"What I'm trying to get at ... well, what's he looking for trouble for? Is he hotheaded or something?"
Luis shrugged. "No more than most,"
"Spanish people are supposed to be hotheaded, ain't they?"
"Some are, some aren't," Luis said, shrugging again.
"We ain't got a single Spanish person in all Fletcher, you know that?" Jeff said, a touch of surprise in his voice. "I never even seen a Spanish person until today, how do you like that?"
"I never saw anybody from Fletcher until today," Luis answered.
"What I'm trying to figure out..." Jeff paused, studied the blood-smeared handkerchief, and then looked up at Luis. "Well, you seem all right."
"All right?"
"I mean ... you ain't like him." Jeff paused. "That Miranda's Spanish too, ain't he?"
"Si."
Jeff said nothing. He nodded, and then seemed to fall into silent thought.
"If you figure that way, sailor, you will be making a big mistake."
"What way?"
"You know what way. That's the easy way to figure."
"This is pretty personal with me, Louise," Jeff said. "I got to know. I ain't doing this just for the fun of it. It's ... it's important to me."
"Why is it so important to you?"
"Because, well..." He looked at the clock on the wall, and he wondered if China would keep her date with him. And then he wondered if he still wanted to see her. He frowned and said, "It's just important to me, that's all."
10
Everyone seemed ready for whatever might lie ahead.
The police in the streets and on the rooftops and in the back yard were ready. The people watching the show were ready. Zip and Sixto had obtained a large packing crate from the lot on the corner and had set it up just beyond the barricade; they were ready. And even Lieutenant Byrnes seemed ready now. He apparently had learned that his forces were deployed exactly the way he wanted them. He held a large, battery-powered megaphone, and he stepped out from behind the squad car, put the cumbersome apparatus to his mouth, blew into it several times to test the volume, and then said, "Miranda? Pepe Miranda? Can you hear me?"
His voice echoed on the silent street. The people waited for Miranda's reply, but none came.
"Can you hear me?" Byrnes said again, his voice booming out of the speaker. Again, there was silence. In the silence, the crowd seemed to catch its breath together, so that something like a sigh escaped their collective lips. "All right, I know you can hear me, so listen to what I'm saying. We've got this street and the next street blocked. There are policemen with guns in every window and on every rooftop facing that apartment, front and rear. You're trapped, Miranda. You hear that?"
Zip and Sixto clambered up onto the crate and peered over the heads of the crowd. "This is our box, you dig me?" Zip said. "Only for the Latin Purples. I don't want nobody else climbing on it."
"How about it, Miranda?" Byrnes said. "You coming out, or do we have to come in after you?"
"Why don't he answer?" Zip said impatiently. He turned to the first-floor windows, cupped his hands to his mouth, and shouted, "Answer him, Pepe!"
"If there's shooting around here," Byrnes said into the megaphone, "some of these people in the street might get hurt. Now how about it, are you coming out?"
There was another long silence. Byrnes waited.
"Okay," he started, "if you..." and the voice came suddenly from one of the first-floor windows. There was .no body attached to the voice, no one visible in any of the windows. The voice seemed to materialize from nowhere, a shouted voice which rang into the street, cutting off the lieutenant's words.
"Who did I shoot?"
"It's Pepe!" Zip shouted, and the cry spread through the crowd like lava rushing down a mountainside, "It's Pepe, Pepe, it's Pepe, it's Pepe, Pepe, Pepe."
"You shot one of our patrolmen," Byrnes said.
"Did I kill him?" Miranda shouted from the apartment, still invisible, his voice floating down into the street.
'Wo."
"You're lying to me. I killed him."
"You hit him in the shoulder. Are you coming out?"
"Did I kill him? Is he dead?"
"Let them come after you, Pepe!" Zip shouted.
"Miranda, we don't want to play games here. If you 're coming out..."
A new sound erupted, drowning out the words that came from the megaphone, filling the air with its familiar wail.
"What's that?" Miranda shouted.
"It's an ambulance. What do you say, Miranda?"
"He shouldn't have tried nothing with me," Miranda said. "He could have got killed. I could have killed him."
"Butyou didn't. So what do you say? Yes or no? You coming out?"
"No!" Miranda shouted, suddenly and viciously. "You think you got some cheap punk up here? This is Pepe Miranda!" His voice rose. "You hear me? You want me, you come in here and get me!"
"That's telling them, Pepe!" Zip yelled, and he poked Sixto in the ribs, and suddenly the street was alive with cheers of encouragement.
"Yea, Pepe!"
"Bravo, Pepe!"
"Tell 'em, tell 'em!"
"Quiet!" Byrnes roared. "Everybody quiet!" Patrolmen moved quickly into the crowd, and the people in the street fell suddenly silent. But the rooftops still rang with cheers for the trapped killer in the apartment. Byrnes waited for the sound to die out. He put the megaphone to his mouth and said, "All right, Miranda. No more talk. We're coming in."
"Then stop talking and come get me, you yellow bastards!" Miranda shouted, and suddenly the shade on one of the windows snapped up, and there he was, Pepe Miranda the killer, a short, wiry man standing in his undershirt, his lips pulled back into a snarl, a three days' growth of beard on his face, a gun in each hand. He pulled back his head, and then snapped it forward with a short jerking motion, spitting into the street. And then he began firing blindly, both guns blazing as if he were trying to prove he was the marshal of a tough Western town.
Byrnes waved at the rooftops, and an ear-splitting volley shattered Sunday like a piece of crystal. He scooted for cover behind the squad car while the guns roared down from the rooftops. In the crowd, women were screaming and men were ducking behind each other for cover. Byrnes waved his hand again. The volley stopped, Miranda was no longer at the window.
He gathered Carella, Parker and Hernandez around him. "Okay," he said, "we're moving in. This time Miranda bit off too big a piece." He paused and looked at the faces of the men around him. "Has Captain Frick arrived yet, Steve?"
"Yes. I saw him a little while ago."
"Let's find him. I want this to be right."
Frederick Block was on his way home when he suddenly found himself in the middle of a traffic jam. Block hated traffic jams, and he especially hated them on weekends. He had gone to his office downtown to pick up a carton of eyelets which a factory in Riverhead needed instantly. He had made the delivery himself "When you deal with Block Industries, you get service," he had told his client and had then taken the shortest route he knew from Riverhead to the Calm's Point Bridge, and that route happened to take him through the heart of Isola and the 87th Precinct. And now he was in the middle of a traffic jam, on a Sunday, sweating inside his automobile when he should have been at the beach. Block was a fat man. Not one of those fat men who try to kid themselves by applying euphemistic terms like "stout" or "chubby" to their obesity. He was fat. F-A-T. And being fat, he sweated a great deal. And being a person who sweated fat men, Block knew, never perspired he did not appreciate being locked in a parked car in the middle of Isola on a day like today.
He bore the heat with tolerant malice for as long as he could. Then he got out of the car and tried to find out just what the hell was causing the tie-up. As far as he could see, there had been no accident. It always annoyed the hell out of Block when there was an accident. In the first place, careful drivers didn't get into accidents. And in the second and more important place, even if the wrecked car itself didn't block the road, traffic always slowed down to a snail's pace because every passing motorist wanted to study the extent of the damage.