“I thought I’d take a chance.”
“I prefer that you call,” Danny said, seemingly offended. “You know that.”
“Well, the truth of the matter is that I like hanging around on street corners when it’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey,” Carella said. “That’s why I stopped by and then went right outside to wait for you.”
“Oh, I see,” Danny said.
“Yeah.”
“Look, I’m sorry. I got to protect myself.”
“Next time I’ll call,” Carella said.
“I’d appreciate it.”
They walked in silence for several blocks.
“What’s on your mind?” Danny asked at last.
“A crap game,” Carella answered.
“Where?”
“At 4111 South 5th. In the basement.”
“Regular or one-shot?”
“Regular.”
“Floating or stationary?”
“Stationary.”
“The same place each time?”
“Right.”
“Which is the basement of 4111 South 5th, correct?”
“Correct,” Carella said.
“Which also happens to be where somebody got his head busted Friday, also correct?”
“Also correct,” Carella said.
“So what do you want to know?”
“Everything about it.”
“Like?”
“Who played and when? Who won and who lost?”
“What’s the dead man’s connection with the game?” Danny asked.
“He ran it.”
“What was his cut? Usual house cut?”
“I don’t know. Find out for me.”
“You said this was a permanent game, huh? And the same place each time?”
“That’s right.”
“You talked to your sergeant on the beat yet?”
“No.”
“You’d better.”
“Why?”
“Chances are he knew about it. He was probably cutting the pot along with Lasser.”
“Maybe. I’ll get to him on Monday.”
“I’ve got to tell you…” Danny started.
“Yeah?”
“I haven’t heard a word about this, not a peep. It’s your notion somebody in the game chopped him down, is that it?”
“I don’t have any notions yet, Danny. I’m fishing.”
“Yeah, but why fish around a crap game? Dice players don’t usually go chopping a man down with an ax.”
“Where else do I fish?”
Danny shrugged. “From what I read in the newspaper, Steve, it sounds like a nut.” He shrugged again. “You got a nut? Go fishing around him.”
“I’ve got one. I’ve also got her son, who draws pictures and never leaves the house. And I’ve got three old cockuhs who survived the Spanish-American War and who are sitting around waiting to drop dead themselves any minute now. I’ve also got an underpaid Negro who knows how to use an ax, but I don’t think he used it on our man.”
“And you’ve got a crap game.”
“Right. So where do I fish?”
“The crap game.”
“Sure,” Carella said. “A crap game makes sense to me.”
“Don’t lean too heavy,” Danny said. “This might be a game full of guys from the building—they come down once, twice a week, just to pass the time.”
“Could be, sure.”
“Or what it could be,” Danny said, “is some nice respectable businessmen from downtown. This is their one night a week to howl. They come shoot craps in a slum basement instead of drinking or chasing after dames.”
“Sure, that, too,” Carella said. “Or it could be a bunch of hoods who’ve got no place else to play and who give George Lasser a cut for letting them use his basement.”
“Mm, maybe,” Danny said.
“In which case, an ax murder isn’t so very far out, is it?”
“An ax murder is always very far out,” Danny said. “You know any pro who’ll use an ax? Impossible. You’re dealing with amateur night, Steve. That’s why I’m telling you not to lean so heavy on the crap game. I mean, even if the game was full of the worst hoods ever walked this city, who do you know’s gonna use an ax on a guy?”
Carella looked suddenly troubled.
“What’d I do?” Danny asked. “Screw it up for you?”
“No, no. But I’ll tell you what I don’t like about this crap game, Danny. It’s against the law. That makes everybody in it a lawbreaker. And if they’ve all broken the law already...”
“Aw, come on, Steve,” Danny said. “Gambling’s a misdemeanor.”
“Even so.”
“So a dice player’s gonna suddenly pick up an ax? And brain somebody with it? Aw, come on, Steve.”
“You don’t buy it?” Carella asked.
Danny was quiet for a long time. Then he shrugged and said, “Old Chinese saying: ‘Play with dice like play with blonde. Man never get out what he put in.’ ”
Carella smiled.
“So who knows?” Danny continued. “Maybe there was a heavy loser in the game, and maybe he got himself an ax someplace…”
“In the shed behind the building,” Carella said.
“Sure, and he decided Lasser was the one to blame for his bad luck. Pow, goodbye janitor.” Danny shrugged again. “It could be. Guys go crazy over dice, the same like with a broad. But I don’t figure it for a pro. A pro puts a bullet in the old guy’s head, plain and simple. Or a shaft in his back. But an ax? I mean, Jesus, that’s pretty disgusting, ain’t it? An ax?”
“Will you listen around?” Carella asked.
“I’ll get back,” Danny said. He paused. “I’m short, you know.”
“So am I,” Carella said.
“Yeah, but I live dangerously.”
“I had to put in a new muffler,” Carella said.
“Huh?”
“On one of the squad sedans.”
“So? You had to pay for that?”
“Petty Cash had to pay for that.”
“Where does this ‘Petty Cash’ come from, anyway?” Danny asked. “Does the city honor your chits, or what?”
“We push dope on the side,” Carella answered.
“Listen, I’ll believe you,” Danny said.
“When will you call me?”
“As soon as I’ve got something. Listen, Steve, no kidding, I’m real short. I could use some…”
“Danny, if you come up with something, I’ll come up with something. I’m not stalling you. The cupboard is bare right now.”
“Boy oh boy,” Danny said. “Two bare cupboards in the middle of January. It’s enough to make you quit police work, ain’t it?” He grinned, glanced over his shoulder, shook hands with Carella briefly but firmly, and said, “I’ll give you a ring.”
Carella watched as he limped away. Then he put his gloved hands in his pockets and began walking the fifteen blocks back to where he had parked his car.
5
If you’re a cop, you know all about graft.
You know that if somebody is “taking,” it is usually the senior man on the beat who later splits with the other men who share the beat on a rotating basis. You know this because you also know there is nothing that can screw things up like a plenitude of cops with outstretched hands. When too many hands are reaching, the sucker may suddenly decide that he is really being taken but good, and one fine day the desk sergeant will receive a call from someone who will say, simply, “I want to talk to a detective.”
Sergeant Ralph Corey did not wish to talk to a detective.
This was Monday morning, and he was about to begin five consecutive tours on the 8:00 A.M. to 4:00 P.M. shift, after which he would swing for fifty-six hours and then come back to work on Sunday at midnight to begin his next five hours on the graveyard shift, from midnight to 8:00 A.M. The shift after that would be from 4:00 P.M. to midnight, and then the rotation would come full circle and he would be back on the day shift for the next five tours.