“Maurice always expected trouble. But I do know what you mean. No, nothing like that, nothing more than his usual pessimism.”
“Do you yourself know of any enemies he might have made?”
“Ever since I read the article in the paper, I’ve been asking myself exactly that question. Did anyone hate my brother enough to want to kill him. But I can think of no one. You must understand me, I didn’t know my brother’s associates. We... drifted apart.”
“You didn’t know any of his friends at all?”
“I don’t believe so, no.”
“Not Sal Casetta?”
“An Italian? No, I don’t know him.” Gold glanced at Stettin, then leaned forward to say to Levine, “Excuse me, do you mind? Could I speak to you alone for a moment?”
“Sure,” said Stettin promptly. “I’ll wait outside.”
“Thank you. Thank you very much.” Gold beamed at Stettin until he left, then leaned toward Levine again. “I can talk to you,” he said. “Not in front of the other policeman.”
Levine frowned, but said nothing.
“Listen to me,” said Gold. His eyes were dark, and deepset. “Maurice was my brother. If anyone has the right to say what I am going to say now it is me, the brother. Maurice is better dead. Better for everyone. The police are shorthanded, I know this. You have so much work; forget Maurice. No one wants vengeance. Listen to me, I am his brother. Who has a better right to talk?”
You’re talking to the wrong man, Levine thought. Stettin’s the one who thinks your way. But he kept quiet, and waited.
Gold paused, his hands out as though in offering, presenting his ideas to Levine. Then he lowered his hands and leaned back and said, “You understand me. That’s why I wanted to talk to you alone. You are a policeman, sworn to uphold the law, this new law in this new country. But I am speaking to you now from the old law. You follow me, Levine. And if I say to you, I don’t want vengeance for the slaying of my brother, I speak within a law that is older and deeper.”
“A law that says murder should be ignored and forgotten? A law that says life doesn’t matter? I never heard of it.”
“Levine, you know what law I’m talking about! I’m his brother, and I—”
“You’re a fool, Gold, and that’s the damnedest bribe I’ve ever been offered.”
“Bribe?” Gold seemed shocked at the thought. “I didn’t offer you any—”
“What do I do to belong, Gold? I send in the label from a package of Passover candles, and then what do I get? I learn all about the secret handshake, and I get the ring with the secret compartment, and I get the magic decodifier so we can send each other messages others won’t understand. Is that it?”
“You shouldn’t mock what—”
“Is there anything you wouldn’t use, Gold? Do you have respect for anything at all?”
Gold looked away, his expression stony. “I thought I could talk to you,” he said. “I thought you would understand.”
“I do understand,” Levine told him. “Get on your feet.”
“What?”
“You’re coming back to the precinct to answer some more questions.”
“But... but I’ve told you—” Gold started to say.
“You told me you didn’t want your brother’s murderer found. After a while, you’ll tell me why. On your feet.”
“For God’s sake, Levine—”
“Get on your feet!”
It was a small room. The echoes of his shout came back to his ears, and he suddenly realized he’d lost his temper despite himself, and his left hand jerked automatically to his chest, pressing there to feel for the heartbeat. He had a skip, every eighth beat or so, and when he allowed himself to get excited the skipping came closer together. That irregularity of rhythm was the most pronounced symptom he had to support his fear of heart trouble and it was never very far from his consciousness. He pressed his hand to his chest now, feeling the thumping within, and the skip, and counted from there to the next skip... seven.
He took a deep breath. Quietly he said, “Come along, Gold. Don’t make me call in the other policeman to carry you.”
Abraham Levine couldn’t bring himself to grill Gold personally after all; he was afraid he’d lose control. So he simply filled Stettin in on what had been said, and what he wanted to know. Stettin took care of the questioning, with assists from Andrews and Campbell, two of the other detectives now on duty, while Levine left the precinct again, to find Sal Casetta.
Casetta lived in the New Utrecht section of Brooklyn, in a brick tenement on 79th Street. It was a walk-up, and the bookmaker’s apartment was on the fourth floor. Levine climbed the stairs slowly, stopping to rest at each landing. When he got to the fourth floor, he paused to catch his breath, and light a cigarette before knocking on the door marked 14.
A woman answered — a short blowsy woman in a loose sweater and a tight black skirt. She was barefooted, and her feet were dirty, her toenails enameled a deep red. She looked challengingly at Levine.
Levine said, “I’m looking for Sal Casetta.”
“He ain’t home.”
“Where can I find him?”
“What do you want him for?”
“Police,” said Levine. “I don’t want to talk to him about bookmaking. A friend of his was killed; maybe he could help us.”
“What makes you think he wants to help you?”
“It was a friend of his that was killed.”
“So what? You ain’t a friend of his.”
“If Sal was killed,” Levine said, “and I was looking for his murderer, would you help me?”
The woman grimaced, and shrugged uneasily. “I told you he wasn’t here,” she said.
“Just tell me where I can find him.”
She thought it over. She was chewing gum, and her jaw moved continuously for a full minute. Finally, she shrugged again and said, “Come on in. I’ll go get him for you.”
“Thank you.”
She led the way into a small living room, with soiled drapes at the windows, and not enough furniture. “Grab a seat any place,” she said. “Look out for roaches.”
Levine thanked her again, and sat down gingerly on an unpainted wooden chair.
“What was the name of the friend?” she asked.
“Morry Gold.”
“Oh, that bum.” Her mouth twisted around its wad of gum. “Why waste time on him?”
“Because he was killed,” said Levine.
“You want to make work for yourself,” she told him, “it’s no skin off my nose. Wait here, I’ll be right back.”
While he waited Levine’s thoughts kept reverting to Morry Gold. After about ten minutes, he heard the front door open, and a few seconds later the woman came back accompanied by a short, heavyset man with bushy black hair and rather shifty eyes.
He came in nodding his head jerkily, saying, “I read about it in the papers. I read about it this morning.”
“You’re Sal Casetta?”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s right, that’s me. You’re a cop, huh?”
Levine showed his badge, then said, “You used to play cards with Morry Gold?”
“Yeah, sure, that’s right. Poker. Quarter, half-dollar. Friendly game, you know.”
“Who were the other players?” Levine asked.
“Well, uh—” Casetta glanced nervously at the woman, and rubbed the back of his hand across his nose. “Well, you know how it is. You don’t feel right about giving out names.”
“Why? Do you think one of them killed Gold?”
“Hey now— Listen. We’re all friends. Nothing like that. I wouldn’t want to bump Morry, and neither would those guys. We’re all buddies.”
“Then give me their names.”