“Okay,” Carella said. “I’ll get on it right away.”
“Yeah,” Byrnes said. “You get any make on that picture yet?”
“Not yet,” Carella said, and he opened the door. “Anything else, Pete?”
“No, no, go ahead. Get back to work. Go ahead.”
Carella went out into the squadroom. Hernandez came over to him and said, “There was a call for you while you were with the loot, Steve.”
“Oh?” Carella said.
“Yeah. Some guy saw the picture of the stiff in the papers. Said he recognized him.”
6.
THE MAN WHO HAD PHONED the 87th to identify the photograph of the stiff was named Christopher Random. He was a man in his early sixties, and he had only four teeth in his mouth, two upper front and two lower front. He had told Detective Hernandez that he could be found in a bar called Journey’s End, and it was there indeed that Carella and Hernandez found him at eleven-thirty that morning.
Journey’s End may have been just that for a good many of the bar’s customers. They were all wearing wrinkled and soiled gray suits. They were all wearing caps. They were all past fifty, and they all had the veined noses and fogged eyes of the habitual drinker.
Christopher Random had that nose and those eyes, and in addition he had only those four teeth, so that he looked like a remarkable specimen of something preserved in alcohol. Carella asked the bartender which of the men in the gray wrinkled suits was Random, and the bartender pointed him out and then he and Hernandez went to the end of the bar and Carella flashed the tin at Random, who blinked, nodded and casually threw off the shot of whiskey which rested on the bar before him.
He burped and the fumes damn near killed Carella and Hernandez.
“Mr. Random?” Carella said.
“That’s me,” Random said. “Christopher Random, scourge of the Orient.”
“What makes you say that?” Carella asked.
“I beg your pardon? Say what?”
“Scourge of the Orient.”
“Oh.” Random thought for a few moments. “No reason,” he said, shrugging. “Just an expression.”
“You called the precinct, sir, to say you knew who that dead man was, is that right?”
“That is right, sir,” Random said. “What is your name, sir?”
“Carella. And this is Detective Hernandez.”
“Nice to meet you two gentlemen,” Random said. “Would either of you care for a little refreshment, or are you not allowed to imbibe while wearing the blue?” He paused. “That’s just an expression,” he said.
“We’re not allowed to drink on duty,” Carella said.
“That is a shame,” Random said. “Sir, that is a crying shame. Barkeep, I would like another whiskey, please. Now then, about that photograph?”
“Yes, sir, what about it?” Carella said. “Who was he?”
“I don’t know.”
“But I thought—”
“That is to say, I don’t know what his name is. Or, to be more precise, I don’t know what his full name is. I do know his first name.”
“And what’s that?” Hernandez asked.
“Johnny.”
“But Johnny what, you don’t know?”
“That is correct, sir. Johnny what, I do not know. Or even Johnny Who.” Random smiled. “That’s just an expression,” he said. “Ahh, here’s my whiskey now. Drink hearty lads, this stuff here puts hair on your clavicle it does, arghhhhh!” He smacked his lips, set the glass down again and asked, “Where were we?”
“Johnny.”
“Yes, sir. Johnny.”
“What about him? How do you happen to know him?”
“I met him in a bar, sir.”
“Where?”
“On The Stem, I believe.”
“The Stem and where?”
“North Eighteenth?”
“Are you asking us or telling us?” Carella said.
“I don’t know the street exactly,” Random said, “but I do know the name of the bar, it is called, sir, the Two Circles, does that help you?”
“Maybe,” Carella said. “When did this meeting take place?”
“Let me think,” Random said. His brow wrinkled. He sucked spit in around his four teeth and made horrible noises with his mouth. “I think better with a bit of refreshment before me,” he said subtly.
“Bartender, another whiskey,” Carella said.
“Why, thank you, sir, that’s good of you,” Random said. “I think I met him a few nights before the beginning of the month. March twenty-ninth or thirtieth, something like that. It was a Saturday night, I remember.”
Carella flipped open his wallet and pulled a small celluloid calendar from one of the compartments. “Saturday was the twenty-eighth,” he said. “Was that the date?”
“If it was the last Saturday in March, yes sir.”
“There were no Saturdays in March after that one,” Carella said, smiling.
“Then that, sir, was the date, yes, sir. Ahhh, here’s my whiskey now. Drink hearty, lads, this stuff here puts hair on your clavicle it does, arghhhhh!” He smacked his lips, set the glass down again and asked, “Where were we?”
“Johnny,” Hernandez said. “Met him in a bar called the Two Circles up on The Stem on Saturday night, March twenty-eighth. Go on.”
“Did you write all that down, sir?” Random asked.
“I did.”
“Remarkable.”
“How old would you say the man was?” Carella asked. “This fellow Johnny.”
“In his sixties, I would say.”
“In good health, would you say?”
Random shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not a physician, you understand.”
“I know. But was he coughing or anything? Did he look pale or run-down? Did he have any tics or nervous mannerisms? Did he—”
“He seemed to be in perfectly good health,” Random said, “as far as I could tell. You understand, I didn’t ask him to take off his clothes so I could give him a physical examination, you understand, sir. I am saying only that, on the surface, looking at him with my naked eye, and without the benefit of a medical education, I would say this fellow Johnny was as fit as a fiddle.” Random paused. “That’s just an expression,” he said.
“Okay,” Carella said, “he told you his first name was Johnny. Did he mention his last name?”
“No, sir, he did not. Sir, with all due respect to the Police Department, any extended conversation makes me exceedingly thirsty. I do wish I could…”
“Bartender, another whiskey,” Hernandez said. “He didn’t give you his last name, correct?”
“Correct.”
“What did he say?”
“He said he was on his way to work.”
“Work? What kind of work?”
“He didn’t say.”
“But this was the nighttime, wasn’t it?”
“That is correct, sir. It was a Saturday night.”
“And he said he was going to work?”
“Yes, sir, that is exactly what he said.”
“But he didn’t say what kind of work?”
“No, sir,” Random said. “Of course, he was wearing the uniform.”
“Uniform?” Carella said.
“Uniform?” Hernandez echoed.
“Was it a sailor’s uniform?” Carella asked. “Was he a sailor, Mr. Random?”
“Ahhhh,” Random said, “here’s my whiskey now. Drink hearty, lads, this stuff here puts hair on your clavicle, it does, arghhhhh!” He smacked his lips, set the glass down again and asked, “Where were we?”
“The uniform. Was it a sailor’s uniform?”
“A sailor’s uniform? On a man well into his sixties? Now, sirs, that’s pretty silly, if you ask me.”