"I thought you might have done some work for him," Byrnes said.
"Is that a question?" Reynolds asked.
"Counselor," Byrnes said, "could we agree on some basic ground rules here?"
"What basic rules did you have in mind, Lieutenant? I thought I was familiar with all the rules, basic or otherwise, but perhaps I'm mistaken."
"Mr Reynolds," Byrnes said, "we don't need courtroom theatrics here, okay? There's no judge here to rule on objections, there's no jury to play to, your man isn't even under oath. So why not just take it nice and easy, like the song says, okay?"
"Does the song say anything about a cop getting shot tonight?" Reynolds asked. "Which is why my client is here in custody, isn't that so?"
"Well, Counselor," Byrnes said, "if you'd let him answer my questions, we could maybe find out why we're here, okay? Unless you want to call the whole thing off, which is your client's right, as you know."
"For Chrissake, let him ask his goddamn questions," Blaine said. "I got nothing to hide here."
Famous last words, Byrnes thought.
Reynolds was thinking the same thing.
So was Kling.
Brown was wondering if the son of a bitch was going to claim police brutality cause he'd smacked him upside the head back there in his apartment.
Blaine all of a sudden thought he had to be very careful here because somehow they'd learned about his relationship with Enrique Ramirez, and that was a road that led directly to Guide's Pizzeria and a lot of spilled tomato sauce.
Byrnes was thinking he had to walk a very careful line here because they'd promised Betty Young sanctuary, they'd asked her to trust them, and he couldn't now reveal her name or how he'd come into possession of the information she'd given them.
"This pool parlor you work for?" he asked. "Who owns it?"
"I got no idea."
"You don't know who the boss is?"
"Nope. The manager pays me my check every week."
"What's the manager's name?"
"Joey."
"Joey what?"
"I haven't the faintest."
"How'd you get this job?"
"Friend of mine told me about it."
"What's your friend's name?"
"Alvin Woods. He's gone back home to Georgia."
Go find him, he was thinking.
Doesn't exist, Byrnes was thinking.
"Know a man named Ozzie Rivera?"
"Nope."
"Oswaldo Rivera?"
"Never heard of him."
"How about a man named Joaquim Valdez?"
"Nope."
"That wouldn't be the Joey who pays you your check every week, would it?"
"I don't know what Joey's last name is."
"Rivera had both his legs broken last April. Were you living in this city last April?"
"I surely was. But I don't know anything about this Ozzie Rivera or both his broken legs. That sure is a shame, though."
Like to smack him again, Brown thought.
"What were you doing on the morning of November eighth?" Byrnes asked.
Here we go, Blaine thought.
"November eighth, let me see," he said.
"Take all the time you need," Byrnes said.
"Would that have been a Saturday morning? Cause Saturday's my day off. I sleep late Saturdays."
"No, this would've been a Monday morning."
"Then Fd've been at the pool hall."
"Doing what? What do you do at this pool hall, Maxie?"
"I'm a table organizer."
"What's that, a table organizer?"
"I see to it that there's a flow."
"A flow, uh-huh. What's that?"
"I see to it that the tables are continuously occupied. So we don't have people waiting for tables or tables not being played. It's an interesting job."
"I'll bet. Did you ever hear of a man named Danny Nelson?"
"Sorry, no."
"Danny Gimp is another name he went by."
"No. Never heard of him."
"Would you be surprised if I told you he'd stiffed your boss on a minor-league dope deal. . ."
"My boss? Who's supposed to be my boss?"
"Enrique Ramirez. Who owns the pool hall you work for."
"I don't know anybody named Enrique Ramirez, I already told you. Nor Danny Gump, neither."
"Gimp."
"I thought you said Gump."
"Gimp. It means a guy who limps."
"Has all this got to do with some sort of drug violation?" Reynolds asked.
"Two keys of cocaine," Byrnes said, nodding. "Worth forty-two large."
"You know," Reynolds said, "I really think you people should either charge my client with a specific crime or else. . ."
"Ramirez paid a man named Danny Nelson to deliver two keys of coke to a dealer in Majesta," Byrnes explained genially. "Danny never showed up and neither did the coke. You don't do that to Enrique Ramirez."
"I don't know anything about any of this," Blaine said.
"I especially don't know this Enrique Ramirez person, who I guess you're saying is somehow involved with dealing dope."
"El Jefe ? " Byrnes said. "Ever hear him called that?"
"No. Is that Spanish, what you said?"
"We think El Jefe hired you to kill Danny Nelson," Byrnes said.
"Ooops, that's it, Lieutenant," Reynolds said.
"No, that's okay," Blaine said, grinning. "I don't know any of these people he's talking about, so just relax, it's okay. I've got nothing to worry about here. Nice and easy, okay? Like you said, Lieutenant."
Smack him right in the fuckin eye, Brown thought.
"On the morning of November eighth," Byrnes said, "did you tell a friend of yours you were going out for some pizza?"
Kling looked at him. So did Brown. The lieutenant had just come dangerously close to revealing Betty Young's identity. If Blaine walked out of here today . . .
"No," Blaine said. "What friend?"
"Excuse me, lieutenant. . .," Kling said.
"What friend?" Blaine insisted.
"A friend you told you were going out for pizza, on the morning Danny Gimp . . ."
"Lieutenant. . ."
"Did you tell a friend you were going out for pizza?"
"This is Betty Young, right?" Blaine said.
Oh Jesus, Kling thought. The Loot just gave her up.
"Never mind who it is. Did you . . . ?"
"It's that fuckin bitch Betty, ain't it? Who else could it be? What else did she tell you?"
"I would suggest. . ."
"If you don't mind, Counselor. . ."
"Mr Blaine . . ."
"What did you mean when you said you were going out for pizza?" Byrnes asked.
"I meant I was going out for pizza, what the fuck's wrong with that? Oh, I get it. She spotted me on the tape, right? She's going for the re . . ."
"What tape?" Byrnes asked at once.
Blaine suddenly shut up.
"Are we finished here?" Reynolds asked.
"Unless Mr Blaine has something else he wants to tell us," Byrnes said.
"We're finished here," Blaine said.
"You heard him. In which case . . ."
"Like what?" Blaine said.
"Come on," Reynolds said. "Let's go."
"No, like what?" Blaine insisted. "What would I want to tell you?"
"That's up to you," Byrnes said. "You think it over. Meanwhile, we're gonna hold you here for a few hours while we assemble some witnesses from the pizzeria. Run a little lineup for them, see if they can recognize you a little better in person than on that tape you were just talking about. The law allows us . . ."
"That was it, am I right? She spotted me on the tape, that fuckin bitch."
Kling was staring at the lieutenant.
They had asked Betty Young to trust them.
But the lieutenant had given her up.
"You want whose name went in with me?" Blaine asked. "Is that it?"
It was contagious.
The black man who'd been Blaine's partner on the pizzeria shivaree was a dark-skinned Colombian named Hector Milagros. They arrested him in a diner at nine that morning, having breakfast alone in a corner booth. Milagros knew there was no sense trying to force his way out of a situation where his back was to a plate glass window