“You looking for a rap in the mouth?” Kling said.
“What?” La Bresca said, startled.
“I said what are you, some kind of paranoid nut?” Kling said, which wasn’t what he had said at all. La Bresca didn’t seem to notice the discrepancy. He started at Kling in honest surprise, and then started to mumble something, which kling cut short with a glowering, menacing, thoroughly frightening look. Mumbling himself, Kling went up the steps to the uptown side of the platform. The station stop was dark and deserted and windswept. He stood on the platform with his coattails flapping about him, and waited until La Bresca came up the steps on the downtown side. La Bresca’s train pulled in not three minutes later, and he boarded it. The train rattled out of the station. Kling went downstairs again and found a telephone booth. When Willis picked up the phone at the squadroom, Kling said, “This is Bert. La Bresca made me a couple of blocks from his house. You’d better get somebody else on him.”
“How long you been a cop?” Willis asked.
“It happens to the best of us,” Kling said. “Where’d Brown say they were meeting?”
“A bar on Crawford.”
“Well, he boarded a downtown train just a few minutes ago, you’ve got time to plant somebody there before he arrives.”
“Yeah, I’ll get O’Brien over there right away.”
“What do you want me to do, come back to the office or what?”
“How the hell did you manage to get spotted?”
“Just lucky, I guess,” Kling said.
It was one of those nights.
They came into the alley swiftly, moving directly toward Carella, both of them boys of about seventeen or eighteen, both of them brawny, one of them carrying a large tin can, the label gone from it, the can catching light from the street lamp, glinting in the alleyway as they approached, that’s the can of gasoline, Carella thought.
He started to draw his gun and for the first time ever in the history of his career as a cop, it snagged.
It snagged somewhere inside his coat. It was supposed to be a gun designed for negligible bulk, it was not supposed to catch on your goddamn clothing, the two-inch barrel was not supposed to snag when you pulled it, here we go, he thought, the Keystone cops, and leaped to his feet. He could not get the damn gun loose, it was tangled in the wool of his slipover sweater, the yarn pulling and unraveling, he knew the can of gasoline would be thrown into his face in the next moment, he knew a match or a lighter would flare into life, this time they’d be able to smell burning flesh away the hell
back at the squadroom. Instinctively, he brought his left hand down as straight and as rigid as a steel pipe, slammed it down onto the forearm of the boy with the can, hitting it hard enough to shatter bone, hearing the scream that erupted from the boy’s mouth as he dropped the can, and then feeling the intense pain that rocketed into his head and almost burst from his own lips as his burned and bandaged hand reacted. This is great, he thought, I have no hands, they’re going to beat the shit out of me, which turned out to be a fairly good prediction because that’s exactly what they did.
There was no danger from the gasoline now, small consolation, at least they couldn’t set fire to him. But his hands were useless, and his gun was snagged somewhere inside there on his sweater — he tried ripping the tangled yarn free, ten seconds, twenty seconds, a millennium — and his attackers realized instantly that they had themselves a pigeon, so they all jumped on him, all forty guys in the alley, and then it was too late. They were very good street fighters, these boys. They had learned all about punching to the Adam’s apple, they had learned all about flanking operations, one circling around to his left and the other coming up behind him to clout him on the back of the head with the neatest rabbit’s punch he had ever taken, oh, they were nice fighters, these boys, he wondered whether the coffin would be metal or wood. While he was wondering this, one of the boys who had learned how to fight in some clean friendly slum, kicked him in the groin, which can hurt. Carella doubled over, and the other clean fighter behind him delivered a second rabbit punch, rabbit punches doubtless being his speciality, while the lad up front connected with a good hard-swinging uppercut that almost tore off his head. So now he was down on the alley floor, the alley covered with refuse and grime and not a little of his own blood, so they decided to stomp him, which is of course what you must necessarily do when your opponent falls down, you kick him in the head and the shoulders and the chest and everywhere you can manage to kick him. If he’s a live one, he’ll squirm around and try to grab your feet, but if you happen to be lucky enough to get a pigeon who was burned only recently, why you can have an absolute field day kicking him at will because his hands are too tender to grab at anything, no less feet. That’s why guns were invented, Carella thought, so that if you happen to have second-degree burns on your hands you don’t have to use them too much, all you have to do is squeeze a trigger, it’s a shame the gun snagged. It’s a shame, too, that Teddy’s going to be collecting a widow’s dole tomorrow morning, he thought, but these guys are going to kill me unless I do something pretty fast. The trouble is I’m a bumbling god-damn cop, the deaf man is right. The kicks landed now with increasing strength and accuracy, nothing encourages a stomper more than an inert and increasingly more vulnerable victim. I’m certainly glad the gasoline, he thought, and a kick exploded against his left eye. He thought at once he would lose the eye, he saw only a blinding flash of yellow, he rolled away, feeling dizzy and nauseous, a boot collided with his rib, he thought he felt it crack, another kick landed on the kneecap of his left leg, he tried to get up, his hands, “You fucking fuzz,” one of the boys said, Fuzz, he thought, and was suddenly sick, and another kick crashed into the back of his skull and sent him falling face forward into his own vomit.
He lost consciousness.
He might have been dead, for all he knew.
It was one of those nights.
Bob O’Brien got a flat tire on the way to the Erin Bar & Grill on Crawford Avenue, where Tony La Bresca was to meet the man named Dom.
By the time he changed the flat, his hands were numb, his temper was short, the time was 10:32, and the bar was still a ten-minute drive away. On the off-chance that La Bresca and his fair-weather friend would still be there, O’Brien drove downtown, arriving at the bar at ten minutes to eleven. Not only were they both gone already, but the bartender said to O’Brien the moment he bellied up, “Care for something to drink, Officer?”
It was one of those nights.
Chapter 6
On Friday morning, March 8, Detective-Lieutenant Sam Grossman of the Police Laboratory called the squadroom and asked to talk to Cotton Hawes. He was informed that Hawes, together with several other detectives on the squad, had gone to Buena Vista Hospital to visit Steve Carella. The man answering the telephone was Patrolman Genero, who was holding the fort until one of them returned.
“Well, do you want this information or what?” Grossman asked.
“Sir, I’m just supposed to record any calls till they get back,” Genero said.
“I’m going to be tied up later,” Grossman said, “why don’t I just give this to you?”