"Not the crazies you see on the street,”
Jimmy said. "What this person does, he provides like a safe house for anybody who needs it and can pay for it. You read spy novels?”
"No.”
"Some of them are good.”
“I'll bet.”
"Anyway, he tucks these people in this pad while they're hiding, or working a job, or whatever.
Charges them plenty, covers his overhead and then some. A small-time player, working every shitty little angle.”
"Where's the pad?”
"On Lewiston. 321 South Lewiston.
Apartment 4C.”
"What's his name?”
"Ray Androtti.”
"For Raymond?”
"I guess. It don't ring a bell with me,”
Jimmy said. "A small-time player all around.”
"What's his connection with Denker?”
"My people think he recently rented the pad to this guy from Chicago who was looking to buy a gun.
Now whether or not this is your man, I don't know.”
"Where do I find Androtti?”
"That's another thing. He comes and goes like the night.”
"If he did rent to Denker, do your people have any idea who the target might be?”
"None.”
"Is Androtti from Chicago?”
"Not that I know of.”
"Then why would a Chicago hitter be going to him?”
"Well, there are roads and byways that lead to everyone and everyplace," Jimmy said philosophically. "I'm sure you know that.”
"Do you know any Chicago hitters? Off the top of your head?”
"I know hitters everywhere off the top of my head.”
"But you tell me Androtti's very small-time.”
"True.”
"So how would he know a Chicago hitter?”
"Maybe the man was recommended to him.”
"But your people don't know anything about him, huh?
Denker?”
"Nothing.”
"And you don't, either.”
"I don't.”
"Even though you know hitters everywhere off the top of your head.”
"I don't know any Denkers," Jimmy said, and paused, and probably blinked. "You want me to call Chicago?”
"Could you?”
"Sure. But that's the end of the favor.”
"That's the end of it. Andrew Denker. Or maybe Andrew Darrow.”
"Which one?”
"Take your pick.”
"I'll get back to you. It's still early in Chicago.”
There was a click on the line.
Carella pressed the cradle-bar rest, got a fresh dial tone, and called the I.S. The detective he spoke to up there listened to his request for whatever they had on a Ray-possibly-Raymond Androtti and then said, "I got a call on this already.”
"What do you mean?" Carella said.
"Ain't this the Eight-Seven?”
"Yes?”
"So talk to your people up there every now and then, okay? I already got a call from somebody named Kling. You know anybody named Kling?”
"Yes?”
"He called me yesterday. This is Saturday, ain't it? He called me yesterday, Friday. I got it written down right here.”
"Are you saying you've already given us this information?" Carella asked.
"No, Rome wasn't built in a day," the I.S. detective said.
"Well, when do you think you can get back to us?”
Carella asked. "This is a homicide we're working.”
"Yeah, homicide, homicide, everybody's working a homicide in this city. I'll get back to you soon as I pull anything up, okay?”
"I'd appreciate ...”
"Yeah, yeah," he said, and hung up.
He got back a half hour later.
There was quite a lot.
It seemed that Androtti's given name wasn't Raymond, as both Carella and Jimmy had surmised, but was instead Ramón. Nor was his last name even Androtti. It was Andros. This truly surprised Carella. It was not unusual in this country for someone with an ethnic name to change it to something more Anglo-Saxon. Carella could think of at least a hundred people who had done that, and not all of them were criminals. But to drop - one ethnic name only to adopt another?
Unheard of. Nonetheless, Ray Androtti was the only listed alias for Ramón Andros.
Ramón, or Ray, or whatever he called himself in the privacy of his own mind, had been a very busy fellow since his arrival from Puerto Rico some six years back. His B-sheet had him charged with a various assortment of crimes, starting with a couple of Dis Conds, and then graduating to a BandE and then doing a Burg-Three before something finally stuck and he was at last convicted and sent away on a 230.25, a Pros-Two, defined in the statutes as: "Advancing or profiting from prostitution by managing, supervising, controlling or owning, either alone or in association with others, a house of prostitution or a prostitution business or enterprise involving prostitution activity by two or more prostitutes.”
This was a Class-D felony, for which Andros could have taken a fall for a max of seven years.
But he was sentenced instead to a year in prison, and served only four months of it before he was paroled.
His alma mater was Castleview State Penitentiary. He had been there from March through June of last year. It occurred to Carella that the late Roger Turner Tilly had been up there at about the same time.
Andros's most recent Parole Board address was 1134 Barnstable, in a section of Riverhead that once had been largely Italian-American and was now almost exclusively Hispanic. The building in which Andros lived was a two-story clapboard house alongside an empty lot. The lot had a wooden fence around it, but this hadn't prevented anyone from tossing garbage over it. The fence was covered with graffiti, like many of the buildings and walls in this city. Maybe that was because if you couldn't get rich here, you could at least get famous by writing your name in spray paint all over town.
As if reading his mind, Meyer said, "I blame Norman Mailer.”
Carella looked at him.
"For calling it an art form," Meyer said.
They climbed a rickety exterior staircase to the second floor of the house and knocked on a glass-paneled door. From somewhere inside the apartment, they heard a radio playing Spanish music. An announcer came on, speaking Spanish. They knocked again.
"Quién es?" a man's voice shouted.
"La policía!" Carella shouted back.
"Abre la puerta!”
"Momento," the man said.
He came to the door in his pajamas. This was a little before noon. Striped pajamas. Red and white. Black hair tousled. Brown eyes bleary. Beard stubble on his narrow face.
Peering through the glass panels, squinting into the sun, bored to tears, he said, "Muestrame.”
"Talk English," Meyer said to the glass.
"Choe me you bachez," the man said.
He meant Show me your badges.
Carella flashed his shield. "Are you Ramón Andros?" he asked.
"Sí?" Puzzled look on his face.
"Qué quiere?”
"Talk English," Meyer said, louder this time.
"And open the door," Carella said.
Andros looked out at them one more time, pulled a sour face, and then unlocked the door.
"What do you want, man?" he said.
It came out, "Wah you wann, loco?”
"Okay to come in?" Carella asked.
Andros shrugged.
They moved past him into what they now saw was a long, narrow kitchen. Sink, window, cabinets, stove, and refrigerator on the left, table and chairs on the right, radiator on the far wall alongside a doorframe leading into the bedroom.
A teenage girl was sitting on the bed, the sheet tented over her knees. She was naked above the sheet. She did nothing to cover her breasts. The radio was on a night table alongside the bed.
She kept tossing her head in time to the Latin beat. They wondered if she was stoned.
"Thees a ba' time, loco," Andros said.
They were beginning to understand him.
What he meant was, "This is a bad time, man.”