"Harriet, let him go," Byrnes said. "He's a good boy, and he won't get into any trouble. Look, take my word for it For God's sake, it's only an amusement park."
Byrnes sighed patiently.
"All right, then." He listened. "I'm not sure yet, honey. We're waiting for an F.B.I, report. If I'll be home, I'll call you. No, nothing special. It's too damn hot to eat, anyway. Yes, dear, "bye."
He hung up. Carella came from the window.
"Women," Byrnes said, not disagreeably. "My son wants to go out to Jollyland tonight with some of the boys. She doesn't think he should. Can't see why he wants to go there in the middle of the week. She says she's read newspaper stories about boys getting into fights with other boys at these places. For Pete's sake, it's just an amusement park. The kid is seventeen."
Carella nodded.
"If you're going to watch them every minute, they'll feel like prisoners. Okay, what are the odds on a fight starting at a place like that? Larry knows enough to avoid trouble. He's a good kid. You met him, didn't you, Steve?"
"Yes," Carella said. "He seemed very level-headed."
"Sure, that's what I told Harriet. Ah, what the hell! These women never cut the umbilical cord. We get raised by one woman, and then when we're ripe, we get turned over to another woman."
Carella smiled. "It's a conspiracy," he said.
"Sometimes I think so," Byrnes said. "But what would we do without them, huh?" He shook his head sadly, a man trapped in the labial folds of a society structure.
"Anything from the Feds yet?" Carella asked.
"No, not yet. Jesus, I m praying for a break."
"Mmmm."
"We deserve a break, don't we?" Byrnes asked. "We've worked this one right into the ground. We deserve a break."
There was a knock on the door.
"Come," Byrnes said.
Willis entered the room with an envelope. "This just arrived, sir," he said.
"F.B.I.?"
"Yes."
Byrnes took the envelope. Hastily, he tore open the flap and pulled out the folded letter.
"Hell!" he erupted. "Hell and damnation!"
"Bad?"
"They've got nothing on him!" Byrnes shouted. "God-damnit! Goddamnit to hell!"
"Not even Service prints?"
"Nothing. The son of a bitch was probably 4-F!"
"We know everything about this guy," Willis said vehemently, beginning to pace the office. "We know what he looks like, we know his height, his weight, his bloodtype, when he got his last haircut, the size of his rectal aperture!" He slammed his fist into the opposite hand. "The only thing we don't know is who the hell he is! Who is he, damnit, who is he?"
Neither Carella or Byrnes answered.
That night, a boy named Miguel Aretta was taken to Juvenile House. The police had picked him up as one of the boys who'd been missing from the roundup of The Grovers. It did not take the police long to discover that Miguel was the boy who'd zip-gunned Bert Kling.
Miguel had been carrying a zip-gun on the night that Kling got it. When a Senior Grover named Rafael "Rip" Desanga had reported to the boys that a smart guy had been around asking questions, Miguel went with them to teach the smart guy a lesson.
As it turned out, the smart guy—or the person they assumed to be the smart guy—had pulled a gun outside the bar. Miguel had taken his own piece from his pocket and burned him.
Bert Kling, of course, had not been the smart guy. He turned out to be, of all things, a cop. So Miguel Aretta was now in Juvenile House, and the people there were trying to understand what made him tick so that they could present his case fairly when it came up in Children's Court.
Miguel Aretta was fifteen years old. It could be assumed that he just didn't know any better.
The real smart guy—a reporter named Cliff Savage—was thirty-seven years old, and he should have known better.
He didn't.
Chapter TWENTY
savage was waiting for Carella when he left the precinct at 4:00 P.M. the next day.
He was wearing a brown Dupioni silk suit, a gold tie, and a brown straw with a pale yellow band. "Hello," he said, shoving himself off the side of the building.
"What can I do for you?" Carella asked.
"You're a detective, aren't you?"
"If you've got a complaint," Carella said, "take it to the desk sergeant. I'm on my way home."
"My name's Savage."
"Oh," Carella said. He regarded the reporter sourly.
"You in the fraternity, too?" Savage asked.
"Which one?"
'The Fraternity against Savage. Eeta Piecea Cliff."
"I'm Phi Beta Kappa myself," Carella said.
"Really?"
"No." He began walking toward his car. Savage fell in step with him.
"Are you sore at me, too, is what I meant," Savage said.
"You stuck your nose in the wrong place," Carella 'answered. "Because you did, a cop is in the hospital and a kid is in Juvenile House, awaiting trial. What do you want me to do, give you a medal?"
"If a kid shoots somebody, he deserves whatever he gets."
"Maybe he wouldn't've shot anybody if you'd kept your nose out of it."
"I'm a reporter. My job is getting facts."
"The lieutenant told me he'd already discussed the possibility of teen-agers being responsible for the deaths. He said he told you he considered the possibility extremely remote. But you went ahead and put your fat thumb in the pie, anyway. You realize Kling could have been killed?"
"He wasn't. Do you realize I could have been killed?" Savage said.
Carella made no comment
"If you people cooperate more with the press ..."
Carella stopped walking. "Listen," he said, "what are you doing in this neighborhood? Looking for more trouble? If any of The Grovers recognize you, we're going to have another rhubarb. Why don't you go back to your newspaper office and write a column on garbage collection?"
"Your humor doesn't..."
"I'm not trying to be funny," Carella said, "nor do I particularly feel like discussing anything with you. I just came off duty. I'm going home to shower and then I have a date with my fiancee. I'm theoretically on duty twenty-four hours a day, every day of the week, but fortunately that duty does not include extending courtesy to every stray cub reporter in town."
"Cub?" Savage was truly offended. "Now, listen ..."
"What the hell do you want from me?" Carella asked.
"I want to discuss the killings."
"I don't."
"Why not?"
"Jesus, you're a real leech, aren't you?'
"I'm a reporter, and a damned good one. Why don't you want to talk about the killings?"
"I'm perfectly willing to discuss them with anyone who knows what I'm talking about"
"I'm a good listener," Savage said.
"Sure. You turned a fine ear toward Rip Desanga."
"Okay, I made a mistake, I'm willing to admit that. I thought it was the kids, and it wasn't. We know now it was an adult. What else do we know about him? Do we know why he did it?"
"Are you going to follow me all the way home?"
"I'd prefer buying you a drink," Savage said. He looked at Carella expectantly. Carella weighed the offer.
"All right," he said.
Savage extended his hand. "My friends call me Cliff. I didn't get your name."
"Steve Carella."
They shook. "Pleased to know you. Let's get that drink."
The bar was air-conditioned, a welcome sanctuary from the stifling heat outdoors. They ordered their drinks and then sat opposite each other at the booth alongside the left-hand wall.
"All I want to know," Savage said, "is what you think."
"Do you mean me personally, or the department?"
"You, of course. I can't expect you to speak for the department."
"Is this for publication?" Carella asked.