With the one call allowed him, Jamie naturally telephoned his father. Jimmy the Blink sent a lawyer to the Twelfth at once, but the kid was already on his way downtown to the Criminal Courts Building, the wheels of justice grinding exceedingly fast in this singular case. Jimmy then called Carella at the Eight-Seven uptown.
Carella owed him nothing. In fact, he had once arrested Jimmy, only to see him walk when the case came to trial. But the first thing Jimmy said on the phone was, "I know you don't owe me a thing." Which Carella knew, anyway. Unless Jimmy was talking about a long prison term, in which case Carella-and every other cop in this city-owed him a lot. "So what's up?" he asked.
Jimmy told him.
Carella said, "So?”
"I want him out of there," Jimmy said.
"He's eighteen," Carella said. "That makes him ...”
"I'm not talking legal here," Jimmy said.
"If you want legal, he wasn't even charged or booked.”
"Then what are you talking?”
"Human. You know what'll happen to him in that pen.”
"Not if they find out you're his father.”
"They already know I'm his father. That's why he's in the fuckin pen.”
"I'm talking about the people in there with him.”
"You're talking about animals in there with him,”
Jimmy said. "You're talking about junkies and rapists and misfits who don't know how the system works. Don't you know what this city is nowadays? For Christ's sake, don't you know?”
"I know," Carella said.
"All right then, help me. To them, my son's only fresh meat. You got to get him out of there.”
"Why?" Carella asked.
But, of course, he knew why. Unless you subscribed to the theory that the sons were accountable for the sins of the fathers, then the police-if Jimmy was telling the truth-had no right to lock up his son overnight. Jimmy was right; he would not come out of that pen the way he'd gone into it. And whereas a lot of dumb people might later find themselves with their throats slit as a lesson on how the system really worked, it would be too late then to save an innocent kid. Carella had no reason to want to help Jimmy. For all he cared, Jimmy could rot in hell. But Jimmy's son was something else again. And Jimmy had mentioned the key word: human.
So Carella went all the way downtown to the County Courthouse and talked to the sergeant who was the jailer there and asked him to pull Jamie out of the pen.
"The fuck for?" the sergeant asked. "You know whose kid that is?”
"Yank him out," Carella said.
"You on Biondi's ticket?" the sergeant asked.
"How'd you like a broken nose?" Carella asked. "I'm a fuckin sergeant," the sergeant said, reminding Carella that he was outranked.
"Okay, Sergeant," Carella said, "the kid hasn't been charged or booked. You're asking for a lot of grief down the line, believe me.”
"My middle name is grief," the sergeant said, but he was beginning to look doubtful.
"My lieutenant wants him out," Carella said. "Is that high enough up for you? Or you want to call my precinct commander? There's the phone, Sergeant. The number's 377-8034.”
The sergeant looked at the phone.
"Go ahead, call," Carella said.
"Only to check it out," the sergeant said, letting Carella know he wasn't backing down.
Lieutenant Byrnes told him the prisoner should be released in his detective's custody.
They were both going way out on a limb-but they both had sons of their own. With a great show of reluctance and indignation, the sergeant unlocked the pen door and let Jamie out. He seemed unaware that the police had pinned a hand-lettered sign to his back. The sign read: SHORT EYES. This meant that the wearer of the sign had eyes only for short people-in other words, children. The police were telling the assembled crew of law-breakers in the pen that Jamie was a child-abuser. If this did not guarantee his rape, nothing would have. Apparently, Carella had got there just in time. The other prisoners had already taken Jamie's gold Rolex from him and ripped open his custom-made silk shirt.
Jimmy the Blink's lawyer was waiting outside with a subpoena ordering that the prisoner either be charged or released. There was some further red tape about the commanding officer of the arresting precinct having to sign the official release, but the acting officer at the Twelfth-this was now eleven o'clock at night, and Carella should have been home three hours ago-was happy to drop this potentially hot potato. By eleven-fifteen James Biondi, Jr., was stepping into a limousine his father had sent downtown for him. Jimmy's lawyer shook hands with Carella and told him that Mr.
Biondi never forgot a debt.
The next morning, a case of Glenfiddich scotch arrived at the squadroom.
The card inside the carton read: Thanks.
Jimmy Carella resealed the carton and asked Charlie-Car to run it by the whiskey store that had delivered it.
His card read: No, thanks.
Stephen Louis Carella Detectivest2nd Grade But now it was payoff time.
"There was some guy from Chicago looking for a piece," Jimmy said, and blinked, and took another sip of cognac.
"When?" Carella asked.
"Around Christmas sometime. Right after Christmas," Jimmy said. "I forget exactly.”
What had happened was that one of his people who owned a candy store, and incidentally a numbers drop, out in Majesta, called to say some guy from Chicago was in looking to buy a gun. Guy came recommended by a Cicero bookie named Danny Gerardi, who was into horses and football and such.
Jimmy knew the name only vaguely, a small-time book reported to be a bit hotheaded and heavy-handed. But professional courtesy was professional courtesy, and so he told his man in Majesta to see what he could do for him. He was figuring a guy comes in from Chicago, he can't carry a gun on an airplane, can he? So you try to lend a hand.
Professional courtesy, right? This can be a big city when you're a stranger.
"It can," Carella agreed. "Did this stranger happen to leave a name?”
"I'll tell you the truth, I never asked further.”
"Or an address?”
"I'll have to find out," Jimmy said.
He was thinking he'd got off cheap.
8.
Four detectives, two to a car, were waiting up the street from the Bowles apartment building at seven-thirty that Friday morning. It had been snowing all night. The world was white. The - sky was crisp and clear and achingly blue. The temperature was five degrees Fahrenheit.
The car engines were running, and the heaters were on.
At twenty past eight, a black limo pulled up to the curb in front of the building. A uniformed driver got out, went into the building, and emerged again a moment later. Meyer got on the pipe.
"Cotton?”
"Yeah?”
"This may be the pickup.”
"We spotted him.”
"Be ready to roll.”
"Yep.”
Some five minutes later, Martin Bowles came out of the building ...
"There's your man," Meyer said.
"Got him," Hawes answered.
... wearing a dark overcoat and a fur hat with earflaps. He walked over the shoveled sidewalk to the limo, said something to the driver who was holding open the rear door on the passenger side, and stepped into the car. The door slammed shut behind him ...
"Stay with him," Meyer said.
"Yep," Hawes said.
... and the limo pulled away from the curb.
Hawes gave it barely enough time to reach the corner and then pulled out after it. He did not even look at O'Brien or Meyer as he drove by.