“Would you like a beer or something, Detective Kling?” he asked.
“You the owner?”
“I’m Buddy. You want a beer?”
“Uh-uh,” Kling said, chewing. “On duty.”
“Well, was there something on your mind?” Buddy asked.
Kling nodded. He had made his decision. He began baiting his trap. “Cookie been in today?”
“Cookie who?”
“You get a lot of people named Cookie in here?”
“I don’t get anybody named Cookie in here,” Buddy said.
“Yeah, you do,” Kling said, and nodded. He scooped up another handful of peanuts. “Don’t you know him?”
“No.”
“That’s a shame.” Kling began munching peanuts again. Buddy continued watching him. “You’re sure you don’t know him?”
“Never heard of him.”
“That’s too bad,” Kling said. “We want him. We want him real bad.”
“What for?”
“He beat up a girl.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Sent her to the hospital.”
“No kidding?”
“That’s right,” Kling said. “We’ve been searching the whole damn city for him.” He paused, and then took a wild gamble. “Couldn’t find him at the address we had in the Lousy File, but we happen to know he comes in here a lot.”
“How do you happen to know that?”
Kling smiled. “We’ve got ways.”
“Mmm,” Buddy said noncommittally.
“We’ll get him,” Kling said, and again he took a wild gamble. “The girl identified his picture. Soon as we pick him up, good-bye, Charlie.”
“He’s got a record, huh?”
“No,” Kling answered. “No record.”
Buddy leaned forward slightly, ready to pounce. “No record, huh?”
“Nope.”
“Then how’d you get his picture for the girl to identify?” Buddy said, and suddenly smiled.
“He’s in the numbers racket,” Kling said. Idly, he popped another peanut into his mouth.
“So?”
“We’ve got a file on them.”
“On who?”
“On half the guys involved with numbers in this city.”
“Yeah?” Buddy said. His eyes had narrowed to a squint. It was plain to see that he did not trust Kling and was searching for a flaw in what he was being told.
“Sure,” Kling said. “Addresses, pictures, even prints on some of them.”
“Yeah?” Buddy said again.
“Yeah.”
“What for?”
“Waiting for them to step out of line.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean something bigger than numbers. Something we can lock them up for and throw away the key.”
“Oh.” Buddy nodded. He was convinced. This, he understood. The devious ways of cops, he understood. Kling tried to keep his face blank. He picked up another handful of peanuts.
“Cookie’s finally stepped over the line. Once we get him, the girl takes another look, and bingo! First-degree assault.”
“He used a weapon?”
“Nope, his hands. But he tried to kill her nonetheless.”
Buddy shrugged.
“We’ll get him, all right,” Kling said. “We know who he is, so it’s just a matter of time.”
“Yeah, well.” Buddy shrugged.
“All we have to do is find him, that’s all. The rest is easy.”
“Yeah, well, sometimes finding a person can be extremely difficult,” Buddy said, reactivating his prep-school voice.
“I’m going to give you a word of warning, friend,” Kling said.
“What’s that?”
“Keep your mouth shut about my being in here.”
“Who would I tell?”
“I don’t know who you’d tell, but it better be nobody.”
“Why would I want to obstruct justice?” Buddy said, an offended look coming onto his face. “If this Cookie person beat up a girl, why then good luck to you in finding him.”
“I appreciate your sentiments.”
“Sure.” Buddy paused, and glanced down at the peanut bowl. “You going to eat all of those, or what?”
“Remember what I told you,” Kling said, hoping he wasn’t overdoing it. “Keep your mouth shut. If this leaks, and we trace it back to you…”
“Nothing leaks around here but the beer tap,” Buddy answered, and moved away when someone at the other end of the bar signaled him. Kling sat a moment longer, and then rose, put another handful of peanuts into his mouth, and walked out.
On the pavement outside, he permitted himself a smile.
The item appeared in both afternoon newspapers later that day.
It was small and hardly noticeable, buried as it was in a morass of print on the fourth page of both papers. Its headline was brief but eye-catching:
Byrnes read the article in the privacy of his corner office, and then looked up at Kling, who was standing on the other side of his desk, beaming with the pride of authorship.
“Is Fairchild really on the critical list?” he asked.
“Nope,” Kling answered.
“Suppose our man checks?”
“Let him check. I’ve alerted Buena Vista.”
Byrnes nodded and looked at the article again. He put it aside then, and said, “You made me sound like a jerk.”
10
Meyer and Carella were in the squadroom when Kling came out of the lieutenant’s office.
“How you doing?” Carella asked him.
“So-so. We were just looking over the cheese.”
“What cheese?”
“Ah-ha,” Kling said mysteriously, and left.
“When did the lab say they’d call back on those vitamin capsules?” Carella asked.
“Sometime today,” Meyer answered.
“When today? It’s past five already.”
“Don’t jump on me,” Meyer said, and rose from his desk to walk to the water cooler. The telephone rang. Carella lifted it from the cradle.
“87th Squad, Carella,” he said.
“Steve, this is Bob O’Brien.”
“Yeah, what’s up, Bob?”
“How long do you want me to stick with this Nelson guy?”
“Where are you?”
“Outside his house. I tailed him from his office to the hospital and then here.”
“What hospital?”
“General Presbyterian.”
“What was he doing there?”
“Search me. Most doctors are connected with hospitals, aren’t they?”
“I guess so. When did he leave his office?”
“This afternoon, after visiting hours.”
“What time was that?”
“A little after two.”
“And he went directly to the hospital?” “Yeah. He drives a little red MG.”
“What time did he leave the hospital?” “About a half hour ago.”
“And went straight home?”
“Right. You think he’s bedded down for the night?”
“I don’t know. Call me in an hour or so, will you?”