And so the city was drunken, and the city was goaded into near panic, and the streets were jammed with shoppers, and maybe the concrete looked cold and stiff and aloof—but it was the most wonderful city in the world, and it was never more wonderful than at Christmastime.
"This is Danny Gimp," the man told the desk sergeant. "I want to speak to Detective Carella."
The desk sergeant didn't enjoy talking to stool pigeons. He knew that Danny Gimp often came up with good information, but he considered all stool pigeons unclean, and it was an offense just talking to them.
"Detective Carella isn't here," the desk sergeant said.
"Do you know where I can reach him?" Danny asked. Danny was a man who'd been stooling for the police for as long as he could remember. He knew he was not respected for his talkative traits among members of the underworld, but the ensuing ostracism did not disturb him. Danny made his living as an informer, and quite curiously, he enjoyed helping the police. He had had polio as a child, with the result that one leg still carried a slight limp. His real surname was Nelson but very few people knew that, and even his mail came addressed to Danny Gimp. He was fifty-four years old, and very small all over, looking more like an undernourished adolescent than a full-grown man. His voice was high and reedy, and his face bore hardly any of the wrinkles or other telltale signs of age. He could not honestly say he liked cops, even though he liked helping them. There was one cop he did like. That cop was Steve Carella.
"Why do you want to reach him?" the desk sergeant asked.
"I think I may have some dope for him."
"What kind of dope?"
"When did you get promoted to the detective division?" Danny asked.
"If you want to get smart, stoolie, you can get off the line."
"I want Carella," Danny said. "Will you tell him I called?"
"Carella ain't taking any messages," the desk sergeant said.
"What do you mean?"
"He got shot this afternoon. He's dying."
"What!"
"You heard me."
"What!" Danny said again, stunned. "Steve got… Are you kidding me?"
"I'm not kidding you."
"Who shot him?"
"That's what we'd like to know."
"Where is he?"
"General Hospital. Don't bother going down. He's on the critical list, and I doubt if they're letting him talk to stoolies."
"He's not really dying," Danny said, almost as if to reassure himself. "Listen, he's not really dying, is he?"
"They found him half-froze and almost bloodless. They've been pumping plasma into him, but he took three slugs in the chest, and it don't look good."
"Ah, listen," Danny said. "Ah, Jesus." He was silent for a while.
"You finished, stoolie?"
"No, I… General Hospital, did you say?"
"Yeah. I told you, stoolie, don't bother going down. It'd make you uncomfortable. Half the bulls on the squad are there."
"Yeah," Danny said thoughtfully. "Jesus, that's a tough break, ain't it?"
"He's a good cop," the desk sergeant said simply.
"Yeah," Danny said. He was silent again and then he said, "Well, so long."
"So long," the desk sergeant said.
Because of the sergeant's warning, Danny Gimp did not get to the hospital until the next morning. He wrestled with the problem all that Friday night, wondering if his presence would be welcome, wondering if Carella would even recognize him. And even if Carella was in condition to say hello, Danny doubted if he'd want to. They had a going business arrangement, but Danny was keenly aware of the fact that an informer is not the most respected of men. Carella might very well spit at him.
He wrestled with his problem, and he didn't sleep that night. He awoke on Saturday morning with the problem still fresh in his mind. He did not know why, but he wanted to see Steve Carella before he died. He wanted to see him and say hello, and maybe shake hands with him. Perhaps it was the Christmas season. Whatever it was, Danny took some coffee and a doughnut, and then he dressed carefully, putting on his good suit and a clean white shirt and choosing his tie carefully as well. He wanted to look respectable. He was going to the hospital on a respectable visit, and the entire unrespectability of his life seemed suddenly in very sharp focus. It seemed very important to him that he show his concern for Steve Carella, and it seemed equally important that Carella should respect him for it.
On the way to the hospital, he bought a box of candy. The candy gave him a good many moments of doubt. There would undoubtedly be cops at the hospital. Hadn't the desk sergeant said so? And wouldn't it look stupid for a stool pigeon to come carrying a box of candy? He almost threw the candy away, but he did not. When a man went to visit someone in the hospital, he brought something, something to say "You're still with us, and you'll get well." Danny Gimp was entering the polite, respectable world of civilized society, and so he would obey the rules of that society.
The sky beyond the hospital was very gray on that Saturday, December 23rd. It looked like snow, and Danny thought fleetingly of the hundreds of people who were wishing for a white Christmas, and he felt a total sadness as he pushed through the hospital's revolving doors and entered the wide white entrance lobby. There was a big Christmas wreath on the wall opposite the reception desk, but there was nothing festive about the hospital itself. The girl behind the desk was polishing her nails. On a bench opposite the desk, an old man sat with his hat in his hands, glancing anxiously every few moments toward the Emergency Room down the corridor.
Danny took off his hat and walked to the desk. The girl did not look up. She painted her nails with the precision and skill of a Japanese dollmaker.
Danny cleared his throat. "Miss?" he said.
"Yes," the girl said, working the brush over her extended forefinger, covering the moon, splashing the oval with carmine brilliance.
"I'd like to see Steve Carella," Danny said. "Stephen Carella."
"What is your name, sir?" the girl asked.
"Daniel Nelson," he replied.
The girl put down the brush, held the fingers of the painted hand widespread, and reached for a typewritten sheet with the other hand. She reached for it automatically, without even looking for it. She put it down in front of her, studied it, and said, "Your name's not on this list, sir."
"What list?" Danny asked.
"Mr. Carella is in a critical condition," the girl said. "We are admitting only members of his family and, because of the nature of the case, certain people from the police department. I'm sorry, sir."
"Is he all right?" Danny asked.
The girl looked at him dispassionately. "It's not usual to put a man on the critical list unless we feel his condition is critical," she said.
"When… when will you know?" Danny asked.
"I have no way of telling, sir. He may rally, or he may not. I'm afraid it's out of our hands."
"Is it all right if I wait?"
"Certainly, sir," she said. "You may sit on the bench there, if you like. It may be some time, you realize."
"I realize," Danny said. "Thank you."
He wondered why one of the few honest emotions he'd ever felt should be frustrated this way by a young chippie who was more interested in painting her nails than in life and death. He shrugged, blaming bureaucracy, and then went to sit on the bench alongside the old man. The old man turned to him almost instantly.