“Dope, all kinds of shit. They look the other way. The guards. The psychologist is crazy, did you know that? The social worker, too. They’re all crazy here.”
Yep, Hawes thought.
“They got a ring here.”
“Um-huh.”
“They steal things,” Frankie said.
“Who does?”
“The guards.”
“What do they steal?”
“All kinds of things. Food. Medicine. Soap. Toothpaste. Blankets. Everything,” Frankie said.
9.
APRIL FOOLS’ DAY came in with a spectacular sunrise over the city’s rooftops, but by eight o’clock on that first day of the month, the sky was already gray and menacing, and by nine it was raining again. Some people maintained that the choice of this particular date for the playing of pranks had something to do with the vernal equinox, when Old Mother Nature impishly played weather tricks on mere mortals. Whatever the origin, All Fools’ Day, as it was alternately called, had been celebrated for centuries all over the world—and today it was raining. Again.
And today, again, another of the Deaf Man’s letters was delivered by hand to the muster desk downstairs. The messenger was a sixteen-year-old kid cutting high school classes. He told Sergeant Murchison that a tall blond guy with a hearing aid had given him ten bucks to take the envelope in here and hand it to the fat guy behind the desk. Murchison told him to get the hell out of here, and then he sent one of his patrolmen upstairs with the envelope.
Meyer and Hawes had begun a hastily conceived surveillance of the shelter the night before, some fifteen hours after the guy with the crazy eyes had told Hawes about all the nefarious goings-on there. But despite Frankie’s grave warnings, they’d observed nothing out-of-the-way. No square shields leaving the building carrying heaps of blankets or cartons of soap. They planned to continue sitting the place tonight, despite the rain. There was not a cop alive who liked surveillance, especially when it was raining.
Meyer was telling a joke when the patrolman walked in.
“This guy is giving a lecture on supernatural phenomena,” he said, his blue eyes already twinkling in anticipation. “And when he finishes the lecture he asks the crowd if any of them have ever been in the presence of a ghost. The hands go up, and he counts them, and he says, ‘That’s about right, I usually get a response of about fifty percent to that question. Now how many of you who just raised your hands have ever been touched by a ghost?’ The hands go up again, and he counts them, and says, ‘That’s about right, too, sixteen, seventeen percent is what I usually get. Now how many of you have ever had intercourse with a ghost?’ Well, this old guy in his nineties raises his hand, and the lecturer asks him to please come up to the stage, and the guy dodders to the front of the auditorium, and climbs the steps, and the lecturer says, ‘Sir, this is really astonishing. I give these lectures all over the world, and this is the first time I’ve ever met anyone who’s actually had intercourse with a ghost.’ The old man says, ‘What? Would you say that again, please?’ And the lecturer yells, ‘THIS IS THE FIRST TIME I’VE EVER MET ANYONE WHO’S ACTUALLY HAd INTERCOURSE WITH A GHOST!’ and the old guy says, ‘Oh, excuse me, I thought you said intercourse with a goat !’”
“That’s a Deaf Man joke for sure,” Brown said, laughing.
Which was exactly when the patrolman walked in with the letter.
No one bothered worrying about fingerprints anymore; they’d gone that route with the Deaf Man in the past, and it was a fruitless one. The patrolman handed the envelope to Carella, to whom it was addressed, and then hung around to see what this lunatic was up to this time; word was spreading around the precinct that the Deaf Man was back. Carella tore open the flap, took out a note stapled to another sheet of paper, and read the note first:
The larger sheet of paper had obviously been photocopied from Rivera’s book. It read:
F rOM WHERE ANKARAstood on the rock tower erected to the gods at the far end of the vast plain, he could see the milling throng moving toward the straw figure symbolizing the failure of the crop, the frightening twisted arid thing the multitude had to destroy if it were to strangle its own fear. The crowd moved forward relentlessly, chanting, stamping, shouting, a massive beast that seemed all flailing arms and thrashing legs, eager to destroy the victim it had chosen, the common enemy, a roar rising as if from a single throat, “Kill, kill,kill!”
“He’s gonna kill somebody,” Brown said.
“Somebody in a crowd ,” Meyer said.
“On a vast plain ,” Carella said.
“Either that or he’s trying to fool us again,” Hawes said.
“Try not to be fooled this time,” Carella quoted.
“You know what they call him in France, don’t you?” Meyer asked.
“Who? The Deaf Man?”
“No. The person who gets fooled. On April Fools’ Day. They call him poisson d’ avril .”
“I thought you didn’t speak French,” Brown said, remembering his Haitian.
“My wife does,” Meyer said, and shrugged.
“What’s that mean, anyway?” Hawes asked.
“April fish.”
“You think something big’s gonna happen outside today?” Brown asked. “Something with a huge crowd ready to explode?”
“A crowd ready to kill, ” Hawes said.
“Let’s check the newspaper,” Carella said.
“Go brush your teeth,” Meyer told Hawes.
They checked the paper.
There were no advertisements for any big outdoor event happening that day.
Good thing, too.
It would have been washed out.
APRIL FOOLS’ DAY.
Raining to beat the band.
The Romans used to celebrate something called the Festival of Hilaria, which somewhat resembled it. But that was on the twenty-fifth of March. In India, too, there was a festival called Holi, during which similar high jinks occurred before its conclusion on the thirty-first of March. Here in America, here in this city, the jokes started early.
The city for which these men worked was divided into five separate geographical sections. The center of the city, Isola, was an island, hence its name: “isola”means “ island” in Italian. In actual practice, however, the entire city was casually referred to as Isola, even though the other four sections were separately and more imaginatively named.
In Isola that morning, a seventy-six-year-old priest named the Reverend Albert J. Courter of the St. Mary of Our Sorrows Church on Harrington and Morse was wearing clerical garb and waiting for the J train on the Morse Street platform when he was suddenly attacked by two men who stole his wallet, his rosary, and a medal identifying him as a member of the Order of the Blessed Sacrament Fathers.
The first of the men said, “Good morning, Father,” as the priest came up the steps to the platform. The next thing the priest knew, another man grabbed him in a choke hold from behind, causing him to lose consciousness for several moments. While he was lying on the platform, they began ripping his pockets. He regained consciousness just as they were running off.
Father Courter was taken to the nearest hospital, on Harrington and Cole, where he was treated for cuts and bruises on his face before he was released. He told Lieutenant George Kagouris of the Transit Authority Police that he’d been heading downtown to visit with friends and fellow priests in the neighborhood where he’d grown up. He told the lieutenant that there’d been only twenty dollars in the wallet. He told the lieutenant that the medal and rosary beads had no real monetary value. He told the lieutenant that before his attackers ran off, the one who’d first greeted him turned with a grin and shouted, “April Fool, Father!”