“The man in 31.”
“I don’t know him.”
“Ma’am, could you please open the door?”
“I don’t want to.”
“Ma’am, I can come back with a warrant, but it’d be a lot easier …”
“Don’t get me in trouble,” she said. “I’ll open the door, but please don’t get me in trouble.”
Polly Malloy was wearing a pale green cotton wrapper. The wrapper had short sleeves. Hawes saw the hit marks on her arms the moment she opened the door, and the hit marks explained a great deal about the woman who was Polly Malloy. She was perhaps twenty-six years old, with a slender youthful body and a face that would have been pretty if it were not so clearly stamped with knowledge. The green eyes were intelligent and alert, the mouth vulnerable. She worried her lip and held the wrapper closed about her naked body, and her fingers were long and slender, and the hit marks on her arms shouted all there was to shout.
“I’m not holding,” she said.
“I didn’t ask.”
“You can look around if you like.”
“I’m not interested,” Hawes said.
“Come in,” she said.
He went into the apartment. She closed and locked the door behind him.
“I don’t want trouble,” she said. “I’ve had enough trouble.”
“I won’t give you any. I only want to know about the man down the hall.”
“I know somebody got shot. Please don’t get me involved in it.”
They sat opposite each other, she on the bed, he on a straight-backed chair facing her. Something shimmered on the air between them, something as palpable as the tenement stink of garbage and piss surrounding them. They sat in easy informality, comfortably aware of each other’s trade, Cotton Hawes detective, Polly Malloy addict. And perhaps they knew each other better than a great many people ever get to know each other. Perhaps Hawes had been inside too many shooting galleries not to understand what it was like to be this girl, perhaps he had arrested too many hookers who were screwing for the couple of bucks they needed for a bag of shit, perhaps he had watched the agonized writhings of too many cold turkey kickers, perhaps his knowledge of this junkie or any junkie was as intimate as a pusher’s, perhaps he had seen too much and knew too much. And perhaps the girl had been collared too many times, had protested too many times that she was clean, had thrown too many decks of heroin under bar stools or down sewers at the approach of a cop, had been in too many different squadrooms and handled by too many different bulls, been offered the Lexington choice by too many different magistrates, perhaps her knowledge of the law as it applied to narcotics addicts was as intimate as any assistant district attorney’s, perhaps she too had seen too much and knew too much. Their mutual knowledge was electric, it generated a heat lightning of its own, ascertaining the curious symbiosis of lawbreaker and enforcer, affirming the interlocking subtlety of crime and punishment. There was a secret bond in that room, an affinity — almost an empathy. They could talk to each other without any bullshit. They were like spent lovers whispering on the same pillow.
“Did you know Orecchio?” Hawes asked.
“Will you keep me clean?”
“Unless you had something to do with it.”
“Nothing.”
“You’ve got my word.”
“A cop?” she asked, and smiled wanly.
“You’ve got my word, if you want it.”
“I need it, it looks like.”
“You need it, honey.”
“I knew him.”
“How?”
“I met him the night he moved in.”
“When was that?”
“Two, three nights ago.”
“Where’d you meet?”
“I was hung up real bad, I needed a fix. I just got out of Caramoor, that sweet hole, a week ago. I haven’t had time to get really connected yet.”
“What were you in for?”
“Oh, hooking.”
“How old are you, Polly?”
“Nineteen. I look older, huh?”
“Yes, you look older.”
“I got married when I was sixteen. To another junkie like myself. Some prize.”
“What’s he doing now?”
“Time at Castleview.”
“For what?”
Polly shrugged. “He started pushing.”
“Okay, what about Orecchio next door?”
“I asked him for a loan.”
“When was this?”
“Day before yesterday.”
“Did he give it to you?”
“I didn’t actually ask him for a loan. I offered to turn a trick for him. He was right next door, you see, and I was pretty sick, I swear to God I don’t think I coulda made it to the street.”
“Did he accept?”
“He gave me ten bucks. He didn’t take nothing from me for it.”
“Sounds like a nice fellow.”
Polly shrugged.
“Not a nice fellow?” Hawes asked.
“Let’s say not my type,” Polly said.
“Mm-huh.”
“Let’s say a son of a bitch,” Polly said.
“What happened?”
“He came in here last night.”
“When? What time?”
“Musta been about nine, nine-thirty.”
“After the symphony started,” Hawes said.
“Huh?”
“Nothing, I was just thinking out loud. Go on.”
“He said he had something nice for me. He said if I came into his room, he would give me something nice.”
“Did you go?”
“First I asked him what it was. He said it was something I wanted more than anything else in the world.”
“But did you go into his room?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see anything out of the ordinary?”
“Like what?”
“Like a high-powered rifle with a telescopic sight.”
“No, nothing like that.”
“All right, what was this ‘something nice’ he promised you?”
“Hoss.”
“He had heroin for you?”
“And that’s why he asked you to come into his room? For the heroin?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what he said.”
“He didn’t attempt to sell it to you, did he?”
“No. But …”
“Yes?”
“He made me beg for it.”
“What do you mean?”
“He showed it to me, and he let me taste it to prove that it was real stuff, and then he refused to give it to me unless I … begged for it.”
“I see.”
“He … teased me for … I guess for … for almost two hours. He kept looking at his watch and making me … do things.”
“What kind of things?”
“Stupid things. He asked me to sing for him. He made me sing ‘White Christmas,’ that was supposed to be a big joke, you see, because the shit is white and he knew how bad I needed a fix, so he made me sing ‘White Christmas’ over and over again, I musta sung it for him six or seven times. And all the while he kept looking at his watch.”
“Go ahead.”
“Then he … he asked me to strip, but … I mean, not just take off my clothes, but … you know, do a strip for him. And I did it. And he began … he began making fun of me, of the way I looked, of my body. I … he made me stand naked in front of him, and he just went on and on about how stupid and pathetic I looked, and he kept asking me if I really wanted the heroin, and then looked at his watch again, it was about eleven o’clock by then, I kept saying Yes, I want it, please let me have it, so he asked me to dance for him, he asked me to do the waltz, and then he asked me to do the shag, I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, I never even heard of the shag, have you ever heard of the shag?”
“Yes, I’ve heard of it,” Hawes said.
“So I did all that for him, I would have done anything for him, and finally he told me to get on my knees and explain to him why I felt I really needed the bag of heroin. He said he expected me to talk for five minutes on the subject of the addict’s need for narcotics, and he looked at his watch and began timing me, and I talked. I was shaking by this time, I had the chills, I needed a shot more than …” Polly closed her eyes. “I began crying. I talked and I cried, and at last he looked at his watch and said, ‘Your five minutes are up. Here’s your poison, now get the hell out of here.’ And he threw the bag to me.”