Lady Killer

'Hello, Cotton,' Carella said.

'Steve,' Hawes answered.

'Understand you got into a little fracas on Twelfth?'

'Umm.'

'You all right?'

'I'm fine. Except I keep losing people.'

'Have some coffee. The desk was really jumping downstairs. Must have got fifty calls about the shooting. He got away again, huh?'

'Umm,' Hawes said.

'Well.' Carella shrugged. 'Cream? Sugar?'

'Little of each.'

Carella fixed the coffee and handed the cup to Hawes. 'Relax. We can use a rest.'

'I want to make a call first.'

'Where?'

'Pistol permits.' He emptied his pockets on to the desk. 'I picked these up in his apartment. Do they look like Luger magazines to you?'

'They damn well couldn't be anything else,' Carella said.

'I want to check on permits for Lugers in the precinct. Who knows? We may get a break.'

'That's the easy way,' Carella said. 'Nothing ever comes the easy way, Cotton.'

'It's worth a try,' he said. He looked up at the wall clock. 'Jesus,' he said. 'Five already. Three hours to go.'

He pulled the phone to him and made his call. When he'd finished, he picked up the coffee container.

'They'll call me back,' he said to Carella. He put his feet up on the desk. 'Ahhhhhhhhh.'

'Think this damn heat'll ever break?'

'God, I hope so.'

In the silence of the squad-room, the two men sipped at their coffee. There was, for the moment, no need for communication. They sat with the afternoon sunlight filtering through the grilled windows, marking the floor with long golden rectangles. They sat with the hum of the electric fans rotating limpid air. They sat with the hushed, faraway street noise below them. They sat, and for the moment they were not policemen working on a difficult case on the hottest day of the year. They were simply two friends having a cup of coffee together.

'I've got a date tonight,' Hawes said.

'Nice?' Carella asked.

'A widow,' Hawes said. 'Very pretty. I met her this afternoon. Or was it this morning? Well, before lunch, anyway. A blonde. Very pretty.'

'Teddy's a brunette,' Carella said. 'Black hair. Very black.'

'When do I get to meet her?' Hawes asked.

'I don't know. Name it. I'm supposed to take her to a movie tonight. She's a remarkable lip-reader. She enjoys the movies as much as anyone who can hear.'

It no longer surprised Hawes to hear Carella talk about the handicap of his wife, Teddy. She had been born a deaf-mute, but this didn't seem to hinder her in the pursuit of happiness. From what other detectives on the squad had told him, Hawes had pieced together the picture of a lively, interesting, vivacious, and damned beautiful girl, and his mental picture couldn't have been more correct. Too, because he liked Carella, he was predisposed toward liking Teddy, and he really did want to meet her.

'You say you're going to a movie tonight?' Hawes asked.

'Mmm,' Carella said.

Hawes balanced the pleasure of meeting Teddy against the pleasure of entertaining Christine Maxwell alone. Christine Maxwell won out, proving the age-old adage, Hawes mused, that gentlemen prefer blondes.

'This is a first date,' he said to Carella. 'After I get to know her, we'll make it a double, okay?'

'Anytime you say,' Carella said.

Again the squad-room fell silent. From the clerical office down the hall, they could hear the steady rat-tat-tat of Mis-colo's typewriter. They sat drinking their coffee silently. There was something peaceful about these few minutes of relaxation, these few minutes of suspended time, this breathing spell in the race with the clock.

The moments ended.

'What's this? A country club?' Willis called from the railing.

'Look at them, willya?' Meyer said. 'We're shagging ass all over town, and they're taking their tea and crumpets.'

'Blow it out,' Carella said.

'How do you like this?' Willis went on, refusing to let it go. 'I hear you got shot, Cotton,' he said. 'The desk sergeant tells me you're a hero.'

'No such luck,' Hawes replied, regretting the sudden rupture of silence. 'He missed.'

'Too bad, so sad,' Willis said. He was a small detective with the fine-boned body of a jockey. But Fats Donner had told the truth about him; Willis was not a man to fool with. He knew judo the way he knew the Penal Code, and he could practically break your arm just by looking at you.

Meyer pulled a chair up to the desk. 'Hal, go get us some coffee, will you? Miscolo's probably got a pot going.'

Willis sighed. 'Man, I—'

'Come on, come on,' Meyer said. 'Respect your elders.'

Willis sighed again, and departed for the clerical office.

'How'd you make out at the bar, Steve?' Meyer asked.

'Huh?'

'The Pub. Wasn't that the name of it? Anybody make the picture?'

'No. It's a nice bar, though. Right on Thirteenth. Stop in if you're in the neighbourhood.'

'Did he set up a few for you?' Meyer asked.

'Naturally,' Carella said.

'You drunken bastard.'

'All I had was two beers.'

'That's more than I've had since breakfast,' Meyer said. 'Where the hell is Willis with that coffee?'

The telephone rang. Hawes picked it up.

'Eighty-seventh Squad, Hawes,' He listened. 'Oh, hello, Bob. Just a second.' He handed the phone to Carella. 'It's O'Brien. For you, Steve.'

'Hello, Bob,' Carella said into the phone.

'Steve, I'm still with this Samalson guy. He just left the supermarket. He's in a bar across the street, tilting one before he heads home, I guess. You still want me to stick with him?'

'Hold on, Bob.'

Carella pressed the hold button on the phone and buzzed the lieutenant's office.

'Yes?' Byrnes said.

'I've got O'Brien on the wire,' Carella said. 'Do you still want that tail on Samalson?'

'Is it eight o'clock yet?' Byrnes asked.

'No.'

'Then I still want the tail. Tell Bob to stick with him until he goes to sleep. In fact, I want him watched all night. If he's in this thing, the goddamn shooter may come to him.'

'Okay,' Carella said. 'You going to relieve him later, Pete?'

'Oh, hell, tell him to call me as soon as Samalson gets to the apartment. I'll have a cop from the Hundred and Second relieve him.'

'Right.' Carella clicked off, pressed the extension button, and said, 'Bob, stick with him until he's in his apartment. Then call Pete, and he'll get somebody from the Hundred and Second to spell you. He wants this to be an all-night plant.'

'Suppose he doesn't head home?' O'Brien asked.

'What can I tell you, Bob?'

'Shit! I'm supposed to go to a ball game tonight.'

'I'm supposed to go to a movie. Look, this thing'll be over by eight.'

'It'll be over for the shooter, sure. But Pete figures he may be tied in with Samalson, doesn't he?'

'He doesn't really believe that, Bob. But he's trying to cover every angle. Samalson's story was a little thin.'

'You think the killer's going to seek a guy who's already been interrogated by the cops? That's faulty reasoning, Steve.'

'It's a hot day, Bob. Maybe all of Pete's cylinders aren't clicking.'

'Sure, but where does—Oh-oh, the bastard's on his way. I'll call in a little later. Listen, do me a favour, will you?'

'What's that?'

'Crack this by eight. I want to see that ball game.'

'We'll try.'

'He's moving. So long, Steve.' O'Brien hung up.

'O'Brien,' Carella said. 'He's beefing about the tail on Samalson. Thinks it's ridiculous. I think so, too. Samalson didn't have the smell on him.'

'What smell?' Meyer asked.

'You know the smell. Every thief in the city gives it off. Samalson didn't have it. If he's tied in with this, I'll eat his goddamn field glasses.'

The phone rang again.