"He still live in the neighborhood?" Bush asked.
"Huh? Who?"
"The guy who was in here waving the .45 around."
"Oh, him." Harry's brows swooped down over his eyes. "Why?"
"I'm asking you," Bush said. "Does he or doesn't he?"
"Yeah. I guess. Why?"
"Where?"
"Listen," Harry said, "I don't want to get nobody in trouble."
"You're not getting anybody in trouble," Bush said. "Does this guy still own the .45?"
"I don't know."
"What happened that night? When Dooley busted it up."
"Nothing. The kid had a load on. You know, just out of the Army, like that."
"Like what?"
"Like he was wavin' the gun around. I don't even think it was loaded. I think the barrel was leaded."
"Are you sure it was?"
"Well, no."
"Did Dooley take the gun away from him?"
"Well . . ." Harry paused and mopped his brow. "Well, I don't think Dooley even saw the gun."
"If he busted it up ..."
"Well," Harry said, "one of the fellows saw Dooley comin' down the street, and they kind of calmed the kid down and got him out of here."
"Before Dooley came in?"
"Well, yeah. Yeah."
"And the kid took the gun with him when he left?"
"Yeah," Harry said. "Look, I didn't want no trouble in my place, you follow?"
"I follow," Bush said. "Where does he live?"
Harry blinked his eyes. He looked down at the bar top.
"Where?" Bush repeated.
"On Culver."
"Where on Culver?"
'The house on the corner of Culver and Mason. Look, fellows ..."
"This guy mention anything about not liking cops?" Carella asked.
"No, no," Harry said. "He's a fine boy. He just had a couple of sheets to the wind that night, that's all."
"You know Mike Reardon?"
"Oh, sure," Harry said.
"This kid know Mike?"
"Well, I can't say as I know. Look, the kid was just squiffed that night, that's all"
"What's his name?"
"Look, he was only tanked up, that's all. Hell, it was away back in 1950."
"What's his name?"
"Frank. Frank Clarke. With an 'e'."
"What do you think, Steve?" Bush asked Carella.
Carella shrugged. "It came too easy. It's never good when it comes that easy."
"Let's check it, anyway," Bush said.
Chapter FOUR
there are smells inside a tenement, and they are not only the smell of cabbage. The smell of cabbage, to many, is and always will be a good wholesome smell and there are many who resent the steady propaganda which links cabbage with poverty.
The smell inside a tenement is the smell of life.
It is the smell of every function of life, the sweating, the cooking, the elimination, the breeding. It is all these smells and they are wedded into one gigantic smell which hits the nostrils the moment you enter the downstairs doorway. For the smell has been inside the building for decades. It has seeped through the floorboards and permeated the walls. It clings to the banister and the linoleum covered steps. It crouches in corners and it hovers about the naked light bulbs on each landing. The smell is always there, day and night. It is the stench of living, and it never sees the light of day, and it never sees the crisp brittleness of starlight.
It was there on the morning of July 24th at 3:00 A.M. It was there in full force because the heat of the day had baked it into the walls. It hit Carella as he and Bush entered the building. He snorted through his nostrils and then struck a match and held it to the mailboxes.
"There it is," Bush said. "Clarke. 3B."
Carella shook out the match and they walked toward the steps. The garbage cans were in for the night, stacked on the ground floor landing behind the steps. Their aroma joined the other smells to clash in a medley of putridity. The building slept, but the smells were awake. On the second floor, a man—or a woman—snored loudly. On each door, close to the floor, the circular trap for a milk bottle lock hung despondently, awaiting the milkman's arrival. On one of the doors hung a plaque, and the plaque read IN GOD WE TRUST. And behind that door, there was undoubtedly the
unbending steel bar of a police lock, embedded in the floor and tilted to lean against the door.
Carella and Bush labored up to the third floor. The light bulb on the third floor landing was out Bush struck a match.
"Down the hall there."
"You want to do this up big?" Carella asked.
"He's got a .45 in there, hasn't he?"
"Still."
"What the hell, my wife doesn't need my insurance money." Bush said.
They walked to the door and flanked it. They drew their service revolvers with nonchalance. Carella didn't for a moment believe he'd need his gun, but caution never hurt. He drew back his left hand and knocked on the door.
"Probably asleep," Bush said.
"Betokens a clear conscience," Carella answered. He knocked again.
"Who is it?" a voice answered.
"Police. Want to open up?"
"Oh, for Christ's sake," the voice mumbled. "Just a minute."
"We won't need these," Bush said. He holstered his gun, and Carella followed suit. From within the apartment, they could hear bed springs creaking, and then a woman's voice asking, "What is it?" They heard footsteps approaching the door, and then someone fumbled with the police lock on the inside, and the heavy steel bar clattered when it was dropped to the floor. The door opened a crack.
"What do you want?" the voice said.
"Police. We'd like to ask you a few questions."
"At this time of the morning? Jesus Christ, can't it wait?"
"Afraid it can't."
"Well, what's the matter? There a burglar in the building?"
"No. We'd just like to ask you some questions. You're Frank Clarke, aren't you?"
"Yeah." Clarke paused. "Let me see your badge."
Carella reached into his pocket for the leather case to which his shield was pinned. He held it up to the crack in the door.
"I can't see nothing," Clarke said. "Just a minute."
"Who is it?" the woman asked.
"The cops," Clarke mumbled. He stepped away from the door, and then a light flashed inside the apartment. He came back to the door. Carella held up the badge again.
"Yeah, okay," Clarke said. "What do you want?"
"You own a .45, Clarke?"
"What?"
"A .45. Do you own one?"
"Jesus, is that what you want to know? Is that what you come banging on the door for in the middle of the night? Ain't you guys got any sense at all? I got to go to work in the morning."
"Do you have a .45, or don't you?"
"Who said I had one?"
"Never mind who. How about it?"
"Why do you want to know? I been here all night."
"Anybody to swear for that?"
Clarke's voice lowered. "Hey, look, fellows, I got somebody with me, you know what I mean? Look, give me a break, will you?"
"What about the gun?"
"Yeah, I got one."
"A .45?"
"Yeah. Yeah, it's a .45."
"Mind if we take a look at it?"
"What for? I've got a permit for it."
"We'd like to look at it anyway."
"Hey, look, what the hell kind of a routine is this, anyway? I told you I got a permit for the gun. What did I do wrong? Whattya want from me, anyway?"
"We want to see the .45," Bush said. "Get it."
"You got a search warrant?" Clarke asked.
"Never mind the crap," Bush said. "Get the gun."
"You can't come in here without a search warrant. And you can't bulldoze me into gettin' the gun, either. I don't want to get that gun, then you can whistle."