Killer's Choice

Hawes had the feeling he could learn a lot in the 87th. He had the further feeling that Steve Carella was the man to teach him. He never would have given Carella the satisfaction of knowing it, but it was what he thought none the less. Naturally, his blunder that afternoon was not the sort of thing which endeared man to man, or so he thought. He did not know that Carella had already chalked off the incident. Had he known Carella, Hawes also would have known he was not a man to harbour grudges. He did not know Carella. He himself was at that stage of maturity where harbouring grudges seemed like the right thing to do. And so, using his own personality as a sounding board, he automatically assumed that Carella would be harbouring a grudge for what had happened that afternoon.

At the same time, it was important to Hawes that Carella like him. He knew that Carella was a good cop and an intelligent man. His instinct had told him that much. He wanted to learn from the good cop, and be liked by the intelligent man. It was as simple as that. But he could do neither if Carella looked upon him as an idiot.

This was the reasoning which had brought him to Boxer Lane that evening of 15 June. It was a Saturday night, and a young man of thirty-two conceivably could have found something more entertaining to do on a Saturday night—but Hawes, in his own mind, had a blunder to eradicate.

He had, in a sense, compounded his own felony that afternoon. Immediately after the shooting, Carella had insisted upon getting him to a hospital. He had flatly refused. He realized now that his refusal had been only an extension of his original stupidity. He had been in no condition to search an apartment, and he did not imagine that a man like Carella appreciated petty heroics. They had gone over the room for ten minutes when Carella came over to him.

'Look, Hawes,' he'd said, 'you're bleeding badly. If I have to knock you out and personally carry you to the hospital, I'll do it. Do I have to knock you out?'

Hawes had sheepishly shaken his head, and Carella had driven him to the hospital. As a result, they had not got around to questioning any of the tenants. Hawes hoped to accomplish that tonight.

He found the superintendent in a basement room. The super was sprawled out face downward on a cot. The small room stank of whisky fumes. Hawes went to the cot and shook him. The old man rolled over.

'Whuzzit?' he said. 'Whoozzit?'

'Police,' Hawes said. 'Wake up.'

The old man sat up and rubbed his eyes sleepily. 'Whuddyawant?' he asked.

'Answers,' Hawes said.

'Whudtime'zit?' the old man asked.

'Eight-thirty.'

'Too early to get up. Too early in the morning.'

'It's night. How long did Charles Fetterick live here?' Hawes asked.

'Lemme see your badge,' the super said.

'I was here this afternoon,' Hawes said. He flipped open his wallet to where his shield was pinned to the leather. 'Are you sober?'

'I'm soberezza judge,' the super said.

'Can you understand me?'

'Sure.'

'Can you answer me?'

'Sure.'

'How long did Fetterick live here?'

'Month, two months. About that. He do something? Hey, heeeeey!'

'What is it?'

The super pointed a bony finger at Hawes's face. 'You're the cop he beat up this afternoon, ain't you?'

'Yes,' Hawes admitted.

'Then he sure did do something, huh?'

'He did worse than that,' Hawes said.

'What?'

'Nothing. Did he have any friends in the building?'

'I don't know. I don't bother with the tenants much. I make the steam, fix the plumbing, the electricity, stuff like that. I don't socialize much. I'm what you call a non-mixer. I'm what you call a professional non-joiner.'

'Fetterick married?'

'Nope.'

'Notice him here with girls?'

'Girls?'

'Girls.'

The super shrugged. 'Never did notice. Long as a man doesn't bang on the pipes for heat, I don't much care what he does in his own apartment. I don't own this building. I just make the steam, fix the plumb…'

'Yes, I know.'

'You might ask some of the tenants on his floor. They might know. Me, I don't socialize much. I'm what you call a non…'

'I know,' Hawes said. 'Thanks a lot.'

'Glad to be of assistance,' the old man said. He lay down and rolled over as Hawes left the room.

Hawes climbed to the third floor and knocked on Apartment 31. He knocked again. There was no answer. He kept knocking. A door opened. It was not the door upon which he knocked. It was the door to Apartment 32 next door. A girl stood in the doorway.

'They aren't home,' she said.

The girl wore black slacks and a black sweater. Her blond hair was pulled back into a pony tail. At first glance, she seemed out of place in the tenement doorway, too chic, too sophisticated. She should have been standing in the entrance doorway to a penthouse, holding a martini.

'I'm a cop,' Hawes said. 'Mind if I ask you a few questions?'

'You were knockin' on 31,' the girl said. 'This is 32.'

'I'm really interested in 34,' Hawes said.

'What cup?' the girl asked, and Hawes didn't get it. She looked at him glumly. 'This about Fetterick?' she asked, apparently deciding to play it straight.

'Yes.'

'Come on in.'

Hawes followed her into the apartment. It was then that he noticed the black sweater was worn through at the elbows. The girl flicked on a light. 'Want a drink?' she asked.

'No, thanks.'

'What a drag, huh? Saturday night, and no date.'

'Yeah,' Hawes said. 'About Fetterick…'

'A jerk,' the girl said, shrugging.

'You knew him?'

The girl shrugged again, 'Only to talk to. We took in the milk together, so to speak. Whenever it wasn't stolen.'

'What was he like?'

'A jerk,' the girl said, 'like I told you. Inferiority complex. Probably wanted to sleep with his mother when he was a kid. Like that.'

'Huh?' Hawes said.

'Oedipus,' the girl said. 'Aggravated. Made him feel inferior. His father was a big man. He never could shape up to the fact.'

'You got all this taking in the milk?' Hawes asked, astonished.

'I figured it out for myself. I'm speculating,' the girl said. 'What'd he do?'

'We think he killed a cop.'

'Oh. Too bad for him, huh? You guys'll beat the crap outa him when you get him.'

'Who said?'

'Everybody knows that. Cop killer? Boom! Right on his dome. How old are you?'

'Thirty-two.'

'That's a good age. You married?'

'No.'

'Mmm,' the girl said, and she looked at him speculatively.

'Oedipus,' Hawes said. 'Aggravated.'

'Huh? Oh.' The girl grinned. 'Humour on a cop. Wonders never cease. You sure you don't want a drink?'

'I'm sure,' Hawes said.

'I'll have one,' the girl said. 'My name's Jenny. Jenny Pelenco. Euphemistic, huh?'

'Very,' Hawes said, smiling.

'Saturday night, no date. What a drag. Jesus!' She went to the sink and poured herself a shot of rye. 'I think I'll get crocked. Get crocked with me?'

'No, thanks.'

'What are you scared of?' the girl asked. 'My husband's in the Navy.'

'Where?'

'Far enough,' she said, laughing. 'The Pacific.'

'What about Fetterick?'

'Who wants to get crocked with him?'

'I didn't mean that. What do you know about him?'

'What do you want to know? Ask Jenny Pelenco. I'm the barber's wife. That's an Italian expression. It means like the barber's wife knows everything goes on in town because she hears it from the barber. You get it?'