This is one hell of a wedding, Kling thought. Everybody bursting with joy. Even Steve looks pretty gloomy, though I can’t see why that redhead should make any man gloomy.
“I don’t think I know your name,” Kling said to the blonde in the red dress.
“You don’t,” she answered. Her voice was deep and husky.
“Mine’s Bert.”
“Nice to know you,” the blonde said.
He waited for her to offer her name. When she didn’t, he let it pass. What the hell, if a girl didn’t want to give her name, there was no sense forcing her. Besides, he told himself in deference to his fiancée, he was only dancing so that he wouldn’t look conspicuous standing on the sidelines.
“You a relative?” he asked.
“No.” The girl paused. “Are you?”
“No.” Kling paused. “Friend of the bride?”
The girl hesitated for just a fraction of a second. Then she said, “Yes.”
“Nice wedding,” Kling said.
“Lovely,” the girl agreed, and she continued to push him around the floor as if in a hurry to get nowhere particularly fast.
On the bandstand, Sal Martino leaned over to pick up his trombone.
From the corner of his eye, Kling caught the movement. He turned to face the bandleader. Sal’s coat fell open as he picked up the horn. He stood up quickly then, the horn in both hands.
Kling’s arm tightened involuntarily around the blonde’s waist.
“Hey,” she said. “Easy does it, boy.”
Kling released her. “Excuse me, miss,” he said, and he left her standing in the middle of the dance floor.
Teddy Carella sat at the table alongside the bride’s table, sipping disconsolately at a Manhattan, watching her husband cavort in the arms of a redheaded sexpot from Flemington, New Jersey.
This is not fair, she thought angrily. There is no competition here. I don’t know who that damn girl is, or what she wants — although what she wants seems pretty apparent — but I do know that she is svelte and trim and wearing a dress designed for a size eight. Since she is at least a ten, and possibly a twelve, the odds are stacked against me to begin with. I am at least a size fifty-four right now. When will this baby come? Next week did the doctor say? Yes, next week. Next week and four thousand years from now. I’ve been big forever. I hope it’s a boy. Mark, if it’s a boy. Mark Carella. That’s a good name.
Steve, you don’t have to hold her so damn close!
I mean, really, goddamnit!
And April if it’s a girl.
I wonder if I should faint or something. That would bring him back to the table in a hurry, all right. Although I can’t really say that he’s holding her close because she seems to be doing all the holding. But I guess holding works both ways, and don’t think this has been easy on me, Steve, my pet, and you really needn’t — Steve! If your hand moves another inch, I am going to crown you with a champagne bottle!
She watched as Bert Kling pushed his way through the dancers, heading for her husband.
Is he going to cut in? she wondered.
And then Kling’s hand clamped down on Carella’s shoulder, and he backed away from the redhead as Kling whispered something in his ear.
Carella blinked.
“What? What did you say?”
In a hurried whisper, Kling repeated, “The bandleader! He’s carrying a gun under his coat!”
Chapter 8
Sal Martino didn’t look very happy at all.
The detectives had waited until the intermission and then, as the waiters began serving the shrimp cocktail, they’d approached the bandstand, asked him to accompany them, and led him upstairs to a small bedroom in the Carella house. They stood before him in a three-man semicircle, now, Hawes, Carella, and Kling. Their faces were humorless and grim.
“Why are you carrying a gun?” Carella said.
“Who wants to know?” Sal answered.
“I do. I’m a detective. Do you want to see my badge?”
“Yes. I do. What is this, anyway?”
Carella flipped open his wallet. “It’s a few questions, Sal,” he said. “We want to know about that gun under your jacket. Now what the hell are you doing with a gun?”
Sal studied the shield. “That’s my business,” he said. “You got no right to ask me. What the hell is this? A police state?”
“Give me the gun,” Carella said.
“What for?”
“Give it to me!” he snapped.
Sal dug into the shoulder holster under his jacket.
“Butt first,” Carella said.
Sal handed him the gun. Carella looked at it, and then gave it to Hawes. “An Iver Johnson .22,” he said.
“Protector Sealed Eight,” Hawes agreed, and he sniffed the barrel.
“What the hell are you smelling?” Sal wanted to know. “That hasn’t been fired in years.”
“Why are you carrying it?” Carella asked.
“That’s my business.”
“It’s my business, too,” Carella shouted. “Now don’t get snotty with me, Martino. Answer the questions!”
“I told you. Why I carry a gun is my business and my business alone. And you can go straight to hell!”
“Did you ever try playing the trombone with a busted arm?” Hawes asked quietly.
“What?”
“Why are you carrying a gun?” Hawes shouted.
“I got a permit.”
“Let’s see it.”
“I don’t have to show you nothing.”
“If you’ve got a permit, show it,” Kling said. “Because if you don’t, I’m going straight to that telephone and call the local precinct, and you can explain it all to them in the squadroom. Now how about it, Martino?”
“I told you I got a permit.”
“Then let’s see it!”
“All right, all right, hold your water. I don’t have to show it to you, you know. I’m doing you a favor.”
“You’re doing yourself a favor, Martino. If you’ve got a permit and can’t show it, you lose it. That’s the law. Now let’s see it.”
“You invent your own laws, don’t you?” Martino said, digging into his wallet.
“Is it carry or premises?”
“It’s carry. You think I’d be lugging a gun around with a premises permit?”
“Where is it?”
“Just a minute, just a minute,” Martino said. He pulled a document out of his wallet and then unfolded it. He handed it to Carella. “There,” he said. “You satisfied now?”
The document was divided into three sections separated by perforated folding edges. It was printed on a dull shade of off-pink paper. Its outer edges were serrated. Each section measured 4½ inches by 3¾ inches.
Carella took the small official-looking document from Martino and studied the first section.
Carella read each item carefully. Then he turned the permit over to read its reverse side:
