Pusher

by Ed McBain

  I am certainly a lean detective.

  I have been leaning against this stupid cage since 2:00 P.M., and waiting for a man named Gonzo whom I have never seen in my life. I have been leaning and leaning, and the lions are roaring inside the building, and it is now 4:37, and my good friend Gonzo or anything resembling my good friend Gonzo has still not appeared.

  And even when he does appear, he may not be very important at all. Except for the fact that he's a pusher, and it's always nice to grab another pusher. But he may not be important in the Hernandez case, even though he seems to have inherited at least some of the boy's customers. God, the girl! God, the job somebody did on that poor girl! Was it because of her brother?

  What, what?

  What is it? What's behind such a fishy goddamn suicide? It looks like a suicide setup, but it's obviously not a suicide setup, and whoever killed that boy knew that, whoever killed that boy wanted us to know it was not a suicide! He wanted us to dig deeper, and he wanted us to come up with a homicide, but why? And whose fingerprints are on that syringe? Do they belong to this Gonzo character I'm now waiting for, a nice grubby pusher who hasn't got a record? Are they his prints and will we find out what this whole goddamn mess is about the minute we get him? And is he the one who slashed the girl to ribbons or was that something separate and apart, something that just happened to a prostitute, an occupational hazard, something not at all connected with the earlier death of her brother?

  Will Gonzo know the answers?

  And if you know the answers, Mr. Gonzo, or Gonzo Mr., because I don't know whether Gonzo is your first name or your last name, you certainly have kept yourself well hidden in this precinct, you certainly have operated on a small quiet scale, but if you know the answers where the hell are you now?

  Have you been operating before this, Gonzo?

  Or did you suddenly inherit a nice business the night you knocked off Aníbal Hernandez? Was that why you killed him?

  But what kind of a business did the kid have, when you really examined it closely? Kling beat that whole neighborhood with his feet, and he scared up a handful of Hernandez' erstwhile customers. A mule, pure and simple, shoving only enough stuff to keep him in the junk himself. So is a business of such miniscule size a reason for murder? Do people kill for a handful of pennies?

  Well, yes, people do kill for a handful of pennies sometimes.

  But usually the pennies are in plain sight, and the pennies are the temptation. Hernandez' business was a non-tangible thing, and if he were killed for that business then why, why in Christ's holy name, had the killer gone out of his way to indicate homicide?

  Because surely the killer must have known that death by overdose could have been suicide. Had he left the body where it lay, syringe on the cot next to it, chances are a suicide verdict would have been delivered. The coroner would have examined the boy and said yes, death by overdose, as he had in fact said. Aníbal Hernandez would have been chalked off as a careless junkie. But the killer had affixed that rope to the kid's neck, and the rope had been placed there after the boy was dead, and surely the killer knew this would draw suspicion, surely the killer knew that. He had wanted suspicion of homicide.

  Why?

  And where is Gonzo?

  Carella took a bag of peanuts out of his pocket. He was wearing gray corduroy slacks, and a gray suede jacket. He wore, too, black loafers and bright red socks. The socks were a mistake. He realized that after he'd left the house. The socks stood out like lights on a Christmas tree, God, what was he going to get Teddy for Christmas? He had seen some nice lounging pajamas, but she'd murder him if he spent $25.00 for lounging pajamas. Still, they would look beautiful on her, everything looked beautiful on her, why shouldn't a man be allowed to spend $25.00 on the woman he loved? She had told him with her lips that his love was enough, that he himself was the biggest and best Christmas present she had ever received, and that anything in excess of $15.00 worth of merchandise would be the silliest sort of extravagance for a girl who already had the nicest gift in the world. She had told him this, and he had held her close, but damnit, those lounging pajamas were still very pretty, and he could visualize her wearing them, so what the devil was an additional $10.00 when you got right down to it? How many people threw away $10.00 every day of the week without giving it a second thought.

  Carella popped a peanut into his mouth.

  Where was Gonzo?

  Probably doing Christmas shopping, Carella thought.

  Do pushers have wives and mothers, too? Of course they do. And of course they exchange Christmas gifts and they go to baptisms and bar mitzvahs and weddings and funerals just like everybody else. So maybe Gonzo is doing his Christmas shopping, the idea isn't such a farfetched one at that. I wish I were doing my Christmas shopping right now instead of munching on stale peanuts in this bitter cold outside the lion house. Besides, I don't like working outside my own precinct. All right, that's an idiosyncrasy, and I'm a crazy cop, but there's no place like home, and this park belongs to two other precincts, none of which is the 87th, and I like the 87th, and that makes me a crazier cop, have another peanut, idiot.

  Come on, Gonzo.

  I'm dying to make your acquaintance, Gonzo. I've heard so much about you that I feel I actually know you, and really, hasn't our meeting been postponed for just an unbearably long time? Come on, Gonzo. I am beginning to resemble the brass monkeys, Gonzo. I'd like very much to go inside and look at the lions—how come they're so quiet now? Feeding time already—and toast myself by their cages rather than stand out here where even my red socks are turning blue from the cold. So how about it, Gonzo? Give a flatfoot a break, will you? Give a poor honest cop a dime for a cup of coffee, willya? Oh brother, would I love a hot cup of coffee right this minute, mmmmm.

  I'll bet you're having a cup of coffee in some department-store restaurant right now, Gonzo. I'll bet you don't even know I'm here waiting for you.

  Hell, I sure hope you don't know I'm waiting for you.

  Carella cracked open another peanut and then glanced casually at a young boy who turned the corner of the lion house. The boy looked at Carella and then walked past. Carella seemingly ignored him, munching happily and idiotically on his peanuts. When the boy was gone, Carella moved to one of the benches and sat, waiting. He glanced at his watch. He cracked open another peanut. He glanced at his watch again.

  In three minutes, the boy was back. He was no older than nineteen. He walked with a quick, birdlike tempo. He wore a sports jacket, the collar turned up against the cold, and a pair of shabby gray flannel slacks. His head was bare, and his blond hair danced in the wind. He looked at Carella again, and then went to stand near the outdoor cages of the lion house. Carella seemed interested only in cracking open and eating his peanuts. He barely gave the boy a glance, but the boy was never out of his sight.

  The boy was pacing now. He looked at his wrist, and then seemingly remembered he didn't have a watch. He pulled a grimace, glanced up the path, and then began pacing in front of the cages again. Carella went on eating his peanuts.

  The boy suddenly stopped pacing, stood undecided for a moment, and then walked over to where Carella was sitting.

  "Hey, mister," he said, "you know what time it is?"

  "Just a second," Carella answered. He finished cracking a peanut, popped it into his mouth, put the shell onto the little pile he'd formed on the bench, dusted his hands, and then looked at his watch.

  "About a quarter to five," he said.

  "Thanks," the boy answered. He looked off up the path again. He turned back to Carella and studied him for a minute. "Pretty cold, ain't it?" he said.

  "Yeah," Carella answered. "Want a peanut?"

  "Huh? Oh, no. Thanks."

  "Good," Carella said. "Give you some energy, build body warmth."

  "No," the boy answered. "Thanks." He studied Carella again. "Mind if I sit?"

  "Public park," Carella said, shrugging.

  The boy sat, his hands in his pockets. He w
atched Carella eating the peanuts. "You come here to feed the pigeons or something?" he asked.

  "Me?" Carella said.

  "Yeah, you."

  Carella turned to face the boy fully. "Who wants to know?" he asked.

  "I'm just curious," the boy said, shrugging.

  "Listen," Carella said, "if you haven't got any business here near the lion house, go take a walk. You ask too many questions."

  The boy considered this for a long time. "Why?" he said at last. "You got business here?"

  "My business is my business," Carella said. "Don't get snotty, kid, or you'll be picking up your teeth."

  "What're you getting sore about? I was only trying to find out…" He stopped abruptly.

  "Don't try to find out anything, kid," Carella said, "You'll do better to keep your mouth shut. If you've got business here, just keep it to yourself, that's all. You never know who's listening."

  "Oh," the kid said thoughtfully. "Yeah, I hadn't thought of that." He glanced over both shoulders, first peering to the left, then to the right. "There's nobody around, though," he said.

  "That's true," Carella answered.

  "So, you know…" The boy hesitated again. Carella pretended to be interested in his peanuts. "Listen, we're here for the same thing, ain't we?"

  "Depends on what you're here for," Carella said.

  "Come on, mister, you know."

  "I'm here to get some air and eat some peanuts," Carella said.

  "Yeah, sure."

  "What are you here for?"

  "You tell me first," the boy said.

  "You're new at this, ain't you?" Carella asked suddenly.

  "Huh?"

  "Look, kid, my advice to you is don't talk about the junk to anybody, not even me. How do you know I'm not a bull?"

  "I never thought of that," the boy said.

  "Sure, you never thought of it. So if I was a bull, I could take you right in. Listen, when you've been on it as long as I have, you don't trust nobody."

  The boy grinned. "So why you trusting me?" he asked.

  "'Cause I can see you're not a bull, and 'cause I can see you're new at the game."

  "I could be a bull," the boy countered.

  "You're too young. How old are you, eighteen?"

  "I'm almost twenty."

  "So how could you be a bull?" Carella glanced at his watch. "Damnit, what time was this meet supposed to be, anyway?"

  "I was told four thirty," the boy said. "You think anything happened to him?"

  "Jesus, I sure hope not," Carella said honestly. He was aware of a tense anticipation that began spreading through him. He had established now that there was to be a meet today, and that the meet was to have taken place at four thirty. It was now almost five, which—barring any unforeseen accidents—meant that Gonzo should be showing any minute now.

  "You know this Gonzo character?" the boy asked.

  "Shhh, Jesus, don't use names," Carella said, making a big show of looking around. "Boy, you're real green."

  "Argh, nobody's here to listen," the boy said cockily. "Only a nut would be sitting out here in the cold. Unless he wanted to make a buy."

  "Or a pinch," Carella said knowingly. "Them damn cops can lay as still as a rock if they want to. You'd never know they was there until the cuffs are on your wrists."

  "There ain't no cops around. Listen, why don't you take a look for him?"

  "This is my first time with him," Carella said. "I don't know what he looks like."

  "Neither do I," the boy answered. "Was you getting from Annabelle?"

  "Yeah," Carella said.

  "Yeah, me too. He was a nice kid. For a spic."

  "Well, spics are okay," Carella said, shrugging. He paused. "You got no idea what this Gonzo looks like?"

  "He's supposed to be a little bald. That's all I know."

  "He's an old man?"

  "No, I don't think so. He's just a little bald. Lots of guys get a little bald, you know that, don't you?"

  "Sure," Carella said. He looked at his watch again. "He should've showed by now, don't you think?"

  "What time is it?"

  "A little after five."

  "He'll be here." The boy paused. "How come this is your first time? I mean, with this Gonzo. Annabelle hung himself couple days back, didn't he?"

  "Yeah, but I copped big from him before he pulled the plug. I had enough to tide me."

  "Oh," the boy said. "What I done, I've been shopping around, you know? I got some good stuff, but I also got a couple bum decks. I figure you got to do business with somebody you trust, don't you?"

  "Sure, but how do you know you can trust this Gonzo?"

  "I don't. What've I got to lose?"

  "Well, hell, he may stick us with beat stuff."

  "I'm willing to chance it. Annabelle's stuff was always good."

  "Sure, it was. The best."

  "He was a good kid, Annabelle. For a spic."

  "Yeah," Carella said.

  "Don't get me wrong," the boy said. "I got nothing against spics."

  "Well, that's a good attitude," Carella said. "There are two things I can't stand, and that's bigots and spics."

  "Huh?" the boy said.

  "Why don't you go take a walk and look for Gonzo? Maybe he's coming down the path."

  "I don't know him."

  "Neither do I. You check now, and if he ain't here in five minutes, I'll check next time."

  "Okay," the boy said. He rose and walked away from the bench, toward where the path angled down sharply alongside one wall of the lion house.

  The things that happened next happened with remarkable rapidity and in almost comic succession. Later, when Carella had a chance to think about the events clearly, unhampered by the subjective viewpoint of having been caught in them while they were happening, he was able to put them in their right sequence. As they happened, they only succeeded in annoying him and in stunning him somewhat. But later, he was able to see them clearly as a pattern of unfortunate coincidence.

  He first watched the boy walk up to the path, stand there for a moment, and then shake his head at Carella, indicating that Gonzo was nowhere in sight. Then the boy turned and looked up the other end of the path and, perhaps so that he could get a better view, climbed to a small knoll and walked several paces until he was hidden by one corner of the lion house where the path swung around it The instant the boy stepped out of sight, Carella was aware of someone approaching him from the opposite side of the lion house.

  The someone approaching was a patrolman.

  He walked briskly, and he wore ear muffs, and his face was very red, and he carried his night stick like a caveman's club. His direction was unmistakable. He was walking in a quick straight line that would take him directly to the bench upon which Carella was sitting. From the corner of his eye, Carella watched the turn in the path around which the boy had disappeared. The patrolman was closer now, walking purposefully and rapidly. He came up to the bench, stopped before Carella, and stared down at him. Carella glanced toward the path again. The boy had not yet returned into view.

  "What're you doing?" the patrolman asked Carella.

  Carella looked up. "Me?" he said. He cursed the fact that the park was not part of his own precinct territory, cursed the fact that he did not know this patrolman, cursed the stupidity of the man, and at the same time realized he could not show his credentials because the boy might return at any moment, and all he needed was for the boy to see him. And suppose Gonzo should arrive at this moment? Good God, suppose Gonzo should arrive?

  "Yeah, you," the patrolman said. "There's only two of us here, ain't there?"

  "I'm sitting," Carella said.

  "You been sitting for a long time now."

  "I like to sit in the fresh air," Carella said, and he weighted the possibility of quickly flashing his shield, and the possibility of the patrolman quickly grasping the situation and taking off without another word. But as if to squash that possibility, the boy suddenly reappeared around
the corner of the lion house, then stopped dead in his tracks, seeing the cop, and then reversed his field. But he did not disappear completely this time. This time he took up a post at the corner of the lion house, peering around the brick of the building like an advancing street soldier looking for possible snipers.

  "Kind of cold to be sitting out here in the open, ain't it?" the patrolman asked. Carella looked up at him, and he could still see the boy watching behind the patrolman's back. There was nothing he could do but try to talk himself out of this without revealing himself. That and pray that Gonzo would not arrive and be scared off by the sight of a uniform.

  "Listen, is there any law against sitting on a bench and eating peanuts?" Carella asked.

  "There might be."

  "Like what? I'm not bothering anybody, am I?"

  "You might. You might try to molest the first young schoolgirl who walks by."

  "I'm not going to try to molest anybody," Carella said. "All I want to do is sit here and mind my own business and get some fresh air, that's all."

  "You could be a vagrant," the patrolman said.

  "Do I look like a vagrant?"

  "Not exactly."

  "Look, officer…"

  "You'd better stand up," the patrolman said.

  "Why?"

  "Because I'll have to search you."

  "What the hell for?" Carella said angrily, constantly aware of the boy's prying eyes at the corner of the building, aware too that a search would uncover the .38 Detective's Special tucked in its holster into his waistband, and the gun would require an explanation, and the explanation would necessitate the flashing of tin, and there would go the setup. The kid would know he was a cop, and the kid would take off, and if Gonzo showed at the same time…

  "I got to search you," the patrolman said. "You may be a dope peddler or something."

  "Oh, for Christ's sake!" Carella exploded. "Then go get a search warrant."

  "I don't need one," the patrolman said calmly. "You're either going to get searched or I'm going to clout you on the head and drag you into the station house as a vagrant. Now, how about it?"

  The patrolman didn't wait for Carella's answer. He began running his night stick over Carella's body, and the first thing he hit was the .38. He yanked up Carella's jacket.