Pusher

by Ed McBain

  Havilland slapped the boy quickly and almost effortlessly. The boy's head rocked to one side, and Havilland drew his hand back for another blow.

  "Lay off, Rog," Carella said. "That's his name. It's on his draft card."

  "Ernest Hemingway?" Havilland asked incredulously.

  "What's the matter with that?" Hemingway asked. "Listen, what's bugging you guys, anyway?"

  "There's a fellow," Carella said. "A writer. His name is Ernest Hemingway, too."

  "Yeah?" Hemingway said. He paused, then thoughtfully said, "I never heard of him. Can I sue him?"

  "I doubt it," Carella said drily. "Who sold you that sixteenth?"

  "Your writer friend," Hemingway answered, smirking.

  "This is going to be cute," Havilland said. "I like them when they're cute. Kid, you are going to wish you were never born."

  "Listen, kid," Carella said, "you're only making things tough for yourself. You can get thirty out of this or ninety, depending on how cooperative you are. You might even get a suspended sentence, who can tell?"

  "You promising?"

  "I can't make promises. It's up to the judge. But if he knows you helped us nail a pusher, he might be inclined toward leniency."

  "Do I look like a stoolie?"

  "No," Havilland answered. "Most stoolies are better looking than you."

  "What was this lug before he turned cop?" Hemingway asked. "A television comic?"

  Havilland smiled and then slapped Hemingway across the mouth.

  "Put your hands away," Carella said.

  "I don't have to take crap from a snotnose junkie. I don't have to—"

  "Put your goddamn hands away!" Carella said, more loudly this time. "You feel like a workout, go down to the Headquarters gym."

  "Listen, I—"

  "How about it, kid?" Carella asked.

  "Who the hell do you think you are, Carella?" Havilland wanted to know.

  "Who the hell do you think you are, Havilland?" Carella said. "If you don't want to question this kid properly, then get the hell out. He's my prisoner."

  "You'd think I broke his head or something," Havilland said petulantly.

  "I don't want to give you the opportunity," Carella said. He turned back to Hemingway. "How about it, son?"

  "Don't give me the 'son' routine, cop. I blab who pushed the junk, and I'll still go the limit."

  "Maybe you'd like us to say we found you with a quarter instead of a sixteenth," Havilland suggested.

  "You can't do that, big mouth," Hemingway said.

  "We pulled in enough narcotics today to fill a steamboat," Havilland lied. "Who's to know what you were carrying?"

  "You know it was a sixteenth," Hemingway said, weakening.

  "Sure, but who else besides us knows it? You can get ten years for holding a quarter-ounce, pal. Slap onto that the intent to sell the junk to your pals outside."

  "Who was trying to sell it? Jesus, I only bought it! And it was a sixteenth, not a quarter!"

  "Yeah," Havilland said. "But it's a pity we're the only ones who know that, ain't it? Now, what's the pusher's name?"

  Hemingway was silent, thinking.

  "Possession of a quarter-ounce with intent to sell," Havilland said to Carella. "Let's wrap this up, Steve."

  "Hey, wait a minute," Hemingway said. "You're not gonna railroad me like that, are you?"

  "Why not?" Havilland said. "You're no relative of mine."

  "Well, can't we…" Hemingway stopped. "Can't we…"

  "The pusher," Carella said.

  "A guy named Gonzo."

  "Is that his first name or his last?"

  "I don't know."

  "How'd you contact him?"

  "This was the first I heard of him," Hemingway said. "Today, I mean. The first time I ever copped from him."

  "Yeah, sure," Havilland said.

  "I snow you not," Hemingway answered. "I used to buy from another kid. The meet was in the park, near the lion house. I used to get from this other kid there. So today, I go to the meet, and there's this new character. He tells me his name is Gonzo, and he's got good junk. So, okay, I gambled on getting beat stuff. Then the law showed."

  "What about the two kids in the back seat?"

  "Skin poppers. You want to be smart, you'll throw them out. This whole business has scared them blue."

  "This your first fall?" Carella asked.

  "Yeah."

  "How long have you been on the junk?"

  "About eight years."

  "Mainline?"

  Hemingway looked up. "There's another way?" he asked.

  "Gonzo, huh?" Havilland said.

  "Yeah. Listen, you think I'll be able to get a fix soon? I mean, I'm beginning to feel a little sick, you dig me?"

  "Mister," Havilland said, "consider yourself cured."

  "Huh?"

  "They don't meet near the lion house where you're going."

  "I thought you said I might get a suspended sentence."

  "You might. Do you expect us to keep you hopped up until then?"

  "No, but I thought… Jesus, ain't there a doctor or something around?"

  "Who'd you used to buy from?" Carella asked.

  "What do you mean?"

  "At the lion house. You said this Gonzo was new. Who pushed to you before?"

  "Oh, Yeah, yeah. Listen, can't we talk a doctor into fixing me? You know, I mean, like I'll puke all over the floor or something."

  "We'll give you a mop," Havilland said.

  "Who was the other pusher?" Carella asked again.

  Hemingway sighed wearily. "A kid named Annabelle."

  "A broad?" Havilland asked.

  "No, some spic kid. Annabelle. That's a spic name."

  "Aníbal?" Carella asked, his scalp prickling.

  "Yeah."

  "Aníbal what?"

  "Fernandez, Hernandez, Gomez? Who can tell with these spies? They all sound alike to me."

  "Was it Aníbal Hernandez?"

  "Yeah, I think so. Yeah, that sounds as good as any. Listen, can't I get a fix? I mean, I'll puke."

  "Go ahead," Havilland said. "Puke."

  Hemingway sighed heavily again, and then he frowned, and then he lifted his head and asked, "Is there really a writer named Ernest Hemingway?"

  Chapter Seven

  The lab report on the rope and the I.E. report on the fingerprints came in later that afternoon. There was only one piece of information in either of them that surprised Carella.

  He was not surprised to learn that an analysis of the rope found around Hernandez' neck completely discounted the possibility of the boy having hanged himself. A rope, you see, has peculiar properties of its own, among which are the fibers of which it is constructed. Had Hernandez hanged himself, he undoubtedly would have first tied one end of the rope on the barred window, then tied the other end around his neck, and then leaned into the rope, cutting off his oxygen supply.

  The fibers on the rope, however, were flattened in such a way as to indicate that the body had been pulled upwards. In short, the rope had first been affixed to Hernandez' neck, and then the loose end had been threaded through the bars and pulled upon until the body assumed its leaning position. The contact of the rope's fibers with the steel of the bar had given the fibers a telltale direction. Hernandez may have administered his own fatal dose of heroin, but he had certainly not strung himself to the barred window.

  The fingerprints found on the syringe seemed to discount the possibility of suicide completely, and this hardly surprised Carella either. None of the fingerprints—and there were a good many, all from the same person, all clear sharp prints—matched up with the fingerprints of Aníbal Hernandez. If he had used the syringe at all, then he had wiped it clean before handing it to a second unknown party.

  The unknown party bit was the part that surprised Carella. The Identification Bureau had done a run-through on the prints, and come up with a blank. Whoever had handled the syringe, whoever had allegedly pumped that heroin into Hernan
dez, did not have a criminal record. Of course, the F.B.I, had not yet had been heard from, but Carella was nonetheless disappointed. In his secret heart, he was halfway hoping that someone who had access to a syringe and the staggering amount of heroin it had taken to kill Hernandez would also be someone with a record.

  He was mulling over his disappointment when Lieutenant Byrnes poked his head out of the office.

  "Steve," he called. "See you a moment?"

  "Yes, sir," Carella said. He rose and walked to Byrnes' door. The lieutenant was silent until Carella closed the door.

  "Bad break, huh?" he asked then.

  "Sir?"

  "Couldn't get a make on those fingerprints."

  "Oh, no. I was kind of hoping we would."

  "I was, too," Byrnes said.

  The two men stared at each other thoughtfully.

  "Is there a copy around?"

  "Of the prints?"

  "Yes."

  "May I have it?"

  "Well, it's already been checked. I mean, we couldn't…"

  "I know, Steve. It's just that I have an idea I want to… to work on."

  "About the Hernandez case?"

  "More or less."

  "Feel like airing it?"

  "No, Steve." He paused. "Not yet."

  "Sure," Carella said. "Whenever you feel like."

  "Get me those prints before you check out, will you, Steve?" Byrnes asked, smiling weakly.

  "Sure," Carella said. "Will that be all?"

  "Yes, go ahead. You're probably anxious to get home." He paused. "How's the wife?"

  "Oh, fine," Carella said.

  "Good, good. It's important to have…" Byrnes shook his head and let the sentence trail. "Well, go ahead, Steve, don't let me keep you."

  He was bushed when he got home that night. Teddy greeted him at the door, and he kissed her in a perfunctory, most un-newlywedlike way. She looked at him curiously, led him to a drink waiting in the living room and then, attuned to his uncommunicative mood, went out to the kitchen to finish dinner. When she served the meal, Carella remained silent.

  And because Teddy had been born with neither the capacity for speech nor the capacity for hearing, the silence in the small kitchen was complete. She looked at him often, wondering if she had offended him in some way, longing to see words on his lips, words she could read and understand. And finally, she reached across the table and touched his hand, and her eyes opened wide in entreaty, brown eyes against an oval face.

  "No, it's nothing," Carella said gently.

  But still her eyes asked their questions. She cocked her head to one side, the short raven hair sharply detailed against the white wall behind her.

  "This case," he admitted.

  She nodded, waiting, relieved that he was troubled with his work and not with his wife.

  "Well, why the hell would anyone leave a perfect set of fingerprints on a goddamn murder weapon, and then leave the weapon where every rookie cop in the world could find it?"

  Teddy shrugged sympathetically, and then nodded.

  "And why try to simulate a hanging afterwards? Does the killer think he's dealing with a pack of nitwits, for Christ's sake?" He shook his head angrily. Teddy shoved back her chair and then came around the table and plunked herself down in his lap. She took his hand and wrapped it around her waist, and then she snuggled up close to him and kissed his neck.

  "Stop that," he told her, and then—realizing she could not see his lips because her face was buried in his throat—he caught her hair and gently yanked back her head, and repeated, "Stop it. How can I think about the case with you doing that?"

  Teddy gave an emphatic nod of her head, telling her husband that he had exactly understood her motivations.

  "You're a flesh pot," Carella said, smiling. "You'll destroy me. Do you think…"

  Teddy kissed his mouth.

  Carella moved back gently. "Do you think you'd leave—"

  She kissed him again, and this time he lingered a while before moving away.

  "… syringe with fingerprints all over it on a mmmmmmmm…"

  Her face was very close to his, and he could see the brightness in her eyes, and the fullness of her mouth when she drew back.

  "Oh God, woman," he said.

  She rose and took his hand and as she was leading him from the room he turned her around and said, "The dishes. We have to…" and she tossed up her back skirts in reply, the way can-can dancers do. In the living room, she handed him a sheet of paper, neatly folded in half.

  "I didn't know you wanted to answer the mail," Carella said. "I somehow suspected I was being seduced."

  Impatiently, Teddy gestured to the paper in his hand. Carella unfolded it. The white sheet was covered with four typewritten stanzas. The stanzas were titled: ODE FOR STEVE.

  "For me?" he asked.

  Yes, she nodded.

  "Is this what you do all day, instead of slaving around the house?"

  She wiggled her forefinger, urging him to read the poem.

  ODE FOR STEVE

  I love you, Steve,

  I love you so.

  I want to go

  Where e'er you go.

  In counterpoint,

  And conversely,

  When you return

  'Twill be with me.

  So darling boy,

  My message now

  Will follow with

  A courtly bow:

  You go, I go;

  Return, return I;

  Stay, go, come—

  Together.

  "The last stanza doesn't rhyme," Carella said.

  Teddy pulled a mock mask of stunned disgust.

  "Also, methinks I read sexual connotations into this thing," Carella added.

  Teddy waved one hand airily, shrugged innocently, and then—like a burlesque queen imitating a high-priced fashion model—walked gracefully and suggestively into the bedroom, her buttocks wiggling exaggeratedly.

  Carella grinned and folded the sheet of paper. He put it into his wallet, walked to the bedroom door, and leaned against the jamb.

  "You know," he said, "you don't have to write poems."

  Teddy stared at him across the length of the room. He watched her, and he wondered briefly why Byrnes wanted a copy of the fingerprints, and then he said huskily, "All you have to do is ask."

  All Byrnes wanted to do was ask.

  The lie, as he saw it, was a two-part lie, and once he asked about it, it would be cleared up. Which was why he sat in a parked automobile, waiting. In order to ask, you have to find the askee. You find that person, you corner that person, and you say, "Now listen to me, is it true you…?"

  Or was that the way?

  What was the way, damnit, what was the way, and how had a man who'd lived honestly all his life suddenly become enmeshed in something like this? No! No, damnit, it was a lie. A stupid lie because there was a body someone was trying to… but suppose it were not a lie?

  Suppose the first part of the lie was true, just the first part alone, what then? Then, then, then something would have to be done. What? What do I say if the first part of the lie is true? How do I handle it? This first part of the lie, this first thing was enough. It was enough to cause a man to doubt his sanity, if it was true, if this first thing was true, no, no, it cannot be true!

  But maybe it is. Face that possibility. Face the possibility that at least the first thing may be true, and plan on handling it from there.

  And if this other thing was true, and if it broke, what untold harm would be done then? Not only, to Byrnes himself, but to Harriet, God, why should Harriet have to suffer, Harriet so innocent, and the police department, how would it look for the police department, oh Jesus let it not be true, let it be a lousy punk lie.

  He sat in the parked car and he waited, certain he would recognize him when he came out of the building. The building was in Calm's Point, where Byrnes lived, and it was surrounded by lawn, and there were trees placed all around it, trees bare now with win
ter, their roots clutching frozen earth, the bases of their trunks caked with snow. There were lights burning in the building, and the lights were a warm amber against the cold winter sky, and Byrnes watched the lights and wondered.

  He was a compact man, Byrnes, with a head like a rivet. His eyes were blue and tiny, but they didn't miss very much, and they were set in a browned and weathered face that was seamed with wrinkles. His nose was craggy like the rest of his face, and his mouth was firm with a weak upper lip and a splendid lower lip. He had a chin like a cleft boulder, and his head sat low on his shoulders, as if it were hunched in defense. He sat in the car, and he watched his own breath plume whitely from his lips, and he reached over to wipe the fogged windshield with a gloved hand, and then he saw the people coming from the building.

  Young people, laughing and joking. A boy stopped to roll a snowball and hurl it at a young girl who shrieked in gleeful terror. The boy chased her into the shadows then, and Byrnes watched, searching for a face and figure he could recognize. There were more people now. Too many to watch without being close. Hastily, Byrnes stepped out of the car. The cold attacked his face instantly. He hunched his shoulders and walked toward the building.

  "Hello, Mr. Byrnes," a boy said, and Byrnes nodded and studied the faces of the other boys who were swarming past. And then suddenly, as if a dam hole had been plugged, the tide stopped. He turned and watched the kids as they sauntered away, and then he sucked in a deep breath and started up the steps, passing beneath an arch upon which were chiseled the words CALM'S POINT HIGH SCHOOL.

  He had not been inside this building once since his visit during Open School Week back in… how many years had it been? Byrnes shook his head. A man should take more care, he thought. A man should watch these things. But how could anyone have even suspected, and how could anyone have prevented, Harriet, Harriet, she should have watched more carefully, if this thing is true, if it is true.

  The auditorium, he supposed. That was where they'd be. If there were any more of them, they would be in the auditorium. The school was very quiet, closed for the night, and he could hear the hollow tattoo of his own shoes against the marbled main floor of the building. He found the auditorium by instinct, and he smiled wryly, reflecting that he wasn't such a bad detective after all. Christ, what would this thing do to the police department?