"All right, let's cut the crap," Havilland said sharply.
"Well, I…"
"We know what happened at the card game. We know all about the gunsel routine and the way you goofed and called it 'gonzo' and the way it brought down the house, and the way you were called Gonzo the rest of the night Batman told us all about it, and Batman'll swear to it. We figure the rest like this, pal. We figure you used the Gonzo tag when you took over Hernandez' trade because you didn't figure it was wise to identify your own name with your identity as a pusher. Okay, so these kids were looking for Gonzo, and they found him, and one of them bought a sixteenth from you, and he'll swear to that, too. Now how about the rest?"
"What rest?"
"How about the cop you shot?"
"What?"
"How about that rope you put around Hernandez' neck?"
"What?"
"How about the slash job you did on Maria?"
"Listen, listen, I didn't—"
"How about shoving that old lady down the airshaft?"
"Me? Holy Jesus, I didn't do—"
"Which one did you do?"
"None of them! Holy Jesus, what do you take me for?"
"You shot that cop, Gonzo!"
"No, I didn't."
"We know you did. He told us."
"He told you nothing."
"Who?"
"This cop, whoever you're talking about. He couldn't have said it was me because I had nothing to do with it."
"You've got a lot to do with all of this, Gonzo."
"Stop calling me Gonzo. My name's Dickie."
"Okay, Dickie. Why'd you kill Hernandez? To get his two-bit business?"
"Don't be stupid!"
"Then why?" Byrnes shouted. "To drag my son in on it? How'd Larry's fingerprints get on that syringe?"
"How do I know? What syringe?"
"The syringe found with Hernandez."
"I didn't know there was one."
"There was. How'd you swing it?"
"I didn't."
"Were you trying to frame my son for this?"
"Stop harping on your son. Your son can go drop dead, for all I care."
"Who's the man that calls me, Gonzo?"
"I didn't know anybody called you Gonzo."
"Look, you rotten punk…"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Somebody called to tell me about my son and that syringe. Somebody's got something on his mind. Was he the guy at that card game?"
"I don't know who that guy was."
"The same guy who called me, isn't he?"
"I don't know who calls you."
"The guy who helped you kill Hernandez, isn't he?"
"I didn't kill anybody."
"And Maria, and the old lady…"
"I didn't kill anybody."
"You killed a cop," Willis snapped.
"Is he dead?" Collins asked.
The room was suddenly very quiet.
"What's wrong with that?" Collins said.
"You tell us, pal."
"You told me a cop got shot. You didn't say he was dead."
"No, we didn't."
"Okay, so how was I supposed to know about the goddamn bull? You didn't say he was dead, only that he got shot."
"We didn't say he was a bull, either," Byrnes said.
"What?"
"We said a cop. What makes you think he's a detective?"
"I don't know, I just thought so. From the way you were talking."
"His name is Steve Carella," Willis said. "You shot him on Friday, Collins, and he's still fighting for his life. He told us you shot him. Why don't you tell us the rest of it, and make it easy for yourself?"
"There's nothing to tell. I'm clean. If your cop dies, you ain't got a thing on me. I ain't got a gun, and I wasn't carrying no junk. So do me something."
"We're gonna do you a lot, pal," Havilland said. "In about three seconds flat, I'm gonna beat the crap out of you."
"Go ahead. See what that gets you. I ain't involved in none of this. Your cop is crazy. I didn't shoot him, and I got nothing to do with Hernandez, either. You going to build a friendship at the Junior Navals into a federal case?"
"No," Willis said, "but we're going to build your footprint into a murder case, that's for sure."
"My what?"
"The footprint we found near Carella's body," Willis lied. "We're going to check it against every pair of shoes you own. If it matches up you're—"
"We were standing on stone!" Collins shouted.
And that was it.
He blinked, realizing it was too late to turn back now, realizing they had him cold. "Okay," he said, "I shot him. But only because he was going to take me in. I didn't want to get tied in with this other stuff. I had nothing to do with killing Hernandez or his sister. Nothing. And I never saw that old lady in my life."
"Who killed them?" Byrnes asked.
Collins was silent for a moment.
"Douglas Patt," he said at last.
Willis was already starting for his coat. "No," Byrnes called, "I want him. What's his address, Collins?"
Chapter Sixteen
It was very cold up on the roof, colder perhaps than anyplace in the city. The wind swept around the chimney pots and ate into a man's bones. You could see the entire city almost from up there on the roof, the lights winking, a city of secrets, little secrets.
He stood for a moment and looked out past the rooftops, and he wondered how everything could have gone so wrong. The plan seemed like such a good one, and yet it had gone wrong. Too many people, he thought. Whenever there are too many people, things go wrong.
He sighed and turned his back to the cutting wind that whipped the clothes lines and the fragile panes of glass in the walls of the buildings. He felt very tired, and somehow very lonely. It shouldn't have worked out this way. A plan so good should have worked out better. Despondently, he walked to the pigeon coop. He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door, hanging the lock back on the latch. He stepped into the coop, and the pigeons—alarmed for a moment—beat their wings and then resolved their private fears and settled down again.
He saw the female fantail almost instantly.
She lay on the floor of the coop, and he knew at once that she was dead.
Gently, he bent down and picked her up, and he held her on his widespread hands, staring at her, as if staring would bring her back to life.
Everything seemed suddenly too much to bear. Everything seemed to have been leading to this ultimate, crushing defeat: the death of his fantail. He kept watching the bird, aware that his hands were trembling, but unable to stop them. He went out of the coop then, still holding the bird in his hands. He walked across the roof, and he sat with his back to one of the chimney pots. He put the bird down gently at his feet, and then—as if his hands were too idle now that they were empty—he picked up a loose brick and turned it over and over in his hands, like a potter working with wet clay. He was turning the brick, slowly, slowly, when the man came up onto the roof.
The man looked around for a moment and then walked directly to where he was sitting.
"Douglas Patt?" the man asked.
"Yes?" he answered. He looked up into the man's eyes. The eyes were very hard. The man stood with his shoulders hunched against the wind, his hands in his pockets.
"I'm Lieutenant Byrnes," the man said.
"Oh," Patt answered.
They looked at each other silently for a long time. Patt made no motion to rise. Slowly, he kept turning the brick over in his hands, the dead bird at his feet.
"How did you get to me?" he asked at last.
"Dickie Collins," Byrnes said.
"Mmm," Patt said. He didn't seem to care very much. He didn't seem at all interested in how the police had found him. "I figured he would be a weak link if you got onto him." Patt shook his head. "Too many people," he said. He looked down at the bird. He gripped the brick more tightly in one hand.