God, it was windy up here on the roof. He was glad he had put tar paper over the wire mesh of the coop. Sure pigeons are hardy, don't they go gallivanting around Grover Park all winter long, but still he wouldn't want any of his birds to die. There was one in particular, that little female fantail, who didn't look good at all. She had not eaten for several days now and her eyes, if you could tell anything at all from a pigeon's eyes, didn't look right. He would have to watch her, maybe get something into her with an eyedropper. The other birds were looking fine, though. He had several Jacobins, and he would never tire of watching them, never tire of admiring the hood-like ruff of feathers they wore around their heads. And his tumbler, God, the way that bird somersaulted when it flew, or how about the pouters, they were magnificent birds, too, what the hell could Byrnes have up his sleeve?
How had a dick got onto Gonzo's tail?
Was it possible the girl had talked? Before she died? No, that was not possible. If she had talked, the police would have come to him directly and damn fast. They wouldn't be fooling around trying to pick up Gonzo. Then how? Had someone seen Gonzo talking to her on the afternoon of Annabelle's death? That was possible, yes.
How had this thing got so complicated?
It had started as a simple plan, and now the plan didn't seem to be working. Should he call Byrnes again, tell Byrnes there had better not be anyone listening this time, tell him the whole damned story, lay the cards right on the table? But who could have seen the girl with Gonzo? Had they talked together in the same room she'd taken him to? The room Maria got from that woman, what was her name? Dolores? Wasn't that what she'd said? Yes, Dolores. Had Dolores known about Gonzo's talk with Maria? Had she recognized Gonzo from seeing him before, not knowing his name perhaps but… no. No, the police were probably simply keeping all known pushers under surveillance. But Gonzo is not a known pusher.
Gonzo is a punk who happened to stumble across some valuable information and who fortunately placed that information in the hands of someone who realized its potentiaclass="underline" me.
Gonzo has no record, Gonzo is not a known pusher, Gonzo is in this only for the promise of quick unhindered riches, and he is not even known in the neighborhood, not as Gonzo, anyway. So if he has no record, and if he is not known as Gonzo, and if he is not a known pusher, how did the police find out about him?
The woman.
Dolores.
No, not her, but someone perhaps saw them talking together that afternoon, saw him extract from her the promise of a lie, saw the twenty-five dollars exchange hands. Someone perhaps…
How much did Maria tell the woman Dolores?
Good Christ, why am I worrying about Gonzo? How much did Maria tell that old woman? Did she mention my name to her? Did she say, "I have this friend who wants to sleep with me, and I need a room?" Did she then say who the friend was, God, could she have been so stupid?
What does Dolores know?
He took a last look at the female fantail, stepped out of the coop, locked the door, and then went downstairs to the street. He walked with a brisk spring in his step. He walked with a purpose and a goal, and that goal was the tenement building in which he and Maria had shared a room. When he reached the building, he looked both ways up the street, thankful the streets were not crowded, thankful for winter because if this were summer, the front stoop would be crowded with old women yacketing.
He checked the mailboxes, finding one marked DOLORES FAURED. Yes, that was the name Maria had mentioned. Dolores Faured. The apartment was on the second floor. He walked through the hallway quickly. There was no pain of remembrance in his mind. What had happened with Maria Hernandez had happened, and murder is habit forming.
He found the apartment and knocked.
"Quien es?" a voice called.
"Un amigo," he answered, and he waited.
He heard footsteps, and then the door opened. The woman standing there was thin and frail, a frail old witch, he could pick her up and break her in half if he wanted to. With sudden insight, he realized that he was now committed. He had come here, and if the old woman knew nothing, if Maria had indeed told her nothing, what then? How did he question her and still leave her with no knowledge?
"Who are you?" the woman asked.
"May I come in?"
"What do you want?"
She would not let him into the house until she knew who he was, that was certain. If he mentioned the name of Maria Hernandez, would he not then have a glimmer of knowledge? And was not even a glimmer of knowledge dangerous, how had this thing got so complicated?
"I'm from the police," he lied. "I want to ask some questions."
"Come in, come in," Dolores said. "More questions, always questions."
He followed her into the apartment. It was a dirty, smelly apartment, this woman was nothing but a female pimp, a frail witch of a pimp.
"What now?" she asked.
"On the night Miss Hernandez was killed? Did she mention to you who she was seeing? Who the man was?"
Dolores was staring at him. "Don't I know you?" she asked.
"Not unless you've been inside the 87th Precinct," he answered quickly.
"Haven't I seen you in the neighborhood?"
"Well, I work in the neighborhood. Naturally…"
"I thought I knew all the bulls from the 87th," Dolores said speculatively. "Well." She shrugged.
"About this man."
"Si. Don't you cops work together?"
"What?"
"I already told them this. The others who came. Detectives Meyer and… who was the other?"
"I don't remember."
"Hengel," Dolores said. "Yes, Detective Hengel."
"Of course," he said. "Yes. Hengel. You already told them this?"
"Certainly. The next day. That room downstairs was flooded with police. Meyer and…" She stopped suddenly.
"It was Temple," she said, her eyes narrowing. "Temple was the other cop's name."
"Yes," he said. "What did you tell them?"
"You said Hengel."
"What?"
"Hengel. You said it was Hengel."
"No," he said, "you're mistaken. I said Temple."
"I said Hengel, and you said yes, it was Hengel," Dolores insisted.
"Well, we have a Hengel at the station house, too," he said irritably. "In any case, what did you tell them?"
Dolores looked at him long and hard. Then she said, "Let me see your badge."
Well, here we are doing the lion house bit again, Carella thought.
This is Steve Carella, folks, coming to you again from atop lovely Hotel Grover in the charming Lion House room. Ah, I hear the orchestra tuning up, ladies and gentlemen, so perhaps we'll have some delightful cocktail music. We broadcast from this spot every day at the same time, you know, through the auspices of the National Foundation for Contracting Double Pneumonia. We get a lovely little breeze here atop the Hotel Grover, and the breeze is never quite so charming as when it whips around the corners of the Lion House room. So stay tuned, folks, for a lot of laughs and a few surprises.
The surprises today include an announcement from Detective-Lieutenant Peter Byrnes, my immediate superior, who wishes you to know that his son Larry Byrnes was today voted Drug Addict of the Year cum Murder Suspect. Now, how's that for a little surprise, folks? Knock the wind out of you? Damn near knocked me flat on my ass, so the least it should do is knock a little wind out of you. What's that? Excuse me, folks, I'm being signaled from Hy Auerglass in the control booth. What is it, Hy? Oh, we've been cut off the air? That last "ass" did it, huh? Well, those are the breaks. I can always go back to being a cop.