“This cut gets infected,” the anonymous man said, “I’m gonna sue the city. I die in a police station, there’s gonna be hell to pay. You better believe it.”
“What name should we put on the death certificate?” Hawes asked.
“Who the hell filed this in the missing-persons drawer?” Carella said.
“Tell him your name already, willya?” Knowles said.
“Thomas Carmody, OK?” the other man said. He said it to Knowles, as if he would not allow himself the indignity of discussing it with a cop.
Carella handed the kit to Hawes. “Put a bandage on that, willya?” he said. “You look like hell.”
“How about the citizens?” Carmody said. “You see that?” he said to Knowles. “They always take care of their own first.”
“On your feet,” Carella said.
“Here comes the rubber hose,” Carmody said.
Hawes carried the first-aid kit to the mirror. Carella led Carmody and Knowles to the detention cage. He threw back both bolts on the door, took the cuffs off them and said, “Inside, boys.”
Carmody and Knowles went into the cage. Carella double-bolted the door again. Both men looked around the cage as if deciding whether or not the accommodations suited their taste. There were bars on the cage and protective steel mesh. There was no place to sit inside the cage. The two men walked around it, checking out the graffiti scribbled on the walls. Carella went to where Hawes was dabbing at his cut with a swab of cotton.
“Better put some peroxide on that,” he said. “What happened?”
“Where’s that shopping bag?” Hawes asked.
“On the desk there. What happened?”
“I was checking out a ten-twenty on Culver and Twelfth, guy went in and stole a television set this guy had wrapped up in his closet, he was giving it to his wife for Christmas, you know? They were next door with their friends, having a drink, burglar must’ve got in through the fire-escape window; anyway, the TV’s gone. So I take down all the information-fat chance of ever getting it back-and then I go downstairs, and I’m heading for the car when there’s this yelling and screaming up the street, so I go see what’s the matter, and these two jerks are arguing over the shopping bag there on the desk.”
“It was all your fault,” Carmody said to Knowles.
“You’re the one started it,” Knowles said.
“Anyway, it ain’t our shopping bag,” Carmody said.
“I figure it’s just two guys had too much to drink,” Hawes said, putting a patch over the cut, “so I go over to tell them to cool it, go home and sleep it off, this is Christmas Eve, right? All of a sudden, there’s a knife on the scene. One of them’s got a knife in his hand.”
“Not me,” Carmody said from the detention cage.
“Not me, either,” Knowles said.
“I don’t know who started cutting who first,” Hawes said, “but I’m looking at a lot of blood. Then the other guy gets hold of the knife some way, and he starts swinging away with it, and next thing I know, I’m in the middle of it, and I’m cut, too. What it turns out to be—”
“What knife?” Carmody said. “He’s dreaming.”
“Yeah, what knife?” Knowles said.
“The knife you threw down the sewer on the corner of Culver and Eleventh,” Hawes said, “which the blues are out searching in the muck for right this minute. I need this on Christmas Eve,” he said, studying the adhesive patch on his forehead. “I really need it.”
Carella went to the detention cage, unbolted the door and handed the first-aid kit to Carmody. “Here,” he said. “Use it.”
“I’m waiting for the ambulance to come,” Carmody said. “I want real medical treatment.”
“Suit yourself,” Carella said. “How about you?”
“If he wants to wait for the ambulance, then I want to wait for the ambulance, too,” Knowles said.
Carella bolted the cage again and went back to where Hawes was wiping blood from his hair with a wet towel. “What were they arguing about?” he asked.
“Nobody was arguing,” Carmody said.
“We’re good friends,” Knowles said.
“The stuff in the bag there,” Hawes said.
“I never saw that bag in my life,” Carmody said.
“Me, either,” Knowles said.
“What’s in the bag?” Carella asked.
“What do you think?” Hawes said.
“Frankincense,” Carmody said.
“Myrrh,” Knowles said, and both men burst out laughing.
“My ass,” Hawes said. “There’s enough pot in that bag to keep the whole city happy through New Year’s Day.”
“OK, let’s go,” a voice said from the railing.
Both detectives turned to see Meyer Meyer lead a kid through the gate in the railing. The kid looked about 14 years old, and he had a sheep on a leash. The sheep’s wool was dirty and matted. The kid looked equally dirty and matted. Meyer, wearing a heavy overcoat and no hat, looked pristinely bald and sartorial by contrast.
“I got us a shepherd,” he said. His blue eyes were twinkling; his cheeks were ruddy from the cold outside. “Beginning to snow out there,” he said.
“I ain’t no shepherd,” the kid said.
“No, what you are is a thief, is what you are,” Meyer said, taking off his overcoat and hanging it on the rack to the left of the railing. “Sit down over there. Give your sheep a seat, too.”
“Sheeps carry all kinds of diseases,” Carmody said from the detention cage.
“Who asked you?” Meyer said.
“I catch some kind of disease from that animal, I’ll sue the city,” Carmody said.
In response, the sheep shit on the floor.
“Terrific,” Meyer said. “Whyn’t you steal something clean, like a snake, you dummy?”
“My sister wanted a sheep for Christmas,” the kid said.
“Steals a goddamn sheep from the farm in the zoo, can you believe it?” Meyer said. “You know what you can get for stealing a sheep? They can send you to jail for twenty years, you steal a sheep.”
“Fifty years,” Hawes said.
“My sister wanted a sheep,” the kid said and shrugged.
“His sister is Little Bopeep,” Meyer said. “What happened to your head?”
“I ran into a big-time dope operation,” Hawes said.
“That ain’t our dope in that bag there,” Carmody said.
“That ain’t even our bag there,” Knowles said.
“When do we get a lawyer here?” Carmody said.
“Shut up,” Hawes said.
“Don’t tell them nothin’ till they read you your rights, kid,” Carmody said.
“Who’s gonna clean up this sheep dip on the floor?” Carella asked.
“Anybody want coffee?” Miscolo said from outside the railing. “I got a fresh pot brewing in the office.” He was wearing a blue sweater over regulation blue trousers, and there was a smile on his face until he saw the sheep. His eyes opened wide. “What’s that?” he asked. “A deer?”
“It’s Rudolph,” Carmody said from the detention cage.
“No kidding, is that a deer in here?” Miscolo asked.
“It’s a raccoon,” Knowles said.
“It’s my sister’s Christmas present,” the kid said.
“I’m pretty sure that’s against regulations, a deer up here in the squad room,” Miscolo said. “Who wants coffee?”
“I wouldn’t mind a cup,” Carmody said.
“I’d advise against it,” Meyer said.
“Even on Christmas Eve, I have to take crap about my coffee,” Miscolo said, shaking his head. “You want some, it’s down the hall.”
“I already told you I want some,” Carmody said.
“You ain’t in jail yet,” Miscolo said. “This ain’t a free soup kitchen.”
“Christmas Eve,” Carmody said, “he won’t give us a cup of coffee.”