The Heckler Page 6

  For the most part, Frankie Hernandez was a highly respected man. He had come out of the streets in one of the city’s hottest delinquency areas, carrying the albatross of “cultural conflict” about his youthful neck, breaking through the “language barrier” (only Spanish was spoken in his home when he was a child) and emerging from the squalor of the slums to become a Marine hero during the Second World War, and later a patrolman ironically assigned to the streets which had bred him. He was now a Detective 3rd/Grade. It had been a long hard pull, and the battle still hadn’t been won—not for Frankie Hernandez, it hadn’t. Frankie Hernandez, you see, was fighting for a cause. Frankie Hernandez was trying to prove to the world at large that the Puerto Rican guy could also be thegood guy.

  “So will you talk to him, Frankie?” Frick asked again.

  “Sure I will. This afternoon some time. Okay?”

  Frick’s mouth widened into a grateful smile. “Thanks, Frankie,” he said, and he clapped him on the shoulder and went hurrying off down the corridor to his office downstairs. Hernandez opened the door to the Clerical Office and said, “Miscolo, we’re out of towels in the bathroom.”

  “Okay, I’ll get some,” Miscolo said, without looking up from his typing. Then, as an afterthought, he wheeled from the machine and said, “Hey, Frankie, did Steve mention about May Reardon ‘’

  “Yeah.”

  “You in?”

  “I’m in.”

  “Good, good. I’ll get a fresh roll of towels later.”

  Hernandez went into the squadroom. He was just about to sit at his desk when the telephone rang. He sighed and picked it up.

  Behind the closed door markedLT .PETER BYRNES , Steve Carella watched his superior officer and wished this were not quite as painful for Byrnes as it seemed to be. The lieutenant clearly had no stomach for what he was doing or saying, and his reluctance to carry out an obviously unpleasant task showed in his face and in the set of his body and also in the clenching and unclenching of his hands.

  “Look,” Byrnes said, “don’t you think I hate that son of a bitch as much as you do?”

  “I know, Peter,” Carella said. “I’ll do whatever—”

  “You think I enjoyed that call I got from Detective Lieutenant Abernathy yesterday afternoon? Right after you left, Steve, the phone buzzes and it’s a patrolman in the Public Relations Office downtown on High Street, and he asks me to hold on a moment for a call from Lieutenant Abernathy. So Abernathy gets on the phone and he wants to know if a man named Steve Carella works for me, and did I know that this man had sent out photos to all the newspapers except one and that if the police department was to expect co-operation from the press in the future, it would have to show equal consideration toall of the city’s newspapers. So he demanded that I give this Carella a reprimand and that a copy of the photo go out to Cliff Savage’s paper immediately, together with a note from Carella apologizing for his oversight. Abernathy wants to see a copy of the note, Steve.”

  “Okay,” Carella said.

  “You know I hate that son of a bitch Savage.”

  “I know,” Carella said. “I should have sent him the picture. Kid stuff never gets anybody anyplace.”

  “You sore at me?”

  “What the hell for? The order came from upstairs, didn’t it?”

  “Yeah.” Byrnes shook his bullet-shaped head and pulled a sour face. “Just write a little note, Steve. Sorry I overlooked your paper, something like that. The day we have to kiss Savage’s ass is the day I turn in my buzzer.”

  “Okay,” Carella said. “I’ll get on it right away.”

  “Yeah,” Byrnes said. “You get any make on that picture yet?”

  “Not yet,” Carella said, and he opened the door. “Anything else, Pete?”

  “No, no, go ahead. Get back to work. Go ahead.”

  Carella went out into the squadroom. Hernandez came over to him and said, “There was a call for you while you were with the loot, Steve.”

  “Oh?” Carella said.

  “Yeah. Some guy saw the picture of the stiff in the papers. Said he recognized him.”

  6.

  THE MAN WHO HAD PHONED the 87th to identify the photograph of the stiff was named Christopher Random. He was a man in his early sixties, and he had only four teeth in his mouth, two upper front and two lower front. He had told Detective Hernandez that he could be found in a bar called Journey’s End, and it was there indeed that Carella and Hernandez found him at eleven-thirty that morning.

  Journey’s End may have been just that for a good many of the bar’s customers. They were all wearing wrinkled and soiled gray suits. They were all wearing caps. They were all past fifty, and they all had the veined noses and fogged eyes of the habitual drinker.

  Christopher Random had that nose and those eyes, and in addition he had only those four teeth, so that he looked like a remarkable specimen of something preserved in alcohol. Carella asked the bartender which of the men in the gray wrinkled suits was Random, and the bartender pointed him out and then he and Hernandez went to the end of the bar and Carella flashed the tin at Random, who blinked, nodded and casually threw off the shot of whiskey which rested on the bar before him.

  He burped and the fumes damn near killed Carella and Hernandez.

  “Mr. Random?” Carella said.

  “That’s me,” Random said. “Christopher Random, scourge of the Orient.”

  “What makes you say that?” Carella asked.

  “I beg your pardon? Say what?”

  “Scourge of the Orient.”

  “Oh.” Random thought for a few moments. “No reason,” he said, shrugging. “Just an expression.”

  “You called the precinct, sir, to say you knew who that dead man was, is that right?”

  “That is right, sir,” Random said. “What is your name, sir?”

  “Carella. And this is Detective Hernandez.”

  “Nice to meet you two gentlemen,” Random said. “Would either of you care for a little refreshment, or are you not allowed to imbibe while wearing the blue?” He paused. “That’s just an expression,” he said.

  “We’re not allowed to drink on duty,” Carella said.

  “That is a shame,” Random said. “Sir, that is a crying shame. Barkeep, I would like another whiskey, please. Now then, about that photograph?”

  “Yes, sir, what about it?” Carella said. “Who was he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But I thought—”

  “That is to say, I don’t know what his name is. Or, to be more precise, I don’t know what his full name is. I do know his first name.”

  “And what’s that?” Hernandez asked.

  “Johnny.”

  “But Johnny what, you don’t know?”

  “That is correct, sir. Johnny what, I do not know. Or even Johnny Who.” Random smiled. “That’s just an expression,” he said. “Ahh, here’s my whiskey now. Drink hearty lads, this stuff here puts hair on your clavicle it does, arghhhhh!” He smacked his lips, set the glass down again and asked, “Where were we?”

  “Johnny.”

  “Yes, sir. Johnny.”

  “What about him? How do you happen to know him?”

  “I met him in a bar, sir.”

  “Where?”

  “On The Stem, I believe.”

  “The Stem and where?”

  “North Eighteenth?”

  “Are you asking us or telling us?” Carella said.

  “I don’t know the street exactly,” Random said, “but I do know the name of the bar, it is called, sir, the Two Circles, does that help you?”

  “Maybe,” Carella said. “When did this meeting take place?”

  “Let me think,” Random said. His brow wrinkled. He sucked spit in around his four teeth and made horrible noises with his mouth. “I think better with a bit of refreshment before me,” he said subtly.

  “Bartender, another whiskey,” Carella said.

  “Why, thank you, sir, that’s good of you
,” Random said. “I think I met him a few nights before the beginning of the month. March twenty-ninth or thirtieth, something like that. It was a Saturday night, I remember.”

  Carella flipped open his wallet and pulled a small celluloid calendar from one of the compartments. “Saturday was the twenty-eighth,” he said. “Was that the date?”

  “If it was the last Saturday in March, yes sir.”

  “There were no Saturdays in March after that one,” Carella said, smiling.

  “Then that, sir, was the date, yes, sir. Ahhh, here’s my whiskey now. Drink hearty, lads, this stuff here puts hair on your clavicle it does, arghhhhh!” He smacked his lips, set the glass down again and asked, “Where were we?”

  “Johnny,” Hernandez said. “Met him in a bar called the Two Circles up on The Stem on Saturday night, March twenty-eighth. Go on.”

  “Did you write all that down, sir?” Random asked.

  “I did.”

  “Remarkable.”

  “How old would you say the man was?” Carella asked. “This fellow Johnny.”

  “In his sixties, I would say.”

  “In good health, would you say?”

  Random shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not a physician, you understand.”

  “I know. But was he coughing or anything? Did he look pale or run-down? Did he have any tics or nervous mannerisms? Did he—”

  “He seemed to be in perfectly good health,” Random said, “as far as I could tell. You understand, I didn’t ask him to take off his clothes so I could give him a physical examination, you understand, sir. I am saying only that, on the surface, looking at him with my naked eye, and without the benefit of a medical education, I would say this fellow Johnny was as fit as a fiddle.” Random paused. “That’s just an expression,” he said.

  “Okay,” Carella said, “he told you his first name was Johnny. Did he mention his last name?”

  “No, sir, he did not. Sir, with all due respect to the Police Department, any extended conversation makes me exceedingly thirsty. I do wish I could…”

  “Bartender, another whiskey,” Hernandez said. “He didn’t give you his last name, correct?”

  “Correct.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he was on his way to work.”

  “Work? What kind of work?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “But this was the nighttime, wasn’t it?”

  “That is correct, sir. It was a Saturday night.”

  “And he said he was going to work?”

  “Yes, sir, that is exactly what he said.”

  “But he didn’t say what kind of work?”

  “No, sir,” Random said. “Of course, he was wearing the uniform.”

  “Uniform?” Carella said.

  “Uniform?” Hernandez echoed.

  “Was it a sailor’s uniform?” Carella asked. “Was he a sailor, Mr. Random?”

  “Ahhhh,” Random said, “here’s my whiskey now. Drink hearty, lads, this stuff here puts hair on your clavicle, it does, arghhhhh!” He smacked his lips, set the glass down again and asked, “Where were we?”

  “The uniform. Was it a sailor’s uniform?”

  “A sailor’s uniform? On a man well into his sixties? Now, sirs, that’s pretty silly, if you ask me.”

  “Well what kind of a uniform was it?”

  “It was gray,” Random said.

  “Go on.”

  “It could have been a postman’s uniform,” Random said.

  “Wasit?”

  “I don’t know. Or a bus driver’s.”

  “Well, which was it? A postman’s or a bus driver’s?”

  “I don’t know. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t feeling too well that night, you understand. I was having a little trouble with my eyes, you understand. Focusing, you understand. So all I can remember is that it was a gray uniform, with a uniform cap and all.”

  “It wasn’t a chauffeur’s uniform, was it?”

  “No, sir, it was gray.Gray . Not black. No, not a chauffeur’s uniform.” Random paused. “But hewas working for somebody. I remember that. So I guess that would let out the post office, wouldn’t it? Unless he was talking about his foreman, that’s a possibility, isn’t it?”

  “He mentioned his employer’s name?” Carella asked.

  “Well, no, not exactly,” Random said. “Only indirectly.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he had to get to work or the deaf man would be angry. That’s what he said.”

  “The who?” Carella asked. “Thedead man?”

  “No, no, thedeaf man. Deaf. You know. Hard of hearing. Deaf. Of course, that may have been just an expression.”

  “You’re sure that’s what he said?” Carella asked.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Anything else about this deaf man?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Or about where he was going to work?”

  “No, sir. Not a word.”

  “You’re sure you’re remembering this correctly, Mr. Random?” Hernandez asked.

  “Of course I remember it,” Random said. “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Well, you said you were a little out of focus.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “What you meant was that you’d had a little too much to drink, isn’t that right?” Hernandez asked.

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “What you meant was that you had a couple of sheets to the wind, isn’t that right?” Hernandez asked.

  “That’s just an expression,” Carella said quickly.

  “Wereyou kind of loaded, Mr. Random?”

  “I suppose so,” Random said philosophically.

  “But in spite of that, you do remember what happened?”

  “I do, sir,” Random said.

  “What do you think?” Hernandez asked.

  Carella nodded. “I believe him.”

  THE MAN WAS WEARINGa chauffeur’s uniform. He stood in the doorway of the haberdashery, and he looked around at the fedoras and derbies and caps and Homburgs, and he held his own hat in his hands and stared into the shop, waiting. One of the salesmen spotted him and walked over instantly.

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “May I help you?”

  “Mr. Lombardo, please?” the chauffeur said.

  “Just a moment. He’s in the back. I’ll get him for you.”

  The salesman went into the back of the store and returned a moment later with Mr. Lombardo, the owner. Lombardo wore a dark-gray suit and a beautiful white shirt with a gray foulard necktie. A cat’s-eye ring glistened on his pinky.

  “Yes, sir?” he said to the chauffeur. “May I help you?”

  “Mr. Lombardo?” the chauffeur said.

  “Yes?” Mr. Lombardo frowned. Perhaps he already knew what was coming.

  “The car’s waiting, sir,” the chauffeur said.

  “You don’t say?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Whatcar, may I ask?”

  “The car you ordered, sir.” The chauffeur looked puzzled. “I’m from Carey Cadillac, sir.” He nodded his head, as if that simple statement explained everything.

  “Carey Cadillac?” The chauffeur kept nodding.

  “The car? It’s outside? Waiting?”

  He nodded again, studied Lombardo’s scowl, and desperately plunged ahead. “You said twelve noon, sir, and its twelve noon now. So I’m ready and waiting, sir.” He tried a grin which evaporated the moment he saw Lombardo’s scowl deepen. Finally, completely routed, he returned to his original statement, delivering it with cold hauteur. “The car’s waiting, sir.”

  “I didn’t order any car,” Lombardo said calmly.

  “But you did, sir. James Lombardo, Lombardo’s Haberdashery, eight thirty-seven—”

  “I did not order any automobile!” Lombardo said, his voice rising.

  “It’s that lunatic again, Mr. Lombardo,” the salesman said.

  “I know it!”

  “Call the
police, Mr. Lombardo,” the salesman advised. “This has gone too far. Those telephone threats and all these—”

  “You’re right,” Lombardo said. “This has gone far enough.” And he started for the telephone.

  “Hey, what about the car?” the chauffeur wanted to know.

  “I didn’t order it,” Lombardo said, dialing. “Some madman has been trying to get me to vacate my store. This is just another one of his stunts.”

  “Well, look—”

  “I did not order it!” Lombardo shouted. Into the telephone, he said, “Operator? Get me the police.”

  The chauffeur shrugged, stared at Lombardo for a moment, and then put on his cap and went out of the haberdashery. The black Cadillac was parked at the curb, but he didn’t go directly to it. Instead, he went to the plate-glass front of the store next door to the haberdashery. And, longingly, he studied the sapphires and rubies and emeralds and diamonds which were spread on black velvet in the window.

  Sighing, he went back to the car and drove away.

  7.

  THE DEAF MAN AND RAFE had been sitting in the ferry-house waiting room for close to a half hour, watching the people who came and went, watching especially the number of policemen patrolling the docks or hanging around the waiting room, or coming on and off the ferry itself. A huge clock was at one end of the pale-green room, and the deaf man looked up at the clock occasionally, and occasionally he studied the ferry schedule in his hands. The inside of the schedule looked like this:

  The deaf man studied the timetable, made a mental note and then walked to the nearest ticket booth.

  “Good morning,” he said to the ticket seller in his gentle voice, smiling.

  “Morning,” the ticket seller said, not looking up. The ticket seller seemed to be counting something. All ticket sellers always seem to be counting something no matter when you approach their windows. They are either counting money, or new tickets, or cancelled tickets, or stamps, or schedules, or sometimes they are counting their big toes, but they are always counting something, and they are always too busy with what they are counting to look up at you. This one was no exception. The deaf man was smiling his most powerful smile and talking in his most persuasively gentle voice, but the ticket seller went right on counting whatever it was he was counting, and he didn’t look up once during the entire conversation.