But Havilland had once had a most unfortunate thing happen to him. Havilland had tried to break up a street fight one night, being on his way home at the time and being, at the time, that sort of conscientious cop who recognized his duty twenty-four hours a day. The street fight had not been a very big one, as street fights go. As a matter of fact, it was a friendly sort of argument, more or less, with hardly a zip gun in sight.
Havilland stepped in and very politely attempted to bust it up. He drew his revolver and fired a few shots over the heads of the brawlers and somehow or other one of the brawlers hit Havilland on the right wrist with a piece of lead pipe. The gun left Havilland's hand, and then the unfortunate thing happened.
The brawlers, content until then to be bashing in their own heads, suddenly decided a cop's head would be more fun to play upon. They turned on the disarmed Havilland, dragged him into an alley, and went to work on him with remarkable dispatch.
The boy with the lead pipe broke Havilland's arm in four places.
The compound fracture was a very painful thing to bear, more painful in that the damned thing would not set properly and the doctors were forced to rebreak the bones and set them all over again.
For a while there, Havilland doubted if he'd be able to keep his job on the force. Since he'd only recently made Detective 3rd Grade, the prospect was not a particularly pleasant one to him. But the arm healed, as arms will, and he came out of it just about as whole as he went into it— except that his mental attitude had changed somewhat.
There is an old adage which goes something like this: "One guy can screw it up for the whole company."
Well, the fellow with the lead pipe certainly screwed it up for the whole company, if not the whole city. Havilland became a bull, a real bull. He had learned his lesson. He would never be cornholed again.
In Havilland's book, there was only one way to beat down a prisoner's resistance. You forgot the word "down," and you concentrated on beating in the opposite direction: "up."
Not many prisoners liked Havilland.
Not many cops liked him, either.
It is even doubtful whether or not Havilland liked himself.
"Heat," he said to Carella, "is all in the mind."
"My mind is sweating the same as the rest of me," Carella said.
"If I told you right this minute that you were sitting on a cake of ice in the middle of the Arctic Ocean, you'd begin to feel cool."
"I don't feel any cooler," Carella said.
"That's because you're a jackass," Havilland said, shouting. Havilland always shouted. When Havilland whispered, he shouted. "You don't want to feel cool. You want to feel hot. It makes you think you're working."
"I am working."
"I'm going home," Havilland shouted abruptly.
Carella glanced at his watch. It was 10:17.
"What's the matter?" Havilland shouted.
"Nothing."
"It's a quarter after ten, that's what you're looking sour about?" Havilland bellowed.
"I'm not looking sour."
"Well, I don't care how you look," Havilland roared. "I'm going home."
"So go home. I'm waiting for my relief."
"I don't like the way you said that," Havilland answered.
"Why not?"
"It implied that / am not waiting for my relief."
Carella shrugged and blithely said, "Let your conscience be your guide, brother."
"Do you know how many hours I've been on this job?"
"How many?"
"Thirty-six," Havilland said. "I'm so sleepy I could crawl into a sewer and not wake up until Christmastime."
"You'll pollute our water supply," Carella said.
"Up yours!" Havilland shouted. He signed out and was leaving when Carella said, "Hey!"
"What?"
"Don't get killed out there."
"Up yours," Havilland said again, and then he left.
The man dressed quietly and rapidly. He put on black trousers and a clean white shirt, and a gold-and-black striped tie. He put on dark blue socks, and then he reached for his shoes. His shoes carried O'Sullivan heels.
He put on the black jacket to his suit, and then he went to the dresser and opened the top drawer. The .45 lay on his handkerchiefs, lethal and blue-black. He pushed a fresh clip into the gun, and then put the gun into his jacket pocket.
He walked to the door in a ducklike waddle, opened it, took a last look around the apartment, flicked out the lights, and went into the night.
Steve Carella was relieved at 11:33 by a detective named Hal Willis. He filled Willis in on anything that was urgent, left him and walked downstairs.
"Going to see the girlfriend, Steve?" the desk sergeant asked.
"Yep," Carella answered.
"Wish I was as young as you," the sergeant said.
"Ah, come on," Carella replied. "You can't be more than seventy."
The sergeant chuckled. "Not a day over," he answered.
"Good night," Carella said.
"Night."
Carella walked out of the building and headed for his car, which was parked two blocks away in a "No Parking" zone.
Hank Bush left the precinct at 11:52 when his relief showed up.
"I thought you'd never get here," he said.
"I thought so, too."
"What happened?"
"It's too hot to run."
Bush grimaced, went to the phone, and dialed his home number. He waited several moments. The phone kept ringing on the other end.
"Hello?"
"Alice?"
"Yes." She paused. "Hank?"
"I'm on my way, honey. Why don't you make some iced coffee?"
"All right, I will."
"Is it very hot there?"
"Yes. Maybe you should pick up some ice cream."
"All right."
"No, never mind. No. Just come home. The iced coffee will do."
"Okay. I'll see you later."
"Yes, darling."
Bush hung up. He turned to his relief. "I hope you don't get relieved 'til nine, you bastard," he said.
'The heat's gone to his head," the detective said to the air. Bush snorted, signed out, and left the building.
The man with the .45 waited in the shadows.
His hand sweated on the walnut stock of the .45 in his jacket pocket. Wearing black, he knew he blended with the void of the alley mouth, but he was nonetheless nervous and a little frightened. Still, this had to be done.
He heard footsteps approaching. Long, firm strides. A man in a hurry. He stared up the street Yes.
Yes, this was his man.
His hand tightened on the .45.
The cop was closer now. The man in black stepped out of the alleyway abruptly. The cop stopped in his tracks. They were almost of the same height. A street lamp on the corner cast their shadows onto the pavement.
"Have you got a light, Mac?"
The cop was staring at the man in black. Then, suddenly, the cop was reaching for his back pocket. The man in black saw what was happening, and he brought up the .45 quickly, wrenching it free from his pocket. Both men fired simultaneously.
He felt the cop's bullet rip into his shoulder, but the .45 was bucking now, again and again, and he saw the cop clutch at his chest and fall for the pavement. The Detective's Special lay several feet from the cop's body now.
He backed away from the cop, ready to run.
"You son of a bitch," the cop said.
He whirled. The cop was on his feet, rushing for him. He brought up the .45 again, but he was too late. The cop had him, his thick arms churning. He fought pulling free, and the cop clutched at his head, and he felt hair wrench loose, and then the cop's fingers clawed at his face, ripping, gouging.