When Hawes knocked on the door, Carella blinked.
When Hawes said, without waiting for an answer to his knock, 'Police, Fetterick. Open up!' Carella was speechless. He still would have kicked in the lock, except that a series of explosions sounded from within the apartment, and suddenly the wood of the door was splintering outward and bullets were whizzing past Carella's head and knocking big chunks of plaster from the wall. He didn't think anything then but DUCK! He fell flat to the floor with his pistol in his fist, and then the door opened and Charles Fetterick—or whoever the hell was inside the apartment—threw another shot out of the doorjamb, and Hawes stood with his mouth wide open and Fetterick—or whoever the hell was shoving his way out of the door—slammed his gun sidewards against Hawes' head without saying a word. Hawes brought up his hand to cover the wide gash of blood that suddenly crossed his eye and Fetterick—or whoever the hell was wielding that gun—lashed out at Hawes again, opening his nose and sending him sprawling backwards against Carella who hugged the floor and who was angling for a shot past the six-foot-two-inch bulk of Hawes. Hawes came down. He came down on to Carella's right hand, pinning the gun. Fetterick—or whoever the hell was wearing those size twelve shoes—kicked out at Hawes' face, splitting his lip, and then he ran for the steps. By the time Carella rolled Hawes off him and on to his back, Fetterick was in the street and probably eight blocks away. Carella walked back to Hawes. There were four shots in the plaster where Carella's head had once been. Hawes lay on the floor with his face open at every seam.
'You stupid son of a bitch!' Carella said. 'Are you all right?'
CHAPTER NINE
When a new man joins a firm, the other employees are apt to talk about him, speculate about him, generally form their own conclusions about him. If he contributes something colourful to the working day, the employees very often will take their talk home to their wives. They will dissect the newcomer at the dinner table.
Cops are only employees of the city. Cotton Hawes had contributed a most colourful tidbit to the working day, and so that night…
'All right, so he's polite,' Meyer Meyer said to his wife as he sliced the steak. 'This I can understand. A man is polite, he's polite. You can't separate a man from good manners that have been bred into him, am I right?'
Sarah Meyer nodded and spooned mashed potatoes on to the plates of the three Meyer children. She was a woman of thirty-four, with brown hair and eyes as blue as Meyer's. Around the table, Alan, Susie, and Jeff sat, three miniature blue-eyed reproductions of their parents.
'But now politeness,' Meyer said, putting the first slice of steak on to Sarah's plate, 'is a thing you have to be careful about.' He put the second slice of steak on to Susie's plate, and then served the boys. He served himself last. The children bowed their heads and clasped their hands. Meyer bowed his head and said, 'Thank you, dear Lord, for providing.' He picked up his fork. 'It may be polite to knock on a door and say, "Excuse me, sir, this is the police. Would you be so kind as to open up?" This may be considered very polite in the 30th Precinct. Maybe in the 30th Precinct, they got butlers to open the doors for cheap thieves. Maybe that's the way it works there.'
'Did Steve get shot?' Sarah asked.
'No,' Meyer said. 'Thank God, he didn't get shot. But that is not this Cotton Hawes's fault. Hawes was doing his polite best, you can bank on that.' Meyer nodded emphatically.
'Cotton is a stupid name, anyway,' Jeff, who was eight, said.
'Nobody asked you,' Meyer told him. 'Steve could have got his head blown off. He's lucky he didn't get it at least creased. Would you pass the green beans, please, Sarah darling?'
Sarah passed the green beans.
'He knocked on the door! Can you imagine that? He actually knocked on the door.'
'Ain't you supposed to knock on doors, Pop?' Alan, who was eleven, asked.
'Aren't,' Sarah corrected.
'Yeah, aren't?' Alan said.
'If you come to our bedroom,' Meyer said judiciously, 'and the door is closed, certainly you should knock. That's manners. Or even if you're visiting outside, and you come to a closed door, you should knock, certainly. That, too, is manners. We are not discussing your manners, Alan; or yours, Susie; or yours, Jeff.'
'Then whose?' Susie, who was ten, asked.
'We are discussing the manners of the police department,' Meyer said. 'And the best police department is the one which has hardly any manners at all.'
'Meyer,' Sarah warned. 'The children.'
'We already separated children from cops,' Meyer said. 'Would you pass me a roll, please? Besides, the children know that what's said in this house is family stuff and doesn't go beyond these four walls. Am I right, children?'
'Yes, Pop,' Jeff said.
Susie and Alan nodded as if Meyer had just entrusted them with the plans for the new atomic submarine. Meyer looked around the table for the butter.
'What's with this kosher bit?' he asked. 'Get me some butter, will you, darling, please?'
Sarah rose from the table, grinning. 'You're a heathen,' she said gently.
'I'm a heathen,' Meyer said, shrugging. 'I'm a cop. I got to keep up my strength. Who knows, some day I'll be out on a squeal with Mr Cotton, and we'll capture a criminal wanted in twenty states, and Mr Cotton will hand him his gun and say, "Hold this for me a minute, will you?" For this, you need strength.'
'He shouldn't have knocked, Daddy?' Susie asked.
'Darling,' Meyer said, 'the man in that apartment was wanted for murder. With a man who is wanted for murder, the only knocking you do is on his head.'
Susie giggled, and from the kitchen Sarah said, 'Meyer!'
'I should teach them to be kind to murderers?'
Sarah came back into the dining-room. 'That isn't it,' she said. 'You shouldn't joke about hitting people on the head.'
'All right, it's no joke,' Meyer admitted. 'The only joke around is Cotton Hawes. You should see him. He was bleeding from a hundred holes.'
'Meyer!' Sarah said sharply.
'Well, he was! Do you want me to say he wasn't bleeding from a hundred holes?'
'We happen to be eating.'
'I know. This is good steak. He had to go to the hospital. Nothing serious, but they bandaged him up like the invisible man. Crazy. He brought it on himself. Knocking! My God.'
'Was Steve angry?'
'I don't know. He wasn't saying much. This Mr Cotton should have calling cards printed. It should say on them "Cotton Hawes Calling." He should knock and then slide one under the door. I'll bet he lasts three days if he keeps knocking on doors. We'll be identifying him from something they drag out of the River Dix.'
'Meyer!'
'All right, all right, already,' Meyer said. He smiled ingratiatingly. 'Pass the salt, please, darling, would you please, Sarah darling?'
Lieutenant Peter Byrnes sat at the dinner table with his wife Harriet and his son Larry. He was a compact man, Byrnes, with a compact bullet head. He had tiny blue eyes set in a seamed and weathered face which was divided by a craggy nose. His upper lip was a little weak, but his lower lip was strong and pouting, and he owned a chin like a cleft boulder. His head sat snugly on his short, thick neck, as if he were ready to pull it in at a moment's notice. His hands were thick hands belonging to an honest man who had worked hard all his life.
He sat at the table emanating silence, and Harriet watched him. The only sound in the room was the sound of eighteen-year-old Larry wolfing his food.
'All right,' Harriet said at last. 'What is it?'
'I like Steve Carella,' Byrnes said. 'I mean it. I like that boy. By Christ, when we almost lost him last Christmas…'