"Agh, one of the guys was on mootah. So he got a little high, you know. So he busted a store window, for kicks, you know? So one of the cops put the arm on him. He got a suspended sentence."
"Who put the arm on him?" "Why you want to know?" "I'm just curious."
"One of the bulls, I don't remember who." "A detective?" "I said a bull, didn't I?"
"How'd the rest of The Grovers feel about this?" "How do you mean?"
"About this detective pulling in one of your boys?" "Agh, the kid was a Junior, didn't know his ass from his elbow. Nobody shoulda given him a reefer to begin with. You don't handle a reefer right. . . well, you know, the guy was just a kid."
"And you felt no resentment for the cop who'd pulled him in?"
"Huh?"
"You had nothing against the cop who pulled him in?"
Rip's eyes grew suddenly wary. "What're you drivin' at, mister?"
"Nothing, really."
"What'd you say your name was?"
"Savage."
"Why you askin' about how we feel about cops?"
"No reason."
"Then why you askin'?"
"I was just curious."
"Yeah," Rip said flatly. "Well, I got to go now. I guess that deb ain't comin' back."
"Listen, stick around a while," Savage said. "I'd like to talk some more."
"Yeah?"
"Yes, I would."
"That's tough, pal," Rip said. "I wouldn't." He got out of the booth. "Thanks for the drink. I see you around."
"Sure," Savage said.
He watched the boy's shuffling walk as he moved out of the bar. The door closed behind him, and he was gone.
Savage studied his drink. There had been trouble between The Grovers and a cop—a detective, in fact. So his theory was not quite as far-fetched as the good lieutenant tried to make it.
He sipped at his drink, thinking, and when he'd finished it, he ordered another. He walked out of the bar about ten minutes later, passing two neatly dressed men on his way out.
The two men were Steve Carella and a patrolman in street clothes—a patrolman named Bert Kling.
Chapter ELEVEN
bush was limp when he reached the apartment.
He hated difficult cases, but only because he felt curiously inadequate to cope with them. He had not been joking when he told Carella he felt detectives weren't particularly brilliant men. He thoroughly believed this, and whenever a difficult case popped up, his faith in his own theory was reaffirmed.
Legwork and stubbornness, that was all it amounted to.
So far, the legwork they'd done had brought them no closer to the killer than they originally were. The stubbornness? Well, that was another thing again. They would keep at it, of course. Until the break came. When would the break come? Today? Tomorrow? Never?
The hell with the case, he thought. I'm home. A man is entitled to the luxury of leaving his goddamn job at the office. A man is entitled to a few peaceful hours with his wife.
He pushed his key into the lock, twisted it, and then threw the door open.
"Hank?" Alice called.
"Yes." Her voice sounded cool. Alice always sounded cool. Alice was a remarkable woman.
"Do you want a drink?"
"Yes. Where are you?"
"In the bedroom. Come on in, there's a nice breeze here."
"A breeze? You're kidding."
"No, seriously."
He took off his jacket and threw it over the back of a chair. He was pulling off his shirt as he went into the bedroom. Bush never wore undershirts. He did not believe in the theory of sweat absorption. An undershirt, he held, was simply an additional piece of wearing apparel, and hi this weather the idea was to get as close to the nude as possible. He ripped off his shirt with almost savage intensity. He had a broad chest matted with curling red hair that matched the thatch on his head. The knife scar ran its crooked path down his right arm.
Alice lay in a chaise near the open window. She wore a white blouse and a straight black skirt. She was barefoot, and her legs were propped up on the window sill, and the black skirt rustled mildly with the faint breeze that came through the window. She had drawn her blond hair back into a pony tail. He went to her, and she lifted her face for his kiss, and he noticed the thin film of perspiration on her upper lip.
"Where's that drink?" he asked.
"I'll mix it," she said. She swung her feet off the window sill, and the skirt pulled back for an instant, her thigh winking at him. He watched her silently, wondering what it was about this woman that was so exciting, wondering if all married men felt this way about their wives even after ten years of marriage.
"Get that gleam out of your eyes," she said, reading his face.
"Why?"
"It's too damn hot."
"I know a fellow who claims the best way..."
"I know about that fellow."
"Is in a locked room on the hottest day of the year with the windows closed under four blankets."
"Gin and tonic?"
"Good."
"I heard that vodka and tonic is better."
"We'll have to get some."
"Busy day at the mine?"
"Yes. You?"
"Sat around and worried about you," Alice said.
"I see all those grey hairs sprouting."
"He belittles my concern," Alice said to the air. "Did you find that killer yet?"
"No."
"Do you want a lime in this?"
"If you like."
"Means going into the kitchen. Be a doll and drink it this way."
"I'm a doll," Bush said.
She handed him the drink. Bush sat on the edge of the bed. He sipped at the drink, and then leaned forward, the glass dangling at the ends of his long muscular arms.
"Tired?"
"Pooped."
"You don't look very tired."
"I'm so pooped, I'm peeped."
"You always say that," Alice said. "I wish you wouldn't always say that. There are things you always say."
"Like what?"
"Well, like that, for one."
"Name another."
"When we're driving in the car and there are fixed traffic signals. Whenever you begin hitting the lights right, you say 'We're in with the boys'."
"So what's wrong with that?"
"Nothing, the first hundred times."
"Oh, hell."
"Well, it's true."
"All right, all right. I'm not peeped. I'm not even pooped."
"I'm hot," Alice said. "So am I."
She began unbuttoning her blouse, and even before he looked up, she said, "Don't get ideas."
She took off the blouse and draped it over the back of the chaise. She owned large breasts, and they were crowded into a filmy white brassiere. The front slope of the cups was covered with a sheer nylon inset, and he could see the insistent pucker of her nipples. It reminded him of pictures he had seen in National Geographic at the dentist's office, the time he'd had that periodontal work done. The girls on Bali. Nobody had breasts like the girls on Bali. Except maybe Alice.
"What'd you do all day?" he asked.
"Nothing much."
"Were you in?"
"Most of the time."
"So what'd you do?"
"Sat around, mostly."
"Mmmm." He could not take his eyes from the brassiere. "Did you miss me?"
"I always miss you," she said flatly.
"I missed you."
"Drink your drink."
"No, really."
"Well, good," she said, and she smiled fleetingly. He studied the smile. It was gone almost instantly, and he had the peculiar feeling that it had been nothing more than a duty smile.
"Why don't you get some sleep?" she asked.
"Not yet," he said, watching her.