A police department is a small army. Even in a big army, you don’t mess around with the sergeant. Corey was not only a sergeant and the senior man on his beat; he also happened to be the senior sergeant of all twelve sergeants in the precinct, with the exception of Dave Murchison. Murchison didn’t count, though, since he handled the switchboard and the muster desk and never walked a beat.
Sergeant Ralph Corey, then, was a VIP, a BMOC, a gonsuh mochuh, a wheel, and a guy around whom you watched your onions.
There was only one trouble.
Steve Carella outranked him.
Steve Carella was, in this small army that was the police force, in this section of the army that was the 87th Precinct, a detective/2nd grade—which is higher than a sergeant. It is two steps higher than a sergeant. Even if Carella had liked Corey, he would have outranked him. Since he didn’t like him, he outranked him in spades. Corey looked like a big, red-faced stereotype of a mean, lousy cop; but in Corey’s case, the stereotype was true. He was a mean cop and a lousy cop, and the only reason he was a sergeant was that he’d shot an escaping bank robber purely by sheer dumb luck back in 1947. His gun had gone off accidentally as he’d pulled it out of his holster—that’s how lucky Corey had been— and the bullet had taken the running thief in the left leg. So Corey had received a commendation and a promotion to sergeant and had damn near made detective/3rd to boot, but hadn’t.
Carella hadn’t liked him back in 1947, and he didn’t like him now, but he smiled as Corey entered the squadroom and then said, “Have a seat, Ralph. Cigarette?” and pushed his pack across the desk while Corey watched him and wondered what this big wop bastard wanted.
Carella wasn’t about to tell him; not just yet he wasn’t. Carella wanted to know how come Corey hadn’t mentioned anything about a crap game on his beat, especially since a man had been killed on Friday, and since the game had allegedly been running in the dead man’s basement, under the dead man’s aegis, for quite some time before he became a dead man. If Corey didn’t know about the game, Carella wanted to know how come he didn’t know about it? And if he did know about it, Carella wanted to know why it hadn’t been mentioned? But in the meantime, he was willing to sit and smile at Corey and smoke a pleasant cigarette with the man, just the way the cops did it on television.
“What’s up, Steve?” Corey asked.
“Well, I wanted your help on something,” Carella said.
Corey managed to suppress a sigh of relief and then smiled and took a deeper drag on his king-sized Chesterfield and said, “Happy to help in any way I can. What’s the problem?”
“A friend of mine is a little short of cash,” Carella said.
Corey, who had the cigarette in his mouth again and who was about to take another drag at it, stopped the action dead and quickly raised his eyes to meet Carella’s across the desk. Being a crooked cop himself, he recognized Carella’s gambit immediately. Carella’s “friend” who was a little short of cash was no one but Carella himself. And when a bull told you he was a little short of cash, he usually meant he wanted a cut of the pie or else he was going to start screaming to the captain about one violation or another.
“How short is your friend?” Corey asked, which meant, How much do you want in order to forget this whole matter?
“Very, very short,” Carella said gravely.
This was worse than Corey had expected. Carella seemed to be indicating that he wanted a bigger bite than any detective should normally expect. Detectives had their own little operations going and, like any good army, the officers didn’t muscle in on the enlisted men’s territory, and vice versa.
“Well, what did your friend have in mind?” Corey asked.
“I’d help him myself,” Carella said, “but I’m not sure how.”
“I don’t think I follow you,” Corey said, puzzled now.
“You’re more in contact with things,” Carella said.
“What kind of things?” Corey asked.
“My friend craves action,” Carella said.
“What do you mean?” Corey said, and then squinted. “Dames, you mean?”
“No.”
“I’m not with you, Steve.”
Corey was not being deliberately obtuse. He was simply having difficulty in adjusting his frame of reference. He had come up to the squadroom expecting God knew what kind of bullshit from Carella and then had immediately realized that all Carella wanted was a percentage of the take. This hadn’t surprised him at all, even though the word around the precinct was that Carella was a square cop who didn’t take. Corey had met square cops who didn’t take before. But what it turned out to be, after you knew these square cops for a while, was just that they were very quiet about taking, that was all. So Corey figured Carella wanted a piece of the action, which was all right with him so long as he got off his back, and so long as the tariff wasn’t too steep. He’d begun to get nervous when Carella said he was very short of money, thinking this was going to be a real stickup. But then Carella seemed to switch in mid-stream and started talking about helping his friend himself, so that Corey figured maybe this really was a friend of Carella’s. Then Carella had told him his friend craved action, and Corey had immediately begun thinking again that Carella’s “friend” was really Carella, just as he’d thought all along. What Carella wanted, Corey figured, was for Corey to fix him up quietly with one of the hookers on the beat, easy enough. But no, Carella said it wasn’t dames.
“So what kind of action does your friend crave?” Corey asked, stressing the word “friend” and making it clear he knew Carella’s “friend” was really Carella.
“Cards,” Carella said. “Dice. Anything where he can parlay a small stake into some quick cash.”
“Oh,” Corey said. “I see.”
“Mmm.”
“Gambling action, you mean.”
“Mmm.”
The men fell silent.
Corey drew in on his cigarette.
Carella waited.
“Gee, Steve,” Corey said at last, “I wouldn’t know how to help your friend.”
“You wouldn’t, huh?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“That’s a shame,” Carella said.
“Yeah. But, you know, there’s no gambling on my beat.”
“No.”
“No. Not to my knowledge, anyway,” Corey said, and smiled.
“Mmm,” Carella said.
“Yeah,” Corey said, and drew in on his cigarette again, and again the men were silent.
“That’s too bad,” Carella said, “because I had hoped maybe you’d know of a game.”
“No, I don’t.”
“So I guess I’ll have to scout one up on my own,” Carella said. He grinned. “That can get expensive, of course, since I’d have to do it on my own time.”
“Yeah,” Corey said, “I see what you mean.”
“Mmmm.”
“I could…uh…ask around, I guess. Maybe some of the boys know.”
“Well, I don’t think the boys would know without your knowing, too, would they, Ralph?”
“Sometimes,” Corey said. “You’d be surprised.”
“Yes, I would.”
“Huh?”
“I said I’d be surprised.”
“Well,” Corey said, rising, “I’ll ask around, Steve, and see what I can get for you.”
“Sit down a minute, Ralph,” Carella said. He smiled. “Another cigarette?”
“No. No, thanks, I’m trying to cut down.”
“Ralph,” Carella said, “would you like to tell me about the game in the basement of 4111 South 5th?”