Killer's Choice

'Four thousand dollars worth of stock!' he shouted. 'Who's supposed to pay for that? Me? Am I supposed to take the loss?'

'Would you like the police department to send you a cheque, Mr Phelps?' Meyer asked. He asked the question patiently, and with guileless blue eyes, for Meyer Meyer was a very patient man. His father, you see, had considered himself something of a homegrown comedian and had thought it would be sidesplittingly humorous to give his son a given name which would match his surname. The result was Meyer Meyer, a truly hilarious master piece, a very funny bit of nomenclature. Meyer happened to be an Orthodox Jew who was raised in a predominantly Gentile neighbourhood. If the kids in the streets needed any further provocation for beating him up whenever the opportunity presented itself, Meyer's double-barrelled name provided it. He had, over the years, developed an almost supernatural patience concerning the accidents of birth and the vagaries of funny fathers. The patience had left almost no physical scars—except a completely bald head before Meyer had reached the age of thirty. He was now thirty-seven, and he was missing a bar mitzvah, and he leaned across the desk with utmost patience and waited for Mr Phelps's answer.

'Well, who is supposed to pay for it?' Phelps wanted to know. 'Me? Who pays for the salary of policemen in this city, if not me? So what do I get in return? Do I get protection? Does four thousand dollars worth of destruction…?'

'A girl was killed,' Meyer said patiently.

'Yes, yes, I know,' Phelps said. 'Do you know how long it's taken me to build that spot? It's not on the main drag, you know, it's not in a brightly lighted area. People come there because of the reputation I've built, and that's the only reason. There are more liquor stores in this precinct than…'

'What time did you leave the shop last night, Mr Phelps?' Meyer asked.

'What difference does it make? Did you see the place? Did you see all those broken bottles? Almost my entire stock! Where was the cop on the beat? How could anyone break all those bottles without attracting…?'

'And fire four shots. Whoever broke the bottles fired four shots, Mr Phelps.'

'Yes, yes, I know. All right, there aren't many apartment buildings in the block, no people to hear. But isn't a cop supposed to hear? Where was the cop on the beat? In some damn bar drinking himself silly?'

'He was, as a matter of fact, answering another call.'

'What's more important? My stock, or another damn call?'

'Your stock is very important, Mr Phelps,' Meyer said. 'Without your stock, the people of this precinct might very well shrivel up and die. The police department never underestimated the value of your stock. But a man was being held up approximately twelve blocks away. A cop can handle only one crime at a time.'

'Suppose my store was being held up? What then, huh?'

'Your store wasn't being held up. As I understand it, none of the money in the cash register was touched.'

'Thank God I'd only left about fifty dollars for Annie. Just to wind up the night.'

'Had Annie worked for you a long time?'

'About a year.'

'Would you say…?'

'God, all that stock. It'll cost a fortune to replace.'

'What about Annie?' Meyer said, and his patience seemed suddenly to wear very thin.

'Annie?'

'The girl who was killed. The girl who was laying with her broken body and her pretty face in the goddamn remains of your stock!'

'Oh. Annie.'

'Can we talk about her for a few minutes? Would that be all right with you, Mr Phelps?'

'Yes, of course. Certainly.'

'Annie Boone. Is that her name as you knew it?'

'Yes.'

'And she worked for you for a year, is that right?'

'Yes. Just about a year.'

'Was she married?'

'Yes.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes.'

'We have her listed as divorced.'

'Oh. Well, yes, I suppose she was.'

'One child, is that right? Left the child with her mother when she was working.'

'Yes, that's right. A boy, I believe.'

'No,' Meyer said. 'A girl.'

'Oh. Was it a girl? Well, then I suppose so.'

'Thirty-two years old, right, Mr Phelps?'

'Yes. Thirty-two or thirty-three.'

'Are you married, Mr Phelps?'

'Me?'

'Yes.'

'I thought we were talking about Annie?'

'We were. Now we're talking about you.'

'Yes, I'm married.'

'How long?'

'Fourteen years.'

'Children?'

'No. No children.'

'How old are you, Mr Phelps?'

'I'm forty-one.'

'Get along?'

'What?'

'Do you get along with your wife?'

'What!'

'I said, 'Meyer repeated patiently, 'do you get along with your wife?'

'Well, of course I do! What the hell kind of a question is that to ask?'

'Don't get excited, Mr Phelps. Lots of men don't.'

'Well, I do! And I don't see how this line of questioning is going to find the person who wrecked my store.'

'We're primarily interested in the person who did murder, Mr Phelps.'

'Then I suppose I should be delighted that Annie was killed. Otherwise the police would be happy to pass off the wreckage as just one of those unfortunate breaks.'

'I think you're oversimplifying it, Mr Phelps,' Meyer said. He looked up suddenly. 'Do you own a revolver?'

'What?'

'A revolver? A pistol? A gun?'

'No.'

'Are you sure?'

'Of course, I'm sure.'

'We can check, you know.'

'Of course I know you can ch…' Phelps stopped talking. Slow recognition crossed his face. He studied Meyer, and then a scowl brought his eyebrows into sharp angry wings. 'What are you saying?'

'Hmh?' Meyer asked.

'I'm not a suspect, am I? You're not saying that I'm a suspect?'

Meyer nodded sadly. 'Yes, Mr Phelps,' he said. 'I'm afraid you are.'

The man in Lieutenant Byrnes's office was six feet two inches tall, and he weighed one hundred and ninety pounds. He had blue eyes and a square jaw with a cleft chin. His hair was red, except for a streak over his left temple where he had once been knifed and where the hair had curiously grown in white after the wound had healed. He had a straight unbroken nose, and a good mouth with a wide lower lip. There was something of arrogance on his face, as if he did not approve of the lieutenant, or of Carella who stood alongside the lieutenant's desk, or even in fact of the lieutenant's office.

'Steve,' Byrnes said, 'this is… ah…' Byrnes consulted the sheet of paper in his right hand. '… ah… Cotton Hawes.' He looked at the redhead curiously. 'Is that right? Cotton Hawes?'

'Yes, sir. Cotton.'

Byrnes cleared his throat. 'Cotton Hawes,' he said again, and he stole a somewhat surreptitious glance at Carella, and then was silent for a moment as if he were allowing the name to penetrate the layers of his mind. 'Detective 2nd Grade,' he said at last, 'be working out of this squad from now on. Transfer from the 30th.'

Carella nodded.

'This is Steve Carella,' Byrnes said.

Carella extended his hand. 'Glad to know you.'

'Carella,' Hawes answered, and he took Carella's hand in a firm grip. There were red hairs curling on the backs of Hawes's hands, and the hands were big. But Carella noticed that he did not try a bonecrusher handshake, the way some big men did. He gripped Carella's hand firmly and briefly, and then let it drop.

'I thought Steve might show you the ropes,' Byrnes said.

'How did you mean, sir?' Hawes asked.

'Huh?'

'How did you mean, sir?'

'Show you around,' Byrnes said. 'The squad, and the house, and maybe the streets. Won't hurt to get to know the precinct.'

'No, sir.'

'In the meantime, Cotton…' Byrnes paused. 'Is… ah… that what people call you? Cotton?'

'Yes, sir. Cotton.'

'Well… ah… in the meantime, Hawes, we're happy to have you aboard. You won't find the 87th to be a garden spot, not after working in the 30th. But it's not such a bad dump.'

'It's pretty bad,' Carella said.

'Well, yes, as a matter of fact, it's pretty bad. But you'll get used to it. Or it'll get used to you. It's hard to tell which around here.'

'I'm sure I'll get into the swing of things, sir,' Hawes said.

'Oh, no question, no question.' Byrnes paused again. 'Well, unless there was anything else…' He paused. He felt exceptionally awkward in the presence of Hawes, and he did not know why. 'You might show him around, Steve,' he concluded.

'Yes, sir,' Carella said, and he led Hawes to the door which opened on the Detective Squad Room. 'I guess the layout is pretty much the same all over the city,' he said when they were outside.

'More or less,' Hawes said.

'Cotton,' Carella said. 'That's an unusual name.'

'My father was intrigued with the Puritan priest.'

'Huh?'

'Cotton Mather. Figured him to be one of the great colonists. It could have been worse.'

'How so?'

'He might have named me Increase.'

'Yeah,' Carella said, smiling. 'Well, this is the squad room. Desks, windows—bulletin board there has the wanted posters and any notices we don't know what to do with. Filing cabinets are over there on your right. The usual stuff. Lousy File, Wanted cards, Arrests, Stolen Goods, hell, it must have been the same in your squad.'

'Sure,' Hawes said.

'We've got a file on lost bicycles,' Carella said. 'Maybe you didn't have that.'

'No, we didn't.'

'Helps every now and then. Lots of kids in this precinct.'

'Um-huh.'

'Only free desk we've got is the one by the window. We use it as a junk collector. You'll find everything in it but your mother-in-law.'

'I'm not married,' Hawes said.

'Oh. Well. Anyway, we can clean it out, and you can use it. If in case you ever do get married.' He smiled, but Hawes did not return the smile. 'Well… uh…' Carella paused, thinking. His eye lighted on Meyer Meyer and he quickly said, 'Meyer!' and Meyer looked up from his typewriter. Carella steered Hawes over to the desk.

'Meyer, meet Cotton Hawes, just assigned to the squad. Cotton, this is Meyer Meyer.'

Meyer extended his hand and started to say, 'How do you…' and then he cut himself short and asked, 'How was that again?'

'Cotton Hawes,' Hawes said.

'Oh. How do you do?' He took Hawes's hand.

'Meyer is the only man in the world with two first names,' Carella said. 'Or two last names, depending now you look at it.'

'With the exception of Harry James,' Hawes said.

'Huh? Harry…? Oh, Harry James. Two first names. Yes. Yes,' Carella said. He cleared his throat. 'What are you working on, Harry… uh… Meyer?'

'This liquor store kill,' Meyer said. 'I just interrogated the owner. I'm going to miss my bar mitzvah.'

'How come?'

'Time I get finished typing up this report.' He looked at his watch.

'Hell, it shouldn't take that long,' Carella said.

'Don't rush me,' Meyer said. 'I think maybe I want to miss that lousy bar mitzvah.'

'Well, you'll be seeing Cotton around,' Carella said. 'I know you'll make him at home.'

'Sure,' Meyer said indifferently, and he went back to typing up his report.

'Through the railing here is the corridor leading to the locker room. On your left is the Clerical Office, the latrine… you an Army man?'

'Navy,' Hawes said.

'Oh. Did they teach you any judo?'

'A little.'

'We've got a whiz working with us. Fellow named Hal Willis. You'll have a lot to talk about.'

'Will we?' Hawes said.

'Just don't shake hands with him,' Carella said jokingly. 'He can have you on your back in three seconds.'

'Can he?' Hawes asked dryly.

'Well, he…' Carella cleared his throat again. 'Interrogation is at the end of the hall, if you feel you need privacy. We generally question suspects in the squad room. The Skipper doesn't like rough stuff.'

'I never saw a prisoner maltreated all the while I was with the 30th squad,' Hawes said.

'Well, that's a pretty good neighbourhood, isn't it?' Carella said.

'We had our share of crime,' Hawes said.

'Sure, I didn't doubt…' Carella let the sentence trail. 'Locker room is right there at the end of the hall. Steps here lead to the desk downstairs and the Waldorf Suite at the back of the building.'

'The what?'

'Detention cells.'

'Oh.'

'Come on down, I'll introduce you to the desk sergeant. Then we can take a walk around the precinct if you like.'

'Whatever you say,' Hawes said.

'Oh, it's my pleasure,' Carella answered, in his first display of sarcasm all day. Hawes chose to ignore the thrust. Together they walked down the steps to the ground floor, silently.