Cop Hater (87th Precinct), page 4
“What’s his name?”
“Look, he was only tanked up, that’s all. Hell, it was away back in 1950.”
“What’s his name?”
“Frank. Frank Clarke. With an e.”
“What do you think, Steve?” Bush asked Carella.
Carella shrugged. “It came too easy. It’s never good when it comes that easy.”
“Let’s check it, anyway,” Bush said.
There are smells inside a tenement, and they are not only the smell of cabbage. The smell of cabbage, to many, is and always will be a good wholesome smell, and there are many who resent the steady propaganda which links cabbage with poverty.
The smell inside a tenement is the smell of life.
It is the smell of every function of life, the sweating, the cooking, the elimination, the breeding. It is all these smells, and they are wedded into one gigantic smell which hits the nostrils the moment you enter the downstairs doorway. For the smell has been inside the building for decades. It has seeped through the floorboards and permeated the walls. It clings to the banister and the linoleum‐covered steps. It crouches in corners and it hovers about the naked lightbulbs on each landing. The smell is always there, day and night. It is the stench of living, and it never sees the light of day, and it never sees the crisp brittleness of starlight.
It was there on the morning of July 24 at 3:00 A.M. It was there in full force because the heat of the day had baked it into the walls. It hit Carella as he and Bush entered the building. He snorted through his nostrils and then struck a match and held it to the mailboxes.
“There it is,” Bush said. “Clarke. Three‐B.”
Carella shook out the match and they walked toward the steps. The garbage cans were in for the night, stacked on the ground‐floor landing behind the steps. Their aroma joined the other smells to clash in a medley of putridity. The building slept, but the smells were awake. On the second floor, a man—or a woman—snored loudly. On each door, close to the floor, the circular trap for a milk bottle lock hung despondently, awaiting the milkman’s arrival. On one of the doors hung a plaque, and the plaque read, IN GOD WE TRUST. And behind that door, there was undoubtedly the unbending steel bar of a police lock, embedded in the floor and tilted to lean against the door.
Carella and Bush labored up to the third floor. The lightbulb on the third‐floor landing was out. Bush struck a match.
“Down the hall there.”
“You want to do this up big?” Carella asked.
“He’s got a .45 in there, hasn’t he?”
“Still.”
“What the hell, my wife doesn’t need my insurance money,” Bush said.
They walked to the door and flanked it. They drew their service revolvers with nonchalance. Carella didn’t for a moment believe he’d need his gun, but caution never hurt. He drew back his left hand and knocked on the door.
“Probably asleep,” Bush said.
“Betokens a clear conscience,” Carella answered. He knocked again.
“Who is it?” a voice answered.
“Police. Want to open up?”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” the voice mumbled. “Just a minute.”
“We won’t need these,” Bush said. He holstered his gun, and Carella followed suit. From within the apartment, they could hear bedsprings creaking, and then a woman’s voice asking, “What is it?” They heard footsteps approaching the door, and then someone fumbled with the police lock on the inside, and the heavy steel bar clattered when it was dropped to the floor. The door opened a crack.
“What do you want?” the voice said.
“Police. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“At this time of the morning? Jesus Christ, can’t it wait?”
“Afraid it can’t.”
“Well, what’s the matter? There a burglar in the building?”
“No. We’d just like to ask you some questions. You’re Frank Clarke, aren’t you?”
“Yeah.” Clarke paused. “Let me see your badge.”
Carella reached into his pocket for the leather case to which his shield was pinned. He held it up to the crack in the door.
“I can’t see nothing,” Clarke said. “Just a minute.”
“Who is it?” the woman asked.
“The cops,” Clarke mumbled. He stepped away from the door, and then a light flashed inside the apartment. He came back to the door. Carella held up the badge again.
“Yeah, okay,” Clarke said. “What do you want?”
“You own a .45, Clarke?”
“What?”
“A .45. Do you own one?”
“Jesus, is that what you want to know? Is that what you come banging on the door for in the middle of the night? Ain’t you guys got any sense at all? I got to go to work in the morning.”
“Do you have a .45, or don’t you?”
“Who said I had one?”
“Never mind who. How about it?”
“Why do you want to know? I been here all night.”
“Anybody to swear for that?”
Clarke’s voice lowered. “Hey, look, fellows, I got somebody with me, you know what I mean? Look, give me a break, will you?”
“What about the gun?”
“Yeah, I got one.”
“A .45?”
“Yeah. Yeah, it’s a .45.”
“Mind if we take a look at it?”
“What for? I’ve got a permit for it.”
“We’d like to look at it anyway.”
“Hey, look, what the hell kind of a routine is this, anyway? I told you I got a permit for the gun. What did I do wrong? Whattya want from me, anyway?”
“We want to see the .45,” Bush said. “Get it.”
“You got a search warrant?” Clarke asked.
“Never mind the crap,” Bush said. “Get the gun.”
“You can’t come in here without a search warrant. And you can’t bulldoze me into gettin’ the gun, either. I don’t want to get that gun, then you can whistle.”
“How old’s the girl in there?” Bush asked.
“What?”
“You heard me. Wake up, Clarke!”
“She’s twenty‐one, and you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree,” Clarke said. “We’re engaged.”
From down the hall, someone shouted, “Hey, shut up, will ya? For Christ’s sake! Go down to the poolroom, you want to talk!”
“How about letting us in, Clarke?” Carella asked gently. “We’re waking your neighbors.”
“I don’t have to let you in no place. Go get a search warrant.”
“I know you don’t, Clarke. But a cop’s been killed, and he was killed with a .45, and if I were you, I wouldn’t play this so goddamn cozy. Now how about opening that door and showing us you’re clean? How about it, Clarke?”
“A cop? Jesus, a cop! Jesus, why didn’t you say so? Just a…just a minute, will ya? Just a minute.” He moved away from the door. Carella could hear him talking to the woman, and he could hear the woman’s whispered answer. Clarke came back to the door and took off the night chain. “Come on in,” he said.
There were dishes stacked in the kitchen sink. The kitchen was a six‐by‐eight rectangle, and adjoining that was the bedroom. The girl stood in the bedroom doorway. She was a short blonde, somewhat dumpy. She wore a man’s bathrobe. Her eyes were puffed with sleep, and she wore no makeup. She blinked her eyes and stared at Carella and Bush as they moved into the kitchen.
Clarke was a short man with bushy black brows and brown eyes. His nose was long, broken sharply in the middle. His lips were thick, and he needed a shave badly. He was wearing pajama pants and nothing else. He stood bare‐chested and bare‐footed in the glare of the kitchen light. The water tap dripped its tattoo onto the dirty dishes in the sink.
“Let’s see the gun,” Bush said.
“I got a permit for it,” Clarke answered. “Okay if I smoke?”
“It’s your apartment.”
“Gladys,” Clarke said, “there’s a pack on the dresser. Bring some matches, too, will ya?” The girl moved into the darkness of the bedroom, and Clarke whispered, “You guys sure picked a hell of a time to come calling, all right.” He tried a smile, but neither Carella nor Bush seemed amused, and so he dropped it instantly. The girl came back with the package of cigarettes. She hung one on her lip and then handed the pack to Clarke. He lighted his own cigarette and then handed the matches to the blonde.
“What kind of a permit?” Carella asked. “Carry or premises?”
“Carry,” Clarke said.
“How come?”
“Well, it used to be premises. I registered the gun when I got out of the Army. It was a gift,” he said quickly. “From my captain.”
“Go ahead.”
“So I got a premises permit when I was discharged. That’s the law, ain’t it?”
“You’re telling the story,” Bush said.
“Well, that’s the way I understood it. Either that or I had to get the barrel leaded up. I don’t remember. Anyway, I got the permit.”
“Is the barrel leaded?”
“Hell no. What do I need a permit for a dead gun for? I had this premises permit, and then I got a job with a jeweler, you know? Like I had to make a lot of valuable deliveries, things like that. So I had it changed to a carry permit.”
“When was this?”
“Couple of months back.”
“Which jeweler do you work for?”
“I quit that job,” Clarke said.
“All right, get the gun. And get the permit, too, while you’re at it.”
“Sure,” Clarke said. He went to the sink, held his cigarette under the dripping tap, and then dropped the soggy butt in with the dishes. He walked past the girl and into the bedroom.
“This is some time of night to be asking questions,” the girl said angrily.
“We’re sorry, miss,” Carella said.
“Yeah, I’ll bet you are.”
“We didn’t mean to disturb your beauty sleep,” Bush said nastily.
The girl raised one eyebrow. “Then why did you?” She blew out a cloud of smoke, the way she had seen movie sirens do. Clarke came back into the room holding the .45. Bush’s hand moved imperceptibly toward his right hip and the holster there.
“Put it on the table,” Carella said.
Clarke put the gun on the table.
“Is it loaded?” Carella asked.
“I think so.”
“Don’t you know?”
“I ain’t even looked at the thing since I quit that job.”
Carella draped a handkerchief over his spread fingers and picked up the gun. He slid the magazine out. “It’s loaded, all right,” he said. Quickly, he sniffed the barrel.
“You don’t have to smell,” Clarke said. “It ain’t been fired since I got out of the Army.”
“It came close once, though, didn’t it?”
“Huh?”
“That night in The Shamrock.”
“Oh, that,” Clarke said. “Is that why you’re here? Hell, I was looped that night. I didn’t mean no harm.”
Carella slammed the magazine back into place. “Where’s the permit, Clarke?”
“Oh, yeah. I looked around in there. I couldn’t find it.”
“You’re sure you’ve got one?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. I just can’t find it.”
“You’d better take another look. A good one, this time.”
“I did take a good look. I can’t find it. Look, I got a permit. You can check on it. I wouldn’t kid you. Who was the cop got killed?”
“Want to take another look for that permit?”
“I already told you, I can’t find it. Look, I got one.”
“You had one, pal,” Carella said. “You just lost it.”
“Huh? What? What’d you say?”
“When a cop asks you for your permit, you produce it or you lose it.”
“Well, Jesus, I just misplaced it temporarily. Look, you can check all this. I mean…Look, what’s the matter with you guys, anyway? I didn’t do nothing. I been here all night. You can ask Gladys. Ain’t that right, Gladys?”
“He’s been here all night,” Gladys said.
“We’re taking the gun,” Carella said. “Give him a receipt for it, Hank.”
“That ain’t been fired in years,” Clarke said. “You’ll see. And you check on that permit. I got one. You check on it.”
“We’ll let you know,” Carella said. “You weren’t planning on leaving the city, were you?”
“What?”
“You weren’t plann—”
“Hell no. Where would I go?”
“Back to sleep is as good a place as any,” the blonde said.
The pistol permit was on Steve Carella’s desk when he reported for work at 4:00 P.M. on the afternoon of July 24. He had worked until 8:00 in the morning, gone home for six hours sleep, and was back at his desk now, looking a little bleary‐eyed but otherwise none the worse for wear.
The heat had persisted all day long, a heavy yellow blanket that smothered the city in its wooly grip. Carella did not like the heat. He had never liked summer, even as a kid, and now that he was an adult and a cop, the only memorable characteristic summer seemed to have was that it made dead bodies stink quicker.
He loosened his collar the instant he entered the squadroom, and when he got to his desk, he rolled up his sleeves and then picked up the pistol permit.
Quickly, he scanned the printed form:
There was more, a lot more, but it didn’t interest Carella. Clarke had indeed owned a pistol permit—but that didn’t mean he hadn’t used the pistol on a cop named Mike Reardon.
Carella shoved the permit to one side of his desk, glanced at his watch, and then reached for the phone automatically. Quickly, he dialed Bush’s home number and then waited, his hand sweating on the receiver. The phone rang six times, and then a woman’s voice said, “Hello?”
“Alice?”
“Who’s this?”
“Steve Carella.”
“Oh. Hello, Steve.”
“Did I wake you?”
“Yes.”
“Hank’s not here yet. He’s all right, isn’t he?”
“He left a little while ago,” Alice said. The sleep was beginning to leave her voice already. Alice Bush was a cop’s wife who generally slept when her husband did, adjusting her schedule to fit his. Carella had spoken to her on a good many mornings and afternoons, and he always marveled at the way she could come almost instantly awake within the space of three or four sentences. Her voice invariably sounded like the first faint rattle of impending death when she picked up the receiver. As the conversation progressed, it modulated into the dulcet whine of a middle‐aged Airedale, and then into the disconcertingly sexy voice which was the normal speaking voice of Hank’s wife. Carella had met her on one occasion, when he and Hank had shared a late snack with her, and he knew that she was a dynamic blonde with a magnificent figure and the brownest eyes he’d ever seen. From what Bush had expansively delivered about personal aspects of his home life, Carella knew that Alice slept in clinging black, sheer nightgowns. The knowledge was unnerving, for whenever Carella roused her out of bed, he automatically formed a mental picture of the well‐rounded blonde he’d met, and the picture was always dressed as Hank had described it.
He generally, therefore, cut his conversations with Alice short, feeling somewhat guilty about the artistic inclinations of his mind. This morning, though, Alice seemed to be in a talkative mood.
“I understand one of your colleagues got knocked off,” she said.
Carella smiled, in spite of the topic’s grimness. Alice sometimes had a peculiar way of mixing the King’s English with choice bits of underworld and police vernacular.
“Yes,” he said.
“I’m awfully sorry,” she answered, her mood and her voice changing. “Please be careful, you and Hank. If a cheap hood is shooting up the streets—”
“We’ll be careful,” he said. “I’ve got to go now, Alice.”
“I leave Hank in capable hands,” Alice said, and she hung up without saying good‐bye.
Carella grinned and shrugged, and then put the receiver back into the cradle. David Foster, his brown face looking scrubbed and shining, ambled over to the desk. “Afternoon, Steve,” he said.
“Hi, Dave. What’ve you got?”
“Ballistics report on that .45 you brought in last night.”
“Any luck?”
“Hasn’t been fired since Old King Cole ordered the bowl.”
“Well, that narrows it down,” Carella said. “Now we’ve only got the nine million, nine hundred ninety‐nine thousand other people in this fair city to contend with.”
“I don’t like it when cops get killed,” Foster said. His brow lowered menacingly, giving him the appearance of a bull ducking his head to charge at the muleta. “Mike was my partner. He was a good guy.”
“I know.”
“I been trying to think who,” Foster said. “I got my personal IB right up here, and I been leafing through them mug shots one by one.” He tapped his temple. “I been turning them over and studying them, and so far, I haven’t got anything, but give me time. Somebody musta had it in for Mike, and when that face falls into place, that guy’s gonna wish he was in Alaska.”
“Tell you the truth,” Carella said, “I wish I was there right now.”
“Hot, ain’t it?” Foster said, classically understating the temperature and humidity.
“Yeah.” From the corner of his eye, Carella saw Bush walk down the corridor, push through the railing, and sign in. He walked to Carella’s desk, pulled over a swivel chair, and plopped into it disconsolately.
“Rough night?” Foster asked, grinning.
“The roughest,” Bush said in his quiet voice.
“Clarke was a blank,” Carella told him.
“I figured as much. Where do we go from here?”
“That’s a good question.”
“Coroner’s report in yet?”
“No.”
“The boys picked up some hoods for questioning,” Foster said. “We might give them the once over.”
“Where are they? Downstairs?” Carella asked.
