Unfortunately, the school system was working against Carella that day.
He had shoved himself away from the front of the rattler cage and was taking off after the black leather jacket when a blood-curling shriek split the air.
"There he is!" an adolescent voice screeched.
The screech, had it come from behind a tree in the heart of the jungle, would have been enough to send the brave hunter scurrying for the nearest trading depot. As it was, it almost lifted the false mustache from Carella's upper lip.
In a moment, he realized what all the commotion was about. The kid had spotted the python cage, and was rushing over to it to see if any pigs were being devoured whole that afternoon. In another moment, Carella realized that he was in the direct path of a headlong stampede, and—unless he sidestepped damned fast—he might very well be devoured whole himself. He sidestepped damned fast, and the thundering herd rushed past him, and trailing in its wake came the weary and abashed shepherd, still wearing his "They're not with me!" look.
The shouts and cries from the python cage were almost inhuman. Carella turned. The black leather jacket was gone.
He rushed to the door, cursing principals and science classes and Frank Buck, coming out into the cold air, feeling the bite of it on his cheeks, feeling it attack his teeth. The black leather jacket was nowhere in sight.
He began running, running aimlessly actually, not knowing which side of the path the boy had chosen. He kept running until it became obvious he had lost the boy. He was ready to start cursing all over again when he spotted the blond boy he'd been following earlier.
The blond boy was certainly not the one he wanted, but any port in a storm. The kid had just made a buy from Gonzo, hadn't he? All right, he'd found out about the meet someplace, and maybe he knew where Gonzo could be located. In any case, there was no time to lose. What with the city system rampaging all over the town, one never knew when one might run into a kindergarten class out hunting snipes. Carella moved fast.
He came up behind the boy almost soundlessly, and then he moved alongside him, and reached for his sleeve.
"All right…" he started, and the boy turned.
For a moment, the boy's face was blank. And then his eyes penetrated the false mustache, widened in recognition, and then turned alert with the knowledge of imminent danger. He shoved out at Carella instantly, surprising him, knocking him backwards several paces.
"Hey!" Carella shouted, and the boy was off.
The boy may not have been a track star, but he certainly could run like a bastard.
Before Carella caught his breath, the kid was turning the bend of the path and heading into the trees. Carella started after him. He couldn't understand why the kid was risking more trouble than a small narcotics buy was worth, but he didn't stop to question motive too long. There was a time for thinking and theorizing, and a time for doing; and this was definitely a time for using legs and not brains. It was also a time for using firearms, but Carella wasn't aware of this as yet, and so the .38 stayed where it was in his right-hand coat pocket. There certainly didn't seem to be any danger attached to the simple task of overtaking and putting a collar on a junkie. Sublimely unaware of what was in store for him, Carella began climbing off and side of the path and into the trees.
He saw the blond head duck behind a boulder. He quickened his pace, panting hard, reflecting that he was not as young as he used to be. He was deep in the trees now, climbing over big boulders and smaller rocks, far from the path that wound through the park. He could see the blond head bobbing along in the distance, and then he didn't see it again, and he was afraid he'd lost this boy, too. He swung around a huge outcropping of rock, and then pulled up short.
He was looking into the open end of a .32.
"Don't open your mouth, cop," the boy said.
Carella blinked. He had not expected a gun, and he cursed his own stupidity, and at the same time he sought for a way out of this. He looked at the kid's eyes, and the kid didn't seem to be high, so perhaps he could be talked to, perhaps reason could penetrate. But the .32 was held in a steady fist, and the eyes above the gun were unreasonable eyes.
"Listen…" he started.
"I said keep the mouth closed. I'll shoot you, cop." The boy delivered the speech so simply that all of its lethalness seemed innocuous. But there was nothing innocuous about the boy's eyes, and Carella watched those eyes carefully. He had been on the business end of a gun before, and it was his contention that a man always telegraphed the tightening of his trigger finger by a previous tightening of his eyes.
"Keep your hands away from your sides," the boy said. "Where is it?"
"Where's what?"
"The gun that patrolman turned up yesterday. Still got it in your waistband?"
"How do you know I'm a cop?" Carella asked.
"The holster. Don't ask me about intuition. None of the guys I know who carry pieces carry them in holsters. Fish it out for me, cop."
Carella's hand moved.
"No!" the boy said. "Tell me where it is. I'll get it myself."
"Why are you buying yourself trouble, kid? You could have got out of this with a simple misdemeanor."
"Yeah?"
"Sure. Put the gun up. I'll forget you ever had it."
"What's the matter, cop? You scared?"
"Why should I be scared?" Carella asked, watching the boy's eyes. "I don't think you'd be silly enough to shoot me here in the park."
"No, huh? You got any idea how many people are shot in this park every day?"
"How many, son?" Carella asked, stalling for time, wondering how he could get the .38 out of his pocket, divert the kid for an instant while he drew and fired.
"Plenty. Why are you following me, cop?"
"You won't believe this…" Carella started.
"Then don't waste it. Give me the real story the first time around."
"I was after your pal."
"Yeah? Which pal? I got lots of pals."
"The one you met by the cobra cage."
"Why him?"
"I've got some questions to ask him."
"About what?"
"That's my business."
"Where's your piece, cop? Tell me that first."
Carella hesitated. He saw the boy's eyes tighten almost imperceptibly. "My right-hand coat pocket," he said quickly.
"Turn around," the boy said.
Carella turned.
"Put the hands up. Don't try any tricks, cop, I'm warning you. You feel this? It's the muzzle of this piece. It'll be right up against your spine all the while I'm reaching into your pocket. You start to turn, you start to run, you even start to breathe crooked, and you've got a broken spinal cord. I ain't afraid to pull this trigger, so don't test me. You got that?"
"I've got it," Carella said.
He felt the boy's hand move quickly into his pocket. In an instant, the reassuring weight of the .38 was gone.
"All right," the boy said, "turn around again."
Carella turned to face him. He had not, up to that moment, really believed the situation to be a serious one. He had talked himself out of similar situations before, and he had been fairly certain—up to now—that he could either talk his way out of this one, or somehow get to the gun in his coat pocket. But the gun was no longer in his coat pocket, and the boy's eyes were hard and bright, and he had the peculiar feeling that he was staring sudden death in the face.
"You'd be stupid," he heard himself say, but the words sounded hollow and insincere. "You'd be shooting me for no reason. I told you I'm not after you."