"When?”
"The next day. July twenty-seventh.”
"Why did he send them to Ballistics?”
"To compare against the bullets and casings we had in the Carella homicide.”
"How did they compare?”
"Positively. They had been fired from the same gun.”
"And this gun was what?”
"A nine-millimeter Uzi.”
"And only five days later, on the first of August, you saw a nine-millimeter Uzi in Sonny Cole's hand.”
"I did.”
"Thank you," Lowell said.
Nodding, Addison rose and walked toward the stand again.
"Detective Wade," he said, "when you burst into that hallway, did you at that time know for certain that the pistol in Samson Cole's hand was the same pistol that had killed Mr.
Carella?”
"No, I didn't know that at the time.”
"Did you even know it was an Uzi?”
"Not until I saw it.”
"When you saw it, did you then know it was an Uzi?”
"Yes, I'm familiar with Uzis.”
"Was that when you fired? When you saw the Uzi and assumed it was the murder weapon?”
"I fired when I saw a man with a semiautomatic pistol in his hand.”
"Even though you had no proof at the time that the gun in his hand was, in fact, the weapon used in the Carella homicide.”
"I had no proof.”
"You merely made that assumption.”
"I made that assumption.”
"Thank you, no further questions.”
"Let's recess till tomorrow at nine," Di Pasco said, and rapped his gavel.
As enforcer for the Benalzato crime family, it was charged-but never proved in a court of law-that Jimmy the Blink had ordered the murders of some fourteen people, all of whom had turned up in the river in assorted bits and pieces. Some responsible and normally reliable detectives in this city maintained that Jimmy had once eaten the heart of a rival gangster, yanking it still bleeding from his chest and swallowing it raw like some Indian in the Wild West. This, too, had never been substantiated.
At the age of sixty-seven, Jimmy looked as if he'd never in his lifetime eaten anything but well-done steaks and French fries. Corpulent just short of obesity, he looked like a bald Sumo wrestler with unexpectedly piercing green eyes. His true name was James Albert Biondi, but he'd been called Jimmy the Blink ever since he was eight years old, when he developed an unfortunate tic that kept yanking his left eyelid out of kilter every ten or twenty seconds. Some law-enforcement people in this city claimed that Jimmy had developed the tic at that tender age because that was when he'd committed his first murder. The cops would have liked - nothing better than to ship him back to Sicily.
The trouble was they couldn't do that because Jimmy wasn't Italian, or even Italian-American. He'd been born right here, folks, and was therefore a one hundred percent Yankee Doodle Dandy.
And dandy he was, make no mistake about it.
Wearing a white shirt and a dark blue nailhead suit with a silk rep tie as red-white-and-blue as his birthright, he sat at a table in a restaurant named Colucci's-known for a fact to be mob-owned-and greeted Carella cordially, just as if he weren't interrupting an honest citizen finishing an early dinner. The clock on the wall read twenty to six. Carella had come here directly from the courthouse. Sitting with Jimmy was a man he introduced as Senator Ralph Antonelli. Carella knew that Antonelli had just got out of the slammer. That he was now sitting here openly with a known gangster was evidence of Jimmy's influence and power.
"I was hoping we could talk alone," Carella said.
"Then maybe you should have telephoned first, huh?" Jimmy said, and the left eye blinked.
"Ah, if only I had your number, Jimmy.”
The double entendre was not lost on him. He burst out laughing and then said, "The senator here only stopped by to say hello, he was just leaving.
Give me a call, Ralph, huh?" he said, blinking, and extended his meaty hand to him. The senator, graying and on a cane, took Jimmy's hand, said he was happy to have met Carella, and then hobbled off to a booth at the far end of the long room.
"Haven't seen you in a long time," Jimmy said.
"Well, you know. Busy.”
"I was sorry to hear about your father.”
"Thank you.”
"When does the trial start?”
"It started Monday.”
"How's it going?”
"Good, I think.”
"They don't nail that jig, you let me know, huh? There are people in this city like to see justice done.”
"Uh-huh," Carella said.
"So what can I do for you, paisan? You want something to drink? Or is this a duty call?”
"I wouldn't mind a Coke.”
Jimmy signaled to the waiter.
Carella tried not to look at that blinking left eye. He picked up a matchbook and began toying with it. But the eye was hypnotic. His gaze kept drifting back to it.
"You want a lemon in that?" Jimmy asked.
"No, just plain," Carella said.
"Bring my friend here a plain Coke, no lemon," Jimmy said to the waiter, and then turned to Carella and said, "So how you been?”
"Fine, thanks. You're looking good.”
"Well, I could stand losing a few pounds.
What brings you here?”
"Ever hear of a Chicago hitter named Andrew Denker?”
"No," Jimmy said at once, and blinked.
"What am I, a stoolie? Come on, willya?
Hey, waiter, cancel that Coke," he shouted, and burst out laughing. "Asking me such a question," he said to Carella. "You know better than that.”
"Excuse me, Mr. Biondi," the waiter said, coming over. "Did you really wish me to cancel that Coke?”
"No, bring it, bring it, I'm a big spender," he said. "Anyway, I haven't seen my friend here in a long time.”
"Maybe too long a time," Carella said.
Jimmy looked at him.
"Maybe your memory's going, Jimmy.”
Jimmy blinked.
"How's your son?" Carella asked.
So that was it.
"Fine," Jimmy said.
Now it was on the table. You do me a favor, I do you a favor, that's the way it works, friend.
In politics or in crime, which were maybe synonymous, sooner or later all the markers got called in. Carella had done the favor a long time ago, but he'd never taken advantage of it till now. Maybe he should have saved the marker for something more important. But if anyone in this city knew whether a hitter from Chicago was in their midst, it was Jimmy the Blink.
"At long last, huh?" Jimmy said.
Carella shrugged.
"A hitter from Chicago, huh?”
"Andrew Denker," Carella said, and nodded.
"Let me think," Jimmy said. "Here comes your Coke.”
The Coke came with a complimentary cognac from the house. Jimmy nodded a pleased acknowledgment and then picked up the snifter. He warmed the glass between his hands, just like an expert. He inhaled the bouquet. He nodded again and took a swallow, and rolled the cognac around on his tongue. Carella sipped at his Coke.
Back then, Jimmy's son was eighteen years old. As handsome as his father had been when he was that age, with the same curly black hair, astonishing green eyes, and a face kissed by angels.
He'd been riding in an automobile with a pal of his who'd carelessly smoked four marijuana cigarettes before hitting the road, and who'd even more carelessly rammed his Cadillac Seville head-on into a VW Bug, instantly killing the driver and sending the only passenger to the hospital.
There was no question but that James, Jr., hadn't been driving and was cold sober at the time of the crash. There was nothing with which the police could charge him, nothing for which he could be booked. But the cops downtown at the Twelfth, where the accident occurred, recognized that the handsome young kid they had here was the son of Jimmy the Blink Biondi, the cocksucker who'd beaten more raps than Also Capone ever had. So they thought it would be comical if by mistake they ran cherubic little Jamie here through the city's lovely legal system, sent him along in the wagon with his hophead friend, let both of them spend the night in the pen downtown while waiting for arraignment.