Keating claimed that the game had started at eight o'clock
and ended at around a quarter past midnight. The six other
men confirmed that he had been there during the times he'd stated. His wife, as was to be expected, confirmed
that he'd come home at around one a.m., and had not left
the apartment again that night.
It appeared to the detectives that their two prime suspects had airtight alibis and that whoever had dropped Rohypnol into Andrew Male's drink and draped him over a closet hook was still out there boogying someplace.
At Hale's funeral on Sunday morning, they listened to a minister who had never met the man telling his sole remaining relatives what a fine and upstanding
human being he'd been. Cynthia Keating and her husband
Robert listened dry-eyed. It was still raining when the first shovelful of earth was dumped onto Male's simple wooden casket.
It was as if he had never existed.
From home that Sunday night, Carella called Danny Gimp.
"Danny?" he said. "It's Steve."
"Hey, Steve," Danny said. "Whatta ya hear?"
This was a joke. Danny Gimp was an informer. He—
and not Carella—was the one who heard things and passed them on. For money. The men didn't exchange any niceties. Carella got right down to business.
"Old guy named Andrew Hale . . ."
"How
old?" Danny asked.
"Sixty-eight."
"Ancient," Danny said.
"Got himself aced Thursday night."
"Where?"
"Apartment off Currey Yard."
"What time?"
"ME puts it around midnight. But you know how accurate PMFs are."
"How'd he catch it?"
"Hanged. But first he was doped with a drug called
Rohypnol. Ever hear of it?"
"Sure."
"You have?"
"Sure," Danny said.
"Anyway," Carella said, "the only two people who had any reason to want him dead have alibis a mile long. We're wondering if maybe they knew somebody handy with a noose."
"Uh-huh."
"He's a lawyer . . ."
"The dead man?"
"No. One of the suspects."
"A criminal lawyer?"
"No. But he knows criminal lawyers."
"That doesn't mean he knows hit men."
"It means there could've been access."
"Okay."
"Ask around, Danny. There's twenty-five grand in
insurance money involved here."
"That ain't a lot."
"I know. But maybe it's enough."
"Well, let me go on the earie, see what's what."
"Get back to me, okay?"
"If I hear anything."
"Even if you don't."
"Okay," Danny said, and hung up.
He did not get back to Carella until the following Sunday night, the seventh of November. By that time, the case was stone cold dead.
Danny came limping into the place he himself had chosen
for the meet, a pizzeria on Culver and Sixth. The collar of his threadbare coat was pulled high against the wind
and the rain. A long, college-boy, striped muffler was wrapped around his neck, and he was wearing woolen gloves. He peered around the place as if he were a spy
coming in with nuclear secrets. Carella signaled to him. A scowl crossed Danny's face.
"You shouldn't do that," he said, sliding into the booth. "Bad enough I'm meeting you in a public place."
Carella was willing to forgive Danny his occasional
irritability. He had never forgotten that Danny had come to the hospital when he'd got shot for the first time in his professional life. It had not been an easy thing for Danny
to do; police informers do not last long on the job once
it is known they are police informers. Danny's eyes were
darting all over the place now, checking the perimeter. He himself had chosen the venue, but he seemed disturbed by
it now, perhaps because it was unexpectedly crowded at
nine a.m. on a Monday morning. Who the hell expected
people eating pizza for breakfast? But he couldn't go to
the station house, and he didn't want Carella to come to his shitty little room over on the South Side because to tell the truth, it embarrassed him. Danny had known better times.
He was thinner than Carella had ever seen him, his
eyes rheumy, his nose runny. He kept taking paper napkins from the holder on the table, blowing his nose, crumpling the napkins and stuffing them into the pockets of his coat, which he had not yet removed. He did not look healthy. But more than that, he looked unkempt, odd for a man who'd always prided himself on what he considered sartorial elegance. Danny needed a shave. Soiled shirt cuffs showed at the edges of his ragged coat sleeves. His face was dotted with blackheads, his fingernails edged with grime. Sensing Carella's scrutiny, he said in seeming explanation, "The leg's been bothering me."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"Yeah, it still bothers me. From when I got shot that time."
"Uh-huh."
Actually, Danny had never been shot in his life. He
limped because he'd had polio as a child. But pretending
he'd been wounded in a big gang shoot-out gave him a
certain street cred he considered essential to the gathering
of incidental information. Carella was willing to forgive him the lie.
"You want some pizza?" he asked.
"Coffee might be better," Danny said, and started to
rise.
BMiimCi
"Sit," Carella said, "I'll get it. You want anything with it?"
"The pastry looks good," Danny said. "Bring me one
of them chocolate things, okay?"
Carella went up to the counter and came back some five minutes later with two chocolate eclairs and two cups of coffee. Danny was blowing on his hands, trying to warm them. A constant flow of traffic through the entrance doors and past the counter kept bringing in the cold from outside. He picked up his coffee cup, warmed his hands on that for a while. Carella bit into his chocolate eclair. Danny bit into his. "Oh, Jesus," he said, "that is delicious," and took another bite. "Oh, Jesus," he said again.
"So what've you got?" Carella asked.
$, was a big-enough prize in a city where you
could buy anyone's dead ass for a subway token. If Robert Keating and his wife Cynthia had been otherwise engaged while her father was being hoisted and hanged, the possibility existed that they'd hired someone to do the job for them. In this city, you could get anything done to anybody for a price. You want somebody's eyeglasses smashed? You want his fingernails pulled out? His legs broken? You want him more seriously injured? You want him hurt so he's an invalid the rest of his life? You want him skinned, you want him burned, you want him—don't even mention it in a whisper—killed! It can be done. Let me talk to someone. It can be done.
"I've got quite a lot, actually," Danny said, seemingly
more involved in his eclair than in doing business.
"Oh really?" Carella said.
On the phone last night, Danny had said only that he'd come up with something interesting. This morning, it seemed to be more than that. But perhaps this was just the prelude to negotiation.
Actually, Danny knew that what he had was very good
stuff. So good, in fact, that it might be worth more money
than Carella was used to paying. He hated negotiating
with someone he considered an old friend, though he was never quite sure Carella shared the sentiment. At the same time, he didn't want to pass on information that could conceivably lead to a bust in a murder case, and then have Carella toss fifty bucks or so across the table. This was too good for that kind of chump change.
"I know who did it," he said, flat out.
Carella looked surprised.
"Yeah, I got lucky," Danny said, and grinned. His teeth looked bad, too. He was clearly not taking good