Carella was downtown at Headquarters watching a parade of felony offenders go through the ritual of the Lineup.
Willis was out talking to known junkies in the neighborhood, trying to get a lead on the addict named Anthony La Scala.
Di Maeo was rounding up two more known criminals who had been arrested by Bert Kling, convicted, and released from prison during the past year.
Kling was at the funeral parlor with Ralph Townsend, making final arrangements for Claire’s burial the next day.
Bob O’Brien was alone in the squadroom when the telephone rang. He absentmindedly lifted the receiver, put it to his ear, and said into the mouthpiece, “87th Squad, O’Brien.” He was in the middle of typing up a report on the results of his barbershop plant. His mind was still on the report when Sergeant Dave Murchison’s voice yanked him rudely away from it.
“Bob, this is Dave downstairs. On the desk. I just got a call from Patrolman Oliver on the South Side.”
“Yeah?”
“He found Meyer beat up on a sidewalk there.”
“Who?”
“Meyer.”
“Our Meyer.”
“Yeah, our Meyer.”
“Jesus, what is this? Open season on cops? Where did you say he was?”
“I already sent a meat wagon. He’s probably on his way to the hospital.”
“Who did it, Dave?”
“I dunno. Patrolman says he was just laying there in his own blood.”
“I better get over to the hospital. Will you call the loot, Dave? And send somebody up here to cover, will you? I’m all alone.”
“You want me to call somebody in?”
“I don’t know what to tell you. There should be a detective up here. You’d better ask the skipper about it. I hate to bust in on a guy’s day off.”
“Well, I’ll ask the loot. Maybe Miscolo can cover till somebody gets back.”
“Yeah, ask him. What hospital did you say?”
“General.”
“I’ll get over there. Thanks, Dave.”
“Right,” Murchison said, and he hung up.
O’Brien put the phone back onto the cradle, opened the top drawer of his desk, took his .38 Police Special from the drawer, clipped it to the left side of his belt, put on his jacket and his hat, made a helpless wide-armed gesture to the empty squadroom, and then went through the slatted rail divider and down the iron-runted steps and past the muster desk where he waved at Murchison, and then out into the October sunshine.
The week was starting fine, all right.
The week was starting just fine.
Chapter 10
They picked up Terry Glennon at 4:00. By that time a hardy contingent of bulls had returned to the squadroom, and they surrounded Glennon in casual deceptiveness as he sat in a straight-backed chair asking why he had been dragged into a police station.
Bob O’Brien, who was a most obliging cop, said, “We dragged you into a police station because we think you and some of your buddies beat the crap out of a cop this morning. Does that answer your question?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Glennon said.
“The cop’s name is Detective Meyer Meyer,” O’Brien went on obligingly. “He is now at General Hospital being treated for cuts and bruises and shock and maybe concussion. Does that make it any clearer?”
“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“That’s okay; play it cool,” O’Brien said. “We got all the time in the world. I went to the hospital around lunchtime and Meyer told me he had paid a little visit to the Glennon household, where a young guy named Terry Glennon got very upset because Meyer was talking to his mother. The mother, according to Meyer, made some sarcastic reference about the young fellow’s friends. Does that ring a bell, Glennon?”
“Yeah, I remember that.”
“How about remembering where you vanished to after you and your buddies ganged up on Meyer?”
“I didn’t vanish no place. I was around the block. And I didn’t gang up on nobody, neither.”
“You weren’t around the block, Glennon. We’ve been looking for you since noon.”
“So I took a walk,” Glennon said. “So what?”
“So nothing,” Carella said. “Fellow can take a walk. No law against that.” He paused, smiled, and said, “Where’d you go when you left your house, Glennon?”
“Downstairs.”
“Where downstairs?” Willis asked.
“The candy store.”
“What candy store?” Brown asked.
“On the corner.”
“How long did you stay there?” Di Maeo asked.
“I don’t know. An hour, two hours, who remembers?”
“Somebody better remember,” O’Brien said. “Why’d you beat up Meyer?”
“I didn’t.”
“Who did?” Carella said.
“I don’t know.”
“Ever hear of Claire Townsend?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“My mother spoke of her. And the cop was asking about her.”
“Ever meet her?”
“No.”
“Know anybody named Joe Wechsler?”
“No.”
“Anthony La Scala?”
“No.”
“Herbert Land?”
“No.”
“Why’d you beat up Meyer?”
“I didn’t.”
“Why doesn’t your mother like your friends?”
“How do I know? Ask her.”
“We will. Right now we’re asking you.”
“I don’t know why she don’t like them.”
“You belong to a gang, Glennon?”
“No.”
“A club then? What do you call it, Glennon? An athletic and social club?”
“I don’t belong to nothing. I don’t call it nothing ‘cause I don’t belong to nothing.”
“Did your gang help you beat up Meyer?”
“I don’t have a gang.”
“How many of you were there?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I went downstairs and—”
“What’d you do? Wait for Meyer in the hallway?”
“—and I stood in the candy store for—”
“Beat him up when he left your mother?”
“—for a few hours, and then I took a walk.”
“Where’d you have lunch?”
“What?”
“Where’d you have lunch?”
“I had a hot dog on Barker.”
“Let’s see your hands.”
“What for?”
“Show him your hands!” Carella snapped.
O’Brien turned Glennon’s hands over in his own. “That’s all we need,” O’Brien said. “Those cuts on his knuckles’ll cinch it.”
Glennon did not take the bait. He remained silent. If he had been one of the people who’d beaten Meyer with lead pipes, he did not offer the information.
“We’re gonna lock you up for a little while,” Willis said. “I think you’ll like our detention cells.”
“You can’t lock me up,” Glennon said.
“No? Try us,” Willis answered. “Steve, I think we better hit the old lady again, find out the names of Junior’s friends.”
“You leave my mother alone!” Glennon shouted.
“Why? You gonna beat us up, too?”
“You just leave her alone, you hear me? I’m the man of that house! When my father died, I became the man of the house! You just stay away from her.”
“Yeah, you’re some man,” Brown said. “You wait in the dark with twelve other guys and you coldcock a—”
“I didn’t wait no place! You just stay away from my mother!”
“Lock him up,” O’Brien said.
“And you can’t lock me up, either. You got to have grounds.”
“We got grounds.”
“Yeah? What?”
“Suspicion,” Willis said, calling on the old standby.