“We supposed to inform next of kin on this, or what?” he asked no one.
“Unless they already did,” Carella said.
“That’s what I’m askin,” Parker said. “Willis typed this up, did he already call whoever, or what?”
“What does it say there?”
“It doesn’t say anything.”
“Is a next of kin listed?”
“I don’t see any.”
“How’d they make I.D.?”
“Driver’s license.”
“Well, there must’ve been an address on the license.”
“I don’t have the license here,” Parker said testily, “I only have Willis’s report here, where it says they made him from the license.”
“Better call the Property Clerk’s Office,” Kling suggested. “See if they’ve got the license there.”
“Why don’t I just call Willis , ask him did he notify the parents, or what?”
“He’s probably asleep by now,” Meyer suggested tactfully.
“So fuck him,” Parker said. “He leaves this shit on my desk to follow up, he should’ve also left a note telling me did he notify next of kin. Who’s got his number?”
“Got enough spit?” Kling asked, but looked up the number in his notebook and read it off to Parker, who began dialing immediately.
Willis picked up on the fourth ring. It was obvious he’d been sleeping. Parker plunged ahead regardless. Willis told him the motorized blues had found the body at a little past six this morning, that it had been removed to the morgue, and that no one had had time to notify next of kin before the shift was relieved. Parker asked him if he knew where the kid’s driver’s license was. Willis was awake now and getting irritable.
“Why do you need the license?” he asked.
“So I can get an address for him.”
“His address is on the report,” Willis said. “I typed it in from the driver’s license.”
“Oh,” Parker said.
“Right under his name. Do you see where it says address?” he asked testily. “That’s where I typed it in.”
“Yeah, I see it now,” Parker said.
“Why didn’t you see it in the first place,” Willis said, “wake a man up he just fell asleep.”
“Yeah, I should’ve,” Parker said, and looked at the phone receiver when he heard what sounded like an angry click on the other end of the line. Shrugging, he turned to Carella. “The address was right here all along,” he said. “You want to see if there’s a phone number for him?”
“Don’t you know how to look up a phone number?” Carella asked.
“I hate to call some kid’s mother, tell her he’s dead.”
“Yeah, well, learn how to do it,” Carella said.
“Thanks a whole fuckin lot ,” Parker said, and opened his desk drawer and pulled out a worn telephone directory. “Probably be ten thousand people named Herrera, this city,” he said to the phone book, and shook his head.
Almost everything Parker said bordered on the thin edge of open bigotry. Everything else he said was open bigotry. It depended on who was in his immediate presence. He knew that someone like Meyer, for example, might possibly take offense if he called him a chiseling kike bastard, so instead he merely mentioned that the Jews had ripped off Easter Sunday. And whereas Carella wasn’t Hispanic, he had a name full of vowels and he might get on his high horse if Parker suggested that the city was overrun by spics, so he’d simply addressed his comment to the telephone book instead.
As it turned out, he was mistaken.
There were not ten thousand Herreras in the book, there were only a hundred and forty-six. But that was in this section of the city alone. There were four other sections to this bustling metropolis, and just because the dead writer had been found here didn’t mean he lived here. All Parker knew was that he was right now looking at a hundred and forty-six fuckin names that would take him all fuckin day to call all of them. For what? To tell some lady who couldn’t speak English that her shithead son was dead, which it served him right, anyway?
Sometimes he wished he wasn’t so dedicated.
HE HIT PAY DIRT on the forty-fourth number he tried. He considered this fortunate. This was now close to twelve noon and he wanted to go out to lunch.
The woman’s name was Catalina Herrera. When he asked her if she had a son named Alfredo Herrera, she said, “Yes, I have. Who is this calling, please?”
Heavy Spanish accent. Naturally.
“This is Detective Andrew Parker of the Eighty-Seventh Precinct,” he said. “Is your son eighteen years old?”
“Eighteen, yes. Is something…?”
“Birth date September fourteenth?”
“Yes? What…?”
“He’s dead,” Parker said.
He told her where the body was, asked her if she could meet him there later to make positive identification, and then told the other detectives he was heading out for lunch.
“Nice bedside manner you got there,” Carella said.
“Thanks,” Parker said, and went out smiling.
“There’s this ship in the middle of the Pacific,” Meyer said. “This is World War II. The loudspeaker goes off and the chief bosun’s voice says, ‘All hands, fall to on the quarterdeck. All hands, fall to on the quarterdeck.’”
“I think I heard this story,” Kling said.
“Seaman Shavorsky?” Meyer asked.
“No.”
“Well, all the sailors gather on the quarterdeck, and the bosun says, ‘At ease, we just got a radio message from the States. Seaman O’Neill, your mother is dead.’ Well, the captain overhears this, and he calls the bosun into his cabin, and he says, ‘That’s no way to break news of this sort. These men are a long way from home, you’ve got to be more considerate if anything like this happens again.’ The bosun salutes and says, ‘Yes, sir, I’m sorry, sir, I certainly will be more careful next time if there is a next time, sir.’”
“Are you sure I didn’t hear this?” Kling asked.
“How should I know if you heard it or not? Anyway, a couple of months later, the bosun’s voice comes over the speaker again, ‘All hands, fall to on the quarterdeck, all hands fall to on the quarterdeck,’ and all the sailors gather again, and the bosun says, ‘We just got a radio message from the States. All you men whose mothers are still living, take one step forw—notso fast, Seaman Shavorsky!’”
Carella burst out laughing.
“I don’t get it,” Kling said.
“Maybe cause you heard it already,” Meyer said.
“No, I don’t think I ever heard it. I just don’t get it.”
“It has to do with Parker and the dead kid’s mother,” Meyer said.
“Is that the dead kid’s name? Shavorsky?”
“Forget it,” Meyer said.
“I thought it was a Latino name.”
“Forget it,” Meyer said again, and went to answer the telephone ringing on his desk.
“Shavorsky doesn’t sound Latino at all ,” Kling said, and winked at Carella.
“Forget it, forget it,” Meyer said, and picked up the receiver. ‘Eighty-Seventh Squad, Detective Meyer,” he said. He listened, nodded, said, “Just a second, please,” and then, “For you, Steve. On four.”
Carella hit the four button on his desk extension, and picked up the receiver.
“Detective Carella,” he said.
“Good morning,” a pleasant voice said. “Or is it afternoon already?”