There is a sudden shocking explosion. The bleeding man lets out a final scream and drops the bottle. It shatters on the tile, and the sergeant watches in bug-eyed fascination as the man keels over backwards and falls into the red-stained water in the tub. The sergeant wipes sweat from his lip and turns to look at the patrolman, whose smoking service revolver is in his hand. The patrolman’s eyes are squinched in pain. He keeps staring at the tub where the man has sunk beneath the surface of the red water.
“Nice going, kid,” the sergeant says.
The city is asleep.
The streets lamps are all that glow now, casting pale illumination over miles and miles of deserted sidewalks. In the apartment buildings the windows are dark save for an occasional bathroom, where a light flickers briefly and then dies. Everything is still. So still.
Take a look at this city.
How can you possibly hate her?
11
He had been searching for Mary Margaret Ryan without success since Saturday afternoon. He had tried the apartment on Porter Street, where she said she was living, but Henry and Bob told him she hadn’t been around, and they had no idea where she was. He had then tried all the neighborhood places she might have frequented, and had even staked out Elliot’s shop, on the off chance she might go there to see him. But she had not put in an appearance.
Now, at ten o’clock on Monday morning, April 26, four days before the Deaf Man had promised to steal $500,000 from the First Federal Bank (though God knew which one), Carella roamed Rutland Street looking for a silver motorcycle. During their brief conversation last Tuesday, Yank had told Carella that he’d blown in a few weeks back and was living in an apartment on Rutland. He had not given the address, but Carella didn’t think he’d have too much trouble finding the place — it is almost impossible to hide something as large as a motorcycle. He did not honestly expect Yank or his friends to know anything about the whereabouts of Mary Margaret Ryan; she hardly seemed the kind of girl who’d run with a motorcycle gang. But Yank and a bikie named Ox had been in Elliot’s shop the day before, and the argument Carella had witnessed through the plate-glass window seemed something more than casual. When you run out of places to look, you’ll look anywhere. Mary Margaret Ryan had to be someplace; everybody’s got to be someplace, man.
After fifteen minutes on the block, he located three bikes chained to the metal post of a banister in the downstairs hallway of 601 Rutland. He knocked on the door of the sole apartment on the ground floor, and asked the man who answered it where the bikies were living.
“You going to bust them?” the man asked.
“What apartment are they in?”
“Second-floor front,” the man said. “I wish you’d clean them out of here.”
“Why?”
“Because they’re no damn good,” the man said, and closed the door.
Carella went up to the second floor. Several brown bags of garbage were leaning against the wall. He listened outside the door, heard voices inside, and knocked. A blond man, naked to the waist, opened the door. He was powerful and huge, with hard, tight muscles developed by years of weight-lifting. Barefooted, with blue jeans stretched tight over bulging thighs, he looked out at Carella and said nothing.
“Police officer,” Carella said. “I’m looking for some people named Ox and Yank.”
“Why?” the blond said.
“Couple of questions I want to ask them.”
The blond studied him, shrugged, said, “Okay,” and led him into the apartment. Ox and Yank were sitting at a table in the kitchen, drinking beer.
“Well, well,” Yank said.
“Who’s this?” Ox asked.
“A gentleman from the police,” Yank said, and added with mock formality, “I fear I’ve forgotten your name, officer.”
“Detective Carella.”
“Carella, Carella, right. What can we do for you, Detective Carella?”
“Have you seen Mary Margaret around?” Carella asked.
“Who?”
“Mary Margaret Ryan.”
“Don’t know her,” Yank said.
“How about you?” Carella said.
“Nope,” Ox answered.
“Me, neither,” the blond said.
“Girl about this high,” Carella said, “long brown hair, brown eyes.”
“Nope,” Yank said.
“Reason I ask...”
“We don’t know her,” Yank said.
“Reason I ask,” Carella repeated, “is that she poses for Sanford Elliot, and...”
“Don’t know him, either,” Yank said.
“You don’t, huh?”
“Nope.”
“None of you know him, huh?”
“None of us,” Yank said.
“Have you had any second thoughts about that picture I showed you?”
“Nope, no second thoughts,” Yank said. “Sorry.”
“You want to take a look at this picture, Ox?”
“What picture?” Ox asked.
“This one,” Carella said, and took the photograph from his notebook.
He handed it to Ox, looking into his face, looking into his eyes, and becoming suddenly unsettled by what he saw there. Through the plate-glass window of Elliot’s shop, Ox had somehow appeared both intelligent and articulate, perhaps because he had been delivering a finger-waving harangue. But now, after having heard his voice, after having seen his eyes, Carella knew at once that he was dealing with someone only slightly more alert than a beast of the field. The discovery was frightening. Give me the smart ones anytime, Carella thought. I’ll take a thousand like the Deaf Man if you’ll only keep the stupid ones away from me.
“Recognize him?” he asked.
“No,” Ox said, and tossed the photograph onto the table.
“I was talking to Sanford Elliot Saturday,” Carella said. “I thought he might be able to help me with this picture.” He picked it up, put it back into his notebook, and waited. Neither Ox nor Yank said a word. “You say you don’t know him, huh?”
“What was the name?” Ox said.
“Sanford Elliot. His friends call him Sandy.”
“Never heard of him,” Ox said.
“Uh-huh,” Carella said. He looked around the room. “Nice place, is it yours?” he asked the bare-chested, barefooted blond man.
“Yeah.”
“What’s your name?”
“Who says I have to tell you?”
“That garbage stacked in the hallway is a violation,” Carella said flatly. “You want me to get snotty, or you want to tell me your name?”
“Willie Harcourt.”
“How long have you been living here, Willie?”
“About a year.”
“When did your friends arrive?”
“I told you...” Yank started.
“I’m asking your pal. When did they get here, Willie?”
“Few weeks ago.”
Carella turned to Ox and said, “What’s your beef with Sandy Elliot?”
“What?” Ox said.
“Sandy Elliot.”
“We told you we don’t know him,” Yank said.
“You’ve got a habit of answering questions nobody asked you,” Carella said. “I’m talking to your friend here. What’s the beef, Ox? You want to tell me?”
“No beef,” Ox said.
“Then why were you yelling at him?”
“Me? You’re crazy.”
“You were in his shop Saturday, and you were yelling at him. Why?”
“You must have me mixed up with somebody else,” Ox said, and lifted his beer bottle and drank.
“Who else lives in this apartment?” Carella asked.