Two men were seated at the opposite end of the bar.
One of them was wearing a blue turtleneck sweater, gray slacks, and desert boots. His brown hair was cut close to his scalp in a military cut. The other man was wearing a bright-orange team jacket, almost luminous, with the words Orioles, SAC lettered across its back in Old English script. The one with the crew cut said something softly, and the other one chuckled. Behind the bar, a glass clinked as the bartender replaced it on the shelf. The jukebox erupted in sound, Jimi Hendrix rendering “All Along the Watchtower.”
Kling walked over to the two men.
“Which one of you is Danny Ryder?” he asked.
The one with the short hair said, “Who wants to know?”
“Police officer,” Kling said, and the one in the orange jacket whirled with a pistol in his hand, and Kling’s eyes opened wide in surprise, and the gun went off.
There was no time to think, there was hardly any time to breathe. The explosion of the gun was shockingly close, the acrid stink of cordite rushed into his nostrils. The knowledge that he was still alive, the sweet rushing clean awareness that the bullet had somehow missed him was only a fleeting click of intelligence accompanying what was essentially a reflexive act. The .38 came free of its holster, his finger was inside the trigger guard and around the trigger, he squeezed off his shot almost before the gun had cleared the flap of his overcoat, fired into the orange jacket, and threw his shoulder simultaneously against the chest of the man with the short hair, knocking him backward off his stool. The man in the orange jacket, his face twisted in pain, was leveling the gun for another shot. Kling fired again, squeezing the trigger without thought or rancor and then whirling on the man with the short hair, who was crouched on the floor against the bar.
“Get up!” he yelled.
“Don’t shoot.”
“Get up, you son of a bitch!”
He yanked the man to his feet, hurled him against the bar, thrust the muzzle of his pistol at the blue turtleneck sweater, ran his hands under the armpits and between the legs while the man kept saying over and over again, “Don’t shoot, please don’t shoot.”
He backed away from him and leaned over the one in the orange jacket.
“Is this Ryder?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Who’re you?”
“Frank... Frank Pasquale. Look, I—”
“Shut up, Frank,” Kling said. “Put your hands behind your back! Move!”
He had already taken his handcuffs from his belt. He snapped them onto Pasquale’s wrists now, and only then became aware that Jimi Hendrix was still singing, the sailors were watching with pale white faces, the Puerto Rican girl was screaming, the fat faded blonde had her mouth open, the bartender was frozen in mid-motion, the tip of his bar towel inside a glass.
“All right,” Kling said. He was breathing harshly. “All right,” he said again, and wiped his forehead.
Timothy Allen Ames was a potbellied man of forty, with a thick black mustache, a mane of long black hair, and brown eyes sharply alert at five minutes past five in the morning. He answered the door as though he’d been already awake, asked for identification, and then asked the detectives to wait a moment, and closed the door, and came back shortly afterward, wearing a robe over his striped pajamas.
“Is your name Timothy Ames?” Carella asked.
“That’s me,” Ames said. “Little late to be paying a visit, ain’t it?”
“Or early, depending how you look at it,” Hawes said.
“One thing I can do without at five A.M. is humorous cops,” Ames said. “How’d you get up here, anyway? Is that little jerk asleep at the desk again?”
“Who do you mean?” Carella asked.
“Lonnie Sanford, whatever the hell his name is.”
“Ronnie Sanford.”
“Yeah, him. Little bastard’s always giving me trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“About broads,” Ames said. “Acts like he’s running a nunnery here, can’t stand to see a guy come in with a girl. I notice he ain’t got no compunctions about letting cops upstairs, though, no matter what time it is.”
“Never mind Sanford, let’s talk about you,” Carella said.
“Sure, what would you like to know?”
“Where were you between eleven-twenty and twelve o’clock tonight?”
“Right here.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Sure. I got back here about eleven o’clock, and I been here since. Ask Sanford downstairs... No, never mind, he wasn’t on yet. He don’t come on till midnight.”
“Who else can we ask, Ames?”
“Listen, you going to make trouble for me?”
“Only if you’re in trouble.”
“I got a broad here. She’s over eighteen, don’t worry. But, like, she’s a junkie, you know? She ain’t holding or nothing, but I know you guys, and if you want to make trouble—”
“Where is she?”
“In the john.”
“Get her out here.”
“Look, do me a favor, will you? Don’t bust the kid. She’s trying to kick the habit, she really is. I been helping her along.”
“How?”
“By keeping her busy,” Ames said, and winked.
“Call her.”
“Bea, come out here!” Ames shouted.
There was a moment’s hesitation, and then the bathroom door opened. The girl was a tall, plain brunette wearing a short terry cloth robe. She sidled into the room cautiously, as though expecting to be struck in the face at any moment. Her brown eyes were wide with expectancy. She knew fuzz, and she knew what it was like to be busted on a narcotics charge, and she had listened to the conversation from behind the closed bathroom door, and now she waited for whatever was coming, expecting the worst.
“What’s your name, miss?” Hawes asked.
“Beatrice Norden.”
“What time did you get here tonight, Beatrice?”
“About eleven.”
“Was this man with you?”
“Yes.”
“Did he leave here at any time tonight?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive. He picked me up about nine o’clock—”
“Where do you live, Beatrice?”
“Well, that’s the thing, you see,” the girl said. “I been put out of my room.”
“So where’d he pick you up?”
“At my girlfriend’s house. You can ask her, she was there when he came. Her name is Rosalie Dewes. Anyway, Timmy picked me up at nine, and we went to eat at Chink’s, and we came up here around eleven.”
“I hope you’re telling us the truth, Miss Norden,” Carella said.
“I swear to God, we been here all night,” Beatrice answered.
“All right, Ames,” Hawes said, “we’d like a sample of your handwriting.”
“My what?”
“Your handwriting.”
“What for?”
“We collect autographs,” Carella said.
“Gee, these guys really break me up,” Ames said to the girl. “Regular nightclub comics we get in the middle of the night.”
Carella handed him a pen and then tore a sheet from his pad. “You want to write this for me?” he said. “The first part’s in block lettering.”
“What the hell is block lettering?” Ames asked.
“He means print it,” Hawes said.
“Then why didn’t he say so?”
“Put on your clothes, miss,” Carella said.
“What for?” Beatrice said. “I mean, the thing is, I was in bed when you guys—”
“That’s what I want him to write,” Carella explained.
“Oh.”
“Put on your clothes, miss,” Ames repeated, and lettered it onto the sheet of paper. “What else?” he asked, looking up.