“Maybe.”
“What do you think of it, Jerry? You think the jury loused it up?”
I knew what he wanted to say but he had too much cop in him; too much respect for the “due processes” to spell it out. The paper tapped against the edge of the table with a monotonous rhythm. “I have no quarrel with the jury. You know that.”
“Or the judge’s blast at them either?”
“That’s right.”
“Then you think the jury did a bum job?”
“That’s right.”
I leaned on my arms and watched him across the table. “Why do you think the jury turned in that verdict?”
The frown came back across his face again. “I don’t know.”
“Then guess.”
His eyes crawled up my arm until they were searching mine. “You had a good lawyer, Regan. He pulled out all the stops. Despite every piece of incontrovertible evidence to the contrary, the jury couldn’t figure you as gunning down Marcus. They chose to disbelieve four sober, blue ribbon eyewitnesses, a ballistics expert, a fingerprint expert, a lab report on the extent of your sobriety and a few other facts like a paraffin test and a cab driver’s sworn statement that he took you roaring drunk from a bar to Marcus’ house sounding off that you were going to kill the guy for getting you booted off the force. Just great, isn’t it?”
“You forgot something, Jerry,” I told him.
“Like what?”
“Like maybe they believed my side was the right one.”
Cold cynicism was in the set of his mouth. “Sure. Like they really believed you didn’t know a thing from the middle of your big drunk until you woke up in a cell a day and a half later. Sorry, Regan, but there’s no logic in it. I think the jury decided the thing on the obtuse moral factors. Marcus was a big time hood. He had several previous convictions, had been tried and acquitted twice on murder charges, had been accused of being important in the drug traffic and at the time of his death was about to appear in court on tax evasion charges. Somehow, using that line of reasoning, twelve supposedly intelligent persons decided you were really a white knight after all and that the dragon really needed killing and you were sent back to the round table with a clean bill of health.”
“Okay, Jerry, think it out any way you like. Only tell me this. Do you really think I knocked him off?”
“I think this, Regan. You could have. You’re capable of it. It wouldn’t surprise me if you did. Not even a little bit.”
“All right, one more question. Do you think I took a bundle from Marcus to suppress evidence?”
The scowl left his face all at once. “If I did I wouldn’t be talking to you now.” He rapped the table with the flat of his hand. “But you’re still poison until after the investigation.”
“Investigation my neck! They going to call Marcus back as a witness? All they had was his complaint and five lousy grand your partner said he found in my room.”
Nolan said quietly, “He found it there.”
“Who cares. It was a plant. You know what I’m going to do, Jerry? I’m going to claim that bundle. If they can’t prove it was Marcus’ dough and I grafted it they’re going to hand it back on a platter. One way or another I’m going to shove something up somebody.”
Jerry fingered a pack of butts from his pocket and tapped one out on his hand. “You come all the way here to tell me this?”
“Not exactly.” I held out a match to his cigarette. “I was framed somehow. Real neat job. I don’t know why or how, but I was framed.”
“So’s every con in Sing.”
“But they’re not outside to prove it.”
“Go on.”
“I’m going into this one, kiddo. Somebody’s going to wind up big and dead.”
“You’re not a cop now, Regan.”
“You are.”
“And right now I’m not shooting anybody. You’re crazy man. You’re all gone. Four months in detention and you’re all gone. What kind of notion have you got in your head that you’re going out and shoot up somebody? That’s hop talk, guy.”
I grinned at him. “Jer... somebody’s dead already. Marcus. Somebody framed me for the kill and a murderer is running around loose.”
“The department will take care of that.”
“Uh-uh. They just tab me for a lucky killer, that’s all. They won’t be looking too far for somebody else.”
“What do you want from me, Regan?”
“A little information, that’s all. The details of the bit never came through the walls of my cell.”
“Like what?”
“Later I’ll think of things. Did the hack company replace the cabbie who drove me to Marcus’ place?”
His mind clicked back, fastened on it, and he said, “Guy Rivera? No, he still works the stand outside the Climax where you got tanked up.”
I looked at him, grinned a little bigger and stood up.
Nolan said puzzledly, “That all?”
“For now. Tell Argenio I said hello.”
Jerry glanced past me and a heavy voice with a snarl in it said, “Don’t bother. Just keep walking.”
I kept some of the grin on for Al, a nice toothy grin, and said, “Hi, slob.”
The muscles along his jaws and neck jumped, but that was all. “You want me to move you on out, Regan?”
I was feeling too damn good and it showed. I said, “Remember the last time you tried it?”
His neck twitched again and he didn’t say anything, but I knew he remembered all right. I waited long enough so he could have time to try once more if he felt like it, and when he didn’t I said so-long to Jerry and walked out.
I got off the Seventh Avenue subway at Sheridan Square and went up into the rain again. The cleanness was gone now and the thick drizzle seemed to hold in all the wild smells of a city that had run hard all day. The streets had a greasy appearance, barely able to reflect the few lights still flashing along the Village at this hour. I turned my collar up, then cut across the street and headed down toward the Climax.
In its day it had been a flash spot and the histories of two great trumpets and the world’s hottest sax had begun right here. But now all were dead, and on the relics the tourists had built legends and a purpose in keeping a gaudy gin mill operating.
I walked past it to the cab stand at the corner where three hacks edged the curb patiently and nudged the driver in the first one awake. He came to with a sleepy grin and started to reach back to open the door.
“Thanks anyway,” I said, “but I’m looking for Guy Rivera. He here?”
He sat up and pawed at his eyes. “Guy? Oh... yeah.” He waggled his thumb over his shoulder. “The last one down. Little feller.”
I slipped a buck in his hand. “Here, go back to sleep.” He grinned back and tucked the bill in his shirt pocket.
Guy Rivera had his head down reading the pink edition of a tabloid by the map light under the dash. I said, “Rivera...” and his head jerked up. He squinted, trying to see my face. “Yeah?”
I moved into the light and when he saw me little concentric arcs grew at the corners of his mouth. “Listen, Mr. Regan...”
“Don’t get nervous, Guy. I’m not on your back. Mind if I sit in the cab?”
He shook his head, but his mouth stayed tight. I opened the door, climbed in and leaned back against the seat. I said, “You know why I’m here?”
His tongue wet his lips down and he coughed into his hand. “Look, you know what I said at the trial. So I said it and that’s it. What’d I do?”
“You were on the stand no more than ten minutes, Rivera. You made a statement of fact that you picked me up here, drove me to Marcus’ place and all the while I rambled on about killing somebody. You weren’t even cross-examined.”