The Pusher

Chapter Six

It was not that Steve Carella had any theories.

It was simply that the situation stank to high heaven.

Aníbal Hernandez had been found dead at two o'clock on the morning of December 18th. That had been a Monday morning, and now it was Wednesday afternoon, two days later—and the situation still stank to high heaven.

The coroner had reported that Hernandez died of an overdose of heroin, which was not an unseemly way for a hophead to meet his end. The syringe lying next to Hernandez' hands had been scrutinized for latent prints, and those prints were now being compared with the prints lifted from Hernandez' dead fingers.

Carella, with dead certainty, was sure the prints would not match. Someone had tied that rope around Hernandez' neck after he was dead, and Carella was willing to bet that the same person had used that syringe to administer the fatal dose of heroin.

Which situation brought up a few problems. Which problems combined to lend the entire situation its air of putrefaction.

For assuming that someone wanted Hernandez dead, an assumption that seemed to be well-founded, and further assuming the someone had used an overloaded syringe of heroin as his murder weapon, why then was the murder weapon not removed from the scene of the crime?

Or why then, for that matter, was the body then hoisted by its own petard, more or less, in an attempt to stimulate a hanging suicide?

These were the knotty trivialities that disturbed the normal thinking of Detective Steve Carella. He knew, of course, that there could be a thousand and one motives for murder in the tangled world of drug addiction. He knew, too, that someone unfamiliar with the ways of the coroner's office might innocently hope to palm off a poisoning as a hanging. But he further knew that every man and boy in the United States had been raised on the Fingerprint Legend. Commit a crime? Wipe off the prints, boy. The prints had not been wiped from the syringe. The prints were there, as big as life, waiting to be lifted and studied. The syringe was there, too, and if someone were trying to palm off a hanging, would he leave a syringe around? Could he be so stupid as to believe the cops wouldn't automatically connect the syringe to a possible death by overdose?

Something stank.

Everything stank.

Carella had a sensitive nose and perhaps a sensitive mind. He walked the streets of the precinct, and he thought, and he wondered where he should begin because the right beginning was very often the most important time-saving device in detective work. And whereas he was, at the moment, primarily concerned with the Hernandez case, he couldn't very well forget the fact that he was a cop being paid to enforce law twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year.

When he saw the automobile parked at the curb near Grover Park, he gave it but a cursory glance. Were he an ordinary citizen out for a midafternoon promenade, the cursory glance would have sufficed. Because he was a law-enforcing cop, he took a second glance.

The second glance told him that the car was a 1939 Plymouth sedan, gray, license number 42L-1731. It told him that the right rear fender had been smashed in, and it told him that there were two occupants on the back seat, both male, both young. Two young men sitting in the back seat of a car presupposed the absence of a driver. Why were these kids waiting in a car alongside Grover Park, and for whom?

In that instant, Aníbal Hernandez left Carella's mind completely. Casually, he sauntered past the car. The occupants were no more than twenty-one years old. They watched Carella as he passed. They watched him very closely. Carella did not turn to look at the parked car again. He continued walking up the street, and then stepped into the tailor shop of Max Cohen.

Max was a round-faced man with a fringe of white hair that clung to his balding pate like a halo. He looked up when Carella came in, and said, "Hallo, Stevie, what's new?"

"What could be new?" Carella asked. He had already begun taking off his brown overcoat. Max eyed him curiously.

"Some teller work, maybe. You want something sewed?" he asked.

"No. I want to borrow a coat. How about that tan one on the rack? Will it fit me?"

"You vant to borrow…?"

"I'm in a hurry, Max. I'll bring it right back. I'm watching some people."

There was urgency in Carella's voice. Max dropped his needle and went to the rack of clothing. "Dun't get it doity, please," he said. "It's already been pressed."

"I won't," Carella promised. He took the coat from Max, shrugged into it, and then went outside again. The car was still up the street, standing at the curb alongside the park. The boys were still on the back seat. Carella took a position across the street from the car, standing so that the blind spot in the rear of the car hid him from view. Patiently, he watched.

The third boy appeared some five minutes later. He walked out of the park at a brisk clip, heading directly for the car. Carella shoved himself off the lamppost instantly and began crossing the street. The third boy did not see him; he walked directly to the car, opened the door on the driver's side, and climbed in. An instant later, Carella threw open the door opposite him.

"Hey, what…?" the driver said.

Carella leaned into the car. His coat was open and his gun butt lay a few inches from his right hand. "Sit tight," he said.

The boys in the back seat exchanged quick, frightened glances.

"Listen, you got no right to…" the driver started.

"Shut up," Carella said. "What were you doing in the park?"

"Huh?"

"The park. Who'd you meet there?"

"Me? Nobody. I was walking."

"Where'd you walk?"

"Around."

"Why?"

"I felt like walking."

"How come your pals here didn't go with you?"

"They didn't feel like walking."

"Why are you answering my questions?" Carella hurled.

"What?"

"Why are you answering me, goddamnit? How do you know I'm a cop?"

"I… I figured…"

"Were you expecting cop trouble?"

"Me? No, I was just going for a wa—"

"Empty your pockets!"

"What for?"

"Because I say so!" Carella shouted.

"He's got us cold," one of the boys in the back seat said.

"Shut up!" the driver snapped without turning his head.

"I'm waiting," Carella said.

The driver fished into his pockets slowly and cautiously. He placed a package of cigarettes on the seat of the car, and then quickly covered it with a comb, a wallet, and a key ring.

"Hold it," Carella said. Gingerly, he shoved the package of cigarettes to one side with his forefinger. The cigarettes had been resting on, and covering, a small envelope. Carella picked up the envelope, opened it, spilled some white powder onto the palm of his hand, and then tasted it. The boys watched him silently.

"Heroin," Carella said. "Where'd you get it?"

The driver didn't answer.

"You make the buy in the park?"

"I found it," the driver said.

"Come on! Where'd you buy it?"

"I found it, I told you."

"Mister, you're getting a possessions charge whether you found it or inherited it. You might be helping yourself if you told me who pushed this junk to you."

"Leave us out of this," the boys in the back said. "We ain't got none of the junk on us. Search us, go ahead. Search us."

"I'm booking the three of you for acting in concert. Now, who pushed it?"

"I found it," the driver said.

"Okay, smart guy," Carella agreed, "you found it. Have you got a license to drive this car?"

"Sure I do."

"Then start driving it."

"Where to?"

"Take a long guess," Carella answered. He slid onto the seat and slammed the door behind him.

There was nothing Roger Havilland liked better than questioning suspects, especially when he could question them alone. Roger Havilland was probably the biggest bull in the 87th Precinct, and undoubtedly the meanest son of a bitch in the world. You couldn't really blame Havilland for his attitude about punks in general. Havilland had once tried to break up a street fight and had in turn had his arm broken in four places. Havilland had been a gentle cop up to that time, but a compound fracture that had to be rebroken and reset because it would not heal properly had not helped his disposition at all. He had come out of the hospital with a healed arm, and a somewhat curious philosophy. Never again would Havilland be caught unawares. Havilland would strike first and ask questions later.

So there was nothing he enjoyed more than questioning suspects, especially when he could question them alone and unassisted. Unfortunately, Carella was with him in the interrogation room on that Wednesday afternoon, December 20th.

The boy who'd been caught with the deck of heroin sat in a chair with his head high and his eyes defiant. The two boys who'd been in the back seat of the car were being questioned separately and respectively by Detectives Meyer and Willis outside. The objective of these related questioning sessions was to discover from whom these kids had made their buy. There was no fun in picking up a hop-head. He took a fall, and then the city bore the expense of a thirty-day cold turkey ride. The important man was the pusher. Had the detectives of the 87th wanted to pull in a hundred addicts a day, all of whom would be holding one form or another of narcotics, they had only to walk the streets of their precinct. Unauthorized possession of any quantity of narcotics was a violation of the Public Health Law Section and a misdemeanor. The offender would undoubtedly pull a term on Bailey's Island—thirty days or more—and then come out ready to seek the drug again.

On the other hand, the pusher was in a more vulnerable position. State law made the possession of certain quantities of narcotics a felony, and those quantities were:

One-quarter ounce or more of one-percent compounds of heroin, morphine, or cocaine.

Two ounces or more of other narcotics.

And this possession was punishable by imprisonment of from one to ten years. Then, too, the possession of two or more ounces aggregate weight of compounds containing three percent or more of heroin, morphine or cocaine—or sixteen ounces or more of other narcotics—created, according to the law, an unrebuttable presumption of intent to sell.

It was not a crime to be a drug addict, but things could be made tough for you if you possessed either drugs or instruments for using drugs, which possession was a crime.

The boy who'd made his buy in Grover Park had been caught holding a sixteenth of H, which had probably cost him something like five bucks. He was small fry. The bulls of the 87th were interested in the man who'd sold the stuff to him.

"What's your name?" Havilland asked the boy.

"Ernest," the boy answered. He was tall and thin, with a shock of blond hair that hung onto his forehead dejectedly now.

"Ernest what?"

"Ernest Hemingway."

Havilland looked at Carella and then turned back to the boy. "All right, champ," he said, "we'll try again. What's your name?"

"Ernest Hemingway."

"I got no time to waste with a wise punk!" Havilland shouted.

"What's the matter with you?" the boy said. "You asked me what my name was, and I—"

"If you don't want to be picking up your teeth in a minute, you'd better give me a straight answer. What's your name?"

"Ernest Hemingway. Listen, what's with—"

Havilland slapped the boy quickly and almost effortlessly. The boy's head rocked to one side, and Havilland drew his hand back for another blow.

"Lay off, Rog," Carella said. "That's his name. It's on his draft card."

"Ernest Hemingway?" Havilland asked incredulously.

"What's the matter with that?" Hemingway asked. "Listen, what's bugging you guys, anyway?"

"There's a fellow," Carella said. "A writer. His name is Ernest Hemingway, too."

"Yeah?" Hemingway said. He paused, then thoughtfully said, "I never heard of him. Can I sue him?"

"I doubt it," Carella said drily. "Who sold you that sixteenth?"

"Your writer friend," Hemingway answered, smirking.

"This is going to be cute," Havilland said. "I like them when they're cute. Kid, you are going to wish you were never born."

"Listen, kid," Carella said, "you're only making things tough for yourself. You can get thirty out of this or ninety, depending on how cooperative you are. You might even get a suspended sentence, who can tell?"

"You promising?"

"I can't make promises. It's up to the judge. But if he knows you helped us nail a pusher, he might be inclined toward leniency."

"Do I look like a stoolie?"

"No," Havilland answered. "Most stoolies are better looking than you."

"What was this lug before he turned cop?" Hemingway asked. "A television comic?"

Havilland smiled and then slapped Hemingway across the mouth.

"Put your hands away," Carella said.

"I don't have to take crap from a snotnose junkie. I don't have to—"

"Put your goddamn hands away!" Carella said, more loudly this time. "You feel like a workout, go down to the Headquarters gym."

"Listen, I—"

"How about it, kid?" Carella asked.

"Who the hell do you think you are, Carella?" Havilland wanted to know.

"Who the hell do you think you are, Havilland?" Carella said. "If you don't want to question this kid properly, then get the hell out. He's my prisoner."

"You'd think I broke his head or something," Havilland said petulantly.

"I don't want to give you the opportunity," Carella said. He turned back to Hemingway. "How about it, son?"

"Don't give me the 'son' routine, cop. I blab who pushed the junk, and I'll still go the limit."

"Maybe you'd like us to say we found you with a quarter instead of a sixteenth," Havilland suggested.

"You can't do that, big mouth," Hemingway said.

"We pulled in enough narcotics today to fill a steamboat," Havilland lied. "Who's to know what you were carrying?"

"You know it was a sixteenth," Hemingway said, weakening.

"Sure, but who else besides us knows it? You can get ten years for holding a quarter-ounce, pal. Slap onto that the intent to sell the junk to your pals outside."

"Who was trying to sell it? Jesus, I only bought it! And it was a sixteenth, not a quarter!"

"Yeah," Havilland said. "But it's a pity we're the only ones who know that, ain't it? Now, what's the pusher's name?"

Hemingway was silent, thinking.

"Possession of a quarter-ounce with intent to sell," Havilland said to Carella. "Let's wrap this up, Steve."

"Hey, wait a minute," Hemingway said. "You're not gonna railroad me like that, are you?"

"Why not?" Havilland said. "You're no relative of mine."

"Well, can't we…" Hemingway stopped. "Can't we…"

"The pusher," Carella said.

"A guy named Gonzo."

"Is that his first name or his last?"

"I don't know."

"How'd you contact him?"

"This was the first I heard of him," Hemingway said. "Today, I mean. The first time I ever copped from him."

"Yeah, sure," Havilland said.

"I snow you not," Hemingway answered. "I used to buy from another kid. The meet was in the park, near the lion house. I used to get from this other kid there. So today, I go to the meet, and there's this new character. He tells me his name is Gonzo, and he's got good junk. So, okay, I gambled on getting beat stuff. Then the law showed."

"What about the two kids in the back seat?"

"Skin poppers. You want to be smart, you'll throw them out. This whole business has scared them blue."

"This your first fall?" Carella asked.

"Yeah."

"How long have you been on the junk?"

"About eight years."

"Mainline?"

Hemingway looked up. "There's another way?" he asked.

"Gonzo, huh?" Havilland said.

"Yeah. Listen, you think I'll be able to get a fix soon? I mean, I'm beginning to feel a little sick, you dig me?"

"Mister," Havilland said, "consider yourself cured."

"Huh?"

"They don't meet near the lion house where you're going."

"I thought you said I might get a suspended sentence."

"You might. Do you expect us to keep you hopped up until then?"

"No, but I thought… Jesus, ain't there a doctor or something around?"

"Who'd you used to buy from?" Carella asked.

"What do you mean?"

"At the lion house. You said this Gonzo was new. Who pushed to you before?"

"Oh, Yeah, yeah. Listen, can't we talk a doctor into fixing me? You know, I mean, like I'll puke all over the floor or something."

"We'll give you a mop," Havilland said.

"Who was the other pusher?" Carella asked again.

Hemingway sighed wearily. "A kid named Annabelle."

"A broad?" Havilland asked.

"No, some spic kid. Annabelle. That's a spic name."

"Aníbal?" Carella asked, his scalp prickling.

"Yeah."

"Aníbal what?"

"Fernandez, Hernandez, Gomez? Who can tell with these spies? They all sound alike to me."

"Was it Aníbal Hernandez?"

"Yeah, I think so. Yeah, that sounds as good as any. Listen, can't I get a fix? I mean, I'll puke."

"Go ahead," Havilland said. "Puke."

Hemingway sighed heavily again, and then he frowned, and then he lifted his head and asked, "Is there really a writer named Ernest Hemingway?"