Pusher

by Ed McBain

  "Yes."

  "It looks bad, doesn't it, Lieutenant?"

  "My son didn't argue with Hernandez."

  "I've got a witness, Lieutenant."

  "Who's your witness?"

  "You'll be surprised."

  "Go ahead."

  "Maria Hernandez."

  "What!"

  "Yes. That makes it look even worse, doesn't it? The one witness to the argument suddenly winds up dead. That makes it look pretty bad, Lieutenant."

  "My son was with me on the night Maria Hernandez was killed," Byrnes said flatly.

  "That'll sit pretty nicely with a jury, won't it?" the voice said. "Especially when the jury learns Pop has been concealing evidence." There was a pause. "Or have you told your colleagues about your son's prints on that syringe?"

  "No," Byrnes said hesitantly. "I… I haven't. Look, what is it you want?"

  "I'll tell you what I want. You're supposed to be a pretty tough customer, aren't you, Lieutenant?"

  "Goddamnit, what do you want?" Byrnes paused. "Are you looking for money? Is that it?"

  "Lieutenant, you underestimate me. I…"

  "Hello?" a new voice said.

  "What?" Byrnes asked. "Who…?"

  "Oh, gee, I'm sorry, Lieutenant," Cassidy said. "I must've plugged into the wrong hole. I'm trying to get Carella. I've got Danny Gimp for him."

  "All right, Cassidy, get off the line," Byrnes said.

  "Yes, sir."

  He waited until the clicking told him Cassidy was gone.

  "All right," he said. "He's gone."

  There was no answer.

  "Hello?" Byrnes said. "Hello?"

  His party was gone. Byrnes slammed down the receiver, and then sat morosely at his desk, thinking. He thought very carefully, and he thought very clearly, and when the knock sounded on his door five minutes later, he had reached a conclusion and a certain peace.

  "Come," he said.

  The door opened. Carella came into the office.

  "I just spoke to Danny Gimp," Carella said. He shook his head. "No luck. He doesn't know any Gonzo, either."

  "Well," Byrnes said wearily.

  "So I'm going to take another run over to the park. Maybe I'll see this kid again. If he's not there, I'll try around."

  "Fine," Byrnes said. "Do your best."

  "Right." Carella turned to leave.

  "Steve," Byrnes said, "before you go…"

  "Yes?"

  "There's something you ought to know. There's a lot you ought to know."

  "What is it, Pete?"

  "The fingerprints on that syringe—" Byrnes said, and then he girded himself for what would be a long and painful story. "They're my son's."

  Chapter Thirteen

  "Mom!"

  Harriet stood at the foot of the steps and heard the voice of her son again, a plaintive voice that penetrated the wood of his door and then fled wildly down the steps.

  "Mom, come up here! Open this door! Mom!"

  She stood quite still, her eyes troubled, her hands clenched one over the other at her waist.

  "Mom!"

  "What is it, Larry?" she said.

  "Come up here! Goddammit, can't you come up here?"

  She nodded gently, knowing he could not see her reply, and she started up the steps to the upper level. She was a full-breasted woman who had been considered something of a beauty in her Calm's Point youth. Her eyes, even now, were a clear bright green, but the red of her hair was threaded with gray strands and she had put on more weight in the behind than she'd wanted. Her legs were still good, not as strong as they used to be, but good, clean legs. They carried her upstairs, and she stopped outside the door to Larry's bedroom and very quietly asked, "What is it, son?"

  "Open the door," Larry said.

  "Why?"

  "I want to come out."

  "Your father said you are not to leave your room, Larry. The doctor…"

  "Oh, sure, Mom," Larry said, his voice becoming suddenly oily, "that was before. But I'm all right now, really I am. Come on, Mom, open the door."

  "No," she said firmly.

  "Mom," Larry continued persuasively, "can't you tell I'm all right now? Really, Mom, I wouldn't try to fool you. I'm fine. But I feel sort of cooped up here, really. I'd like to walk around the house a little, stretch my legs."

  "No."

  "Mom…"

  "No, Larry!"

  "For Christ's sake, what the hell do I have to do around here, anyway? Are you trying to torture me? Is that what you're trying to do? Listen to me. Now listen to me, Mom. You go call that lousy doctor and tell him to get me something fast, do you hear?"

  "Larry…"

  "Shut up! I'm sick of this damn mollycoddle attitude around here! All right, I'm a junkie! I'm a goddamn junkie, and I want a fix! Now, get it for me!"

  "I'll call Johnny if you like. But he will not bring any heroin."

  "You're a pair, aren't you? You and the old man. Ike and Mike. They think alike. Open this door! Open this goddamn door! I'll jump out the window if you don't open it! You hear me? If you don't open this door, I'm gonna jump out the window."

  "All right, Larry," Harriet said calmly. "I'll open the door."

  "Oh," he said. "Well. It's about time. So open it."

  "Just a moment," she said. She walked quite calmly and quite deliberately to her own bedroom at the end of the hall. She heard Larry call "Mom!" but she didn't answer. She went directly to her dresser, opened the top drawer and took out a leather case. She snapped open the case, dust-covered because it had not been used since Peter gave it to her as a gift, and lifted the pearl-handled .22 from where it lay on its velvet bed. She checked the gun to make sure it was loaded, and then she walked down the corridor to Larry's door, the gun dangling loosely at her side.

  "Mom?" Larry asked.

  "Yes, just a moment." She reached into the pocket of her apron for the key, inserting it into the lock with her left hand. She twisted the key, shoved open the door, leveled the .22, and stepped back.

  Larry rushed for the door almost immediately. He saw the gun in his mother's hand, and then pulled up short, staring at her unbelievingly.

  "Wh… what's that?"

  "Back away," Harriet said, holding the gun quite steadily.

  "Wh…"

  She entered the room, and he moved away from her and the gun. She closed the door behind her, moved a straight-back chair to a position in front of the knob, and then sat in it.

  "Wh… what's the gun for?" Larry asked. There was something in his mother's eyes that he could remember from his childhood days. It was something stern and reprimanding, something with which he could not argue. He knew. He had tried arguing with it when he was a little boy.

  "You said you were going to jump out the window," Harriet said. "It's at least a forty-foot drop to the pavement, if not more. If you jump, Larry, you're liable to kill yourself. That's what the gun's for."

  "I… I don't understand."

  "This, son," Harriet said. "You're not leaving this room, either by the door or the window. And if you make a move toward either of them, I'll have to shoot you."

  "What!" Larry said incredulously.

  "Yes, Larry," Harriet said. "I'm a good shot, too. Your father taught me, and he was the best damn shot at the academy. Now sit down and let's talk, shall we?"

  "You're…" Larry swallowed. "You're k… kidding me, of course."

  "It would," Harriet answered, "be a little foolish to gamble on that premise, son, considering the fact that it's me who's holding the gun."

  Larry looked at the .22 and then blinked.

  "Now sit," Harriet said, smiling pleasantly, "and well talk about all sorts of things. Have you thought of what you're giving Dad for Christmas?"

  There's a trouble with murder.

  There are, to be truthful, a lot of troubles with murder—but there's one in particular.

  It gets to be a habit.

  No one's claiming, you understand, that murder is the
only habit-forming activity around. That would be untrue and somewhat foolish. Brushing the teeth is habit forming. So is taking a bath. So is infidelity. So is going to the movies: Living, if one wanted to be a little morbid, is also a little habit forming.

  But murder is, and in a nonexclusive way, definitely habit forming.

  That's the main trouble with murder.

  The man who killed Aníbal Hernandez had a very good reason, according to his own somewhat curious way of thinking, for wanting Aníbal dead. Now, if you're going to justify murder at all, you'd have to admit that so far as good reasons went, this fellow had a pretty good one. All within the framework of murder, of course. There are good reasons and bad reasons for everything, and there are doubtless many people who might feel that there simply is no such thing as a good reason for murder. Well, there's no arguing with some diehards.

  But this fellow's reason was a good one, and once the somewhat gory task of murder had been done, the reason seemed even better because a fait accompli seeks and generally finds its own justification.

  The reason for killing Aníbal's sister also seemed to be a pretty good one at the time. Hadn't the fool girl exhibited all the symptoms of a tongue about to start wagging? Besides, a girl shouldn't start arguing with a man when he… well, it served her right. Of course, she really hadn't known anything, except about Gonzo, well, that was reason enough. Tell the police that Gonzo had asked her to lie, and then the police would pick up Gonzo, and Gonzo would empty his stomach of everything. That was dangerous.

  Standing now in his pigeon coop on the roof, he could see how dangerous it would be if Gonzo got picked up. He was still a little rattled by the fact that Byrnes had put a tap on their call, even though he'd been assured no one was listening. That would seem to indicate a fool-hardiness on the part of Byrnes, and one doesn't get very foolhardy when his son might be involved, unless one has an ace up his sleeve. And what could that ace be?

  God, it was windy up here on the roof. He was glad he had put tar paper over the wire mesh of the coop. Sure pigeons are hardy, don't they go gallivanting around Grover Park all winter long, but still he wouldn't want any of his birds to die. There was one in particular, that little female fantail, who didn't look good at all. She had not eaten for several days now and her eyes, if you could tell anything at all from a pigeon's eyes, didn't look right. He would have to watch her, maybe get something into her with an eyedropper. The other birds were looking fine, though. He had several Jacobins, and he would never tire of watching them, never tire of admiring the hood-like ruff of feathers they wore around their heads. And his tumbler, God, the way that bird somersaulted when it flew, or how about the pouters, they were magnificent birds, too, what the hell could Byrnes have up his sleeve?

  How had a dick got onto Gonzo's tail?

  Was it possible the girl had talked? Before she died? No, that was not possible. If she had talked, the police would have come to him directly and damn fast. They wouldn't be fooling around trying to pick up Gonzo. Then how? Had someone seen Gonzo talking to her on the afternoon of Annabelle's death? That was possible, yes.

  How had this thing got so complicated?

  It had started as a simple plan, and now the plan didn't seem to be working. Should he call Byrnes again, tell Byrnes there had better not be anyone listening this time, tell him the whole damned story, lay the cards right on the table? But who could have seen the girl with Gonzo? Had they talked together in the same room she'd taken him to? The room Maria got from that woman, what was her name? Dolores? Wasn't that what she'd said? Yes, Dolores. Had Dolores known about Gonzo's talk with Maria? Had she recognized Gonzo from seeing him before, not knowing his name perhaps but… no. No, the police were probably simply keeping all known pushers under surveillance. But Gonzo is not a known pusher.

  Gonzo is a punk who happened to stumble across some valuable information and who fortunately placed that information in the hands of someone who realized its potential: me.

  Gonzo has no record, Gonzo is not a known pusher, Gonzo is in this only for the promise of quick unhindered riches, and he is not even known in the neighborhood, not as Gonzo, anyway. So if he has no record, and if he is not known as Gonzo, and if he is not a known pusher, how did the police find out about him?

  The woman.

  Dolores.

  No, not her, but someone perhaps saw them talking together that afternoon, saw him extract from her the promise of a lie, saw the twenty-five dollars exchange hands. Someone perhaps…

  How much did Maria tell the woman Dolores?

  Good Christ, why am I worrying about Gonzo? How much did Maria tell that old woman? Did she mention my name to her? Did she say, "I have this friend who wants to sleep with me, and I need a room?" Did she then say who the friend was, God, could she have been so stupid?

  What does Dolores know?

  He took a last look at the female fantail, stepped out of the coop, locked the door, and then went downstairs to the street. He walked with a brisk spring in his step. He walked with a purpose and a goal, and that goal was the tenement building in which he and Maria had shared a room. When he reached the building, he looked both ways up the street, thankful the streets were not crowded, thankful for winter because if this were summer, the front stoop would be crowded with old women yacketing.

  He checked the mailboxes, finding one marked DOLORES FAURED. Yes, that was the name Maria had mentioned. Dolores Faured. The apartment was on the second floor. He walked through the hallway quickly. There was no pain of remembrance in his mind. What had happened with Maria Hernandez had happened, and murder is habit forming.

  He found the apartment and knocked.

  "Quien es?" a voice called.

  "Un amigo," he answered, and he waited.

  He heard footsteps, and then the door opened. The woman standing there was thin and frail, a frail old witch, he could pick her up and break her in half if he wanted to. With sudden insight, he realized that he was now committed. He had come here, and if the old woman knew nothing, if Maria had indeed told her nothing, what then? How did he question her and still leave her with no knowledge?

  "Who are you?" the woman asked.

  "May I come in?"

  "What do you want?"

  She would not let him into the house until she knew who he was, that was certain. If he mentioned the name of Maria Hernandez, would he not then have a glimmer of knowledge? And was not even a glimmer of knowledge dangerous, how had this thing got so complicated?

  "I'm from the police," he lied. "I want to ask some questions."

  "Come in, come in," Dolores said. "More questions, always questions."

  He followed her into the apartment. It was a dirty, smelly apartment, this woman was nothing but a female pimp, a frail witch of a pimp.

  "What now?" she asked.

  "On the night Miss Hernandez was killed? Did she mention to you who she was seeing? Who the man was?"

  Dolores was staring at him. "Don't I know you?" she asked.

  "Not unless you've been inside the 87th Precinct," he answered quickly.

  "Haven't I seen you in the neighborhood?"

  "Well, I work in the neighborhood. Naturally…"

  "I thought I knew all the bulls from the 87th," Dolores said speculatively. "Well." She shrugged.

  "About this man."

  "Si. Don't you cops work together?"

  "What?"

  "I already told them this. The others who came. Detectives Meyer and… who was the other?"

  "I don't remember."

  "Hengel," Dolores said. "Yes, Detective Hengel."

  "Of course," he said. "Yes. Hengel. You already told them this?"

  "Certainly. The next day. That room downstairs was flooded with police. Meyer and…" She stopped suddenly.

  "It was Temple," she said, her eyes narrowing. "Temple was the other cop's name."

  "Yes," he said. "What did you tell them?"

  "You said Hengel."

  "What?"

/>   "Hengel. You said it was Hengel."

  "No," he said, "you're mistaken. I said Temple."

  "I said Hengel, and you said yes, it was Hengel," Dolores insisted.

  "Well, we have a Hengel at the station house, too," he said irritably. "In any case, what did you tell them?"

  Dolores looked at him long and hard. Then she said, "Let me see your badge."

  Well, here we are doing the lion house bit again, Carella thought.

  This is Steve Carella, folks, coming to you again from atop lovely Hotel Grover in the charming Lion House room. Ah, I hear the orchestra tuning up, ladies and gentlemen, so perhaps we'll have some delightful cocktail music. We broadcast from this spot every day at the same time, you know, through the auspices of the National Foundation for Contracting Double Pneumonia. We get a lovely little breeze here atop the Hotel Grover, and the breeze is never quite so charming as when it whips around the corners of the Lion House room. So stay tuned, folks, for a lot of laughs and a few surprises.

  The surprises today include an announcement from Detective-Lieutenant Peter Byrnes, my immediate superior, who wishes you to know that his son Larry Byrnes was today voted Drug Addict of the Year cum Murder Suspect. Now, how's that for a little surprise, folks? Knock the wind out of you? Damn near knocked me flat on my ass, so the least it should do is knock a little wind out of you. What's that? Excuse me, folks, I'm being signaled from Hy Auerglass in the control booth. What is it, Hy? Oh, we've been cut off the air? That last "ass" did it, huh? Well, those are the breaks. I can always go back to being a cop.

  Oh, that poor son of a bitch. I like that guy. There are cops who don't like him, but I do, and I wouldn't have another skipper if he came gold-plated. But what's he going through right now? What's he going through, with some bastard sitting out there and dangling a carrot in front of his nose, what's he…

  He spotted the boy.

  The same boy he'd talked to yesterday afternoon, only the boy wasn't heading for the lion house this time. Was it possible that run-in with the patrolman yesterday had scared Gonzo into calling the meet for elsewhere in the park?

  The boy had not seen him, and chances were he would not recognize him even if he did see him. Carella was wearing a battered felt hat with the rim rolled down front, sides, and back. He wore a wide box raincoat which gave him an appearance of girth. And, even though it made him feel a little silly, he was wearing a false mustache. The raincoat was buttoned from top to bottom; Carella's .38 was in the right-hand pocket.