One down, he thought, and turned just as Pete unleashed a haymaker that caught him on the side opposite the broken rib, thank God for small favors. He lurched back against the counter in pain, brought up his knee in an attempt to groin Pete, who was hip to the ways of the street and sidestepped gingerly while managing at the same time to clobber Kling on the cheek, bringing his fist straight down from above his head, as though he were holding a mallet in it.
I am going to get killed, Kling thought.
“Your brother’s dead,” he said.
He said the words suddenly and spontaneously, the first good idea he’d had all week. They stopped Pete cold in his tracks, with his fist pulled back for the blow that could have ended it all in the next thirty seconds, smashing either the bridge of Kling’s nose or his windpipe. Pete turned swiftly to look at his brother where he lay motionless in the sawdust. Kling knew a good thing when he saw one. He didn’t try to hit Pete again, he didn’t even try to kick him; he knew that any further attempts at trying to overpower him physically were doomed to end only one way, and he did not desire a little tag on his big toe. He dove headlong for his gun in the corner of the room, scooped it up in his left hand, the butt awkward and uncomfortable, rolled over, sat up, and curled his finger around the trigger as Pete turned toward him once again.
“Hold it, you son of a bitch!” Kling said.
Pete lunged across the room.
Kling squeezed the trigger once, and then again, aiming for Pete’s trunk, just as he had done on the police range so many times, the big target up there at the end of the range, the parts of the body marked with numerals for maximum lethal reward, five points for the head and throat, chest and abdomen, four for the shoulders, three for the arms, two for the legs. He scored a ten with Peter Brice, because both slugs caught him in the chest, one of them going directly through his heart and the other piercing his left lung.
Kling lowered his gun.
He sat on the floor in the corner of the room, and watched Pete’s blood oozing into the sawdust, and wiped sweat from his lip, and blinked, and then began crying because this was one hell of a fucking Christmas Eve, all right.
Carella had been parked across the street from The Chandeliers for close to two hours, waiting for Fletcher and Arlene to finish their dinner. It was now ten minutes to ten, and he was drowsy and discouraged and beginning to think the bug in the car wasn’t such a hot idea after all. On the way out to the restaurant, Fletcher and Arlene had not once mentioned Sarah or the plans for their impending marriage. The only remotely intimate thing they had discussed was receipt of the lingerie Fletcher had sent, which Arlene just adored, and which she planned to model for him later that night.
It was now later that night, and Carella was anxious to put them both to bed and get home to his family. When they finally came out of the restaurant and began walking toward Fletcher’s Oldsmobile, Carella actually uttered an audible “At last” and started his car. Fletcher started the Olds in silence, and then apparently waited in silence for the engine to warm before pulling out of the parking lot. Carella followed close behind, listening intently. Neither Fletcher nor Arlene had spoken a word since they entered the automobile. They proceeded east on Route 701 now, heading for the bridge, and still they said nothing. Carella thought at first that something was wrong with the equipment, and then he thought that Fletcher had tipped to this bug, too, and was deliberately maintaining silence, and then finally Arlene spoke and Carella knew just what had happened. The pair had argued in the restuarant, and Arlene had been smoldering until this moment when she could no longer contain her anger. The words burst into the stillness of Carella’s car as he followed close behind, Arlene shouting, Maybe you don’t want to marry me at all!
That’s ridiculous, Fletcher said.
Then why won’t you set a date? Arlene said.
I have set a date, Fletcher said.
You haven’t set a date. All you’ve done is say after the trial, after the trial. When after the trial?
I don’t know yet.
When the hell will you know, Gerry?
Don’t yell.
Maybe this whole damn thing has been a stall. Maybe you never planned to marry me.
You know that isn’t true, Arlene.
How do I know there really were separation papers?
There were. I told you there were.
Then why wouldn’t she sign them?
Because she loved me.
Bullshit.
She said she loved me.
If she loved you . . .
She did.
Then why did she do those horrible things?
I don’t know.
Because she was a whore, that’s why.
To make me pay, I think.
Is that why she showed you her little black book?
Yes, to make me pay.
No. Because she was a whore.
I guess. I guess that’s what she became.
Putting a little TG in her book every time she told you about a new one.
Yes.
A new one she’d fucked.
Yes.
Told Gerry, and marked a little TG in her book.
Yes, to make me pay.
A whore. You should have gone after her with detectives. Gotten pictures, threatened her, forced her to sign those damn . . .
No, I couldn’t have done that. It would have ruined me, Arl.
Your precious career.
Yes, my precious career.
They both fell silent again. They were approaching the bridge now. The silence persisted. Fletcher paid the toll, and then drove onto the River Highway, Carella following. They did not speak again until they were well into the city. Carella tried to stay close behind them, but on occasion the distance between the two cars lengthened and he lost some words in the conversation.
You know she had me in a bind, Fletcher said. You know that, Arlene.
I thought so. But now I’m not so sure anymore.
She wouldn’t sign the papers, and I ( ) adultery because ( ) have come out.
All right.
I thought ( ) perfectly clear, Arl.
And I thought ( )
I did everything I possibly could.
Yes, Gerry, but now she’s dead. So what’s your excuse now?
I have reasons for wanting to wait.
What reasons?
I told you.
I don’t recall your telling me . . .
I’m suspected of having killed her, goddamn it!
(Silence. Carella waited. Up ahead, Fletcher was making a left turn, off the highway. Carella stepped on the accelerator, not wanting to lose voice contact now.)
What difference does that make? Arlene asked.
None at all, I’m sure, Fletcher said. I’m sure you wouldn’t at all mind being married to a convicted murderer.
What are you talking about?
I’m talking about the possibility . . . never mind.
Let me hear it.
I said never mind.
I want to hear it.
All, right, Arlene. I’m talking about the possibility of someone accusing me of murder. And of having to stand trial for it.
That’s the most paranoid . . .
It’s not paranoid.
Then what is it? They’ve caught the murderer, they . . .