The Pusher

Chapter Twelve

A feather.

It was only a feather, but it was perhaps the most meaningful bit of evidence turned up in the room where Maria Hernandez had been stabbed.

There are all kinds of feathers.

There are chicken feathers, and duck feathers, and quail feathers, and goose feathers, and flamingo feathers, and horse feathers, and even Leonard Feathers.

Feathers are divided into two groups, down feathers and contour feathers.

The feather found in the room was a down feather.

Now, when a kid in the 87th Precinct held another kid in high regard, considered this kid an all-right guy, a courageous fighter, a lover, a hero, he might very well refer to the boy as a "down cat." The cat signifying boy, and the down signifying all right.

A down feather, on the other hand was not an all-right feather. That is to say, there was nothing really wrong with it, but it was in no way courageous, amorous, brave, or trustworthy. It simply happened to come from a certain part of a bird's body, as opposed to other parts of the body, and so it was called down rather than contour.

The down feather found in the room was allowed to soak in soapy water for a while, then rinsed under running water, and then rinsed again in alcohol, and then put under the microscope.

The feather had long knots consisting of several protruding tips.

In the order of sparrows, the knots are close together and conical.

In the order of wading birds, the knots are pointed and conical, the barbules hairy and hard.

Climbing birds have feathers with strongly protruding knots with four tips.

Aquatic birds have strong knots with dull points.

Chickens and other birds in the Gallinae order have feathers with the same characteristics as wading birds.

Pigeons… ah, pigeons.

Pigeon feathers have long knots consisting of several protruding tips.

The feather in the room was a pigeon feather.

The feathers in the one pillow on the bed were duck down. The feather found, therefore, had not come from the pillow. It was found stuck to a smear of blood, so chances were it was left by the killer and not left by someone who'd been in the room previous to the killer.

If the killer, therefore, had a pigeon feather stuck to his clothes, chances were he was a pigeon fancier.

All the cops had to do was track down every pigeon fancier in the city.

That job was for the birds.

The department stores on Friday, December 22nd, were a little crowded. Bert Kling could not honestly say he disliked the crowds because the crowds forced him into close proximity with Claire Townsend, and there was no girl he'd rather have been proximately close to. On the other hand, however, the alleged purpose of this excursion was to pick up presents for people like Uncle Ed and Aunt Sarah—whom Kling had never met—and the sooner that task was accomplished, the sooner he and Claire could begin spending an uncluttered afternoon together. This was, after all, a day off and he did not enjoy trudging all over department stores on his day off, even if that trudging were being done with Claire.

He had to admit that of all the trudgers around, he and Claire made the nicest looking pair of trudgers. There was a tireless sort of energy about her, an energy he usually associated with Phys. Ed. majors. Phys. Ed. majors were easily identified by short, squat bodies with muscular legs and bulging biceps. Claire Townsend had none of the attributes of the Phys. Ed. major, except the tireless energy—Claire, in Kling's estimation, was perhaps the most beautiful woman alive. She was certainly the most beautiful woman he had ever met. Her hair was black. There are blacks, you know, and then there are blacks. But Claire's hair was a total black, a complete absence of light, a pure black. Her eyes were a warm brown, arched with black brows. She had the pale complexion of a high-bred Spanish girl coupled with the high cheek bones of an Indian. Her nose was straight and her mouth was full, and she was obviously the loveliest woman in the world. Whether she was or not doesn't matter. Kling thought she was.

He also thought she was a dynamo.

He wondered when the dynamo would run down, but the dynamo kept right on discharging electrical bolts and buying gifts for Cousin Percy and Grandmother Eloise, and Kling trailed along like a dinghy tied to a schooner in full sail, mixing his metaphors with reckless abandon.

"You should see what I got you," she told him.

"What?" he asked.

"A gold-plated holster for your ridiculous weapon."

"My gun, you mean?" he asked.

"And a carton of soap for your dirty mind."

"I'll bet I could make 2nd/Grade in ten minutes just picking up shoplifters here," he said.

"Don't pick up any who are young or blond."

"Claire…"

"Look at those gloves! Only $2.98 and perfect for…"

"Cousin Antoinette in Kalamazoo. Claire…"

"As soon as I get these gloves, darling."

"How do you know what I was going to say?"

"You want to stop all this nonsense and get some drinks, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Just what I had in mind," Claire said. And then, being in a gay and expansive mood, she added, "You should be delighted. When we're married, you'll have to pay for all this junk."

It was the first time the subject of marriage had come up between them and, being towed as he was, Kling almost missed it. Before he became fully aware of the miracle of what she had said, Claire had purchased the $2.98 gloves and was whisking him along to the roof garden of the store. The roof garden was packed with matronly women who were bulging with bundles.

"They only serve those triangular little sandwiches here." Kling announced. "Come on, I'll take you to a shady bar."

The shady bar he took her to was really not quite so shady as all that. It was dim, true, but dimness and shadiness are not necessarily synonymous.

When the waiter tiptoed over, Kling ordered a Scotch on the rocks and then glanced inquisitively toward Claire.

"Cognac," she said, and the waiter crept away.

"Are you really going to marry me someday?" Kling asked.

"Please," Claire told him. "I'll burst. I'm full of Christmas cheer, and a proposal now will just destroy me."

"But you do love me?"

"Did I ever say so?"

"No."

"Then what makes you so impetuous?"

"I'm sure you love me."

"Well, confidence is a fine quality, to be sure, but…"

"Don't you?"

Claire sobered quite suddenly. "Yes, Bert," she said. "Yes, Bert darling, I do love you. Very much."

"Well then…" He was speechless. He grinned foolishly and covered her hand with his and blinked.

"Now I've spoiled you," she said, smiling. "Now that you know I'm in your power, you'll be unbearable."

"No, no I won't."

"I know you policemen," she insisted. "You're brutal and cruel and…"

"No, Claire, no really, I…"

"Yes, yes. You'll take me in for questioning and…"

"Oh Jesus, Claire, I love you," he said plaintively.

"Yes," she said, smiling contentedly. "Isn't it wonderful? Aren't we so lucky, Bert?"

"You were lucky," the man said.

Gonzo looked at him sourly. "Yeah? You think so?"

"You could have taken a fall. How much were you holding?"

"About an ounce. That's not the point. What I'm trying to tell you is that this is getting hot, you see?"

"We want it to get hot."

"Listen, friend, hot is hot, but getting my own ass in a sling is another thing."

"You weren't nabbed, were you?"

"No, but only because I happened to be on my toes." Gonzo lighted a cigarette, and then exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Listen, don't you understand what I'm saying?"

"I understand perfectly."

"Okay, okay. This guy was a dick. And he was sure as hell looking for me! That means they're on to me some way, and that means they may know what happened in that room with Annabelle."

"It doesn't matter what they know."

"You keep saying that. Okay, play it cool. I'm saying we're in this pretty deep now, and I say let's get it over with. Make your goddamn call, do what has to be done. Get it over with."

"I'll make the call when I'm ready," the man said. "I want to go up and look at the pigeons first. This cold weather…"

"You and your goddamn pigeons," Gonzo said.

"Pigeons are good," the man said simply.

"All right, look at them. Tuck them in. Do whatever you want. But call Byrnes, will you? Let's square this thing away. Remember, I got nothing to do with this but…"

"You've got a lot to do with it!"

"Nothing! That's what I'm trying to tell you. You made me a lot of promises, okay, I don't see nothing happening. All I see is bulls looking for me. Okay, what happened to the promises? What happened to your big idea? Goddamnit, who was it told you Byrnes' kid was a junkie in the first place?"

"You, Gonzo."

"Okay. So how about it? When do the promises pay off?"

"You've got Annabelle's trade, haven't you?"

"Peanuts!" Gonzo said vehemently. "You laid this out like big time. Okay, where's the big time? Didn't I do everything you said? Didn't I risk my neck setting up the Hernandez girl? You think it was easy getting her to agree to lie?"

"Yes, I think it was easy. I think all you had to do was to flash the twenty-five dollars."

"Yeah, well, it wasn't all that easy. The guy was her brother, you know. And she sure as hell didn't figure he was getting measured for a coffin. Anyway, he was a nice kid. That part of the idea stunk."

"It was the only way to do it."

"You coulda done it plenty ways," Gonzo said, "but I don't even want to talk about it. I don't know nothing about murder, nothing. Annabelle and his sister are your headaches. That's another thing, you know? Why'd you hafta cut…"

"Shut up!"

"Okay, okay. All I'm saying is this. That goddamn 87th is wise to something, and I got to protect myself. I ain't taking a fall for you or nobody else. If that dick starts giving me trouble—well, don't think I'm going along with him, friend. Nobody's going to work me over in no goddamn squad room."

"What'll you do, Gonzo? If a cop tries to take you in?"

"I'll kill the son of a bitch," Gonzo said.

"I thought you didn't know anything about murder?"

"I'm talking about these fancy wash jobs you figure out. I'm clear out of that mess, friend. All I want is what I was promised. For giving you the lead in the first place, and for setting up the Hernandez girl. Without me, you never woulda…"

"You'll get everything you were promised. Do you know what's wrong with you, Gonzo?"

"No, tell me. I'm dying to hear what's wrong with me."

"You still think small time. You're playing with something that's big time, and your mind is still laying on the garbage heap."

"Well, your mind is up in the clouds. Congratulations. Excuse me for being in the garbage."

"Start thinking big, you fool! Once I explain to Byrnes—"

"When? Call him, will you? Let's get this thing rolling."

"As soon as I check my pigeons."

"Check on the pigeons!" Byrnes shouted into the intercom. "If you've got stoolies, why the hell aren't you using them, Steve?"

At the other end of the instrument, Carella sighed patiently, unable to understand Byrnes' curious irritation these past few days.

"Pete, I have been checking with our stoolies. None of them seem to know anybody named Gonzo. I've got a call in right now to Danny Gimp. As soon as I…"

"I find it impossible to believe that nobody in this goddamn precinct has ever heard of Gonzo!" Byrnes shouted. "I find it impossible to believe that with a squad of sixteen detectives, I can't locate a two-bit pusher when I want him! I'm sorry, Steve, but I find that pretty damn impossible to believe."

"Well…"

"Have you checked the other precincts? A man doesn't simply materialize out of thin air. That doesn't happen, Steve. If he's a pusher, he may have a record."

"He may be a new pusher."

"Then he may have a J.D. card."

"No, I've checked that Pete, maybe the Gonzo is a nickname. Maybe…"

"What the hell do we have aliases files for?" Byrnes shouted.

"Pete, be reasonable. He may not be an old-timer. He may be one of these young punks who's just cut himself into the business. So he has no record and he…"

"A young punk suddenly becomes a pusher, and you're telling me he has no J.D. record?"

"Pete, he doesn't necessarily have to be listed as a juvenile delinquent. It's just possible, you know, that he's never been in trouble. There are hundreds of kids in the streets who don't have cards on…"

"What are you telling me?" Byrnes said. "Are you telling me you can't find a snot-nosed punk for me, is that what? This Gonzo took over Hernandez' trade, and that's a possible motive for murder, don't you think?"

"Well, if it were a big enough trade, yes. But, Pete…"

"Have you got a better motive, Steve?"

"No, not yet."

"Then find me Gonzo!"

"Ah, Jesus, Pete, you're talking to me as if…"

"I'm still running this squad, Carella," Byrnes said angrily.

"All right, look. Look, I met a kid yesterday who was ready to make a buy from Gonzo. I know what the kid looks like, and I'll try to scout him up today, okay? But first let me see what Danny Gimp has."

"You think this kid knows Gonzo?"

"He said he didn't yesterday, and he panicked when a patrolman showed. But maybe he's made contact since, and maybe he can lead me to Gonzo. I'll look around. Danny should be calling back in a half hour or so."

"All right," Byrnes said.

"I don't know why you're getting so hot about this case," Carella ventured. "We're getting hardly any pressure at…"

"I get hot about every case," Byrnes said tersely, and he snapped off the connection.

He sat at his desk and stared through the corner window of the room, looking out over the park. He was very weary and very sad, and he hated himself for snapping at his men, and he hated himself for concealing important evidence, evidence that might possibly help a good cop like Carella. But again he asked himself the question, and again the question had the same hollow ring to it: What's a man supposed to do?

Would Carella understand? Or would Carella, being a good cop and a smart cop, beat those fingerprints to death, track them down, get to work in earnest and come up with a murderer named Larry Byrnes?

What am I afraid of? Byrnes asked himself.

And, faced with the answer, a new despondency claimed him. He knew what he was afraid of. He had met a new Larry Byrnes in the past few days. The new person masquerading as his son was not a very nice person. He did not know that person at all.

That person could have done murder.

My son, Larry, may have killed that Hernandez boy, Byrnes thought.

The phone on his desk rang. He listened to it ring for several moments, and then he swung his swivel chair around and picked up the receiver.

"87th Squad," he said. "Lieutenant Byrnes here."

"Lieutenant, this is Cassidy at the desk."

"What is it, Mike?"

"I've got a call for you."

"Who is it?"

"Well, that's just it. The guy won't say."

Byrnes felt a sudden sharp pain at the base of his spine. The pain spread, suffused slowly, became a warm dissipating glow. "He… he wants to talk to me?" Byrnes asked.

"Yes, sir," Cassidy said.

"All right, put him on."

Byrnes waited. His hands were sweating. The receiver was slippery in his right hand, and he wiped the palm of his left hand on his trouser leg.

"Hello?" the voice said. It was the same voice as before. Byrnes recognized it instantly.

"This is Lieutenant Byrnes," he said.

"Ah, good afternoon, Lieutenant," the voice said. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," Byrnes said. "Who is this?"

"Well now, that's not exactly a very bright question, is it, Lieutenant?"

"What do you want?"

"Ah, are we alone on this wire, Lieutenant? I'd hate to think that any of your colleagues were about to hear the personal things we'll discuss."

"No one listens in on my calls," Byrnes assured him.

"You're quite certain of that, are you, Lieutenant?"

"Don't take me for a fool," Byrnes snapped. "Say what you've got to say."

"Have you had a chance to chat with your son, Lieutenant?"

"Yes," Byrnes said. He shifted the phone to his left hand, wiped his right hand, and then switched again.

"And has he confirmed the accusations I made the last time I spoke to you?"

"He's a drug addict," Byrnes said. "That's true…"

"A pity, isn't it, Lieutenant. Nice kid like that." The voice grew suddenly businesslike. "Did you check those fingerprints?"

"Yes."

"Are they his?"

"Yes."

"It looks bad, doesn't it, Lieutenant?"

"My son didn't argue with Hernandez."

"I've got a witness, Lieutenant."

"Who's your witness?"

"You'll be surprised."

"Go ahead."

"Maria Hernandez."

"What!"

"Yes. That makes it look even worse, doesn't it? The one witness to the argument suddenly winds up dead. That makes it look pretty bad, Lieutenant."

"My son was with me on the night Maria Hernandez was killed," Byrnes said flatly.

"That'll sit pretty nicely with a jury, won't it?" the voice said. "Especially when the jury learns Pop has been concealing evidence." There was a pause. "Or have you told your colleagues about your son's prints on that syringe?"

"No," Byrnes said hesitantly. "I… I haven't. Look, what is it you want?"

"I'll tell you what I want. You're supposed to be a pretty tough customer, aren't you, Lieutenant?"

"Goddamnit, what do you want?" Byrnes paused. "Are you looking for money? Is that it?"

"Lieutenant, you underestimate me. I…"

"Hello?" a new voice said.

"What?" Byrnes asked. "Who…?"

"Oh, gee, I'm sorry, Lieutenant," Cassidy said. "I must've plugged into the wrong hole. I'm trying to get Carella. I've got Danny Gimp for him."

"All right, Cassidy, get off the line," Byrnes said.

"Yes, sir."

He waited until the clicking told him Cassidy was gone.

"All right," he said. "He's gone."

There was no answer.

"Hello?" Byrnes said. "Hello?"

His party was gone. Byrnes slammed down the receiver, and then sat morosely at his desk, thinking. He thought very carefully, and he thought very clearly, and when the knock sounded on his door five minutes later, he had reached a conclusion and a certain peace.

"Come," he said.

The door opened. Carella came into the office.

"I just spoke to Danny Gimp," Carella said. He shook his head. "No luck. He doesn't know any Gonzo, either."

"Well," Byrnes said wearily.

"So I'm going to take another run over to the park. Maybe I'll see this kid again. If he's not there, I'll try around."

"Fine," Byrnes said. "Do your best."

"Right." Carella turned to leave.

"Steve," Byrnes said, "before you go…"

"Yes?"

"There's something you ought to know. There's a lot you ought to know."

"What is it, Pete?"

"The fingerprints on that syringe—" Byrnes said, and then he girded himself for what would be a long and painful story. "They're my son's."