“Yeah, fat chance,” Brown said.
Byrnes sighed. “With a vest,” he said.
“With a vest, all right,” Meyer said.
“What time’s it going down?”
“Ten-forty-five.”
“Why so early?”
“They’ve been assembling right after dinner, nine, nine-thirty. We hit them a little before eleven, they’ll all be there, we should find the dope and the money all laid out for us.”
“Will the Frenchman be there?”
“Both of them, we hope.”
“You’ve seen them at the building?”
“Not since last month. But Artie’s been sitting a wire...”
“They called?”
“Two days ago,” Brown said. “They’ll be there tonight, Loot, no question.”
“Did they talk money?”
“The one with the deep voice said he was prepared.”
“In English?”
“In English.”
“Was that the exact word he used?”
“Prepared,” Brown said, and nodded. “That’s the word he used last month, too. Prepared.”
“Meaning to make the sale,” Meyer said.
“We hope,” Byrnes said.
“What else could he have meant? Prepared to dance the tango?”
“Who knows with thieves?” Byrnes said philosophically. “Have you picked your patrolmen?”
“The captain’s giving us six of his best men.”
“Six of the city’s finest,” Hawes said dryly.
“Who’s the Narc Squad sending?”
“Miller and Gerardi,” Meyer said. “I don’t know them.”
“I don’t, either,” Byrnes said, and shrugged. “What time will they be here?”
“I told them an hour before the bust.”
“Good,” Byrnes said, and nodded. “Okay, anything else?”
“Nothing I can think of.”
“I still wish—”
“And I wish I was a millionaire,” Meyer said.
“I thought you were already,” Willis said.
“All that graft,” Brown said, and winked.
“Maybe you can rip off some of that shit tonight,” Hawes said. “You’re so eager to go in first, maybe you can grab a kilo and stick it in your pocket.”
“Stick it up your ass,” Meyer said cheerfully.
The meeting was over.
Dr. James Brolin’s office was in a part of the city affectionately dubbed Shrink City, a stretch of real estate running for two blocks from the southern rim of Grover Park at Hall Avenue, past Jefferson, and terminating at Garden. The street, lined with analysts’ offices, was the unofficial dividing line between the still-posh apartment buildings to the west and a Puerto Rican slum to the east. On the Puerto Rican side of the line, Carella could see fire hydrants open and wasting the city’s precious water supply, kids in swim trunks doing their Gene Kelly numbers under the spray, stomping their feet in the puddles, grinning broadly, shouting to each other. Carella wished he could join them.
He had made the appointment for 1:50 p.m., to take advantage of Brolin’s ten-minute break between patients. He was there five minutes early. A man with an umbrella was sitting in Brolin’s small waiting room. He was wearing gray flannel trousers, and a heavy wool overcoat under which Carella could see a tweed sports jacket and a V-neck sweater. The man looked exceedingly cool. Carella wondered if he’d tipped to some kind of secret way to beat the heat. A woman came out of Brolin’s inner office at exactly ten minutes to one. She looked at the man in the overcoat, looked at Carella, and then went into what Carella assumed was a small toilet off the waiting room. He heard the lock on the door click.
“Peeing,” the man in the overcoat said. “She always pees.”
“Mr. Carella?”
“Yes?” Carella said, turning from the man in the overcoat. “Dr. Brolin?”
“Won’t you come in, please?”
“I thought I was next,” the man in the overcoat said.
“Yes, Mr. Garfield, this won’t take a moment,” Brolin said.
“You’re not supposed to use names,” the man in the overcoat said, and turned his back to Brolin. The doctor smiled pleasantly, led Carella into his office, and closed the door behind them.
He was a man of about Carella’s height, give or take a few inches, perhaps an even six feet, perhaps six-one. He was heftier than Carella, though, with broader shoulders and a thicker neck. The hair on his head was white, as was the small Vandyke beard that decorated his chin. Carella guessed he was somewhere in his late forties or early fifties.
“So,” Brolin said. “This is about Mr. Newman?”
“Yes,” Carella said. He still hadn’t taken a seat. There was a leather couch angled out from a single chair beside the desk, and there was also a leather armchair facing the desk.
“The armchair,” Brolin said.
Carella sat.
“What did you want to know?” Brolin asked. “I’m sorry this has to be so brief, but I have a full caseload...”
“I understand,” Carella said. “Dr. Brolin, I know it would be unethical to discuss anything a patient says here in this office...”
“It would,” Brolin said.
“But what I have to ask today doesn’t concern Anne Newman, per se, except as it relates to her husband.”
“Uh-huh,” Brolin said.
“So if you can answer some of my questions...”
“I’d have to hear the questions first.”
“Of course,” Carella said. “First, can you tell me whether Mrs. Newman ever mentioned the possibility of her husband committing suicide.”
“Yes,” Brolin said.
His immediate response surprised Carella; he had half-expected a lengthy discourse on confidentiality. Taken aback, he blinked, and then said, “She did?”
“Yes,” Brolin said again.
“When was this, Dr. Brolin?”
“On several occasions.”
“Said she was afraid her husband might commit suicide.”
“Said he had threatened suicide.”
“Did she say why?” Carella asked.
“Well, the man had a drinking problem,” Brolin said, and rested his elbows on the desk, and tented his hands in front of his face, and peered over them. His eyes were an intense blue, Carella noticed. “He was finding it increasingly difficult to cope. His occupation didn’t help much, I’m sure. He was a commercial artist, freelancing out of the apartment, and was alone much of the time. Without the normal give-and-take of a so-called community relationship — the sort of camaraderie one might normally enjoy in the atmosphere of a business office or a shop or what-have-you — his problems must have appeared insurmountable. I’d suggested to Mrs. Newman, on more than one occasion, that he seek help. But apparently—”
“By help...?”
“Psychiatric help.”
“What was his reaction to this?”
“He refused. He told her he was perfectly capable of handling his own life. And now...” Brolin sighed. “The way he handled his own life was to end it.”
Carella nodded, and then said, “Dr. Brolin, these suicide threats, would they have predated the drawing of his will?”
“What will is that?” Brolin asked.
“Mr. Newman had a new will drawn last month.”
“Oh my, he’d been threatening suicide for almost as long as I’ve been treating Mrs. Newman.”
“Then this wasn’t something new.”
“Not at all.”
“Dr. Brolin, had Mrs. Newman ever discussed divorce with you?”
“I’m not sure I wouldn’t be breaching a patient’s confidence if I answered that question.”
“Then again,” Carella said, “you just answered it, didn’t you?”
“I suppose so,” Brolin said, and smiled. “Yes, she explored the possibility of divorce.”