The third section of the permit simply granted Martino permission to purchase a pistol and was signed by the same Riverhead magistrate, Arthur K. Weidman.
Carella knew at once that the permit was legitimate. He nonetheless took his sweet time examining it. He turned it over in his big hands as if it were a questionable international document prepared by Russian spies. He studied the signature, and he studied the thumb print, and he made a great show of comparing the serial number on the permit with the number stamped into the metal of Martino’s .22.
Then he handed both gun and permit back to the trombonist.
“Now suppose you tell us why you carry it, Sal?”
“I don’t have to. The permit is enough. I got a gun, and I got a permit for it, and that’s all you have to know. If you don’t mind, I’m supposed to play some dinner music.”
“The dinner music can wait. Answer the question, Sal!” Kling said.
“I don’t have to.”
“We’d better pull him in,” Hawes said.
“Pull me in? What for?” Martino yelled.
“For refusing to co-operate with a duly appointed officer of the peace,” Hawes yelled right off the top of his head.
“Okay, okay, okay,” Martino said in rising crescendo, “Okay.”
“Well?”
“I’m scared.”
“What?”
“I’m scared. I play on jobs, and sometimes I don’t get home till three, four in the morning. I’m scared. I don’t like to walk the streets so late at night carrying money and my horn. I’m scared, okay? So I applied for a pistol permit, and I got it. Because I’m scared, okay? Okay? Does that answer your goddamn question?”
“It answers us,” Carella said, and he looked somewhat shamefacedly at his colleagues. “You’d better get back to the band.”
Martino folded his pistol permit in half and then shoved it back into his wallet, alongside his driver’s license.
“There’s no law against being afraid,” he said.
“If there were,” Carella answered, “we’d all be in jail.”
“Here it is,” Meyer Meyer called to the counter. “Donald Pullen, 131 Pondigo Street — no, wait, that’s the office. It’s 4251 Archer. That’s around here, isn’t it?”
“Search me,” O’Brien said. “We’d better ask a cop. You looked up the number too fast, Meyer. I haven’t finished my coffee yet.”
“Well, hurry up.”
Patiently, Meyer waited for O’Brien to gulp down his coffee.
“I’ve been thirsting for this cup of coffee all day,” O’Brien said. “I’ve got to work out that problem with Miscolo. Do you think maybe I can subtly hint that he change brands or something?”
“I don’t think that’d work, Bob.”
“No, I don’t think so, either.”
“Why don’t you bring your own coffeepot to the office? And buy yourself a hot plate? One of those single-burner jobs.”
“Gee, that sounds like a good idea,” O’Brien said. “Except for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know how to make coffee.”
“All right, come on, drink up.”
O’Brien finished his coffee. Together, they walked out to the unmarked police sedan parked at the curb.
“4251 Archer,” Meyer said. “We’ll ask the first traffic cop we see.”
They did not see a cop for ten blocks. They pulled over to him and asked him where Archer Street was.
“Archer Avenue, you mean?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“So say what the hell you mean. And pull over to the curb. You’re blocking traffic!”
“We only want to know—”
“I know what you want to know. You giving me an argument?”
“No, sir,” Meyer said, and he pulled to the curb and waited while the cop directed the cars behind him. Finally, the cop walked over to the car.
“Don’t you know better than to stop in the middle of the street?” he asked.
“I wasn’t thinking, Officer,” Meyer said.
“Sure. Now what was it you wanted to know?”
“How to get to Archer Avenue.”
“Two blocks down and turn right. What number did you want?”
“4251,” Meyer said.
“Another three blocks after you make the turn.” He glanced at the oncoming traffic. “Okay, go ahead.” As they pulled away, he shouted, “And don’t stop in the middle of the street no more, you hear me, mister?”
“Nice fellow,” Meyer said.
“Gives cops a bad name,” O’Brien said glumly.
“Why? He helped us, didn’t he?”
“Bad disposition,” O’Brien said, and Meyer made his right turn. “Three blocks from here, right?”
“Right,” Meyer said. They drove up the street leisurely and stopped before 4251. “Here it is. Let’s hope he’s home.”
4251 Archer, as were most of the dwellings in Riverhead, was a private house. Meyer and O’Brien went up the front walk and pulled the door knocker. A tall man in a white shirt and a red weskit answered the door.
“Yes, gentlemen,” he said, “can I help you?”
“Mr. Pullen?” Meyer said.
“Yes?” Pullen studied his visitors. “Is it real estate, or insurance?”
“We’d like to ask you some questions, Mr. Pullen. We’re from the police.”
“Police?” Pullen went white in the space of two seconds. “Wh... wh... what... what did...?”
“May we come in, Mr. Pullen?”
“Yes. Yes, come in.” Hastily, Pullen glanced past them to make sure none of his neighbors were watching. “Come in.”
They followed him into the house and into the living room. The room was done in heavy furniture covered with maroon mohair. It made the small interior seem hotter than it really was.
“Sit down,” Pullen said. “What’s this all about?”
“Have you been receiving or making phone calls to a Miss Oona Blake?”
“Why, yes.” Pullen looked surprised, and then relieved. “Oh, it’s about her, isn’t it? Not me? Her?”
“Yes, it’s about her.”
“I knew she was a tough customer. I knew it the minute I laid eyes on her. A very flashy person. Very flashy. What is she? A prostitute?”
“No, we don’t know what she is. We’d simply like to find out what the nature of her business with you was.”
“Why, real estate,” Pullen said. “What did you think? She wanted to rent an apartment.”
“Where?”
“Well, she was very specific about it. She wanted an apartment either facing 831 Charles Avenue or else behind 831 Charles Avenue. That’s just a little ways from here. Charles Avenue.”
“That rings a bell,” Meyer said. He thought for a moment. “Sure. That’s where Steve’s parents live. Did Miss Blake say why she wanted an apartment near that address?”
“Said she had friends there.”
“I see. Did you get an apartment for her?”
“Nope. Not that one. But I was able to fill her other request. Yep, I gave her good service on that one.”
“Which one was that?” O’Brien asked.
Pullen smiled. “Why, the apartment she wanted near the photography studio.”
“What a dinner!” Birnbaum said. “Tony, you outdid yourself. What a wedding, what a dinner!”
“Birnbaum, have some champagne,” Tony said. “We got enough champagne here to start a France. Have some champagne, my friend.” He led Birnbaum to the ice mermaid and pulled a bottle from her frozen tub. Everywhere around him, champagne corks were popping, and each new pop filled Tony’s heart with joy. It really was getting to be a fine wedding. Maybe all the money those lousy Incorporated were getting would be worth it after all. He tore the gold foil from the neck of the bottle and then ripped the wire loose. Working the cork with his thumbs, he slowly edged it out of the bottle. Standing next to him, Birnbaum put his fingers in his ears. The cork moved out of the bottle neck.