“Let’s go!” he shouted to Kling, and they sprinted the last five yards to the car, Meyer fanning out into the gutter, Kling pulling open the door on the curb side.
The blonde sitting behind the wheel was wearing slacks and a short gray coat. She turned to look at Kling as he pulled open the door, and Kling was surprised to discover that she wasn’t wearing makeup and that her features were rather heavy and gross. As he blinked at her in amazement, he further learned that she was sporting what looked like a three-day old beard stubble on her chin and on her cheeks.
The door on the driver’s side snapped open.
Meyer took one surprised look at the “girl” behind the wheel and then immediately said, “Mr. Dominick Di Fillippi, I presume?”
Dominick Di Fillippi was very proud of his long blond hair.
In the comparative privacy of the squadroom, he combed it often, and explained to the detectives that guys belonging to a group had to have an image, you dig? Like all the guys in his group, they all looked different, you dig? Like the drummer wore these Ben Franklin eye-glasses, and the lead guitar player combed his chair down in bangs over his eyes, and the organist wore red shirts and red socks, you dig, all the guys had a different image. The long blond hair wasn’t exactly his own idea, there were lots of guys in other groups who had long hair, which is why he was growing the beard to go with it. His beard was a sort of reddish-blond, he explained, he figured it would look real tough once it grew in, give him his own distinct image, you dig?
“Like what’s the beef,” he asked, “what am I doing inside a police station?”
“You’re a musician, huh?” Meyer asked.
“You got it, man.”
“That’s what you do for a living, huh?”
“Well, like we only recently formed the group.”
“How recently?”
“Three months.”
“Play any jobs yet?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“When?”
“Well, we had like auditions.”
“Have you ever actually been paid for playing anywhere?”
“Well, no, man, not yet. Not actually. I mean, man, even The Beatles had to start someplace, you know.”
“Yeah.”
“Like, man, they were playing these crumby little cellar joints in Liverpool, man, they were getting maybe a farthing a night.”
“What the hell do you know about farthings?”
“Like it’s a saying.”
“Okay, Dom, let’s get away from the music business for a little while, okay? Let’s talk about other kinds of business, okay?”
“Yeah, let’s talk about why I’m in here, okay?”
“You’d better read him the law,” Kling said.
“Yeah,” Meyer said, and went through the Miranda-Escobedo bit. Di Fillippi listened intently. When Meyer was finished, he nodded his blond locks and said, “I can get a lawyer if I want one, huh?”
“Yes.”
“I want one,” Di Fillippi said.
“Have you got anyone special in mind, or do you want us to get one for you?”
“I got somebody in mind,” Di Fillippi said.
While the detectives back at the squadroom fuzzily and fussily waited for Di Fillippi’s lawyer to arrive, Steve Carella, now ambulatory, decided to go down to the fourth floor to visit Patrolman Genero.
Genero was sitting up in bed, his wounded leg bandaged and rapidly healing. He seemed surprised to see Carella.
“Hey,” he said, “this is a real honor, I mean it. I’m really grateful to you for coming down here like this.”
“How’s it going, Genero?” Carella asked.
“Oh, so-so. It still hurts. I never thought getting shot could hurt. In the movies, you see these guys get shot all the time, and they just fall down, but you never get the impression it hurts.”
“It hurts, all right,” Carella said, and smiled. He sat on the edge of Genero’s bed. “I see you’ve got a television in here,” he said.
“Yeah, it’s the guy’s over in the next bed.” Genero’s voice fell to a whisper. “He never watches it. He’s pretty sick, I think. He’s either sleeping all the time or else moaning. I don’t think he’s going to make it, I’ll tell you the truth.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t know. He just sleeps and moans. The nurses are in here day and night, giving him things, sticking him with needles, it’s a regular railroad station, I’m telling you.”
“Well, that’s not so bad,” Carella said.
“What do you mean?”
“Nurses coming in and out.”
“Oh no, that’s great?” Genero said. “Some of them are pretty good-looking.”
“How’d this happen?” Carella asked, and nodded toward Genero’s leg.
“Oh, you don’t know, huh?” Genero said.
“I only heard you were shot.”
“Yeah,” Genero said, and hesitated. “We were chasing this suspect, you see. So as he went past me, I pulled my revolver to fire a warning shot.” Genero hesitated again. “That was when I got it.”
“Tough break,” Carella said.
“Well, you got to expect things like that, I suppose. If you expect to make police work your life’s work, you got to expect things like that in your work,” Genero said.
“I suppose so.”
“Well, sure, look what happened to you,” Genero said.
“Mmm,” Carella said.
“Of course, you’re a detective,” Genero said.
“Mmm,” Carella said.
“Which is sort of understandable.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you expect detectives to get in trouble more than ordinary patrolmen, don’t you? I mean, the ordinary patrolman, the run-of-the-mill patrolman who doesn’t expect to make police work his life’s work, well, you don’t expect him to risk his life trying to apprehend a suspect, do you?”
“Well,” Carella said, and smiled.
“Do you?” Genero persisted.
“Everybody starts out as a patrolman,” Carella said gently.
“Oh, sure. It’s just you think of a patrolman as a guy directing traffic or helping kids cross the street or taking information when there’s been an accident, things like that, you know? You never figure he’s going to risk his life, the run-of-the-mill patrolman, anyway.”
“Lots of patrolmen get killed in the line of duty,” Carella said.
“Oh, sure, I’m sure. I’m just saying you don’t expect it to happen.”
“To yourself, you mean.”
“Yeah.”
The room was silent
“It sure hurts,” Genero said. “I hope they let me out of here soon, though. I’m anxious to get back to duty.”
“Well, don’t rush it,” Carella said.
“When are you getting out?”
“Tomorrow, I think.”
“You feel okay?”
“Oh yeah, I feel fine.”
“Broke your ribs, huh?”
“Yeah, three of them.”
“Your nose, too.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s rough,” Genero said. “But, of course, you’re a detective.”
“Mmm,” Carella said.
“I was up the squadroom the other day,” Genero said, “filling in for the guys when they came here to visit you. This was before the shooting. Before I got it.”
“How’d you like that madhouse up there?” Carella said, and smiled.
“Oh, I handled it okay, I guess,” Genero said. “Of course, there’s a lot to learn, but I suppose that comes with actual practice.”
“Oh, sure,” Carella said.
“I had a long talk with Sam Grossman …”
“Nice fellow, Sam.”
“… yeah, at the lab. We went over those suspect notes together. Nice fellow, Sam,” Genero said.