“No.”
“Or knives?”
“No.”
“Charlie Harrod was stabbed today.”
“Didn’t know him.”
“He was also beaten to death.”
“Still don’t know him.”
“You familiar with that Kruger Street area?”
“Just a bit.”
“You just told us you shoot pool in Ace Billiards.”
“That’s right, I do. Every now and then.”
“That’s next door to where Charlie lived.”
“That a fact?”
“Apartment 6A, 1512 Kruger.”
“What about it?”
“Ever in that apartment?”
“Never.”
“Ever see Elizabeth Benjamin in the neighborhood?”
“Nope.”
“Did you know Charlie Harrod was a junkie?”
“Didn’t know what he was. Didn’t know the man, you dig?”
“Ever beat up a junkie?”
“Never.”
“That’s a lie,” Ollie said. “We had you punks in here six months ago for beating up a pusher named Shoemouth Kendricks.”
“That was a pusher, man. That wasn’t no junkie. Junkies are sick people. Pushers are what makes them sick.” Avery paused. “How come you know about that, anyway? You weren’t the cop who handled it.”
Ollie reached behind him, lifted a manila folder from the desk, and threw it into Avery’s lap. “This is the file on your little club, Mr. President. It gets thicker every day. We know all about you punks, and we know you stink.”
“Well now, I wouldn’t say exactly that, Mr. Weeks,” Avery said, and grinned, and handed the folder back to Ollie.
“We know, for example,” Ollie said, “that you keep your arsenal in the apartment of one Melissa Beam at 211 North 23rd, and that it consists of fourteen handguns, two dozen hand grenades, six World War Two bayonets and sheaths, and any number of switchblades, baseball bats, and sawed-off broom handles.”
“That’s a lie, man,” Avery said. “Who told you that jive?”
“A member of another little club called The Royal Savages.”
“Those jerks?” Avery said disdainfully. “They wouldn’t know an arsenal from their own assholes. Anyway, if you thought all that stuff was over there on Twenty-third, how come you didn’t raid it?”
“Because the last time you were up here, Mr. President, you made all kinds of law-abiding promises to a detective named Thomas Boyd, and in return he made a deal not to hassle you or your club.”
“That’s right, we are law-abiding,” Avery said. “We keep the peace.”
“Detective Boyd is over on Twenty-third right this minute,” Ollie said, “busting into that apartment. I hope he doesn’t find any weapons we can trace back to you and your gang. Like, for example, the knife that was used on Charlie Harrod.”
“He won’t, don’t worry,” Avery said, but he seemed a trifle shaken now. He cleared his throat.
“What do you call Jamie Holder?” Carella said.
“I call him Holder.”
“You call him by his last name?”
“That’s right.”
“How come?”
“Jamie sounds like a pansy. He likes being called Holder. It’s a strong name. He’s a big man, and a proud man. Holder fits him good.”
“Ever hear of voiceprints?” Hawes asked.
“Nope.”
“They’re like fingerprints,” Carella said.
“We can compare them. We can make positive identifications of voices.”
“Ain’t that interesting,” Avery said.
“We’ve got your voice on tape,” Ollie said.
“You been taping this?” Avery said, and looked quickly around for a hidden recorder. “I didn’t give you permission to do that.”
“No, no, we haven’t taped this,” Ollie said, and smiled.
“We’ve got a tape, though,” Carella said, and smiled.
“You and Holder are the stars on it,” Hawes said, and smiled.
“Want to hear it, Avery?”
“Sure, why not?” Avery said, and shrugged, and folded his arms across his chest.
Ollie immediately left the squadroom. The tape recorder was in the Clerical Office down the hall, and he could have picked it up in thirty seconds flat, but he dallied for a full five minutes before returning to where Avery was sitting in his straight-backed chair, arms folded. Neither of the other two detectives had said a word to him while Ollie was gone. Now Ollie put the recorder on the desk, gave Avery a sympathetic look that translated as “Man, are you in trouble,” and stabbed at the PLAY button. Casually, the detectives stood around Avery Evans and watched him as he listened to the tape.
— Hawes? You better get here fast. The apartment. I did what you said, I stayed here. And now they’ve come to get me. The ones who killed Charlie. They’re outside on the fire escape. They’re gonna smash in here as soon as they work up the courage.
Avery blinked when he heard the sound of glass shattering. His arms still folded across his chest, he leaned forward only slightly when he heard the next voices:
— Get away from that phone!
— Holder, watch it!
— She’s...
— I’ve got her!
Elizabeth screamed, and Avery began to sweat. The perspiration popped out on his forehead and ran down over his temples and cheeks as he heard the click of the phone being replaced on its cradle, the sounds of the chair being overturned, the tattoo of feet on linoleum, Elizabeth sobbing, the brutal sounds of flesh yielding to weapons.
— Oh, please, no.
— Shut up, bitch!
— Holder, get her legs!
— Please, please.
There was another scream, and the sweat rolled over Avery’s jaw and into his beard, moved inexorably in rivulets down the corded muscles of his neck, and was sopped up by the white T-shirt under the blue denim gang jacket. He listened to the beating, blinked when he heard the voices again:
— Come on, that’s enough.
— Holder, lay off, you’re gonna kill her!
— Let’s go, let’s go.
— What’s that?
— Let’s get the hell out of here, man.
He listened to the running footsteps and the tinkle of the broken window shards, and turned his head away when Elizabeth moaned. The tape went silent.
Ollie cut off the machine. “Recognize any of those voices?”
Avery did not answer.
“The girl’s alive,” Hawes said. “She’ll identify you.”
“How come you didn’t finish her off? Figure a scare was good enough?”
Avery did not answer.
“Did you think Harrod was a pusher?”
“Did his expensive clothes and Caddy fool you?”
“Did you think the girl was dealing, too?”
Avery still said nothing.
“Who hung up the phone, Ave?”
“We’ll get fingerprints from the receiver, you know.”
“And we’ll compare the voices on that tape with voiceprint of you and Holder.”
“And the rest of your pals, too.”
“And we’ll compare the white paint scrapings under Harrod’s fingernails with the paint on those jackets you wear.”
“How many of you jumped Harrod?”
“You stupid little punk!” Ollie shouted. “You think you can run around killing and hurting anybody you want? We’re gonna lock you up and throw away the key, you hear me, Mr. President?”
“I want a lawyer,” Avery said.
9
It was still Friday. It had been Friday forever.
Legal Aid sent over an attorney to make certain that none of The Ancient Skulls’ rights were being violated. At the same time the detectives — figuring they had hooked into real meat — called the District Attorney’s office and asked that a man be sent over before they messed up the legal ramifications by asking any further questions. By 11:00 P.M. everyone was assembled. By ten minutes to 12:00 they all realized they were going to get nowhere, since the Skulls’ appointed attorney advised them to keep silent. The man from the DA’s office felt they had a good case, nonetheless, and so the Skulls were booked for acting in concert on one count of homicide and one count of assault, and were taken downstairs to the detention cells to await transportation to the Criminal Courts Building for arraignment. The lawyers shook hands with each other and the detectives, and everybody left the squadroom at a few minutes past midnight. It was Saturday at last. Ollie Weeks had cracked his case in less than twelve hours, and one might have expected him to go home and sleep the sleep of angels secure in the knowledge that he had performed admirably and well.