"You sound like you know who did it," Carella said.
"Not completely. But I've been listening, believe me.”
"And what've you heard?”
"I heard a guy in his forties, he's in the construction business, his name is Vinnie Corrente, I heard he's been bragging to people that his son Bobby was the one used the bat. I didn't hear him say this personally, otherwise his ass would be up the station house and I'd be reading him Miranda, the dumb fucking wop.”
"On the other hand...”
"On the other hand, you're investigating a "Uh-huh.”
"So maybe you got probable to pull him in.”
"Let's say I'd like to talk to him.”
"Let's say he's in apartment 41 at 304 North.”
“Thanks," Carella said.
"Hey, come on," Di Napoli said, pleased.
304 North Eleventh was a five-story brick set in row of identical buildings undoubtedly put up by same contractor at the turn of the century, when neighborhood was still considered desirable. three-thirty that afternoon, several old wearing the black mourning dresses and you could see on widows all over Italy were in late afternoon sunshine on the front chatting in Italian. Carella nodded good them, and then walked through them and past into the building foyer. He found a nameplate for V. Corrente in apartment 41, began climbing the steps.
The building was scrupulously clean.
Mouth-watering cooking smells wafted in hallways, suffused the stairwells. Oregano thyme. Sweet sausage. Fresh basil. Delectable simmering in olive oil and garlic.
Carella kept climbing.
He found apartment 41 to the right of the on the fourth-floor landing.
He listened at the for a moment, heard nothing, and knocked on door.
"Who is it?" a man's voice said.
"Police," Carella answered.
There was a brief silence.
"Just a minute," the man said.
Carella waited.
He heard several locks coming undone, and then the door opened some three inches or so, held by a night chain.
"Let's see your badge," the man said.
Gruff no-nonsense voice, somewhat gravelly. A smoker's voice. Or a drinker's.
Carella flipped open his leather case to show a blue-enameled, gold detective's shield and a laminated I.D. card. "Detective Carella," he said.
"Eighty-seventh Squad.”
“What's this about, Carella. the man asked. He had still not taken the chain off the door. In the narrow wedge between door and jamb, Carella could dimly perceive a heavyset man with a stubble on his cheeks, dark hooded eyes.
"Want to open the door?" he asked.
"Not till I know what this is about," the man said.
"Are you Vincent Corrente?”
"Yeah?”
Surprise in his voice.
"I'd like to ask you a few questions, Mr. Corrente, ifthat''s okay with you," Carella said.
"Like I said, what about?”
"Easter Sunday.”
"What about Easter Sunday?”
"Well, I won't really know until I can ask some questions.”
There was silence behind the door. In the wed Carella thought he detected the eyes narrowing.
"What do you say?" he asked.
"I say tell me more," the man said.
"Mr. Corrente, I want to ask you about an" that occurred at St.
Catherine's Church on Sunday.”
“I don't go to church," Corrente said.
"Neither do I," Carella said. "Mr. Corrente, investigating a murder.”
There was another silence. And then, and unsurprisingly'm the word "murder" some worked magic - the night chain came off rattle, and the door opened wide.
Corrente was wearing a pair of brown and a tank top undershirt. He was a jowly, unkempt man with a cigar in his mouth and a on his face, Hey, come in, how nice to see the here on my doorstep, come in, come in, don't the way the place looks, my wife's been sick, in, Detective, please.
Carella went in.
A modest apartment, spotlessly clean Corrente's protestations and apologies. kitchen to the right, living room dead ahead, opening from either side of it, presumably to bedrooms. From behind one of the closed television set was going.
"Come on in the kitchen," Corrente said, "so we won't bother my wife.
She's got the flu, I hadda get the doctor in yesterday. You want a beer or anything?”
"Thanks, no," Carella said.
They went into the kitchen and sat opposite each other at a round, Formica-topped table. The air-shaft window was open. In the backyard, four stories below, Carella could hear some kids playing Ring-a-Leevio.
From the other room, he could hear the unintelligible drone of the television set.
Corrente lifted an open can of beer that was sitting on the table, took a long swallow from it, and then said, "So what's this about St.
Catherine's?”
"You tell me.”
"All I know is I heard there was some fuss there on Easter.”
"That's true.”
"But I don't know what.”
"A black boy was badly beaten by a gang of six white boys. We think the boys were from...”
"There are no gangs in this neighborhood," Corrente said.
"Anything more than two in number, we call a gang," Carella said. "Any idea who they might've been?”
"Why should that be important to you?" Corrente asked. His cigar had gone out. He took a matchbook from his trouser pocket, struck a match and held it to the tip of the cigar, puffing, filling the kitchen with billowing smoke. "'Cause, you know," he sai, "maybe this black kid had no right comin' to neighborhood, you understand?”
"I understand that's the prevailing attitude, Carella said.
"Which may not be the wrong attitude, Corrente said. "I know what you're thinking, thinking this is a bunch of prejudiced people they don't like the colored, is what you're But maybe the same thing woulda happened if kid hadda been white, you follow me, Detective?”
“No," Carella said, "I'm afraid I don't.”
He did not like this man. He did not like the stubble on his face, or the potbelly hanging over belt, or the stench of his cigar, or his alleged boasts that his son Bobby had wielded the bat had broken Nathan Hooper's head. Even the way said "Detective" rankled.
"This is a nice neighborhood," Corrente said." family neighborhood.
Hardworking people, clean kids. We want to keep it that way.”
"Mr. Corrente," Carella said, "on Easter half a dozen nice clean kids from this nel. attacked a black kid with baseball bats and can lids and chased him down the street to...”
"Yeah, the Hooper kid," Corrente said.
"Yes," Carella said. "The Hooper kid.”
All of a sudden, Corrente seemed to know name of the Easter Sunday victim. All of a he seemed to know all about the fuss that happened at St. Catherine's, although not ten minutes ago he hadn't known nothing from nothing.
"You familiar with this kid?" Corrente asked.
"I've talked to him.”
"What'd he tell you?”
“He told me what happened to him here on Eleventh Street.”
"Did he tell you what he was doing here on Eleventh Street?”
"He was on his way home from the...”
"No, no, never mind the bullshit," Corrente said, taking his cigar from his mouth and waving it like a conductor's baton. "Did he tell you what he was doing here?”
"What was he doing here, Mr. Corrente?”
"Do you know what they call him down the schoolyard? On Ninth Street?
The elementary school? You know what they call him there?”
“No," Carella said. "What do they call him there?”