When he pushes aside the curtain and enters the bar, he finds Candy Al sitting at a table, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief. “The Commissioner’s going to hear about this,” he says without much assurance. “It’s a free country! You cops ain’t the bosses of everything!”
LaPointe picks up his glass of red from the bar and sips it slowly, not setting down the glass until he feels recovered from the swimming dizziness and the constriction in his chest and upper arms that caught him unawares a minute ago. When the last of the effervescence has fizzed out of his blood, he leans back against the bar and looks down at Canducci, who is carefully touching the edge of his handkerchief to the corner of his eye, then examining the damp spot with tender concern.
“You got your finger in my eye! I wear contacts! That could be dangerous for a guy that wears contacts! Fucking cops.” Alone out here without his gang, he reverts to the whining petty thief, alternating between playing it as the movie tough and simpering piteously.
“We’re going to talk about a friend of yours,” LaPointe says, sitting in the chair opposite Canducci.
“I don’t have any friends!”
“That’s truer than you know, shithead. The name is Antonio Verdini, alias Tony Green.”
“Never heard of him.”
“You rented a room for him. The concierge has given evidence.”
“Well, this concierge has her head up her ass! I tell you I never met… whatever you said his name is.”
“Was.”
“What?”
“Was. Not is. He’s dead. Stabbed in an alley.”
The handkerchief is up to Canducci’s eyes, so LaPointe misses the effect of the drop. After a short silence, the Italian says, “So, what’s that to me?”
“Maybe twenty years. Stabbing is the kind of action your people go in for. The Commissioner is on my ass for an arrest. With your record, you’re dogmeat. And I don’t really care if you did it or not. I’ll be satisfied just to get you off the street.”
“I didn’t kill the son of a bitch! I didn’t even know he was dead until you told me. Anyway, I got an alibi.”
“Oh? For what time?”
“You name it, cop! You name it, and I got an alibi for it.” Candy Al dabs at his eyes again. “I think I got a busted blood vessel or something. You’re gonna pay for that. Like they say in the lotteries, un jour ce sera ton tour.”
LaPointe reaches across the table and pats Canducci’s cheek three times, the last tap not gentle. “Are you threatening me?”
Candy Al jerks his head away petulantly. “Where you get off slapping people around? You never heard of police brutality?”
“You’ll have twenty years to make your complaint.”
“I told you, all my time is covered.”
“By them?” LaPointe tips his head toward the poolroom.
“Yeah. That’s right. By them.”
LaPointe dismisses them with a sharp puff of air. “How long do you think one of those kids, sitting back there with his ass in his hands, could stand up to interrogation by me?”
Canducci’s eyes flicker; LaPointe’s point is made. “I’m telling you I didn’t kill this guy!”
“You mean you had him killed?”
“Shit, I don’t even know this Verdini!”
“But at least you remember his name now.”
There is a pause. Canducci considers his situation.
“I don’t talk to cops. I think you’re holding an empty bag. You got a witness? You got fingerprints? You got the knife? If you had any lever on me, we wouldn’t be sitting here. We’d be downtown. You’re empty, cop!” Canducci says this last loudly, to be overheard by the boys in the back. He wants them to see how he treats cops.
Candy Al’s reasoning is correct, so LaPointe has to take another tack. He shifts in his chair and looks out the window past Canducci’s head. For a moment he seems to be absorbed in watching two kids playing in the street, coatless despite the cold. “I hear you’ve got something going with your boys back there,” he says absently.
“What do you mean? What you talking?”
“I’m talking about the rumor that you keep your boys around for pleasure. That you pay them to use you like a woman.” LaPointe shrugs. “Your flashy clothes, your silks, you wear a girdle… it’s easy to see how a rumor like that could spread.”
Canducci’s face bloats with outrage. “Who’s saying this? Give me a name! I’ll sink my fingernails into his forehead and snatch his fucking face off!”
LaPointe lifts a hand. “Take it easy. The rumor hasn’t started yet.”
Canducci is confused. “What the hell you talking about?”
“But by tomorrow night, everyone on the street will be saying that you take it like a woman. I only have to drop a hint here, a wink there.”
“Bullshit! Nobody would believe you! I got a doll on my arm every night.”
“A smart cover-up. But always a different girl. They never hang around. Maybe because you can’t satisfy them.”
“Agh, I get tired of them. I need a little variety.”
“That’s your story. The other bosses would grab up a rumor like that in a second. They’d have big laughs over it. So Candy Al is a fif! Some punk would paint words on your car. Pretty soon your boys would drift away, because they don’t want people saying they’re queers. You’d be alone. People would talk behind their hands when you walked by. They’d whistle at you from across the street.” Every touch is calculated to make the proud Italian wince.
His mind racing, Canducci glares at LaPointe for a full minute. Yes. A rumor like that would spread like clap in a nunnery. They’d love it, those shitheads over on Marconi Street. His jaw tightens and he looks down at the floor. “You’d do that? You’d spread a rumor like that about a man?”
LaPointe snaps his fingers softly. “Like that.”
Candy Al glances toward the poolroom and lowers his voice. He speaks quickly to get it over with. “All right. This Verdini? A friend asked me to find a room for him because his English ain’t too good. I found the room. And that’s it. That’s all I know. If he got himself killed, that’s tough shit. I got nothing to do with it.”
“What’s this friend’s name?”
“I don’t remember. I got lots of friends.”
“Just a minute ago you told me you didn’t have any friends.”
“Agh!”
LaPointe lets the silence sit on Canducci.
“Look! I’m giving it to you straight, Lieutenant!”
“Lieutenant? What happened to Canuck?”
Canducci shrugs, lifting his hands and dipping his head. “Agh, I was just pissed. People say things when they’re pissed.”
“I see. I want you to say the word ‘wop’ for me.”
“Ah, come on!”
“Say it.”
Canducci turns his head and stares at the wall. “Wop,” he says softly.
“Good. Now keep talking about this kid.”
“I already told you everything I know!”
After a moment of silence, LaPointe sighs and rises. “Have it your way, Canducci. But tell me one thing. Those boys back there? Which one’s best?”
“That ain’t funny!”
“Your friends will think so.” LaPointe slaps his hand on the bar to summon the barmaid, who disappeared when she heard how things were going in the poolroom. She has been around enough to know that it is not wise to witness Candy Al’s defeats. She comes from the back room, tugging down her skirt, which is so tight across the hips that it continually rides up.