‘What’s on it?’ the stable hand asked.
He had already opened the lid of the box. The delivery man was hanging around as if he expected a tip.
‘Sausage and cheese,’ the delivery man said.
The patrolman and the stable hand were looking al each other, wondering how much they should up for something like this, guy delivering a pizza on a cold rainy day.
‘Better eat it before it gets cold,’ he said.
The stable man took a slice of pizza from the carton. He bit into it.
‘Good,’ he said, chewing.
He reached for one of the Pepsi bottles, tilted it to his mouth, and drank.
‘This is a little flat,’ he said.
The patrolman took a slice of pizza.
‘Still nice and hot,’ he said. ‘You want a piece?’ he asked the delivery man.
‘No, thanks.’
‘You got any change?’ he asked the stable hand and reached for the other Pepsi bottle.
‘Yeah, just a second,’ the stable hand said. He took another bite of pizza, washed it down with the flat Pepsi, and then reached into his pocket.
‘No, that’s okay,’ the delivery man said. ‘Happy New Year.’
‘Sure you don’t want a piece?’ the stable hand said.
‘Just want to warm up a little before I go out there again,’ the delivery man said.
‘Sit down, sit down,’ the patrolman said, and tilted the Pepsi bottle to his mouth again.
The patrolman and the stable hand sat eating pizza and drinking Pepsi. Somewhere in the armory another horse whinnied. The delivery man kept rubbing his hands together, trying to get warm.
Ten minutes later the patrolman and the stable hand were both unconscious on the floor of the office.
The Deaf Man smiled.
The chloral hydrate had worked swiftly and efficiently.
He reached into the pocket of his trench coat for the pistol. As he walked back to the stalls, where the horses were kept, he affixed the long silencer to its barrel.
* * * *
The eighth day of Christmas was n legal holiday, and nobody expected anything from the Deaf Man. No mail delivery on legal holidays. No United Parcel deliveries. No Federal, Emory, Purolator, or whatever other kind of express deliveries. Just peace and quiet. As befitted New Year’s Day.
Car Adam One was dispatched to the armory at one-thirty that afternoon because someone in the neighborhood had called 911 to report horses screaming.
Sixteen horses were still alive when the two patrolmen got there. They were not actually screaming. Just white-eyed with terror and—one of the patrolmen described it as ‘keening,’ but he was Irish.
Eight horses were dead.
Each of them had been shot.
They were black horses.
* * * *
So now it was serious.
Well, maybe the severed ear had been serious, too. Maybe the severed ear hadn’t been merely the Deaf Man’s way of announcing himself for certain, but was, in addition, a promise that this was going to gel bloody.
Carella and Brown looked at the dead horses.
There was a great deal of blood.
‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Carella said.
He was thinking the horses hadn’t done anything.
He was thinking they were beautiful, innocent animals.
Eight of them dead.
All of them black.
Brown was thinking this had been planned all the way back in October. The thought was chilling.
Both men stood looking at the dead horses for a long time.
Outside it was still raining.
* * * *
The rain stopped on the second day of the New Year, the ninth day of Christmas. It was replaced by clear blue skies and arctic temperatures. Gopher did not mind the cold. Rain would have been troublesome. Explosives had to be kept dry.
Getting in was easier than Gopher had expected.
There was a uniformed cop at the entrance gate in the cyclone fence, but Gopher was wearing a plastic-encased tag on his coveralls, and the tag showed his picture in full color and over that the words ISOLA P.D. DEPARTMENT OF VEHICLES. He was also carrying an order form, printed on an Isola P.D. Department of Vehicles letterhead, which authorized him to check the electrical wiring of all fifteen cars issued to the 87th Precinct.
The cop at the gate glanced at his tag and said, ‘What’s up?’
Gopher showed him the order form.
The cop at the gate said, ‘Did you talk to the sergeant?’
‘Told me to come on back,’ Gopher said.
Actually he hadn’t talked to anybody. Never ask, never regret, that was his motto. March in as if you belonged wherever you were, explain only if you’re questioned. He hadn’t wanted to show himself the precinct again because, even though he’d shaved the mustache he’d been wearing ever since Nam and though he was now wearing windowpane eyeglasses, he didn’t want to chance anybody’s recognizing him. He figured he could bluff his way through if a sergeant popped out here and asked him what the hell he was doing. Show him the papers again, say he didn’t know he was supposed in check inside to service a few fuckin’ cars, you’d think they’d be happy to see him here instead of giving him static. If it got tight in any way, he was ready to back out of the job in a minute. No job was worth doing time. Work out here with the puffy lip and the phony glasses, hope nobody made a connection with the guy who’d been upstairs in the squadroom on New Year’s Eve. He was counting on the fact that most people—even cops—only noticed the trimmings.
‘Most of the junk’s on the road,’ the cop said. ‘The shift don’t change till a quarter to eight.’
It was now ten minutes past seven. Full daylight would not come till seven twenty-two. It would get dark this afternoon at four forty-six. The light behind the station house was what Gopher had heard called morngloam in some parts of the country.
‘I’ll do whichever ones I can get to now,’ Gopher said. ‘Catch the others when they come in.’
‘Since when did you guys start making house calls?’ the cop asked. ‘We used to have to bring them to the garage downtown, anything went wrong.’
‘The holidays,’ Gopher said. ‘We’re backed up downtown.’
‘Well, go ahead,’ the cop said. ‘Christ knows, they can use it.’