’Til Death

Chapter 8

Sal Martino didn’t look very happy at all.

The detectives had waited until the intermission and then, as the waiters began serving the shrimp cocktail, they’d approached the bandstand, asked him to accompany them, and led him upstairs to a small bedroom in the Carella house. They stood before him in a three-man semicircle, now, Hawes, Carella, and Kling. Their faces were humorless and grim.

“Why are you carrying a gun?” Carella said.

“Who wants to know?” Sal answered.

“I do. I’m a detective. Do you want to see my badge?”

“Yes. I do. What is this, anyway?”

Carella flipped open his wallet. “It’s a few questions, Sal,” he said. “We want to know about that gun under your jacket. Now what the hell are you doing with a gun?”

Sal studied the shield. “That’s my business,” he said. “You got no right to ask me. What the hell is this? A police state?”

“Give me the gun,” Carella said.

“What for?”

“Give it to me!” he snapped.

Sal dug into the shoulder holster under his jacket.

“Butt first,” Carella said.

Sal handed him the gun. Carella looked at it, and then gave it to Hawes. “An Iver Johnson .22,” he said.

“Protector Sealed Eight,” Hawes agreed, and he sniffed the barrel.

“What the hell are you smelling?” Sal wanted to know. “That hasn’t been fired in years.”

“Why are you carrying it?” Carella asked.

“That’s my business.”

“It’s my business, too,” Carella shouted. “Now don’t get snotty with me, Martino. Answer the questions!”

“I told you. Why I carry a gun is my business and my business alone. And you can go straight to hell!”

“Did you ever try playing the trombone with a busted arm?” Hawes asked quietly.

“What?”

“Why are you carrying a gun?” Hawes shouted.

“I got a permit.”

“Let’s see it.”

“I don’t have to show you nothing.”

“If you’ve got a permit, show it,” Kling said. “Because if you don’t, I’m going straight to that telephone and call the local precinct, and you can explain it all to them in the squadroom. Now how about it, Martino?”

“I told you I got a permit.”

“Then let’s see it!”

“All right, all right, hold your water. I don’t have to show it to you, you know. I’m doing you a favor.”

“You’re doing yourself a favor, Martino. If you’ve got a permit and can’t show it, you lose it. That’s the law. Now let’s see it.”

“You invent your own laws, don’t you?” Martino said, digging into his wallet.

“Is it carry or premises?”

“It’s carry. You think I’d be lugging a gun around with a premises permit?”

“Where is it?”

“Just a minute, just a minute,” Martino said. He pulled a document out of his wallet and then unfolded it. He handed it to Carella. “There,” he said. “You satisfied now?”

The document was divided into three sections separated by perforated folding edges. It was printed on a dull shade of off-pink paper. Its outer edges were serrated. Each section measured 4½ inches by 3¾ inches.

Carella took the small official-looking document from Martino and studied the first section.

Carella read each item carefully. Then he turned the permit over to read its reverse side:

The third section of the permit simply granted Martino permission to purchase a pistol and was signed by the same Riverhead magistrate, Arthur K. Weidman.

Carella knew at once that the permit was legitimate. He nonetheless took his sweet time examining it. He turned it over in his big hands as if it were a questionable international document prepared by Russian spies. He studied the signature, and he studied the thumb print, and he made a great show of comparing the serial number on the permit with the number stamped into the metal of Martino’s .22.

Then he handed both gun and permit back to the trombonist.

“Now suppose you tell us why you carry it, Sal?”

“I don’t have to. The permit is enough. I got a gun, and I got a permit for it, and that’s all you have to know. If you don’t mind, I’m supposed to play some dinner music.”

“The dinner music can wait. Answer the question, Sal!” Kling said.

“I don’t have to.”

“We’d better pull him in,” Hawes said.

“Pull me in? What for?” Martino yelled.

“For refusing to co-operate with a duly appointed officer of the peace,” Hawes yelled right off the top of his head.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Martino said in rising crescendo, “Okay.”

“Well?”

“I’m scared.”

“What?”

“I’m scared. I play on jobs, and sometimes I don’t get home till three, four in the morning. I’m scared. I don’t like to walk the streets so late at night carrying money and my horn. I’m scared, okay? So I applied for a pistol permit, and I got it. Because I’m scared, okay? Okay? Does that answer your goddamn question?”

“It answers us,” Carella said, and he looked somewhat shamefacedly at his colleagues. “You’d better get back to the band.”

Martino folded his pistol permit in half and then shoved it back into his wallet, alongside his driver’s license.

“There’s no law against being afraid,” he said.

“If there were,” Carella answered, “we’d all be in jail.”

“Here it is,” Meyer Meyer called to the counter. “Donald Pullen, 131 Pondigo Street — no, wait, that’s the office. It’s 4251 Archer. That’s around here, isn’t it?”

“Search me,” O’Brien said. “We’d better ask a cop. You looked up the number too fast, Meyer. I haven’t finished my coffee yet.”

“Well, hurry up.”

Patiently, Meyer waited for O’Brien to gulp down his coffee.

“I’ve been thirsting for this cup of coffee all day,” O’Brien said. “I’ve got to work out that problem with Miscolo. Do you think maybe I can subtly hint that he change brands or something?”

“I don’t think that’d work, Bob.”

“No, I don’t think so, either.”

“Why don’t you bring your own coffeepot to the office? And buy yourself a hot plate? One of those single-burner jobs.”

“Gee, that sounds like a good idea,” O’Brien said. “Except for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t know how to make coffee.”

“All right, come on, drink up.”

O’Brien finished his coffee. Together, they walked out to the unmarked police sedan parked at the curb.

“4251 Archer,” Meyer said. “We’ll ask the first traffic cop we see.”

They did not see a cop for ten blocks. They pulled over to him and asked him where Archer Street was.

“Archer Avenue, you mean?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

“So say what the hell you mean. And pull over to the curb. You’re blocking traffic!”

“We only want to know—”

“I know what you want to know. You giving me an argument?”

“No, sir,” Meyer said, and he pulled to the curb and waited while the cop directed the cars behind him. Finally, the cop walked over to the car.

“Don’t you know better than to stop in the middle of the street?” he asked.

“I wasn’t thinking, Officer,” Meyer said.

“Sure. Now what was it you wanted to know?”

“How to get to Archer Avenue.”

“Two blocks down and turn right. What number did you want?”

“4251,” Meyer said.

“Another three blocks after you make the turn.” He glanced at the oncoming traffic. “Okay, go ahead.” As they pulled away, he shouted, “And don’t stop in the middle of the street no more, you hear me, mister?”

“Nice fellow,” Meyer said.

“Gives cops a bad name,” O’Brien said glumly.

“Why? He helped us, didn’t he?”

“Bad disposition,” O’Brien said, and Meyer made his right turn. “Three blocks from here, right?”

“Right,” Meyer said. They drove up the street leisurely and stopped before 4251. “Here it is. Let’s hope he’s home.”

4251 Archer, as were most of the dwellings in Riverhead, was a private house. Meyer and O’Brien went up the front walk and pulled the door knocker. A tall man in a white shirt and a red weskit answered the door.

“Yes, gentlemen,” he said, “can I help you?”

“Mr. Pullen?” Meyer said.

“Yes?” Pullen studied his visitors. “Is it real estate, or insurance?”

“We’d like to ask you some questions, Mr. Pullen. We’re from the police.”

“Police?” Pullen went white in the space of two seconds. “Wh... wh... what... what did...?”

“May we come in, Mr. Pullen?”

“Yes. Yes, come in.” Hastily, Pullen glanced past them to make sure none of his neighbors were watching. “Come in.”

They followed him into the house and into the living room. The room was done in heavy furniture covered with maroon mohair. It made the small interior seem hotter than it really was.

“Sit down,” Pullen said. “What’s this all about?”

“Have you been receiving or making phone calls to a Miss Oona Blake?”

“Why, yes.” Pullen looked surprised, and then relieved. “Oh, it’s about her, isn’t it? Not me? Her?”

“Yes, it’s about her.”

“I knew she was a tough customer. I knew it the minute I laid eyes on her. A very flashy person. Very flashy. What is she? A prostitute?”

“No, we don’t know what she is. We’d simply like to find out what the nature of her business with you was.”

“Why, real estate,” Pullen said. “What did you think? She wanted to rent an apartment.”

“Where?”

“Well, she was very specific about it. She wanted an apartment either facing 831 Charles Avenue or else behind 831 Charles Avenue. That’s just a little ways from here. Charles Avenue.”

“That rings a bell,” Meyer said. He thought for a moment. “Sure. That’s where Steve’s parents live. Did Miss Blake say why she wanted an apartment near that address?”

“Said she had friends there.”

“I see. Did you get an apartment for her?”

“Nope. Not that one. But I was able to fill her other request. Yep, I gave her good service on that one.”

“Which one was that?” O’Brien asked.

Pullen smiled. “Why, the apartment she wanted near the photography studio.”

“What a dinner!” Birnbaum said. “Tony, you outdid yourself. What a wedding, what a dinner!”

“Birnbaum, have some champagne,” Tony said. “We got enough champagne here to start a France. Have some champagne, my friend.” He led Birnbaum to the ice mermaid and pulled a bottle from her frozen tub. Everywhere around him, champagne corks were popping, and each new pop filled Tony’s heart with joy. It really was getting to be a fine wedding. Maybe all the money those lousy Incorporated were getting would be worth it after all. He tore the gold foil from the neck of the bottle and then ripped the wire loose. Working the cork with his thumbs, he slowly edged it out of the bottle. Standing next to him, Birnbaum put his fingers in his ears. The cork moved out of the bottle neck.

“POP!” Tony shouted, and the cork exploded from the bottle at the same instant, white bubbles following it out of the green neck, spilling onto Tony’s thick fingers. Birnbaum clapped Tony on the back, and they began laughing uproariously. The band was playing louder, and Jody Lewis was running all over the lawn popping his flash bulbs, capturing the bride and groom for posterity. He followed them to the long bridal table where the ancient and time-honored custom of collecting the connubial loot was about to take place. Angela made a beautiful hostess for the receiving line. Tommy sat beside her, grinning from ear to ear, and Jody Lewis kept the shutter clicking as the relatives filed past to kiss the bride and wish her luck, to shake hands with the groom and congratulate him. During the shaking of hands, a gratuity, a present, a ten-dollar bill or a twenty-dollar bill in an envelope was pressed into Tommy’s hand.

“Congratulations,” the well-wishers said, slightly embarrassed by the handing over of money, a civilized gesture with all the inherent savagery of primitive times, the spoils offered to the newly crowned king. And Tommy, in turn, was embarrassed as he accepted the gifts because there is nothing more difficult to do than accept a gift with style, and Tommy was too young to have acquired style. “Thank you,” he muttered over and over again. “Thank you, thank you.”

The champagne corks kept exploding.

“The trouble with this stuff,” Birnbaum says, “is it makes you want to go to the bathroom.”

“So go,” Tony said.

“I will.”

“Right upstairs. The bedroom at the end of the—”

“No, no. Too crowded up there,” Birnbaum said. “I’ll run over to my own house.”

“What? And miss the wedding?”

“It’ll take a minute. It’ll be quick. Don’t worry, Tony, I’ll be back. Just try to keep me away.”

“All right, Birnbaum. Hurry! Hurry!”

Birnbaum cocked his head to one side and started off through the bushes to his house on the next lot.

At the far end of the table, unobserved by either Angela or Tommy who were busy accepting gifts and good wishes, a pair of hands deposited a pair of small bottles filled with red wine. The bottles of wine were each tied with big bows. One bow was pink, the other was blue.

The pink bow had attached to it a card that read:

The blue bow had attached to it a similar card that, had Tommy seen it, might have struck a responsive chord. It is doubtful, however, that he would have recognized the handwriting as being identical with that on a card he’d received earlier in the day.

The card attached to the blue bow read, simply:

“Come with me,” Jonesy said to Christine.

“I came here with someone, you know,” Christine said coyly. She was rather enjoying the game and, oddly because she had not wanted to come, she was enjoying the wedding, too. But particularly, she was enjoying the look of dismay that spread over Cotton’s face whenever he saw her dancing with Sam Jones. The look was priceless. She enjoyed it more than the music, and more than the champagne, and more than the exploding corks, and the wonderful free feeling of gaiety that pervaded the outdoor reception.

“I know you came with someone. He’s bigger than me, too,” Jonesy said, “but I don’t care. Come on.”

“Where are you taking me?” Christine said, giggling as Jonesy pulled her by the hand into the bushes at the side of the house. “Jonesy! Really now!”

“Come, come, come,” he said. “I want to show you something.” He dragged her deeper into the bushes onto a path that had been stamped down through constant walking through the short grass.

“What do you want to show me?”

“Let’s get a little further away from the festivities first,” he said. His hand on hers was tight. He pulled her along the path as if urgently propelled. Christine was not frightened. She was, in truth, slightly excited. She thought she knew what was coming, and she thought she would not resist what was coming. It would serve Cotton right if a handsome young stranger dragged her into the bushes like a caveman and kissed her soundly and completely.

No, she would not resist.

There was something very nice about the attention Sam Jones had showered upon her all afternoon, something reminiscent of a time when she’d been very young, when outdoor parties were standard fare every weekend during the summer. Now, running over the short grass with him, she looked forward to the kiss she knew was coming. She felt very youthful all at once, a young girl running through a tree-shaded lane, her feet dancing over the sunlight-speckled trampled path at the far end of the lot.

Jonesy stopped suddenly.

“Here,” he said. “This should be far enough away, don’t you think?”

“For what?” Christine asked. Oddly, her heart was pounding in her chest.

“Don’t you know?” Jonesy said. He pulled her toward him, his back to the Carella property. Christine felt suddenly breathless. She lifted her mouth for his kiss, and someone suddenly screamed, and she felt goose pimples erupt over every inch of her body, and then she realized it was Jonesy who was screaming, screaming in a wildly masculine voice, and she pulled away from him and looked into his face and then turned to follow his glazed stare.

Not seven feet from where they were standing, a man lay face downward on the path. The man’s back was covered with blood. The man was not breathing.

“Oh my God!” Jonesy said. “It’s Birnbaum!”