* * * *
On Monday morning, December 19, another note from the Deaf Man arrived.
They were beginning to get tired of him. In six days it would be Christmas. They had other things to do besides worrying about his foolishness. They did not know why he had killed Elizabeth Turner—if he’d killed her—and they did not know what his goddamn messages meant. They figured be had killed Naomi Schneider because he may have told her something she had not yet repeated to them, and this something would have been dangerous if revealed. The Deaf Man let them know only what he wanted them to know. Anything else was a risk, and he took no unpredictable risks. So good-bye, Naomi.
But both cases were as dead as this year’s calendar would soon be, and the latest message from him was only an irritation. They merely glanced at it and then tacked it to the bulletin board with the others:
* * * *
Cotton Hawes was in trouble.
He felt like calling in a 10-13.
Instead, he said, ‘I do have a Gruber’s charge account.’
He was embarrassed to begin with. He had just bought Annie Rawles two hundred dollars’ worth of sexy lingerie as a Christmas gift. Two hundred and thirteen dollars and twenty-five cents with tax. He hoped he would not have to explain to this lady on the sixth floor of Gruber’s new uptown store that he had bought the underwear for a Detective/First Grade. The store, not six blocks from the station house, was part of the mayor’s new Urban Renewal Program. The real Gruber’s was all the way downtown, on Messenger Square. Hawes should have gone downtown. He should have known better than to shop anywhere in the precinct, even though the new store was very nice and—according to the mayor’s office, at least—was doing a very good business and was serving as a model for redevelopment of shitty neighborhoods all over the city.
‘Not according to our records,’ the woman behind the counter said.
Hawes wondered if she would be caught dead in the sort of sexy lingerie he had bought for Annie.
‘I’ve had a Gruber’s charge account for three years now,’ he said.
‘Let me see your card again, please,’ the woman said.
He handed her the card.
He was in the sixth-floor credit office. The woman downstairs on the first floor—where Lingerie was—had told him to go up to the sixth floor to the credit office because when she’d tried to run his card through the computer, she had come up with an INVALID. He had taken the escalator up to the sixth floor and had seen a bristling array of signs pointing in different directions: MANAGER’S OFFICE. CASHIER’S OFFICE. CREDIT OFFICE. RETURNS. PERSONNEL OFFICE. TOY DEPARTMENT. SANTA CLAUS. TELEPHONE OFFICE, REST ROOMS. He had almost got lost, fine detective that he was. But here he was in the credit office, handing his card across the counter to a woman who had a nose like a broomstick. And eyes like dirt. Her eyes were dirty. Not brown, not black—just dirty. She looked at his card with her dirty eyes. She almost sniffed it with her broomstick nose.
‘I have the new card,’ he said.
‘Where is the new card, sir?’ she asked.
‘Home,’ he said. ‘I haven’t put it in my wallet yet.’
He realized, as he said this, that claiming to have the card at home was akin to a pistol-carrying thief claiming he had left his permit in a desk drawer someplace.
‘If you planned to shop here,’ the woman said, ‘you should have put your card in your wallet.’
Hawes opened his wallet. ‘This is where the new card should be,’ he said. ‘But I left it home.’
He had really opened his wallet so she could see the gold and blue-enameled detective shield pinned to it. She looked at the shield with her dirty eyes.
‘You should have the new card with you at all times,’ she said.
‘I didn’t know I’d be shopping today,’ he said. ‘I have a lot of things to carry in my wallet,’ he said. ‘My police shield,’ he said. ‘My police ID card. I’m a detective,’ he said. ‘I don’t like to carry more things in my wallet than I absolutely have to.’
‘But you’re carrying the old card in your wallet,’ she said.
‘Yes, I am. By mistake. The new one should be there.’
‘The old card went through our computer as invalid.’
‘Yes, I know. That’s why I’m up here on the sixth floor. But if you run a check through your computer files up here, you’ll see that I received a new card in May. And forgot to put it in my wallet.’
‘No wonder people get away with murder in this city,’ she said, and left the counter.
He waited.
She came back ten minutes later.
‘Yes, you did indeed receive a new card,’ she said.
‘Yes, I know,’ he said. ‘Thank you,’ he added.
‘You understand, sir,’ she said, ‘that the charging of two hundred dollars’ worth of lingerie could not go unquestioned when a card came up invalid.’
‘Yes, I understand that,’ he said.
She knew it was for lingerie. She had called downstairs. He wondered if she knew what sort of lingerie.
“There are a lot of crooks in this city, you know,’ she said.
‘Yes, I’m aware of that,’ he said.
‘If you’ll go downstairs again to Lingerie,’ she said, ‘the card will go through this time. I hope you are aware, sir, that panties are not returnable.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ he said.
‘Yes. Especially our Open City line, which many women wear for special occasions only. I hope you have the right size.’
‘I have the right size, yes,’ he said.
‘Yes, well,’ she said, and sniffed the air as if smelling something rank, and gave him a last look with her dirty eyes, and left him standing at the counter.
All the way home he thought about his encounter in Gruber’s. He wished Gruber’s would burn to the ground. He wished the mayor would take his Urban Renewal Program to Dallas, Texas. Or Vladivostok. All Gruber’s did was encourage more crime in an area already crime-ridden. More damn pickpocket and shoplifting arrests in that store since it opened last February than in all the oilier stores along the Stem. Okay, it was making a lot of money. And maybe attracting other businesses to the area. But did the mayor ever stop to think how much time the cops up here were putting into Gruber’s? On shitty little arrests? For which they had to travel all the way down to Headquarters to do the booking?
He was still fuming when he reached his building downtown. He stepped into the small entry foyer, took his keys from his pocket, and unlocked his mailbox. There was a sheaf of letters, including a bill from Gruber’s. He did not look at the mail more closely until he was in his apartment. He was tempted to call Annie, tell her about the hassle uptown, but that would blow the surprise. Instead, he mixed himself a drink and then sat down and leafed through the envelopes. One of them seemed to be a Christmas card. He tore open the flap on the red envelope. It was not a Christmas card. It was an invitation. It read: