“What the hell do you want, cop?” the man asked.
“What’s your name?”
“Bob Fontana.”
“And the girl?”
“Ask her,” Fontana said.
“I will, when she comes around. Meanwhile, suppose you tell me.”
“I forget,” Fontana said, and he shrugged.
“How long have you been holed up in here?”
“I don’t know. What’s today?”
“Monday.”
“Monday? Already?”
“You mind if I let some more air in here?”
“What are you? A fresh-air fiend?”
Hawes went into the bedroom and opened the two windows there. The girl on the bed did not stir. As he rounded the bed, he pulled the slip down over the backs of her legs.
“What’s the matter, cop?” Fontana asked. “You don’t like pussy?”
“How long has she been stoned like that?” Hawes asked.
“How do I know? I can’t even remember her name.”
“Is she alive?” Hawes asked.
“I hope so. She’s breathing, ain’t she?”
Hawes lifted the girl’s wrist and felt for the pulse. “Barely,” he said. “When did you shoot up?”
“I don’t know what you mean by shoot up,” Fontana said.
Hawes picked up a charred tablespoon from the seat of a chair alongside the bed. “What’s this, Fontana?”
“It looks like a spoon to me. Maybe somebody was having some soup.”
“All right, where is it?”
“Where’s what? The soup?”
“The junk, Fontana.”
“Oh, is that what you came in here for?”
“It’s all gone, huh?” Hawes said.
“Well, now, I don’t know. You seem to be asking the questions and answering them all at the same time.”
“Okay,” Hawes said, “let’s take it from the top. How long have you been in this apartment?”
“Since New Year’s Eve.”
“Celebrating, huh? And the girl?”
“The girl is my sister. Don’t bug me,” Fontana said.
“What’s her name?”
“Louise.”
“Louise Fontana?”
“Yeah.”
“Where does she live?”
“Here—where do you think?”
“And you?”
“Here.” Fontana saw Hawes’s look. “Get your mind out of the gutter, cop. I sleep on the couch there.”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-two.”
“And you?”
“Twenty-six.”
“How long have you been hooked?”
“I don’t know what hooked means. You got something to pin on me, pin it. Otherwise get the hell out.”
“Why? You expecting someone?”
“Yeah, I’m expecting the president. He’s coming here to discuss the Russian situation. He comes here every Monday for lunch.”
“Who’s Georgie?” Hawes said.
“I don’t know. Who’s Georgie?”
“When I knocked on the door, you asked if I was Georgie.”
“Did I?”
“Georgie who?”
“Georgie Jessel. He comes with the president every Monday.”
“Or maybe some other Georgie, huh?” Hawes said. “You mind if I go through some of these drawers?”
“I think you’d better get a search warrant before you go messing up my underwear,” Fontana said.
“Well, that poses a slight dilemma,” Hawes said, “Maybe you can help me with it.”
“Sure, glad to help the law any time,” Fontana said, and rolled his eyes.
“There’s no law against being an addict—you know that, I guess.”
“I don’t even know what an addict is.”
“But there is a law against possessing certain specified amounts of narcotics. Now here’s the dilemma, Fontana. I can’t pinch you unless I can prove possession. Well, I can’t prove possession unless I make a search. And I can’t make a search without a warrant. But if I go downtown for a warrant, by the time I come back you’ll have flushed whatever I was looking for down the toilet. So what do I do?”
“Why don’t you go home and sleep it off?” Fontana said.
“Of course, if I make an illegal search and come up with six pounds of uncut heroin—”
“Fat chance.”
“—why then nobody’s going to worry about whether or not I had a warrant, are they?”
“Who’s gonna worry, anyway? Who you trying to kid, cop? The last time I seen a cop with a search warrant in this neighborhood, it was snowing inside the church in the middle of July. You’re worried about a warrant, don’t make me laugh. You bust down the door, and then suddenly you get legal? Ha!”
“Nobody broke down the door, Fontana.”
“No, you just give me the foot-and-shoulder treatment, that’s all. Listen, I know cops. You’re gonna search the pad, anyway, so what’s the song and dance? Get it over with so I can get back to sleep.”
“You know what, Fontana?”
“What?”
“I think you’re clean.”
“You know it, cop.”
“Otherwise you wouldn’t be so anxious for me to search.”
“Cool. So if you’re done here, why don’t you cut out, huh?”
“Why? Don’t you want me to be here when Georgie arrives?”
“I told you, I’m sleepy. I want to get back to bed.”
“On the couch.”
“Yeah, on the couch,” Fontana said. “She really is my sister, so quit bugging me.”
“What’s her name?”
“Lois.”
“You said Louise last time around.”
“I said Lois.”
“Do you always refer to your sister as pussy?”
“It’s what she is, ain’t it? Being my sister don’t make her better than anybody else. Girls are pussy, and that’s all they are.”
“You’re a sweet guy, Fontana. When did you have a bath last?”
“What are you? A cop or a department of sanitation? If you’re finished, goodbye. I’m sick of this jazz.”
“Suppose I told you Georgie isn’t coming today?”
“No?”
“No. Suppose I told you he isn’t coming ever again?”
“Why not?”
“Guess.”
“That’s the oldest trick in the book, cop. You want me to say, ‘Georgie ain’t coming ‘cause he got busted,’ and then you’ll say, ‘Busted for what?’ Only I ain’t biting, cop.”
“Try this one for size,” Hawes said.
“Yeah?”
“Georgie ain’t coming ‘cause he’s dead.”
Fontana said nothing. He looked at Hawes silently and then wiped a hand over his mouth.
“Yeah,” Hawes said. “Dead as a mackerel.”
“I’m from Missouri,” Fontana said.
“You’ve been in here since New Year’s Eve,” Hawes said. “That was last Tuesday. Georgie got it Friday.”
“When Friday?”
“In the afternoon. Sometime between one and two, near as we can make it.”
“Where?”
“Downstairs in the basement,” Hawes said.
“What the hell was Georgie doing in the basement?” Fontana asked.
Hawes stared at him.
“You didn’t answer me,” Fontana said.
“Georgie Lasser?” Hawes said. “Is that who we’re...?”
Fontana smiled.
“Wrong number, cop,” he answered.
Bob Fontana had been expecting a visit from someone named Georgie when Hawes knocked on the door. It was unfortunate that the Georgie he’d been expecting hadn’t turned out to be the dead Georgie Lasser because that would have meant Lasser was involved with narcotics which could have explained a lot of things. Narcotics is very big-time all over the world, bigger than prostitution and bigger than gambling, in fact probably the biggest of all underworld activities in terms of energy expended and capital realized. If a man is messing around with the dope business, anything can be anticipated—including an ax in the head. It was therefore unfortunate that Bob Fontana was not expecting Georgie Lasser, but some other Georgie instead. If Lasser had been a pusher, the cops might have had a new place to hang their hats. Instead, they were stuck with the same empty pegs.