"How old's the girl in there?" Bush asked.
"What?"
"You heard me. Wake up, Clarke!"
"She's 21, and you're barkin' up the wrong tree," Clarke said. "We're engaged."
From down the hall, someone shouted, "Hey, shut up, will-ya? For Christ's sake! Go down to the poolroom, you want to talk!"
"How about letting us in, Clarke?" Carella asked gently. "We're waking your neighbors."
"I don't have to let you in noplace. Go get a search warrant."
"I know you don't, Clarke. But a cop's been killed, and he was killed with a .45, and if I were you I wouldn't play this so goddamn cosy. Now how about opening that door and showing us you're clean? How about it, Clarke?"
"A cop? Jesus, a cop! Jesus, why didn't you say so? Just a ... just a minute, willya? Just a minute." He moved away from the door. Carella could hear him talking to the woman, and he could hear the woman's whispered answer. Clarke came back to the door and took off the night chain. "Come on in," he said.
There were dishes stacked in the kitchen sink. The kitchen was a six-by-eight rectangle, and adjoining that was the bedroom. The girl stood in the bedroom doorway. She was a short blonde, somewhat dumpy. She wore a man's bathrobe. Her eyes were puffed with sleep, and she wore no makeup. She blinked her eyes and stared at Carella and Bush as they moved into the kitchen.
Clarke was a short man with bushy black brows and brown eyes. His nose was long, broken sharply in the middle. His lips were thick, and he needed a shave badly. He was wearing pajama pants and nothing else. He stood bare-chested and bare-footed in the glare of the kitchen light. The water tap dripped its tattoo onto the dirty dishes in the sink.
"Let's see the gun," Bush said.
"I got a permit for it," Clarke answered. "Okay if I smoke?"
"It's your apartment."
"Gladys," Clarke said, "there's a pack on the dresser. Bring some matches, too, willya?" The girl moved into the darkness of the bedroom, and Clarke whispered, "You guys sure picked a hell of a time to come calling, all right." He tried to smile, but neither Carella or Bush seemed amused, and so he dropped it instantly. The girl came back with the package of cigarettes. She hung one on her lip, and then handed the pack to Clarke. He lighted his own cigarette and then handed the matches to the blonde.
"What kind of a permit?" Carella asked. "Carry or premises?"
"Carry," Clarke said.
"How come?"
"Well, it used to be premises. I registered the gun when I got out of the Army. It was a gift," he said quickly, "From my captain."
"Go ahead."
"So I got a premises permit when I was discharged. That's the law, ain't it?"
"You're telling the story," Bush said.
"Well, that's the way I understood it. Either that, or I had to get the barrel leaded up. I don't remember. Anyway, I got the permit."
'7s the barrel leaded?"
"Hell, no. What do I need a permit for a dead gun for? I had this premises permit, and then I got a job with a jeweler, you know? Like I had to make a lot of valuable deliveries, things like that. So I had it changed to a carry permit."
"When was this?"
"Couple of months back."
"Which jeweler do you work for?"
"I quit that job," Clarke said.
"All right, get the gun. And get the permit, too, while you're at it."
"Sure," Clarke said. He went to the sink, held his cigarette under the dripping tap, and then dropped the soggy butt in with the dishes. He walked past the girl and into the bedroom.
"This is some time of night to be asking questions," the girl said angrily.
"We're sorry, Miss," Carella said.
"Yeah, I'll bet you are."
"We didn't mean to disturb your beauty sleep," Bush said nastily.
The girl raised one eyebrow. "Then why did you?" She blew out a cloud of smoke, the way she had seen movie sirens do. Clarke came back into the room holding the .45. Bush's hand moved imperceptibly toward his right hip and the holster there.
"Put it on the table," Carella said.
Clarke put the gun on the table.
"Is it loaded?" Carella asked.
"I think so."
"Don't you know?"
"I ain't even looked at the thing since I quit that job."
Carella draped a handkerchief over his spread fingers and picked up the gun. He slid the magazine out. "It"s loaded, all right," he said. Quickly, he sniffed the barrel.
"You don't have to smell," Clarke said. "It ain't been fired since I got out of the Army."
"It came close once, though, didn't it?"
"Huh?"
"That night in The Shamrock."
"Oh, that," Clarke said. "Is that why you're here? Hell, I was looped that night. I didn't mean no harm."
Carella slammed the magazine back into place. "Where's the permit, Clarke?"
"Oh, yeah. I looked around in there. I couldn't find it."
"You're sure you've got one?"
"Yeah, I'm sure. I just can't find it."
"You'd better take another look. A good one, this time."
"I did take a good look. I can't find it. Look, I got a permit. You can check on it. I wouldn't kid you. Who was the cop got killed?"
"Want to take another look for that permit?"
"I already told you, I can't find it. Look, I got one."
"You had one, pal," Carella said. "You just lost it"
"Huh? What? What'd you say?"
"When a cop asks you for your permit, you produce it or you lose it."
"Well, Jesus, I just misplaced it temporarily. Look, you can check all this. I mean . . . look, what's the matter with you guys, anyway? I didn't do nothing. I been here all night. You can ask Gladys. Ain't that right, Gladys?"
"He's been here all night," Gladys said.
"We're taking the gun," Carella said. "Give him a receipt for it, Hank."
"That ain't been fired in years," Clarke said. "You'll see. And you check on that permit. I got one. You check on it."
"We'll let you know," Carella said. "You weren't planning On leaving the city, were you?"
"What?"
"You weren't plann ..."
"Hell, no. Where would I go?"
"Back to sleep is as good a place as any," the blonde said.
Chapter FIVE
the pistol permit was on Steve Carella's desk when he reported for work at 4:00 P.M. on the afternoon of July 24th. He had worked until eight in the morning, gone home for six hours sleep, and was back at his desk now, looking a little bleary-eyed but otherwise none the worse for wear.
The heat had persisted all day long, a heavy yellow blanket that smothered the city in its wooly grip. Carella did not like the heat. He had never liked Summer, even as a kid, and now that he was an adult and a cop, the only memorable characteristic Summer seemed to have was that it made dead bodies stink quicker.
He loosened his collar the instant he entered the squad room, and when he got to his desk, he rolled up his sleeves, and then picked up the pistol permit.
Quickly, he scanned the printed form:
PISTOL LICENSE APPLICATION
I Hereby Apply for License to
Carry a Revolver or Pistol upon my person or
Possession on premises: 37-12 Culver Avenue
For the following reasons: Make deliveries for jewelry firm.
Clarke Francis D. 37-12 Culver Ave.
There was more, a lot more, but it didn't interest Carella. Clarke had indeed owned a pistol permit—but that didn't mean he hadn't used the pistol on a cop named Mike Reardon.
Carella shoved the permit to one side of his desk, glanced at his watch, and then reached for the phone automatically. Quickly, he dialed Bush's home number and then waited, his hand sweating on the receiver. The phone rang six times, and then a woman's voice said, "Hello?"
"Alice?"
"Who's this?"
"Steve Carella."
"Oh. Hello, Steve."