Pusher

by Ed McBain

  Terry scratched his head. "I usually get a laugh from the cops on that one. What're you drinking, Steve?"

  "Nothing. I'm here on business."

  "And business was never harmed, by God, by a tiny bit of alcohol."

  "Have you seen Maria Hernandez around?"

  "Now, Stevie," Terry said, "with a sweet little Scotch lass at home, why would you…"

  "Business," Carella said.

  "Good," Terry said. "A constant man in a city of inconsistencies."

  "Inconstancies," Carella corrected.

  "Whatever, she hasn't been in yet today. Is this about her brother?"

  "Yes."

  "A junkie, too, huh?"

  "Yes."

  "One thing gets me sore," Terry said, "is narcotics. Have you ever seen a pusher in here, Steve?"

  "No," Carella said. "But I've seen plenty outside on the sidewalk."

  "Sure, because the customer's always right, and he gets what he wants. But you never saw one of those scurvy bastards in my shop, and you never will, that's the truth."

  "When do you expect her?"

  "She doesn't roll around until about two. That's if she gets here at all. You know junkies, Steve. Figuring, figuring, always figuring. I swear to God, the president of General Motors doesn't have to do as much conniving as a junkie does."

  Carella glanced at his watch. It was 12:27.

  "I'll be back later," he said. "I want to grab lunch."

  "You're offending me," Terry said.

  "Huh?"

  "Can't you read the sign outside? Bar and Grill. Do you see the hot table back there? The best damn lunch in the city."

  "Yeah?"

  "Arroz con polio today. Specialty of the house. Got this beautiful little girl who cooks it up." Terry grinned. "She cooks by day and hooks by night—but the arroz con polio is out of this world, lad."

  "How's the girl?"

  Terry grinned more widely. "I couldn't say, having only sampled the dear thing's cooking."

  "I've been poisoned in worse places," Carella said. "Let's have it."

  Maria Hernandez did not walk into El Centro until three that afternoon. A John from downtown on a romance-seeking excursion would probably have passed her by as a sweet, innocent high-school senior. For whereas the common stereotype puts all prostitutes in tight silk dresses slit to the navel, such is not the case. As a general rule, most of the prostitutes in the 87th were better and more stylishly dressed than the honest women in the streets. They were well-groomed and very often polite and courteous, so much so that many of the little girls in the neighborhood looked up to the hookers as the cream of society. In much the same way as the pamphlets that go through the mails in a plain brown wrapper, you couldn't tell what these girls had under their covers unless you knew them.

  Carella did not know Maria Hernandez. He looked up from his drink when she walked into the bar, and he saw a somewhat slight girl who looked no more than eighteen. Her hair was black, and her eyes were very brown, and she wore a green coat open over a white sweater and a straight black skirt. Like a suburban housewife, she wore nylons and loafers.

  "There she is," Terry said, and Carella nodded.

  Maria sat on a stool at the far end of the bar. She nodded hello to Terry, glanced at Carella quickly to ascertain whether or not he was a prospective client, and then fell to staring through the plate glass window at the street. Carella walked over to her.

  "Miss Hernandez?" he said.

  She swung the stool around. "Yes?" she said coyly. "I'm Maria."

  "I'm a cop," Carella said, figuring he'd set her straight from go, before she wasted any effort.

  "I don't know anything about why my brother killed himself," Maria said, all coyness gone now. "Any other questions?"

  "A few. Shall we sit in a booth?"

  "I like it here," Maria said.

  "I don't. A booth or the station house. Take your choice."

  "You get down to business, don't you?"

  "I try."

  Maria climbed off the stool. They walked together to a booth opposite the steam table. Maria took off her coat and then slid into the booth opposite Carella.

  "I'm listening," she said.

  "How long have you been on the junk?"

  "What's that got to do with my brother?"

  "How long?"

  "About three years."

  "Why'd you start him on it?"

  "He asked to start."

  "I don't believe you."

  "Why should I lie to you? He came in the bathroom one night while I was shooting up. The little snot didn't even knock. He wanted to know what I was doing. I gave him a snort."

  "And then?"

  "He liked it. He wanted more. You know."

  "I don't know. Tell me about it."

  "He got on mainline a couple of weeks later. End of story."

  "When did you start hustling?"

  "Aw, listen…" Maria said.

  "I can find out."

  "A little while after I got a habit. I had to make money some way, didn't I?"

  "I suppose so. Who supplies you?"

  "Oh, come on, cop, you know better than that."

  "Who supplied your brother?"

  Maria was silent.

  "Your brother is dead, do you know that?" Carella said harshly.

  "I know it," Maria answered. "What do you want me to do? He always was a stupid little snotnose. If he wants to kill himself…"

  "Maybe he didn't kill himself."

  Maria blinked, seemingly surprised. "No?" she said cautiously.

  "No. Now who supplied him?"

  "What difference does it make?"

  "Maybe a lot."

  "I don't know anyway." She paused. "Listen," she said, "why don't you leave me alone. I know cops."

  "Do you?"

  "Yeah. You looking for something free, is that it? You figure on scaring me so I'll…"

  "I'm not looking for anything but information about your brother," Carella said.

  "Yeah, I'll bet."

  "You'd win," Carella said.

  Maria kept staring at him, frowning. "I know cops who…" she started.

  "I know hookers with syphilis," Carella said flatly.

  "Listen, you got no right to…"

  "Then let's drop this whole goddamn routine," he snapped. "I want information, period."

  "Okay," Maria said.

  "Okay," Carella repeated.

  "And I still don't know anything." Maria added.

  "You said you started him."

  "Sure."

  "All right, then you probably made a contact for him after he was hooked. Now, who?"

  "I didn't make any contact for him. He always went his own way."

  "Maria…"

  "What do you want from me?" she said, suddenly flaring. "I don't know anything about my brother. I even found out he was dead from a stranger. I haven't been inside my own house for a year, so how would I know who supplied him or who didn't supply him, or even if he was supplying himself and others besides?"

  "Was he pushing?"

  "I don't know nothing. I didn't know him anymore, can you understand that? If I saw him on the street, I wouldn't recognize him. That's how much I knew about my own brother."

  "You're lying," Carella said.

  "Why should I lie? Who's there to protect? He hung himself, so…"

  "I told you once," Carella said. "Maybe he didn't hang himself."

  "You're making a federal case out of a lousy junkie," Maria said. "Why knock yourself out?" Her eyes clouded momentarily. "He's better off dead, believe me."

  "Is he?" Carella asked. The table was very silent. "You're holding something back, Maria. What is it?"

  "Nothing."

  "What do you know? What is it?"

  "Nothing."

  Their eyes met. Carella studied her eyes, and he knew what was in them, and he knew she would tell him nothing more. He had just stared into a pair of opaque hoods. Her eyes had closed her mouth. "
All right," he said.

  The coroner didn't like to deal with new people. That was the way he'd been raised. He hated new faces, and he didn't like to confide secrets to strangers. The coroner's secret was a big one, and Bert Kling was a stranger, and so the coroner studied his face and reluctantly dredged through the facts in his mind, wondering how much he should reveal.

  "How come they sent you?" he asked. "Couldn't they wait for our official report? What's the big rush?"

  "Carella asked me to check with you, Dr. Soames," Kling said. "I don't know why, but I suppose he wants to get moving on this thing, and he figured he didn't want to wait for the report."

  "Well, I don't know why he couldn't wait for the report," Soames said. "Everybody else waits for the report. In all my years here, everybody's waited for the report. So why can't Carella wait?"

  "I'd appreciate it if…"

  "You people think you can just barge in and expect immediate results. You think we have nothing else to do? You know how many corpses we have in there waiting for examination?"

  "How many?" Kling asked.

  "Don't get factual with me," Soames advised. "I'm trying to tell you this is an imposition. If I weren't a gentleman and a doctor, I'd tell you this is a big pain in the ass."

  "Well, I'm sorry to trouble you, really. But…"

  "If you were really sorry, you wouldn't trouble me. Listen, don't you think I'd love to forget typing up the report? I type with two fingers, and no one on my staff can do any better. Do you know how understaffed I am here? Do you think I can afford to give each case the special attention you're asking for? We've got to process these things like an assembly line. Any break in the routine, and the whole shop goes to pieces. So why don't you wait for the report?"

  "Because…"

  "All right, all right, all right," Soames said testily. "All this fuss over a drug addict." He shook his head. "Does Carella think this was a suicide?"

  "He's… I think he's waiting to hear from you people on it. That's why he…"

  "Do you mean to tell me there's a doubt in his mind?"

  "Well, from… from outward appearances… that is, he's not sure the boy was… was asphyxiated."

  "And what do you think, Mr. Kling?"

  "Me?"

  "Yes." Soames smiled tightly. "You."

  "I… I don't know what to think. This is the first time I… I ever saw anybody hanging."

  "Are you familiar with strangulation?"

  "No, sir," Kling said.

  "Am I supposed to give you a course in medicine? Am I supposed to run a seminar for every uninvited, uninformed detective on the force?"

  "No, sir," Kling said. "I didn't want…"

  "We're not talking about a technical hanging now," Soames said. "We're not talking about hanging with a hangman's noose, where the bulky knot and the sudden drop break the neck. We're talking about death by strangulation, death by asphyxia. Do you know anything at all about asphyxia, Mr. Kling?"

  "No, sir. Choking is something I…"

  "We are not talking about choking, Mr. Kling," Soames said, gaining momentum, annoyed by strangers, equally annoyed by ignorance. "Choking, in police work, presupposes hands. It is impossible to choke yourself to death. We are now discussing asphyxia induced by pressure on the neck arteries and veins through the use of ropes, wires, towels handkerchiefs, suspenders, belts, garters, bandages, stockings, or what have you. In the case of Aníbal Hernandez, I understand the alleged means of strangulation was a rope."

  "Yes," Kling said. "Yes, a rope."

  "If this were a case of strangulation, pressure from the rope on the neck arteries…" Soames paused. "The neck arteries, Mr. Kling, carry blood to the brain. When they are pressed upon, the blood supply is terminated, resulting in anemia of the brain and loss of consciousness."

  "I see," Kling said.

  "Do you indeed? The pressure on the brain is increased and further aggravated because the veins in the neck are also under pressure from the rope, and there is interference of the return flow of blood through those veins. Eventually, strangulation proper—or asphyxia—will set in and cause the death of the unconscious person."

  "Yes," Kling said, swallowing.

  "Asphyxia, Mr. Kling, is defined as the extreme condition caused by lack of oxygen and excess of carbon dioxide in the blood."

  "This is… is very interesting," Kling said weakly.

  "Yes, I'm sure it is. The knowledge cost my parents something like twenty thousand dollars. Your own medical education is coming at a much cheaper rate. It's only costing you time, and my time at that."

  "Well, I'm sorry if I…"

  "Cyanosis in asphyxia is not uncommon. However…'"

  "Cyanosis?"

  "The blue coloration. However, as I was about to say, there are other examinations to be made in determining whether or not death was due to asphyxiation. The mucous membranes, for example, and the throat… Let it suffice to say, there are many tests. And, of course, cyanosis is present in many types of poisoning."

  "Oh?"

  "Yes. We have, considering this poisoning possibility, conducted tests on the urine, the stomach contents, the intestinal contents, the blood, the brain, the liver, the kidneys, the bones, the lungs, the hair and nails, and the muscle tissue." Soames paused. Drily, he added, "We do occasionally work here, you know."

  "Yes, I…"

  "Our concern, despite popular misconception, is not chiefly with necrophilism."

  "No, I didn't think it was," Kling said, not at all sure what the word meant.

  "So?" Soames demanded. "Add it all up, and what do you get? Do you get asphyxia?"

  "Do you?" Kling asked.

  "You should wait for the report," Soames said. "You should really wait for the report. I like to discourage these special requests."

  "Is it asphyxia?"

  "No. It is not asphyxia."

  "What then?"

  "Alkaloidal poisoning."

  "What's alka—?"

  "An overdose of heroin, to be exact. A large overdose. A dose far in excess of the fatal 0.2 gram." Soames paused. "In fact, our young friend Hernandez took enough heroin to kill, if you'll pardon the expression, Mr. Kling, a bull."

  Chapter Five

  There were about eight million things to do.

  There always seemed to be more things wanting doing than a man could possibly get to, and sometimes Peter Byrnes wished for two heads and twice that many arms. With coldly rational illogic, he knew the situation was undoubtedly the same in any kind of business, while simultaneously telling himself that no business could be the rat race police work was.

  Peter Byrnes was a detective and a lieutenant, and he headed the squad of bulls who called the 87th Precinct their home. It was, in a somewhat wry way, their home— the way a rusty LCI in the Philippines eventually becomes home to a sailor from Detroit

  The precinct house, in all honesty, was not a very homey place. It did not boast chintz curtains or pop-up toasters or garbage-disposal units or comfortable easy chairs or a dog named Rover who eagerly bounced into the living room with pipe and slippers. It presented a cold stone facade to Grover Park, which hemmed in the precinct territory on the south. Beyond the facade, just inside the entranceway arch, was a square room with a bare wooden floor and a desk that looked like the judge's bench in a courtroom. A sign on the desk sternly announced: ALL VISITORS MUST STOP AT DESK. When a visitor so stopped, he met either the desk lieutenant or the desk sergeant, both of whom were polite, enthusiastic and pained in the neck to please the public.

  There were detention cells on the first floor of the building, and upstairs behind mesh-covered windows—mesh-covered because the neighborhood kids had a delightful penchant for hurling stones at anything faintly smacking of the Law—were the Locker Room, the Clerical office, the Detective Squad Room and other sundry and comfortable little cubicles, among which were the Men's Room and Lieutenant Byrnes' office.

  In defense of the lieutenant's office, it is fair to s
ay there were no urinals lining the walls.

  It is also fair to say that the lieutenant liked his office. He had occupied it for a good many years now, and had come to respect it the way a man comes to respect a somewhat threadbare glove he uses for gardening. At times, of course, and especially in a precinct like the 87th, the weeds in the garden grew a little thick. It was at such times that Byrnes devoutly wished for the extra head and arms.

  Thanksgiving had not helped at all, and the approaching holidays were making things even worse. It seemed that whenever the holidays rolled around, the people in Byrnes' precinct declared a field day for crime. Knifings in Grover Park, for example, were a year-round occurrence and certainly nothing to get excited about. But with the approach of the holidays, the precinct people burst with Christmas spirit and happily set about the task of decorating the park's scant green patches with rivers of red in honor of the festive season. There had been sixteen knifings in the park during the past week.

  The fencing of stolen goods along Culver Avenue was a well-known pastime of the precinct people, too. You could buy anything from a used African witch doctor's mask to a new eggbeater if you happened to come along at the right time with the right amount of cash. This despite the law that made receiving stolen goods a misdemeanor (if the value of such goods was less than $100) and a felony (if the value was more than a C-note). The law didn't disturb the professional shoplifters who toiled by day and sold by night. Nor did it bother the drug addicts who stole to sell to buy to feed their habits. It didn't bother the people who bought the stolen goods, either. Culver Avenue was, in their eyes, the biggest discount house in the city.

  It bothered only the cops.

  And it bothered them especially during the holiday season. The department stores were very crowded during that joyous season and shoplifters enjoyed the freedom and protective coloring of the sardine pack. And, too, customers for the hot stuff were abundant since there were Christmas lists to worry about, and there was nothing like a fast turnover to spur on a thief to bigger and better endeavors. Everyone, it seemed, was anxious to get his Christmas shopping done early this year, and so Byrnes and his bulls had their hands full.

  The prostitutes on Whore Street also had their hands full. Whatever there was about the Yule season that led a man uptown to seek a slice of exotica, Byrnes would never know. But uptown they sought, and Whore Street was the happy hunting grounds—and the climactic culmination of a night's sporting was very often a mugging and rolling in an alleyway.