“He... well, one leg was slightly shorter than the other. A halfinch, a quarter-inch, something like that. Not serious enough to produce a limp, you understand, but just enough to throw the line of his body slightly out of kilter. I understand there are a great number of men whose—”
“Yes, but what about this particular man?”
“Nothing special. Except that we had to build up the right shoulder of the jacket, pad it, you know. To compensate for that shorter leg.”
“And this is that jacket?”
“I would think so, yes.”
“Who bought it?”
“I don’t know.”
“He wasn’t a regular customer of yours?”
“No. He came in off the street. Yes, I remember now. He bought the suit, and the raincoat, and several pairs of socks, and black knit tie. I remember now.”
“But you don’t remember his name?”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“Do you keep sales slips?”
“Yes, but—”
“Do you list a customer’s name on the slip?”
“Yes, but—”
“But what?”
“This was shortly after Christmas. January. The beginning of January.”
“So?”
“Well, I’d have to go through a pile of records to get to—”
“I know,” Carella said.
“We’re very busy now,” Jerralds said. “As you can see—”
“Yes, I can see.”
“This is Saturday, one of our busiest days. I’m afraid I couldn’t take the time to—”
“Mr. Jerralds, we’re investigating a murder,” Carella said.
“Oh.”
“Do you think you can take the time?”
“Well... ” Jerralds hesitated. “Very well, would you come into the back of the store, please?”
He pushed aside a curtain. The back of the store was a small cubbyhole piled high with goods in huge cardboard boxes. A man in jockey shorts was pulling on a pair of pants in front of a fulllength mirror.
“This doubles as a dressing room,” Jerralds explained. “Those trousers are just for you, sir,” he said to the half-clad man. “This way; my desk is over here.”
He led Carella to a small desk set before a dirty, barred window.
“January, January,” he said, “now where would the January stuff be?”
“Is this supposed to be so tight?” the man in trousers said.
“Tight?” Jerralds asked. “It doesn’t look at all tight, sir.”
“It feels tight to me,” the man said. “Maybe I’m not used to these pants without pleats. What do you think?” he asked Carella.
“Looks okay to me,” Carella said.
“Maybe I’m just not used to it,” the man answered.
“Maybe so.”
“They look wonderful,” Jerralds said. “That color is a new one. It’s sort of off-green. Green and black, a mixture.”
“I thought it was gray,” the man said, studying the trousers more carefully.
“Well, it looks like gray, and it looks like green, and it also looks like black. That’s the beauty of it,” Jerralds said.
“Yeah?” The man looked at the trousers again. “It’s a nice color,” he said dubiously. He thought for a moment, seeking an escape. “But they’re too tight,” and he began pulling off the trousers. “Excuse me,” he said, hopping on one leg and crashing into Carella. “It’s a little crowded back here.”
“The January file should be... ” Jerralds touched one temple with his forefinger and knotted his brow. The finger came down like the finger of doom circling in the air and then dived, tapping a carton that rested several feet from the desk. Jerralds opened the carton and began rummaging among the sales slips.
The man threw the trousers onto the desk and said, “I like the color, but they’re too tight.” He walked to the carton over which he had draped his own trousers and began pulling them on. “I can’t stand tight pants, can you?” he asked Carella.
“No,” Carella answered.
“I like a lot of room,” the man said.
“No, this is February,” Jerralds said. “Now where the devil did I put the January slips? Let me think,” and again the finger touched his temple, hesitated there until the light of inspiration crossed his bearded face, and then zoomed like a Stuka to a new target. He opened the second carton and pulled out a sheaf of sales slips.
“Here we are,” he said. “January. Oh, God, this is going to be awful. We had a clearance sale in January. After Christmas, you know. There are thousands of slips here.”
“Well, thanks a lot,” the man said, secure in his own loose trousers now. “I like a lot of room, you understand.”
“I understand,” Jerralds said as he leafed through the sales slips.
“I’ll drop in again sometime. I’m a cab driver, you see. I need a lot of room. After all, I sit on my ass all day long.”
“I understand,” Jerralds said. “I think it was the second week in January. After the sale. Let me try those first.”
“Well, so long,” the cab driver said. “Nice meeting you.”
“Take it easy,” Carella answered, and the cabbie pushed through the hanging curtains and into the front of the shop.
“Three shirts at four-fifty per... no, that’s not it. This is a job, you know. If you weren’t such a nice person, I doubt if I’d... one pair of swim trunks at... no... ties, no... one raincoat black, one suit charcoal, three pair lisle... here it is, here it is,” Jerralds said. “I thought so. January tenth. Yes, it was a cash sale.”
“And the man’s name?”
“It should be on the top of the slip here. It’s a little difficult to read. The carbon isn’t too clear.”
“Can you make it out?” Carella asked.
“I’m not sure. Chirapadano, does that sound like a name? Michael Chirapadano?”
17
The landlady said, “Are you here again? Where’s your redheaded friend?”
“Working on something,” Carella said. “I’d like to go through Chirapadano’s room again. That okay with you?”
“Why? You got a clue?”
“Maybe.”
“He owes me two months’ rent,” the landlady said. “Come on, I’ll take you up.”
They walked upstairs. She cleaned the banister with an oily cloth as they went up. She led Carella to the apartment and was taking out the key when she stopped. Carella had heard the sound, too. His gun was already in his hand. He moved the landlady to one side and was backing off against the opposite wall when she whispered, “For God’s sake, don’t break it in. Use my key, for God’s sake!”
He took the key from her, inserted it into the lock, and twisted it as quietly as he could. He turned the knob then and shoved against the door. The door would not budge. He heard a frantic scurrying inside the apartment, and he shouted, “Goddamnit!” and hurled his shoulder against the door, snapping it inward.
A tall man stood in the center of the room, a bass drum in his hands.
“Hold it, Mike!” Carella shouted, and the man threw the bass drum at him, catching him full in the chest, knocking him backward and against the landlady who kept shouting, “I told you not to break it in! Why didn’t you use the key!”
The man was on Carella now. He did not say a word. There was a wild gleam in his eyes as he rushed Carella, disregarding the gun in Carella’s fist as the landlady screamed her admonitions. He threw a left that caught Carella on the cheek and was drawing back his right when Carella swung the.38 in a side-swiping swing that opened the man’s cheek. The man staggered backward, struggling for balance, tripping over the rim of the bass drum, and crashing through the skin. He began crying suddenly, a pitiful series of sobs that erupted from his mouth.
“Now you broke it,” he said. “Now you went and broke it.”