“Mr. Moore, did you ever go uptown with her? On the times you saw her, those Sundays you saw her, did you ever go uptown?”
“Well, sure. Uptown?”
“All the way uptown,” Carella said. “Culver and Eighteenth.”
“No,” Moore said. “Never.”
“Do you know where that is?”
“Sure.”
“But you never went up there with Sally?”
“Why would I? That’s one of the worst neighborhoods in the city.”
“Did Sally ever go up there alone? On a Sunday?”
“She may have. Why? I don’t under—”
“Because Lonnie Cooper told us that Sally went uptown every Sunday to pick up cocaine for herself and several other people in the show.”
“Well, now we’re back to cocaine again, aren’t we? I’ve already told you that as far as I know, Sally wasn’t involved with cocaine or any other drug.”
“Except marijuana.”
“Which I don’t consider a drug,” Moore said.
“But definitely not cocaine. Which you don’t consider habit-forming.”
“That’s not my opinion, Mr. Carella, it happens to be... look, what is this, can you please tell me?”
“Did you know that Sally was supplying the cast with cocaine?”
“I did not.”
“She kept this from you, did she?”
“I didn’t think there were any secrets between us, but if she was engaged in... in this... illicit traffic or whatever you want to call it—”
“That’s what we call it,” Carella said.
“Then, yes, she kept it from me. I had no idea.”
“How big a spender was she, Mr. Moore?”
“Pardon?”
“Did she ever seem to spend beyond her means?”
“Her means?”
“What she was earning as a dancer.”
“Not that I noticed. She always dressed well, and I don’t think she denied herself much... Mr. Carella, if you can tell me what you’re looking for, perhaps—”
“Someone we talked to hinted at Sally earning extra cash. We’re certain she was supplying cocaine in at least a limited way. We’d like to know if her activities in the drug market extended beyond that.”
“I’m sorry. I wish I could help you with that, but I really didn’t know until just now that she was in any way involved with drugs.”
“Except marijuana,” Carella said again.
“Well, yes.”
“Can you think of any other way she might have been earning extra cash?”
“I’m sorry, no.”
“She wasn’t hooking, was she?” Meyer asked.
“Of course not!”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Positive. We were very close, we spent virtually every day together. I’d certainly know—”
“But you didn’t know about the coke.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Did she ever mention any kind of outside activity to you? Anything that might have been bringing in this extra cash?”
“I’m trying to remember,” Moore said.
“Please,” Carella said.
Moore was silent for what seemed like a very long time, thinking, his head bent. Then, suddenly, as if the idea had just occurred to him, he nodded and looked up at the detectives.
“Of course,” he said. “I didn’t realize what she was saying at the time, but of course, that has to be it.”
“Has to be what?”
“How she was getting the extra cash you’re talking about.”
“How was she getting it?”
Meyer said.
“What was she into?” Carella said.
“Ice,” Moore said.
11
They had not been able to reach Allan Carter the night before, and when they called his apartment early this morning, they learned that he had already left for his office. They considered the delay a stroke of good luck; it gave them time to do a little homework on the subject they planned to broach with the producer. The sky was clear and the temperature was surprisingly mild on that Wednesday, February 17. This was bad news. If they knew this city, and they did, the springtime bonanza would be followed immediately by a howling blizzard; God gave with one hand and took away with the other. In the meantime, the snow and the ice were melting.
Carter’s office was in a building a block north of the Stem, in Midtown East territory. The building was flanked by a Spanish restaurant on one side and a Jewish delicatessen on the other. A sign in the restaurant window read: WE SPEAK ENGLISH HERE. A sign in the deli window read AQUI HABLA ESPAÑOL. Meyer wondered if the Spanish restaurant served blintzes. Carella wondered if the Jewish deli served tortillas. The building was an old one, with massive brass doors on the single elevator in the lobby. A directory opposite the elevator told them that Carter Productions, Ltd., was in room 407. The elevator was self-service. They took it up to the fourth floor, searched for room 407, and found it in the middle of the corridor to the left of the elevator.
A girl with frizzied blonde hair was sitting behind a desk immediately inside the entrance door. She was wearing a brown jumpsuit and she was chewing gum as she typed. She looked up from the machine, said, “Can I help you?” and picked up an eraser.
“We’d like to see Mr. Carter, please,” Carella said.
“We’re not auditioning till two o’clock,” the girl said.
“We’re not actors,” Meyer said.
“Even so,” the girl said, and erased a word on the sheet she’d typed, and then blew at the paper.
“You should use that liquid stuff,” Meyer said. “You use an eraser, it clogs the machine.”
“The liquid stuff takes too long to dry,” the girl said.
“We’re from the police,” Carella said, showing his shield. “Would you tell Mr. Carter that Detectives Meyer and Carella are here?”
“Why didn’t you say so?” the girl said, and immediately picked up the phone. As she waited, she leaned over the desk to study the shield more carefully. “Mr. Carter,” she said, “there’s a Detective Meyer and Canella here to see you.” She listened. “Yes, sir,” she said. She put up the phone. “You can go right in,” she said.
“It’s Carella,” Carella said.
“What did I say?” the girl asked.
“Canella.”
The girl shrugged.
They opened the door to Carter’s office. He was sitting behind a huge desk littered with what Carella assumed were scripts. Three walls of the office were covered with posters advertising his shows before Fatback, none of which Carella recognized. The fourth wall was a window wall streaming early-morning sunlight. Carter rose when they came into the room, indicated a sofa facing the desk, and said, “Sit down, won’t you?” The detectives sat. Carella got straight to the point.
“Mr. Carter,” he said, “what is ice?”
“Ice?”
“Yes, sir.”
Carter smiled. “What water becomes when it freezes,” he said. “Is this a riddle?”
“No riddle,” Carella said. “You don’t know what ice is, huh?”
“Oh,” Carter said. “You mean ice.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Theater ice, do you mean?”
“Theater ice,” Carella said.
“Well, certainly, I know what ice is.”
“So do we,” Carella said. “Check us and see if we’re right.”