Killer's Choice

For reasons which weren't even clear to themselves, it seemed as if every cop on the squad was taking turns at the legwork involved in finding the murderer of Annie Boone. Every cop but Cotton Hawes. Cotton Hawes had his own private little crusade going against the man who'd murdered Roger Havilland. It made things cosy, though, everyone being involved. It gave them all a sort of personal stake. It also gave them something to talk about when they didn't have any dirty jokes to tell. It was nice. It was brotherly.

'This legwork is a son of a bitch,' Carella said to Kling. 'When you get to be my age, anyway. Of course, with a kid like you, it doesn't matter. How old are you, anyway, Bert? Seventeen?'

'Sixteen,' Kling said.

'Sure. These steps don't matter to you.'

'I eat steps,' Kling said.

'Sure.'

'I eat sidewalks.'

'Sure.'

They were climbing the steps to a pool parlour known euphemistically as 'Heaven's Hall'. The steps leading upstairs did not at all smell like heaven. Kling didn't know what they smelled like, but they certainly didn't smell like heaven.

'When I was a boy,' Carella said, 'I used to eat steps, too. Sidewalks, too.'

'No more now,' Kling said. 'You're up for pension, aren't you?'

'Sure.'

'How old are you anyway, Steve?' Kling asked. 'Sixty-eight?'

'Sixty-nine,' Carella said.

'Sure. You look pretty good, though, I have to admit it. You don't look too bad at all.'

'Clean living,' Carella said.

They had reached Heaven's Hall. They could hear the inimitable sound of pool balls being knocked around on green felt. Together they walked to the small booth at the entrance to the place. The booth was really an L-shaped glass-fronted cigar stand. A bald-headed man and a light panel for the tables were behind the stand. The bald-headed man didn't even look up when they approached. He had the drawer of the cash register open, and he was counting money.

When he finished, Carella asked, 'Good day?'

'Comme ci, comme ça,' the bald-headed man said. 'If you want a table, you got to wait. I'm all full up.' He shifted his cigar butt to the other side of his mouth.

'We don't want a table,' Carella said.

'No? So what do you want?'

'A man named Frank Abelson.'

'What for?'

'Police,' Carella said. He flashed the tin.

'What'd he do?'

'Just want to ask him a few questions,' Carella said.

'What about?'

'Routine.'

'What kind of routine?'

'Routine routine,' Carella said.

'It ain't about…'

'About what?'

'Nothing.' The bald-headed man looked worried.

'What's the matter?'

'Nothing. My name's Fink. Baldy Fink. That's a funny name, ain't it?'

'Yeah,' Carella said.

'Ring a bell?'

'What?'

'The name. Baldy Fink. Ring a bell?'

'No. Should it?'

'This ain't about the… uh… it ain't, huh?'

'The what?' Carella asked.

'Baldy Fink don't ring a bell, huh?'

'No.'

'You know this guy at the 87th? You from the 87th?'

'Yeah.'

'Havilland? Roger Havilland? He's a bull. You know him?'

Kling looked at Carella. 'Yeah, we know him.'

'Well… uh… how much do you guys tell each other? I mean, what kind of arrangements do you have going?'

'I don't understand,' Carella said.

'I mean… do you split, or what?'

'Split what?'

'The take.'

'What take?'

'Come on, you ain't that young a cop,' Fink said.

'You were paying Havilland?' Carella asked.

'Sure.'

'What for?'

'The crap games.'

'You run crap games here, do you?'

'Sure. It's okay. Havilland said it was okay. He said no cops would bother me.'

'Havilland's dead,' Kling said.

Fink opened his mouth. 'Yeah?'

'Yeah.'

'Oh, I see. You come to take over, huh?' Fink shrugged. 'Okay, suits me. I don't care who gets it, long as I'm left alone. Same deal as with him?'

'Not exactly,' Carella said.

'More?'

'Not exactly.'

'What then?'

'No more crap games,' Carella said.

'Huh?'

'No more crap games.'

'Why the hell not?'

'New administration,' Carella said.

'Ah, come on. Hey, that ain't nice. I mean, you sucked me right into this.'

'You did all the talking, Fink,' Carella said. 'We only listened.'

'Sure, so what kind of a way is that to act? Don't you want what Havilland was getting?'

'No.'

'Come on.'

'No,' Carella said. 'Call off the crap games. Find another sewer.'

'Argh, shat, you guys,' Fink said disgustedly.

'Where's Abelson?'

'Table number three. He don't like to be disturbed when he's shootin' pool.'

'That's too bad,' Carella said, and he and Kling walked over to table number three. There was only one man shooting at the table. He wore a white shirt and a blue weskit open over the shirt. His sleeves were rolled up. He had dark hair with a pronounced widow's peak, and sharp brown eyes. Even though he was alone at the table, he called off all his shots aloud.

'Six in the corner,' he said. He shot, and the cue ball hit the six. The six went straight for the corner pocket and the cue stopped on a dime behind the thirteen ball.

'Thirteen in the side,' Abelson said.

'Frank Abelson?' Kling asked.

'Yeah. Quiet a minute. Thirteen in the side.' He shot and sank the thirteen ball. The cue ball hit the cushion, ricocheted, and rolled over to the eight ball.

'Eight in the…'

'Hold your game a minute, Abelson,' Kling said.

Abelson looked up. 'Who says?'

'Police,' Kling answered.

Abelson walked to one end of the table. He picked up the chalk and began chalking the end of his stick. 'I was wondering when you'd get around to me,' he said. 'I can listen while I play.'

He stepped behind the cue ball, ducked below the table so that his eyes were level with the rim. 'Eight in the far corner,' he said. He took his position and triggered off the cue. The eight shot for the far corner in a straight line.

'Why'd you figure we'd get around to you?'

'This is about Annie, isn't it?'

'Yes.'

'So? It figures. I took her out. So here you are. What do you want to know?'

'You can start by telling us where you were on the night she was killed.'

'What night was that?' Abelson asked. 'Eleven in the corner.' He shot.

'The night of June 10th.'

'What night was that? I mean like Monday, Tuesday, you know.'

'Monday.'

'Jeez, that's a hard night to figure. Four in the side.' He shot, and then chalked his stick again. 'Who the hell remembers?'

'It was a week ago yesterday,' Kling reminded him.

'A week ago yesterday. Lemme see. Five in the same pocket.' He studied the shot. 'No, make it in the corner. No, leave it in the side.'

'A buck you don't make it,' Carella said.

'I don't take candy from babies,' Abelson said. He shot. The five ball disappeared into the side pocket. 'See?'

'You play here a lot?'

'A little.'

'You're pretty good.'

'I'm okay.' Abelson studied the table. 'Bank the deuce into this side,' he said.

'What about the night of June 10th?'

'I'm thinking,' Abelson said. He shot and missed the pocket by a hair. 'Dammit,' he said. 'You're throwing me off my game.'