“Duty calls,” he said.
“Foo,” she answered.
They hung up billing and cooing and humming June, croon, spoon, moon songs.
Brown opened his notebook to the page on which he had jotted Weinberg’s address and telephone number. Weinberg answered on the third ring. As soon as they had exchanged hellos, Weinberg said, “Anything?”
“Not yet.”
“You think they’ll try to reach you?”
“I’m still hoping.”
“I ain’t had much luck, either,” Weinberg said. “You know that Property Clerk’s Office I was telling you about?”
“Yeah?”
“First of all, there must be forty or fifty guys working there, most of them civilians. They get crap from all over the city, anything that’s been involved in accidents or crimes, anything not claimed at station houses — it’s like a regular goddamn warehouse down there.”
“No kidding,” Brown said, as if he didn’t already know.
“Yeah. There’s also cops working there, because naturally they got a lot of weapons in the place, you dig?”
“Um-huh.”
“In order to claim anything after they’re done with it, you got to be a prime relative. It don’t matter if you’re a third cousin, so long as you’re the closest living relative, you dig?”
“That sounds good for us,” Brown said. “You could easily pass yourself off as...”
“Wait a second. You got to get a release from the DA first. You got to go to the DA’s office and get a goddamn release.”
“That’s bad,” Brown said.
“That stinks,” Weinberg said.
“Who runs the whole show down there?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Try to find out. He’s the man we’ve got to reach.” Brown paused. “Unless you’d like to try breaking in some night.”
“Ha!” Weinberg said. “Call me later, will you? Let me know if anything happens.”
“Will you be there all night?”
“All night. I got a sweet bottle of bourbon, and I intend to kill it.”
“Don’t let it kill you,” Brown said, and hung up.
The next person he called was Irving Krutch.
“Well, well,” Krutch said, “this is a pleasant surprise.”
“We’ve decided to make the investigation,” Brown said.
“I thought you would,” Krutch answered. “You found what you were looking for in Ehrbach’s apartment, didn’t you?”
“Yes. But even better than that.”
“What do you mean?”
“We made contact with Weinberg. He has another piece of the picture, and he gave me a copy of it.”
“That’s marvelous!” Krutch said. “When can I have a look?”
“Not tonight. Can you drop by the squadroom tomorrow morning?”
“The squadroom?”
“Yes. Why? What’s wrong with the squadroom?”
“Nothing. I just forgot for a minute that you guys work on Sunday.”
“Ten o’clock or thereabouts,” Brown said. “I won’t be there, but Carella can show you the stuff.”
“Fine,” Krutch said. “Where can I reach you if I need you?”
“I’m at the Selby Arms, room 502.”
“I’ll jot that down, just in case.” There was a pause on the line. “Selby Arms,” Krutch repeated, obviously writing, “room 502, fine. Well,” he said, “we’re certainly off to a good start. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”
“We all stand to gain,” Brown said. “I’ve got to get off the phone. I’m expecting a call.”
“Oh? Another lead?”
“Yes. The ‘Geraldine’ on your list is a Geraldine Ferguson, sister-in-law of the late Louis D’Amore. She runs an art gallery on Jefferson Avenue.”
“Who gave you that?”
“Weinberg.”
“Has she got anything?”
“I think so, but I’m not sure. That’s what I’m waiting to hear.”
“Will you let me know?”
“As soon as anything jells.”
“Good. Listen, thanks again for calling. This is great news, really.”
“Right, so long,” Brown said, and hung up.
His telephone did not ring that night, nor did Saturday end glamorously for him until close to midnight. He had dozed in the armchair near the telephone when a knock sounded at the door. He was instantly awake.
“Yes?” he said.
“Mr. Stokes?”
“Yes.”
“Desk clerk. Woman just delivered a message for you downstairs.”
“Just a second,” he answered. He had taken off his shoes and socks, and he padded to the door now in his bare feet and opened it just a crack.
The door flew wide, and the glamorous part of Saturday night began.
The man was wearing a glamorous nylon stocking pulled up over his face, flattening his nose, distorting his features. He was holding a glamorous pistol in his gloved right hand and as he shoved the door open with his left shoulder, he swung the gun at Brown’s head, hitting him over the eye and knocking him to the floor. The man was wearing glamorous, highly polished black shoes, and he kicked Brown in the head the moment he was down. A glamorous shower of rockets went off inside Brown’s skull, and then he went unconscious.
6
It is bad to get hit on the head, any doctor can tell you that. It is even worse to get kicked in the head after you have been hit on the head, even your mother can tell you that. If a person gets hit on the head and loses consciousness, the doctors examining him will usually insist that he remain in the hospital for a period of at least one week, since unconsciousness precludes concussion, and concussion can mean internal hemorrhaging.
Brown regained consciousness twenty minutes later, and went into the bathroom to vomit. The room was a mess. Whoever had creamed him had also shaken down the place as thoroughly as the late Eugene Edward Ehrbach had shaken down the apartment of the late Donald Renninger. Brown was not too terribly concerned with the wreckage, not at the moment. Brown was concerned with staggering to the telephone, which he managed, and lifting the receiver, which he also managed. He gave the desk clerk Steve Carella’s home number in Riverhead, waited while the phone rang six times, and then spoke to Fanny, the Carella housekeeper, who advised him that Mr. Carella was in Isola with his wife and was not expected home until 1:00 or thereabouts. He left a message for Carella to call him at the Selby Arms, hung up, thought he had better contact the squad immediately, and was trying to get the desk clerk again when a wave of dizziness washed over him. He stumbled over to the bed, threw himself full-length upon it, and closed his eyes. In a little while, he went into the bathroom to throw up a second time. When he got back to the bed, he closed his eyes and was either asleep or unconscious again within the next minute.
The morning hours of the night were beginning.
Steve Carella reached him a half-hour later. He knocked on the door to room 502, got no answer, and opened it immediately with a skeleton key. He picked his way through the debris on the floor, went directly to the bed where Brown lay unconscious on the slashed and mutilated mattress, saw the swollen lump over his partner’s eye, said, “Artie?”, received no reply, and went directly to the telephone. He was waiting for the desk clerk to answer the switchboard when Brown mumbled, “I’m okay.”
“Like hell you are,” Carella said, and jiggled the receiver-rest impatiently.
“Cool it, Steve. I’m okay.”
Carella replaced the receiver, went back to the bed, and sat on the edge of it. “I want to get a meat wagon over here,” he said.
“And put me out of action for a week, huh?”