arm around her waist, holding her up, half walking her, half dragging her down the street.

Behind them, Teddy followed.

She knew very little about con men.

She knew, though, that you could stand on a corner and offer to sell five-dollar gold pieces for ten cents, and you wouldn’t get a buyer all day. She knew that the city was an inherently distrustful place, that strangers did not talk to strangers in restaurants, that people somehow did not trust people.

And so she had taken out insurance.

If she had a tongue, she’d have shouted her message.

She could not speak, and so she’d taken insurance that would shout her message, a dozen narrow slips of paper, with the identical message on each slip:

And now, as she followed along behind Donaldson and the girl, she began to shout her message. She could not linger long with each passerby because she could not afford to lose sight of the pair. She could only touch the sleeve of an old man and hand him the paper, and then walk off. She could only gently press the slip into the hand of a matron in a gray dress, and leave her puzzled and somewhat amused. She could only stop a teenager, avoid the open invitation in his eyes, and hand him the message. She left behind her a trail of people with a scrap of paper in their hands. She hoped that one of them would call the 87th. She hoped the license number would reach her husband. In the meantime, she followed a sick girl and a killer, and she didn’t know what she would do if her husband didn’t reach her, if her husband didn’t somehow reach her.

“Sick… I…” Priscilla Ames could barely speak. She clung to the reassurance of his arm around her waist, and she staggered along the street with him, wondering where he was taking her, wondering why she was so deathly ill.

“Listen to me,” he said. There was a hard edge to his voice. He was breathing heavily, and she did not recognize his voice. Her throat burned, and she could only think of the churning in her stomach, why should she be so sick, why, why, “I’m talking to you, do you hear me?” she’d never been sick in her life, never a day’s serious illness, why then this sudden “Goddamnit, listen to me! You start throwing up again, I swear to Christ I’ll leave you here in the gutter!”

“Wh… wh…” She swallowed. She was ashamed of herself, the food, it must have been the food, that and the fear of the needle, he shouldn’t have asked her to be tattooed, always afraid of needles…

“It’s the next house,” he said, “the big apartment house. I’m taking you in the back way. We’ll use the service elevator. I don’t want anyone to see you like this. Do you hear me? Can you understand me?”

She nodded, swallowing hard, wondering why he was telling her all this, squeezing her eyes shut tightly, knowing only excruciating pain, feeling weak all over, suddenly so very weak, my purse, my purse, Chris, I’ve…

She stopped.

She gestured limply with one hand.

“What is it?” he snapped. “What…?” His eyes followed her gesture. He saw her purse where she’d dropped it to the sidewalk. “Oh, goddamnit,” he said, and he braced her with one arm and stooped, half turning, for the purse.

He saw the pretty brunette then.

She was not more than fifty feet behind them, and when he stooped to pick up the purse, the girl stopped, stared at him for a moment, and then quickly turned away to look into one of the store windows.

Slowly, he picked up the purse, his eyes narrowed with thought.

He began walking again.

Behind him, he could hear the clatter of the girl’s heels.

“87th Precinct, Sergeant Murchison.”

“Detective Carella, please,” the young voice said.

“He’s not here right now,” Murchison answered. “Talk to anyone else?”

“The note said Carella,” the young voice said.

“What note, son?”

“Aw, never mind,” the boy replied. “It’s probably a gag.”

“Well, what…?”

The line went dead.

A fly was buzzing around the nose of Steve Carella. Carella swatted at it in his sleep.

The fly zoomed up toward the ceiling, and then swooped down again. Ssssszzzzzzzzz. It landed on Carella’s ear.

Still sleeping, Carella brushed at it.

“87th Precinct, Sergeant Murchison.”

“Is there a Detective Carella there?” the voice asked.

“Just a minute,” Murchison said. He plugged into the bull’s wire. Havilland picked up the phone.

“87th Detective Squad, Havilland,” he said.

“Rog, this is Dave,” Murchison said. “Has Carella come back yet?”

“Nope,” Havilland said.

“I’ve got another call for him. You want to take it?”

“I’m busy,” Havilland said.

“Doing what? Picking your nose?”

“All right, give me the call,” Havilland said, putting down the magazine and the story about the trunk murderer.

“Here’s the Detective Division,” he heard Murchison say.

“This is Detective Havilland,” Havilland said. “Can I help you?”

“Some dame handed me a note,” the voice said.

“Yeah?”

“Said to call Detective Carella and tell him the license number is DN1556. Is this on the level? Is there really a Carella?”

“Yeah,” Havilland said. “What was that number again?”

“What?”

“The license number.”

“Oh. DN1556. What’s it all about?”

“Mister,” Havilland said, “your guess is as good as mine. Thanks for calling.”

Kling sat in the squad car alongside the patrolman.

“Can’t you make this thing go any faster?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the patrolman said with broad sarcasm, somewhat miffed with the knowledge that not too many months ago Kling had been a patrolman, too. “I wouldn’t want to get a speeding ticket.”

Kling studied the patrolman with an implacable eye. “Put on your goddamn siren,” he said harshly, “and get this thing to Chinatown or your ass is going to be in a great big sling!”

The patrolman blinked.

The squad car’s siren suddenly erupted. The patrolman’s foot came down onto the accelerator.

Kling leaned forward, staring through the windshield.

Charlie Chen leaned forward, staring through the windshield.

He did not like to drive in city traffic.

Doggedly, he headed uptown.

When he heard the siren, he thought it was a fire engine, and he started to pull over to his right.

Then he saw that it was a police car, and not even on his side of the avenue. The police car sped by him, heading downtown, its siren blaring.

It strengthened Chen’s resolve. He gritted his teeth, leaned over the wheel, and stepped on the accelerator more firmly.

Carella swatted at the fly, and then sat upright in his chair, suddenly wide awake. He blinked.

The apartment was very silent.

He stood and yawned. What the hell time was it, anyway? Where the hell was Teddy? He looked at his watch. She was usually home by this time, preparing dinner. Had she left a note? He yawned again and began looking through the apartment for a note.

He could find none. He looked at his watch again, then he went to his jacket and fished for his cigarettes. He reached into the package. It was empty. His fingers explored the sides. It was still empty.

Wearily, he sat down and put on his shoes.

He took his pad from his back pocket, slid the pencil out from under the leather loop, and wrote, “Dear Teddy: I’ve gone down for some cigarettes. Be right back. Steve.” He propped the note on the kitchen table. Then he went into the bathroom to wash his face.

“87th Squad, Detective Havilland.”

“I wanted Carella,” the woman’s voice said.

“He’s out,” Havilland said.

“A young lady stopped me and gave me a note,” the woman said. “I really don’t know whether or not it’s serious, but I felt I should call. May I read the note to you?”

“Please do,” Havilland said.

“It says, ‘Call Detective Steve Carella, FRederick 7-8024. Tell him license number is DN1556. Hurry, please!’ Does that mean anything?”

“You say a young lady gave this to you?” Havilland asked.

“Yes, a quite beautiful young lady. Dark hair and dark eyes. She seemed rather in a hurry herself.”

For the first time that afternoon, Havilland forgot his trunk murderer. He remembered instead that the Chinaman who’d called had said, “Man who tattoo girl. He was here shop. With Mrs. Carella.”

And now a girl who answered the description of Steve’s wife was going around handing out messages. That made sense. Carella’s wife was a deaf-mute.

“I’ll get on it right away,” Havilland said. “Thanks for calling.”

He hung up, consulted his list of numbers, and then dialed the Bureau of Motor Vehicles. He gave them the license number and asked them to check it. Then he hung up and looked up another number.

He was dialing Steve Carella’s home when Charlie Chen walked down the corridor and came to a breathless stop outside the slatted rail divider.

Carella put on his jacket.

He went into the kitchen again to check the note and then, because he was there, he checked the handles on the gas range, to make sure all the jets were out.

He walked out of the kitchen and into the living room and then to the front door. He was in the corridor and closing the door behind him when the telephone rang. He cursed mildly, went to the phone, and lifted the receiver.

“Hello?” he said.

“Steve?”

“Yeah.”

“Rog Havilland.”

“What’s up, Rog?”

“Got a man here named Charlie Chen who says your killer was in his shop this afternoon. Teddy was there at the time, and…”

“What!”

‘“Teddy. Your wife. She trailed the guy when he left. Chen says the girl with him was very sick. I’ve gotten half a dozen phone calls in the past half hour. Girl who answers Teddy’s description has been handing out notes asking people to call you with a license number. I’ve got the MVB checking it now. What do you think?”

“Teddy!” Carella said, and that was all he could think. He heard a phone ringing someplace, and then Havilland said, “There’s the other line going now. Might be the license information. Hold on, Steve.”

He heard the click as the “hold” button was pressed, and he waited, squeezing the plastic of the phone, thinking over and over again, Teddy, Teddy, Teddy.

Havilland came back on in a minute.

“It’s a black 1955 Cadillac hardtop,” Havilland said. “Registered to a guy named Chris Donaldson.”

“That’s the bird,” Carella said, his mind beginning to function again. “What address have you got for him?”

“4118 Ranier. That’s in Riverhead.”

“That’s about ten minutes from here,” Carella said. “I’m starting now. Get a call in to whichever precinct owns that street. Get an ambulance going, too. If that girl is sick, it’s probably from arsenic.”

“Right,” Havilland said. “Anything else, Steve?”

“Yeah. Start praying he hasn’t spotted my wife!”

He hung up, slapped his hip pocket to make sure he still had his .38, and then left the apartment without closing the door.

Standing in the concrete and cinder block basement of the building, Teddy watched the indicator needle of the service elevator. She could see the washing machines going in another part of the basement, and beyond that she could feel the steady thrum of the apartment building’s oil burner, and she watched the needle as it moved numeral to numeral and then stopped at 4.

She pressed the “down” button.

Donaldson and the girl had entered that service elevator and had got off at the fourth floor. And now, as the elevator dropped to the basement again, Teddy wondered what she would do when she discovered what apartment he was in, wondered, too, just how sick the girl was, just how much time she had. The elevator door slid open.

Teddy got in, pressed the number 4 in the panel. The door slid shut. The elevator began its climb. Oddly, she felt no fear, no apprehension. She wished only that Steve were with her, because Steve would know what to do. The elevator climbed and then shuddered to a stop. The door slid open. She started out of the car, and then she saw Donaldson.

He was standing just outside the elevator, waiting for the door to open, waiting for her. In blind panic, she jabbed her palm at the floor buttons. Donaldson’s arm lashed out. His fingers clamped on her wrist, and he pulled her out of the car.

“Why are you following me?” he asked.

She shook her head dumbly. Donaldson was pulling her down the hallway. He stopped before apartment 4C, threw open the door, and then shoved her into the apartment. Priscilla Ames was lying on the couch facedown. The apartment smelled of human waste.

“There she is,” Donaldson said. “Is that who you’re looking for?”

He snatched Teddy’s purse from her hands and began going through it, scattering lipstick, change, mascara, address book onto the floor. When he came upon her wallet, he unsnapped it and went through it quickly.

“Mrs. Stephen Carella,” he read from the identification card. “Resident of Riverhead, eh? So we’re neighbors. Meet Miss Ames, Mrs. Carella. Or have you already met?” He looked at the card again. “In case of emergency, call…” His voice stopped. Then, like the slow trickle of a faulty water spout, it came on again. “Detective Steve Carella, 87th Precinct, FRederick 7-802…” He looked up at Teddy. “Your husband’s a cop, huh?’’

Teddy nodded.

“What’s the matter? Too scared to speak?” He studied her again. “I said…” He stopped, watching her. “Is something wrong with your voice?”

Teddy nodded.

“What is it? Can you talk?”

She shook her head. Her eyes lingered on his mouth, and following her gaze he suddenly knew.

“Are you deaf?” he asked.

Teddy nodded.

“Good,” Donaldson said flatly. He was silent again, watching her. “Did your husband put you up to following me?”

Teddy made no motion, no gesture. She stood as silent as a stone.

“Does he know about me?”

Again no answer.

“Why were you following me?” Donaldson asked, moving closer to her. “Who put you on to me? Where’d I slip up?” He took her wrist. “Answer me, goddamnit!”

His fingers were tight on her wrist. On the couch, Priscilla Ames moaned weakly. He turned abruptly.

“She’s been poisoned, you know that, don’t you?” he said to Teddy. “I poisoned her. She’ll be dead in a little while, and tonight she goes into the river.” He saw Teddy’s involuntary shudder. “What’s the matter? Does that frighten you? Don’t be frightened. She’s in pain, but she hardly knows what the hell’s happening anymore. All she can think about right now is her own sickness. Christ, it smells vile in here! How can you stand it?” He laughed a short harsh laugh. The laugh was over almost before it began. His voice grew hard again. There was no compromise in it now. “What does your husband know?” he asked. “What does your husband know?”

Teddy made no motion. Her face remained expressionless.

Donaldson watched her. “All right,” he said. “I’ll assume the worst. I’ll assume he’s headed here right now with a whole damn battalion of police. Okay?”

Again, there was nothing on Teddy’s face, nothing in her eyes.

“He won’t find a damn thing when he gets here. I’ll be gone, and Miss Ames’ll be gone, and you’ll be gone. He’ll find the four walls.” He went to the closet, opened it quickly, and pulled out a suitcase. “Come with me,” he said. He shoved Teddy ahead of him, into the bedroom. “Sit down,” he said. “On the bed. Hurry up.”

Teddy sat.

Donaldson went to the dresser, threw open the top drawer. He began shoveling clothes into the suitcase. “You’re a pretty one,” he said. “If I came onto something like you…” He didn’t complete the sentence. “The trouble with my business is that you can’t enjoy yourself,” he said vaguely. “Plain girls are good. They buy whatever you sell. Get involved with a beauty, and your secret’s in danger. Murder is a big secret, don’t you think? It pays well, too. Don’t let anyone tell you crime doesn’t pay. It pays excellently. If you don’t get caught.” He grinned. “I have no intention of getting caught.” He looked at her again. “You’re a pretty one. And you can’t talk. A secret could be told to you.” He shook his head. “It’s too bad we haven’t got more time.” He shook his head again. “You’re a pretty one,” he repeated.

Teddy sat on the bed, motionless.

“You must know how it is,” he said. “Being good-looking. It’s a pain sometimes, isn’t it? Men get to hate you, distrust you. Me, I mean. They don’t like a man who’s too good-looking. Makes them feel uncomfortable. Too much virility for them. Points up their own petty quarrels with the world, makes them feel inadequate.” He paused. “I can get any girl I want, do you know that? Any girl. I just flutter my lashes, they fall down dead.” He chuckled. “Dead. That’s a laugh, isn’t it? You must know, I guess. Men fall all over you, don’t they?” He looked at her questioningly. “Okay, sit there in your shell. You’re coming with me, you know that, don’t you? You’re my insurance.” He laughed again. “We’ll make a good couple. We’ll really give the spectators something to ogle. We offset each other. Blond and brunette. That’s very good. It won’t be bad, being seen with a pretty girl for a change. I get tired of these goddamn witches. But they pay well. I’ve got a nice bank balance.”

On the couch, Priscilla Ames moaned. Donaldson went to the doorway and looked into the living room. “Relax, lover,” he called. “In a little while, you’ll go for a nice refreshing swim.” He burst out laughing and turned to Teddy. “Nice girl,” he said. “Ugly as sin. Nice.” He went back to packing the bag, silent now, working rapidly. Teddy watched him. He had not packed a gun, so perhaps he didn’t own one.

“You’ll help me downstairs with her,” he said suddenly. “The service elevator again. In and out, and whoosh, we’re on our way. You’ll stay with me for a while. You can’t talk, that’s good. No phone calls, no idle gossip to waiters, good, good. Just have to keep you away from pen and paper, I guess, huh?” He studied her again, his eyes changing. “Be good to have a ball for a change,” he said. “I get so goddamn tired of these witches, and you can’t trust the beauties. If you want to know something, you can’t trust anybody. The world is full of con men. But we’ll have a ball.” He looked at her face. “Don’t like the idea, huh? That’s rough. It’ll make it more interesting. You should consider yourself lucky. You could be scheduled for a swim with Miss Ames, you know. You should consider yourself lucky. Most women fall down when I come into a room. Consider yourself lucky. I’m pleasant company, and I know the nicest places in town. That’s my business, you know. My avocation. I’m really an accountant. Actually, accounting is my avocation, I suppose. Women are my business. The lonely ones. The plain Janes. You’re a surprise. I’m glad you followed me.” He grinned boyishly. “Nice having somebody to talk to who doesn’t talk back. That’s the secret of the Catholic confession, and also the secret of psychoanalysis. You can tell the truth and the worst that’ll happen to you is twelve Hail Marys or the discovery that you hate your mother. With you, there’s no punishment. I can talk, and you can listen, and I don’t have to spout the love phrases or the undying bliss bit. You look sexy, too. Still water. Deep, deep.”

He heard the sudden sharp snap of the front door lock. He whirled quickly and ran into the living room.

Carella saw a blond giant appear in the doorframe, eyes alert, fists clenched. The giant took in the .38 in Carella’s fist, took in the unwavering glint in Carella’s eye, and then lunged across the room.

Carella was no fool. This man was a powerhouse. This man could rip him in two.

Steadily, calmly, Carella leveled the .38.

And then he fired.

The working day was over.

There was May mixed in the April air. It touched the cheeks mildly, it lingered on the mouth. Carella walked and drank of it, and the draught was heady.

When he opened the door to his apartment, he was greeted with silence. He turned out the light in the living room and went into the bedroom.

Teddy was asleep.

He undressed quietly and then got into bed beside her. She wore a Huffy white gown, and he lowered the strap of the gown from her right shoulder and kissed the warm flesh there. A cloud passed from the moon, filling the room with pale silver. Carella moved back from his wife’s shoulder and blinked. He blinked again.

“I’ll be goddamned!” he said.

The April moonlight illuminated a small, lacy black butterfly on Teddy’s shoulder.

“I’ll be goddamned!” Carella said again, and he kissed her so hard that she woke up.

And, big detective that he was, he never once suspected she’d been awake all the while.

The Con Man, 1957

Carella was nervous.

Sitting alongside Teddy, his wife, he could feel nervousness ticking along the backs of his hands, twitching in his fingers. Clean-shaved, his high cheekbones and downward-slanting eyes giving him an almost Oriental appearance, he sat with his mouth tensed, and the doctor smiled gently.

“Well, Mr. Carella,” Dr. Randolph said, “your wife is going to have a baby.”

The nervousness fled almost instantly. The cork had been pulled, and the violent waters of his tension overran the tenuous walls of the dike, leaving only the muddy silt of uncertainty. If anything, the uncertainty was worse. He hoped it did not show. He did not want it to show to Teddy.

“Mr. Carella,” the doctor said, “I can see the prenatal jitters erupting all over you. Relax. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Carella nodded, but even the nod lacked conviction. He could feel the presence of Teddy beside him, his Teddy, his Theodora, the girl he loved, the woman he’d married. He turned for an instant to look at her face, framed with hair as black as midnight, the brown eyes gleaming with pride now, the silent red lips slightly parted.

I mustn’t spoil it for her, he thought.

And yet he could not shake the doubt.

“May I reassure you on several points, Mr. Carella?” Randolph said.

“Well, I really…”

“Perhaps you’re worried about the infant. Perhaps, because your wife is a deaf mute, born that way…perhaps you feel the infant may also be born handicapped. This is a reasonable fear, Mr. Carella.”

“I…”

“But a completely unfounded one,” Randolph smiled. “Medicine is in many respects a cistern of ignorance — but we do know that deafness, though sometimes congenital, is not hereditary. For example, perfectly normal offspring have been produced by two deaf parents. Lon Chancy is the most famous of these offspring, I suppose. With the proper care and treatment, your wife will go through a normal pregnancy and deliver a normal baby. She’s a healthy animal, Mr. Carella. And if I may be so bold, a very beautiful one.”

Teddy Carella, reading the doctor’s lips, came close to blushing. Her beauty, like a rare rose garden which a horticulturist has come to take for granted, was a thing she’d accepted for a long time now. It always came as a surprise, therefore, when someone referred to it in glowing terms. These were the face and the body with which she had been living for a good many years. She could not have been less concerned over whether or not they pleased the strangers of the world. She wanted them to please one person alone: Steve Carella. Now, with Steve’s acceptance of the idea coupling with her own thrilled anticipation, she felt a soaring sense of joy.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Carella said.

“Not at all,” Randolph answered. “Good luck to you both. I’ll want to see you in a few weeks, Mrs. Carella. Now take care of her.”

“I will,” Carella answered, and they left the obstetrician’s office. In the corridor outside, Teddy threw herself into his arms and kissed him violently.

“Hey!” he said. “Is that any way for a pregnant woman to behave?”

Teddy nodded, her eyes glowing mischievously. With one sharp twist of her dark head, she gestured toward the elevators.

“You want to go home, huh?”

She nodded.

“And then what?”

Teddy Carella was eloquently silent.

“It’ll have to wait,” he said. “There’s a little suicide I’m supposed to be covering.”

He pressed the button for the elevator.

“I behaved like a jerk, didn’t I?”

Teddy shook her head.

“I did. I was worried. About you, and about the baby” He paused. “But I’ve got an idea. First of all, to show my appreciation for the most wonderfully fertile and productive wife in the city…”

Teddy grinned.

“…I would like us both to have a drink. We’ll drink to you and the baby, darling.” He took her into his arms. “You because I love you so much. And the baby because he’s going to share our love.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “And then off to my suicide. But is that all? Not by a longshot. This is a day to remember. This is the day the most beautiful woman in the United States, nope, the world, hell, the universe, discovered she was going to have a baby! So…” He looked at his watch. “I should be back at the squad room by about seven latest. Will you meet me there? I’ll have to do a report, and then we’ll go out to dinner, some quiet place where I can hold your hand and lean over to kiss you whenever I want to. Okay? At seven?”

Teddy nodded happily.

“And then home. And then… is it decent to make love to a pregnant woman?”

Teddy nodded emphatically, indicating that it was not only decent but perfectly acceptable and moral and absolutely necessary.

“I love you,” Carella said gruffly. “Do you know that?”

She knew it. She did not say a word. She would not have said a word even if she could have. She looked at him, and her eyes were moist, and he said, “I love you more than life.”

Killer’s Wedge, 1959

Carella blinked at the early Sunday morning sunshine, cursed himself for not having closed the blinds the night before, and then rolled over onto his left side. Relentlessly, the sunlight followed him, throwing alternating bars of black and gold across the white sheet. Like the detention cells at the 87th, he thought. God, my bed has become a prison.

No, that isn’t fair, he thought. And besides, it’ll all be over soon — but Teddy, I wish to hell you’d hurry.

He propped himself on one elbow and looked at his sleeping wife. Teddy, he thought. Theodora. Whom I used to call my little Theodora. How you have changed, my love. He studied her face, framed with short black hair recklessly cushioned against the stark-white pillow. Her eyes were closed, thick-fringed with long black lashes. There was a faint smile on the full pout of her lips. Her throat swept in an immaculate arc to breasts covered by the sheet — and then the mountain began.

Really, darling, he thought, you do look like a mountain.

It is amazing how much you resemble a mountain. A very beautiful mountain, to be sure, but a mountain nonetheless. I wish I were a mountain climber. I wish, honey, oh how I wish I could get near you! How long has it been now? Cut it out, Steve-o, he told himself. Just cut it out because this sort of erotic rambling doesn’t do anyone a damn bit of good, least of all me.

Steve Carella, the celebrated celibate.

Well, he thought, the baby is due at the end of the month, by God, that’s next week! Is it the end of June already? Sure it is, my how the time flies when you’ve got nothing to do in bed but sleep. I wonder if it’ll be a boy. Well, a girl would be nice, too, but oh would Papa raise a stink, he’d probably consider it a blot on Italy’s honor if his only son Steve had a girl child first time out.

What were those names we discussed?

Mark if it’s a boy and April if it’s a girl. And Papa will raise a stink about the names, too, because he’s probably got something like Rodolfo or Serafina in mind. Stefano Luigi Carella, that’s me, and thank you, Pop.

Today is the wedding, he thought suddenly, and that makes me the most inconsiderate big brother in the world because all I can think of is my own libido when my kid sister is about to take the plunge. Well, if I know Angela, the prime concern on her mind today is probably her libido, so we’re even.

The telephone rang.

It startled him for a moment, and he turned sharply toward Teddy, forgetting, thinking the sudden ringing would awaken her, and then remembering that his wife was immune to little civilized annoyances like the telephone.

“I’m coming,” he said to the persistent clamor. He swung his long legs over the side of the bed. He was a tall man with wide shoulders and narrow hips, his pajama trousers taut over a flat hard abdomen. Bare-chested and barefoot, he walked to the phone in nonchalant athletic ease, lifted the receiver, and hoped the call was not from the precinct. His mother would have a fit if he missed the wedding.

“Hello?” he said.

“Steve?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“Tommy. Did I wake you?”

“No, no, I was awake.” He paused. “How’s the imminent bridegroom this morning?”

“I… Steve, I’m worried about something.”

“Uh-oh,” Carella said. “You’re not planning on leaving my sister waiting at the altar, are you?”

“No, nothing like that. Steve, could you come over here?”

“Before we go to the church, you mean?”

“No. No. I mean now.”

“Now?” Carella paused. A frown crossed his face. In his years with the police department, he had heard many anxious voices on the telephone. He had attributed the tone of Tommy’s voice to the normal pre-conjugal jitters at first, but he sensed now that this was something more. “What is it?” he asked. “What’s the matter?”

“I… I don’t want to talk about it on the phone. Can you come over?”

“I’ll be right there,” he said, “As soon as I dress.”

“Thank you, Steve,” Tommy said, and he hung up.

Carella cradled the phone. He stared at it thoughtfully for a moment, and then went into the bathroom to wash. When he came back into the bedroom, he tilted the blinds shut so that the sunshine would not disturb his sleeping wife. He dressed and wrote a note for her and then — just before he left — he caressed her breast with longing tenderness, sighed, and propped the note up against his pillow. She was still sleeping when he went out of the apartment.

Teddy sat at the table alongside the bride’s table, sipping disconsolately at a Manhattan, watching her husband cavort in the arms of a redheaded sexpot from Flemington, New Jersey.

This is not fair, she thought angrily. There is no competition here. I don’tnow who that damn girl is, or what she wants — although what she wants seems pretty apparent — but I do know that she is svelte and trim and wearing a dress designed for a size 8. Since she is at least a 10, and possibly a 12, the odds are stacked against me to begin with. I am at least a size 54 right now. When will this baby come? Next week, did the doctor say? Yes, next week. Next week and four thousand years from now. I’ve been big forever. I hope it’s a boy. Mark if it’s a boy. Mark Carella. That’s a good name.

Steve, you don’t have to hold her so damn close!

I mean, really, goddamnit!

And April if it’s a girl.

I wonder if I should faint or something. That would bring him back to the table in a hurry, all right. Although I can’t really say that he’s holding her close because she seems to be doing all the holding. But I guess holding works both ways, and don’t think this has been easy on me, Steve, my pet, and you really needn’t… Steve! If your hand moves another inch, I am going to crown you with a champagne bottle!

A boy or a girl, the baby was kicking up a storm.

Sitting with her father-in-law, who had surely had too much to drink, Teddy could not remember the heir apparent ever having raised such a fuss.

It was difficult for her to appreciate the oncoming dusk with her son- or daughter-to-be doing his early evening calisthenics. Every now and then the baby would kick her sharply, and she’d start from the sudden blow, certain that everyone at the reception was witnessing the wriggling fidgets. The baby seemed to have a thousand feet, God forbid! He kicked her high on the belly, close under her breasts, and then he kicked her again, lower in the pelvic region, and she was sure he’d turned a somersault, so widely diverse had the kicks been.

It’ll be over next week, she thought, and she sighed. No more backaches. No more children pointing fingers at me in the street. Hey, lady, what time does the balloon go up? Ha-ha, very funny. She glanced across the dance floor. The redhead from Teaneck or Gowanus or wherever had latched onto a new male, but it hadn’t helped Teddy very much. Steve hadn’t been anywhere near her for the past few hours, and she wondered now what it was that could possibly be keeping him so occupied. Of course, it was his sister’s wedding, and she supposed he was duty bound to play the semi-host. But why had Tommy called him so early this morning? And what were Bert and Cotton doing here? With the instincts of a cop’s wife, she knew that something was in the wind — but she didn’t know quite what.

The baby kicked her again.

Damn, she thought, I do wish you’d stop that.

“Steve! Steve!”

He hesitated, one foot inside the car, the other on the pavement.

“What is it, Mama?”

“Teddy! It’s Teddy! It’s her time!”

“What?”

“Her time! The baby, Steve!”

“But the baby isn’t due until next—”

“It’s her time!” Louisa Carella said firmly. “Get her to the hospital!”

Carella slammed the car door shut. He thrust his head through the door window and shouted, “Bert! My wife’s gonna have a baby!” and he ran like hell up the path to the house.

“Can’t you drive any faster?” Carella said to the cabdriver.

“I’m driving as fast as I can,” the cabbie answered.

“Damnit! My wife’s about to have a baby!”

“Well, mister, I’m…”

“I’m a cop,” Carella said. “Get this heap moving.”

“What are you worried about?” the cabbie said, pressing his foot to the accelerator. “Between a cop and a cabbie, we sure as hell should be able to deliver a baby.”

Carella paced the floor of the hospital waiting room. Meyer, Hawes, and O’Brien paced the floor behind him.

“What’s taking so long?” Carella asked. “My God, does it always lake this long?”

“Relax,” Meyer said. “I’ve been through this three times already. It gets longer each time.”

“She’s been up there for close to an hour,” Carella moaned.

“She’ll be all right, don’t worry. What are you going to name the baby?”

“Mark if it’s a boy, and April if it’s a girl. Meyer, it shouldn’t be taking this long, should it?”

“Relax.”

“Relax, relax.”

“Relax,” Meyer said.

“Here comes a nurse,” O’Brien said.

Carella whirled. With starched precision, the nurse marched down the corridor. He walked rapidly to greet her, his heels clicking on the marble floor.

“Is she all right?” the detectives heard him ask, and the nurse nodded and then took Carella’s arm and brought him to the side of the corridor where they entered into a whispered consultation. Carella kept nodding. The detectives watched him. Then, in a louder voice, Carella asked, “Can I go see her now?”

“Yes,” the nurse answered. “The doctor’s still with her. Everything’s fine.”

Carella started down the hallway, not looking back at his colleagues.

“Hey!” Meyer shouted.

Carella turned.

“What is it?” Meyer said. “Mark or April?”

And Carella, a somewhat mystified grin on his face, shouted “Both!” and then broke into a trot for the elevators.

‘Til Death, 1959

It was a great little holiday, Halloween.

Cops just loved it.

Nevertheless, at six o’clock on All Hallows Even, after a tiring day of inactivity on the Leyden case and all sorts of activity in the streets preventing and discouraging mayhem, not to mention arresting people here and there who had allowed their celebrating to become a bit too uninhibited, Carella watched his wife as she painted the face of his son, and prepared to go out into the streets once again.

“I got a great idea, Pop,” Mark said. He was the older of the twins by seven minutes, which gave him seniority as well as masculine superiority over his sister, April. It was Mark who generally had the “great” ideas and April who invariably put him down with something sweet like, “That’s the stupidest idea I ever heard in my life.”

“What’s your idea?” Carella asked.

“I think we should go to Mr. Oberman’s house…”

“Oberman the Creep,” April observed.

“That’s not a nice way to talk about an old man,” Carella said.

“But he is a creep, Daddy.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Carella said.

“Anyway,” Mark said, “I think we should go to his house, and April and me’ll knock on the door…”

“April and I,” Carella corrected.

Mark looked up at his father, wondering whether he should try the joke about, “Oh, are you going to knock on the door too?” and decided in his infinite wisdom that he’d better not risk it, even though it had gone over pretty well once with Miss Rutherford, who taught the third grade at the local elementary school. “April and I,” he said, and smiled at his father angelically, and then beamed at his mother as she continued drawing a black mustache under his nose, and then said, “April and I will knock on Mr. Oberman’s door and yell, ‘Trick or treat,’ and when he opens it, you stick your gun in his face.”

Teddy, who was watching her son’s lips as he talked, shook her head violently, and looked up at her husband. Before Carella could answer, April said, “That’s the stupidest idea I ever heard in my life,” her life to date having consisted of eight years, four months, and ten days.

Mark said, “Shut up, who asked you?” and Teddy scowled at her husband, warning him to put an end to this before it got out of hand, and then grasping both of Mark’s shoulders to turn him toward her so that she could properly finish the job. She was using felt-tipped watercolor markers, and whereas her makeup artistry might not have passed muster with the National Repertory, it looked pretty good to her from where she knelt beside her son. She had enlarged and angled Mark’s eyebrows with the black marker, and had then used green eye shadow on his lids, and the black marker again to draw a sinister, drooping mustache and an evil-looking goatee. Her son was supposed in be Dracula, who did not have either a mustache or a beard, but she thought he looked far too cherubic without them, and had taken artistic license with the Bram Stoker character. She was now using the bright-red marker to paint in a few drops of blood under his lip, and since her back was to Carella, she did not hear him admonish Mark first for his idiotic idea about brandishing a real gun, and next for yelling at his sister. She dotted a last tiny dribble of blood below the other three larger drops, and then rose and stepped back to admire her handiwork.

“How do I look?” Mark asked Carella.

“Horrible.”

“Great!” Mark shouted, and ran out of the room to search for a mirror.

“Make me pretty, Mommy,” April said, looking directly up at her mother. Teddy smiled, and then slowly and carefully moved her fingers in the universal language of the deaf-mute while Carella and the little girl watched.

“She says she doesn’t have to make you pretty,” Carella said. “You are pretty.”

“I could read almost all of it,” April said, and hugged Teddy fiercely. “I’m the Good Princess, you know,” she said to her father.

“That’s true, you are the Good Princess.”

“Are there bad princesses, too?”

Teddy was replacing the caps on the felt-tipped markers to keep them from drying out. She smiled at her daughter, shook her head, reached into her purse for a lipstick tube, and then carried it to where April waited patiently for the touches that would transform her into a true Good Princess. Kneeling before her, Teddy expertly began to apply the lipstick. The two looked remarkably alike, the same brown eyes and black hair, the clearly defined widow’s peak, the long lashes and generous mouth. April wore a long gown and cape fashioned of hunter-green velvet by Fanny, their housekeeper. Teddy wore tight blue jeans and a white T-shirt, her hair falling onto her cheek now as she bent her head, concentrating on the line of April’s mouth. She touched her fingertip to the lipstick and brushed a bit of it onto each of April’s cheeks, blending it, and then reached for the eye shadow she had used on her son, using it more subtly on April’s lids, mindful of the fact that her daughter was not supposed to be a bloodthirsty vampire. Using a mascara brush, she darkened April’s lashes and then turned her to face Carella.

“Beautiful,” Carella said. “Go look at yourself.”

“Am I, Mommy?” April asked and, without waiting for an affirming nod, scurried out of the room.

Fanny came in not a moment later, grinning.

“There’s a horrid little beast rushing all about the kitchen with blood dripping from his mouth,” she said, and then, pretending to notice Carella for the first time even though he’d been home for more than half an hour, added, “Well, it’s himself. And will you be taking the children out for their mischief?”

“I will,” Carella said.

“Mind you’re back by seven, because that’s when the roast’ll be done.”

“I’ll be back by seven,” Carella promised. To Teddy, he said, “I thought you said there were no bad princesses.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Fanny asked.

She had come to the Carellas’ more than eight years ago as a one-month gift from Teddy’s father, who had felt his daughter needed at least that much time to rearrange the household after the birth of twins. In those days Fanny’s hair was blue, and she wore a pince-nez, and she weighed a hundred and fifty pounds. The prepaid month had gone by all too quickly, and Carella had regretfully informed her that he could not afford a full-time housekeeper on his meager salary. But Fanny was an indomitable broad who had never had a family of her own, and who rather liked this one. So she told Carella he could pay her whatever he might scrape up for the time being, and she would supplement her income with night jobs, she being a trained nurse and a very strong healthy woman to boot. Carella had flatly refused, and Fanny had put her hands on her hips and said, “Are you going to throw me out into the street, is that it?” and they had argued back and forth, and Fanny had stayed. She was still with them. Her hair was now bleached red, and she wore harlequin glasses with black frames, and her weight was down to a hundred and forty as a result of chasing alter two very lively children. Her influence on the family unit was perhaps best reflected in the speech of the twins. As infants, they’d been alone with her and their mother for much of the day, and since Teddy could not utter a word, much of their language had been patterned after Fanny’s. It was not unusual to hear Mark referring to someone as a lace-curtain, shanty-Irish son of a B, or little April telling a playmate to go scratch her arse. It made life colorful, to say the least.

Fanny stood now with her hands on her ample hips, daring Carella to explain what he meant by his last remark. Carella fixed her with a menacing detective-type stare and said, “I was referring, dear, to the fact that you are sometimes overbearing and raucous and could conceivably be thought of as a bad princess, that is what it’s supposed to mean,” and Fanny burst out laughing.

“How can you live with such a beast?” she asked Teddy, still laughing, and then went out of the room, wagging her head.

“Daddy, are you coming?” Mark shouted.

“Yes, son,” he answered.

He folded Teddy into his arms and kissed her. Then he went out into the living room and took his children one by each hand, and went out into the streets to ring doorbells with them.

Shotgun, 1969

In bed with Teddy that night, holding her close in the dark, the rain lashing the windowpanes, Carella was aware all at once that she was not asleep, and he sat up and turned on the bed lamp and looked at her, puzzled.

“Teddy?” he said.

Her back was to him, she could not see his lips. He touched her shoulder and she rolled over to face him, and he was surprised to see that there were tears in her eyes.

“Hey,” he said, “hey, honey… what…?”

She shook her head and rolled away from him again, closing herself into her pillow, closing him out — if she could not see him, she could not hear him. Her eyes were her ears; her hands and her face were her voice. She lay sobbing into the pillow, and he put his hand on her shoulder again, gently, and she sniffed and turned toward him again.

“Want to talk?” he said.

She nodded.

“What’s the matter?”

She shook her head.

“Did I do something?”

She shook her head again.

“What is it?”

She sat up, took a tissue from the box on the bedside table, blew her nose, and then put the tissue under her pillow. Carella waited. At last, her hands began to speak. He watched them. He knew the language, he had learned it well over the years, he could now speak it better than hesitantly with his own hands. As she spoke to him, the tears began rolling down her face again, and her hands fluttered and then stopped completely. She sniffed again, and reached for the crumpled tissue under her pillow.

“You’re wrong,” he said.

She shook her head.

“I’m telling you you’re wrong.”

She shook her head again.

“Honey, she likes you very much.”

Her hands began again. This time they spilled out a torrent of words and phrases, speaking to him so rapidly that he had to tell her to slow down, and even then continuing at a pace almost too fast for him to comprehend. He caught both her hands in his own, and said, “Now come on, honey. If you want me to listen…” She nodded, and sniffed, and began speaking more slowly now, her fingers long and fluid, her dark eyes glistening with the tears that sat upon them as she told him again that she was certain Augusta Kling didn’t like her, Augusta had said things and done things tonight—

“What things?”

Teddy’s hands moved again. The wine, she said.

“The wine? What about the wine?”

When she toasted.

“I don’t remember any toast.”

She made a toast.

“To what?”

To you and Bert.

“To the case, you mean. To solving the case.”

No, to you and Bert.

“Honey—”

She left me out. She drank only to you and Bert.

“Now, why would she do a thing like that? She’s one of the sweetest people—”

Teddy burst into tears again.

He put his arms around her and held her close. The rain beat steadily on the windowpanes. “Honey,” he said, and she looked up into his face, and studied his mouth, and watched the words as they formed on his lips. “Honey, Augusta likes you very much.” Teddy shook her head. “Honey, she said so. Do you remember when you told the story about the kids… about April falling in the lake at that PBA picnic? And Mark jumping in to rescue her when the water was only two feet deep? Do you remember telling…?”

Teddy nodded.

“And then you went to the ladies’ room, do you remember?”

She nodded again.

“Well, the minute you were gone, Augusta told me how terrific you were.”

Teddy looked up at him.

“That’s just what she said. She said, ‘Jesus, Teddy’s terrific, I wish I could tell a story like her.’”

The tears were beginning to flow again.

“Honey, why on earth wouldn’t she like you?”

She looked him dead in the eye. Her hands began to move.

Because I’m a deaf-mute, she said.

“You’re the most wonderful woman in the world,” he said, and kissed her, and held her close again. And then he kissed the tears from her face and from her eyes, and told her again how much he loved her, told her what he had told her that day years and years ago when he’d asked her to marry him for the twelfth time and had finally convinced her that she was so much more than any other woman when until that moment she had considered herself somehow less. He told her again now, he said, “Jesus, I love you, Teddy, I love you to death,” and then l hey made love as they had when they were younger, much younger.

Calypso, 1979

She tried to remember how long ago it had been. Years and years, that was certain. And would he think her frivolous now? Would he accept what she had done (what she was about to do, actually, since she hadn’t yet done it, and could still change her mind about it) as the gift she intended it to be, or would he consider it the self-indulgent whim of a woman who was no longer the young girl he’d married years and years ago? Well, who is? Teddy thought. Even Jane Fonda is no longer the young girl she was years and years ago. But does Jane Fonda worry about such things? Probably, Teddy thought.

The section of the city through which she walked was thronged with people, but Teddy could not hear the drifting snatches of their conversations as they moved past her and around her. Their exhaled breaths pluming on the brittle air were, to her, only empty cartoon balloons floating past in a silent rush. She walked in an oddly hushed world, dangerous to her in that her ears could provide no timely warnings, curiously exquisite in that whatever she saw was unaccompanied by any sound that might have marred its beauty. The sight (and aroma) of a bluish-gray cloud of carbon monoxide, billowing onto the silvery air from an automobile exhaust pipe, assumed dreamlike proportions when it was not coupled with the harsh mechanical sound of an automobile engine. The uniformed cop on the corner, waving his arms this way and that, artfully dodging as he directed the cross-purposed stream of lumbering traffic, became an acrobat, a ballet dancer, a skilled mime the moment one did not have to hear his bellowed, “Move it, let’s keep it moving!” And yet—

She had never heard her husband’s voice.

She had never heard her children’s laughter.

She had never heard the pleasant wintry jingle of automobile skid chains on an icy street, the big-city cacophony of jackhammers and automobile horns, street vendors and hawkers, babies crying. As she passed a souvenir shop whose window brimmed with inexpensive jade, ivory (illegal to import), fans, dolls with Oriental eyes (like her husband’s), she did not hear drifting from a small window on the side wall of the shop the sound of a stringed instrument plucking a sad and delicate Chinese melody, the notes hovering on the air like ice crystals — she simply did not hear.

The tattoo parlor was vaguely anonymous, hidden as it was on a narrow Chinatown side street. The last time she’d been here, the place had been flanked by a bar and a laundromat. Today, the bar was an offtrack betting parlor and the laundromat was a fortune-telling shop run by someone named Sister Lucy. Progress. As she passed Sister Lucy’s emporium, Teddy looked over the curtain in the front window and saw a Gypsy woman sitting before a large phrenology poster hanging on the wall. Except for the poster and the woman, the shop was empty. The woman looked very lonely and a trifle cold, huddled in her shawl, looking straight ahead of her at the entrance door. For a moment, Teddy was tempted to walk into the empty store and have her fortune told. What was the joke? Her husband was very good at remembering jokes. What was it? Why couldn’t women remember jokes? Was that a sexist attitude? What the hell was the joke? Something about a Gypsy band buying a chain of empty stores?

The name on the plate-glass window of the tattoo parlor was Charlie Chen. Beneath the name were the words, “Exotic Oriental Tattoo.” She hesitated a moment, and then opened the door. There must have been a bell over the door, and it probably tinkled, signaling Mr. Chen from the back of his shop. She had not heard the bell, and at first she did not recognize the old Chinese man who came toward her. The last time she’d seen him, he had been a round fat man with a small mustache on his upper lip. He had laughed a lot, and each time he laughed, his fat little body quivered. He had thick fingers, she remembered, and there had been an oval jade ring on the forefinger of his left hand.

“Yes, lady?” he said.

It was Chen, of course. The mustache was gone, and so was the jade ring, and so were the acres of flesh, but it was surely Chen, wizened and wrinkled and shrunken, looking at her now out of puzzled brown eyes, trying to place her. She thought, I’ve changed, too, he doesn’t recognize me, and suddenly felt foolish about what she was here to do. Maybe it was too late for things like garter belts and panties, ribbed stockings and high-heeled, patent-leather pumps, merry widows and lacy teddies, too late for Teddy, too late for silly, sexy playfulness. Was it? Oh my God, was it?

She had asked Fanny to call yesterday, first to find out if the shop would be open today, and next to make an appointment for her. Fanny had left the name Teddy Carella. Had Chen forgotten her name as well? He was still staring at her.

“You Missa Carella?” he said.

She nodded.

“I know you?” he said, his head cocked, studying her.

She nodded again.

“You know me?”

She nodded.

“Charlie Chen,” he said, and laughed, but nothing about him shook, his laughter was an empty wind blowing through a frail old body. “Everybody call me Charlie Chan,” he explained. “Big detective Charlie Chan. But me Chen, Chen. You know Charlie Chan, detective?”

The same words he had spoken all those years ago.

Oddly, she felt like weeping.

“Big detective,” Chen said. “Got stupid sons.” He laughed again. “Me got stupid sons, too, but me no detec—” And suddenly he stopped, and his eyes opened wide, and he said, “Detective wife, you detective wife! I make butterfly for you! Black lacy butterfly!”

She nodded again, grinning now.

“You no can talk, right. You read my lips, right?”

She nodded.

“Good, everything hunky-dory. How you been, lady? You still so pretty, most beautiful lady ever come my shop. You still got butterfly on shoulder?

She nodded.

“Best butterfly I ever make. Nice small butterfly. I want to do big one, remember? You say no, small one. I make tiny delicate black butterfly, very good for lady. Very sexy in strapless gown. You husband think was sexy?”

Teddy nodded. She started to say something with her hands, caught herself — as she so often had to — and then pointed to a pencil and a sheet of paper on Chen’s counter.

“You wanna talk, right?” Chen said, smiling, and handed her the pencil and paper.

She took both, and wrote: How have you been, Mr. Chen?

“Ah, well, not so good,” Chen said.

She looked at him expectantly, quizzically.

“Old Charlie Chen gotta Big C, huh?” he said.

She did not understand him for a moment.

“Cancer,” he said, and saw the immediate shocked look on her face and said, “No, no, lady, don’t worry, old Charlie be hunky-dory, yessir.” He kept watching her face. She did not want to cry. She owed the old man the dignity of not having to watch her cry for him. She opened her hands. She tilted her head. She raised her eyebrows ever so lightly. She saw on his face and in his eyes that he knew she was telling him how sorry she was. “Thank you, lady,” he said, and impulsively took both her hands between his own, and, smiling, said, “So, why you come here see Charlie Chen? You write down what you like, yes?”

She picked up the pencil and began writing again.

“Ah,” he said, watching. “Ah. Very smart idea. Very smart. Okay, fine.”

He watched the moving pencil.

“Very good,” he said, “come, we go in back. Charlie Chen so happy you come see him. My sons all married now, I tell you? My oldest son a doctor Los Angeles. A head doctor!” he said, and burst out laughing. “A shrink! You believe it? My oldest son! My other two sons… come in back, lady… my other two sons…”

Carella said good night to Meyer at ten minutes past six, and only then remembered he had not yet bought Teddy a present. He shopped the Stem until he found an open lingerie shop, only to discover that it featured panties of the open-crotch variety and some that could be eaten like candy, decided this was not quite what he had in mind, thank you, and then shopped fruitlessly for another hour before settling on a heart-shaped box of chocolates in a drugstore. He felt he was letting Teddy down.

Her eyes and her face showed no disappointment when he presented the gift to her. He explained that it was only a temporary solution, and that he’d shop for her real present once the pressure of the case let up a little. He had no idea when that might be, but he promised himself that he would buy her something absolutely mind-boggling tomorrow, come hell or high water. He did not yet know that the case had already taken a peculiar turn or that he would learn about it tomorrow, when once again it would postpone his grandiose plans.

At the dinner table, ten-year-old April complained that she had received only one Valentine’s card, and that one from a doofus. She pronounced the word with a grimace her mother might have used more suitably, managing to look very much like Teddy in that moment — the dark eyes and darker hair, the beautiful mouth twisted in an expression of total distaste. Her ten-year-old brother, Mark, who resembled Carella more than he did either his mother or his twin sister, offered the opinion that anyone who would send a card to April had to be a doofus, at which point April seized her half-finished pork chop by its rib, and threatened to use it on him like a hatchet. Carella calmed them down. Fanny came in from the kitchen and casually mentioned that these were the same pork chops she’d taken out of the freezer the night before and she hoped they tasted okay and wouldn’t give the whole family trichinosis. Mark wanted to know what trichinosis was. Fanny told him it was related to a cassoulet and winked at Carella.

They put the children to bed at nine.

They watched television for a while, and then they went into the bedroom. Teddy was in the bathroom for what seemed an inordinately long time. Carella guessed she was angry. When she came into the bedroom again, she was wearing a robe over her nightgown. Normally, she wasn’t quite so modest in their own bedroom. He began to think more and more that his gift of chocolates without even a selection chart under the lid had truly irritated her. So deep was his own guilt (“Italians and Jews,” Meyer was fond of saying, “are the guiltiest people on the face of the earth”) that he did not remember until she pulled back the covers in the dark and got into bed beside him that she hadn’t given him anything at all.

He snapped on the bedside lamp.

“Honey,” he said, “I’m really sorry. I know I should have done it earlier, it was stupid of me to leave it for the last minute. I promise you tomorrow I’ll…”

She put her fingers to his lips, silencing him.

She sat up.

She lowered the strap of her nightgown.

In the glow of the lamplight, he saw her shoulder. Where previously there had been only a single black butterfly tattoo, put there so long ago he could hardly remember when, he now saw two butterflies, the new one slightly larger than the other, its wings a bright yellow laced with black. The new butterfly seemed to hover over the original, as though kissing it with its outstretched wings.

His eyes suddenly flooded with tears.

He pulled her to him and kissed her fiercely and felt his tears mingling with hers as surely as did the butterflies on her shoulder.

Ice, 1983

Teddy was talking to him now.

They had just made love.

The first words she said to him were, “I love you.”

She used the informal sign, a blend of the letters “i,” “l,” and “y,” her right hand held close to her breast, the little finger, index finger, and thumb extended, the remaining two fingers folded down toward her palm. He answered with the more formal sign for “I love you”: first touching the tip of his index finger to the center of his chest; then clenching both fists in the “a” hand sign, crossing his arms below the wrists, and placing his hands on his chest; and finally pointing at her with his index finger — a simple “I” plus “love” plus “you.”

They kissed again.

She sighed.

And then she began telling him about her day.

He had known for quite some time now that she was interested in finding a job. Fanny had been with them since the twins were born, and she ran the house efficiently. The twins — Mark and April — were now eleven years old, and in school much of the day. Teddy was bored with playing tennis or lunching with the “girls.” She signed “girl” by making the “a” hand sign with her right fist, and dragging the tip of her thumb down her cheek along the jawline; to make the word plural, she rapidly indicated several different locations, pointing with her extended forefinger. More than one girl. Girls. But her eyes and the expression on her face made it clear that she was using the word derogatively; she did not consider herself a “girl,” and she certainly didn’t consider herself one of the “girls.”

Well, I went to this real estate agency on Cumberland Avenue this morning, Teddy was saying with her hands and her eyes and her face. I’d written them a letter answering an ad in the newspaper, telling them what my experience had been before we got married and before I became a mother, and they wrote back setting up an appointment for an interview. So I got all dolled up this morning, and went over there.

To express the slang expression “dolled up,” she first signed “x,” stroking the curled index finger of the hand sign on the tip of her nose, twice. To indicate “doll” was in the past tense, she immediately made the sign for “finished.” For “up” she made the same sign anyone who was not a deaf-mute might have made: She simply moved her extended index finger upward. Dolled up. Carella got the message, then visualized her in a smart suit and heels, taking the bus to Cumberland Avenue, some two miles from the house.

And now her hands and her eyes and her mobile face spewed forth a torrent of language. Surprise of all surprises, she told him, the lady is a deaf-mute. The lady cannot hear, the lady cannot speak, the lady — however intelligent her letter may have sounded, however bright and perky she may appear in person — possesses neither tongue nor ear, the lady simply will not do! This despite the fact that the ad called only for someone to type and file. This despite the fact that I was reading that fat bastard’s lips and understanding every single word he said — which wasn’t easy since he was chewing on a cigar — this despite the fact that I can still type sixty words a minute after all these years, ah, the hell with it. Steve, he thought I was dumb (she tapped the knuckles of the “a” hand sign against her forehead, indicating someone stupid), the obvious mate to deaf, right? (she touched first her mouth and then her ear with her extended index finger), like ham and eggs, right? Deaf and dumb, right? Shit, she said, signing the word alphabetically for emphasis, S-H-I-T!

He took her in his arms.

He was about to comfort her, about to tell her that there were ignorant people in this world who were incapable of judging a person’s worth by anything but the most obvious external evidence, when suddenly she was signing again. He read her hands and the anger in her eyes.

I’m not quitting, she said. I’ll get a goddamn job.

She rolled into him, and he felt her small determined nod against his shoulder. Reaching behind him toward the night table, he snapped off the bedside light. He could hear her breathing in the darkness beside him. He knew she would he awake for a long time, planning her next move.

Teddy’s appointment at the law offices was for three o’clock that afternoon. She arrived at twenty minutes to, and waited downstairs until two-fifty, not wanting to seem too eager by arriving early. She really wanted the job; the job sounded perfect to her. She was dressed in what she considered a sedate but not drab manner, wearing a smart suit over a blouse with a stock tie, panty hose color-coordinated with die nubby brown fabric of the suit, brown shoes with French heels. The lobby of the building was suffocatingly hot after the dank drizzle outdoors, and so she took off her raincoat before she got on the elevator. At precisely 3:00 P.M. she presented herself to the receptionist at Franklin, Logan, Gibson and Knowles and showed her the letter she had received from Philip Logan. The receptionist told her Mr. Logan would see her in a few moments. At ten minutes past three the receptionist picked up the phone receiver — it must have buzzed, but Teddy had not heard it — and then said Mr. Logan would see her now. Reading the girl’s lips, Teddy nodded.

“First doorway down the hall on your right,” the girl said.

Teddy went down the hallway and knocked on the door.

She waited a few seconds, allowing time for Logan inside to have said, “Come in,” and then turned the doorknob and went into the office. The office was spacious, furnished with a large desk, several easy chairs, a coffee table, and banks of bookcases on three walls. The fourth wall was fashioned almost entirely of glass that offered a splendid view of the city’s towering buildings. Rain slithered down the glass panels. A shaded lamp cast a glow of yellow illumination on the desktop.

Logan rose from behind the desk the moment she entered the room. He was a tall man wearing a dark blue suit, a white shirt, and a striped tie. His eyes were a shade lighter than the suit. His hair was graying. Teddy guessed he was somewhere in his early fifties.

“Ah, Miss Carella,” he said, “how kind of you to come. Please sit down.”

She sat in one of the easy chairs facing his desk. He sat behind the desk again and smiled at her. His eyes looked warm and friendly.

“I assume you can… uh… read my lips,” he said. “Your letter…”

She nodded.

“It was very straightforward of you to describe your disability in advance,” Logan said. “In your letter, I mean. Very frank and honest.”

Toddy nodded again, although the word disability rankled.

“You are… uh… you do understand what I’m saying, don’t you?”

She nodded, and then motioned to the pad and pencil on his desk.

“What?” he said. “Oh. Yes, of course, how silly of me.”

He handed the pad and pencil across to her.

On the pad, she wrote: I can understand you completely.

Ho took the pad again, read what she’d written, and said, “Wonderful, good.” He hesitated. “Uh… perhaps we should move that chair around here,” he said, “don’t you think? So we won’t have to be passing this thing back and forth.”

He rose quickly and came to where she was sitting. Teddy got up, and he shoved the easy chair closer to the desk and to the side of it. She sat again, folding her raincoat over her lap.

“There, that’s better,” he said. “Now we can talk a bit more easily. Oh, excuse me, was my back to you? Did you get all of that?”

Toddy nodded, and smiled.

“This is all very new to me, you see,” he said. “So. Where shall we begin? You understand, don’t you, that the job calls for an expert typist… I see in your letter that you can do sixty words a minute…”

I may he a little rusty just now, Teddy wrote on the pad.

“Well, that all comes back to you, doesn’t it? It’s like roller skating, I would guess.”

Toddy nodded, although she did not think typing was at all like roller skating.

“And you do take steno…”

She nodded again.

“And, of course, the filing is a routine matter, so I’m sure you can handle that.”

She looked at him expectantly.

“We like attractive people in our offices, Miss Carella,” Logan said, and smiled. “You’re a very beautiful woman.”

She nodded her thanks — modestly, she hoped — and then wrote: It’s Mrs. Carella.

“Of course, forgive me,” he said. “Theodora, is it?”

She wrote: Most people call me Teddy.

“Teddy? That’s charming. Teddy. It suits you. You’re extraordinarily beautiful, Teddy. I suppose you’ve heard that a thousand times…”

She shook her head.

“… but I find that most compliments bear repeating, don’t you? extraordinarily beautiful,” he said, and his eyes met hers. He held contact for longer than was comfortable. She lowered her eyes to the pad. When she looked up again, he was still staring at her. She shifted her weight in the chair. He was still watching her.

“So,” he said. “Hours are nine to five, the job pays two and a quarter to start, can you begin Monday morning? Or will you need a little time to get your affairs in order?”

Her eyes opened wide. She had not for a moment believed it would be this simple. She was speechless, literally so, but speechless beyond that — as if her mind had suddenly gone blank, her ability to communicate frozen somewhere inside her head.

“You do want the job, don’t you?” he said, and smiled again.

Oh, yes, she thought, oh God, yes! She nodded, her eyes flashing happiness, her hands unconsciously starting to convey her appreciation, and then falling empty of words into her lap when she realized he could not possibly read them.

“Will Monday morning be all right?” he asked.

She nodded yes.

“Good, then,” he said, “I’ll look forward to seeing you then.”

He leaned toward her.

“I’m sure we’ll get along fine,” he said, and suddenly, without warning, he slid his hand under her skirt. She sat bolt upright, her eyes opening wide, too shocked to move for an instant. His fingers lightened on her thigh. “Don’t you think so, Miss Car…?”

She slapped him hard, as hard as she could, and then rose at once her chair, and moved toward him, her teeth bared, her hand drawn back to hit him again. He was nursing his jaw, his blue eyes looking hurt and a trifle bewildered. Words welled up inside her, words she could not speak. She stood there trembling with fury, her hand still poised to strike.

“That’s it, you know,” he said, and smiled.

She was turning away from him, tears welling into her eyes, when she saw more words forming on his lips.

“You just blew it, dummy.”

And the last word pained her more than he possibly could have known, the last word went through her like a knife.

She was still crying when she came out of the building into the falling rain.

Lightning, 1984