“Bravo was?”
“Yeah. Alpha was resting.”
“Resting,” Carella said.
“Yeah. We’d all been through heavy fighting that whole month. Alpha was down where the lieutenant had set up a command post near some bamboo at the bottom of the hill.”
“A command post,” Carella said.
“Yeah. Well, not really a post. I mean, not buildings or tents or whatever. A command post is wherever the officer in command is. From where he directs the action, you understand me?”
“Mm-huh,” Carella said. “And that’s where the lieutenant was when he got killed? Down there with Alpha?”
“Yeah. Well, no, not exactly. This is what happened. Alpha was down there with the platoon sergeant—”
“Tataglia?”
“Yeah. Johnny Tataglia. Bravo was going up the hill to where the enemy was dug in. The lieutenant went back down to see where the hell Alpha was. To get Alpha so they could bring up the rear, you understand me?”
“Yes.”
“That’s when the mortar attack started. Bastards had zeroed in on the bamboo and were pounding the shit out of it.”
“And that’s when the lieutenant got killed?”
“Yeah, in the mortar attack. Frag must’ve got him. It was a terrible thing. Alpha took cover when the attack started, and then they couldn’t get to the lieutenant in time.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, in the war over there, you had to pick up your own dead and wounded because if you didn’t they dragged them off and hacked them to pieces. The enemy, you understand me?”
“Is that what happened to Lieutenant Blake?”
“Yeah. He must’ve got hit while he was going down the hill. Alpha told us later they couldn’t go after him because of the mortars. All they could do was watch while he was dragged in the jungle. They found him later in an open pit — cut to ribbons. The bastards used to cut the bodies up and leave them in open pits.”
“Mm-huh,” Carella said.
“With bayonets, they did it,” Cortez said.
“Mm-huh.”
“So what I’m saying, you go through these terrible things together, you naturally get close to the guys who are in your own fire team. You understand me?”
“Yes, I do,” Carella said. “This happened on the third of December, is that right?”
“I don’t know, I couldn’t tell you that. We weren’t even there, you understand me? We were on our way to where they’d found those bunkers. It turned out there was a big cache up there. What I’m saying, there are things that are important to a person in combat because he’s in them. But if he isn’t there to experience them, well, then it’s just another day for him. So I couldn’t tell you if the lieutenant was killed on the third or the fourth or whenever. To me, it was just another day. I was out there on a search-and-destroy, I was in no danger at all. The mortars didn’t come anywhere near us. All we heard was the noise. You ever been in a mortar attack? It makes a lot of noise, even from a distance.”
“Mm-huh. Mr. Cortez, when you were at that reunion in New Jersey, did Jimmy talk to you about a plan he was considering?”
“A plan? No. We talked about what it was like overseas. What do you mean, a plan?”
“For making money.”
“I wish he would've talked to me about it,” Cortez said, and laughed. “I could use some money.”
“You wouldn’t know whether he’d approached any of the other men about such a plan?”
“No, I wouldn’t know. I’ll tell you, none of us are doing too hot, you understand me? In New Jersey we were all bitching about what a lousy deal we got. As veterans, I mean. If Jimmy had some plan to make money... hey, I got to tell you, we’d have gone in with him in a minute.” Cortez laughed again. “Long as it didn’t cost us nothing.”
“But you didn’t know about any such plan?”
“No.”
“Did you give Jimmy your address?”
“Yeah.”
“Did he write to you after the reunion?”
“No.”
“Did he telephone you, or try to contact you in any other way?”
“No.”
“Mm,” Carella said. “Well,” he said, and sighed. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Cortez, I appreciate the time you gave me.”
“I wish you luck,” Cortez said, and hung up.
Sergeant Dave Murchison looked toward the iron-runged steps as Carella came down them into the muster room. In the swing room, two patrolmen had taken off their tunics and were sitting in their suspended trousers and long-sleeved underwear, drinking coffee. One of them had just told a joke, and both men were laughing.
Carella glanced briefly through the open door to the room, and then walked to the muster desk. “I’m heading home,” he said.
“What about the dog?” Murchison asked.
“What? Oh, Jesus, I forgot all about him. Did somebody pick him up?”
“He’s downstairs in one of the holding cells. What do you plan to do with him?”
“I don’t know,” Carella said. “I guess I’ll turn him over to Harris’ mother.”
“When?” Murchison said. “Steve, it’s against regulations to keep animals here at the station house.”
“Miscolo has a cat in the Clerical Office,” Carella said.
“That’s different. That’s not in a holding cell downstairs.”
“Shall I take the dog up to Clerical?”
“He’d eat Miscolo’s cat. He’s a very big dog, Steve. Have you seen this dog?”
“He’s not so big. He’s an average-sized Labrador.”
“An average-sized Labrador is a very big dog. I’d say he weighs ninety pounds, that’s what I’d say. Also, he won’t eat.”
“Well, I’ll take him over to Harris’ mother in the morning. I have to talk to her, anyway.”
“You better hope Captain Frick doesn’t decide to take a stroll down to the holding cells. He finds a dog down there, he’ll take a fit.”
“Tell him it’s a master of disguise.”
“What?” Murchison said.
“Tell him it’s a criminal wearing a dog suit.”
“Ha-ha,” Murchison said mirthlessly.
“I’ll get him out of here first thing in the morning,” Carella said. “Dave, I’m tired. I want to go home.”
“What the hell time is it, anyway?” Murchison said, and looked up at the clock. “I got a call from Charlie Maynard an hour ago, he said he’d be a little late. He’s supposed to relieve me at a quarter to four, he calls at a quarter to five, tells me he’ll be a little late. Now it’s a quarter to six, and he still ain’t here. When he called, I told him to get on Tarzan and ride over here as quick as he could.”
“Get on Tarzan? What do you mean?”
“Tarzan was Ken Maynard's horse,” Murchison said.
“No, Tarzan was Tom Mix’s horse.”
“Tony was Tom Mix’s horse.”
“Then who was Trigger?” Carella asked.
“I don’t know who Trigger was. Buck Jones’ horse maybe.”
“Anyway, Charlie Maynard isn’t Ken Maynard.”
“What difference does it make?” Murchison said. “He’s two hours late either way, ain’t he?”
Carella blinked. “Goodnight, Dave,” he said, and walked across the room to the entrance doors, and through them to the steps outside. A fierce wind was blowing in the street.
The wind tore at the blind man’s coat.
He clung to the harness of the German shepherd leading him, cursing the wind, cursing the fact that he had to go to the bathroom and he was still three blocks from his building. The trouble with running a newsstand was that you had to go in the cafeteria or the bookstore every time you had to pee. They were nice about it, they knew a man couldn’t be out there on the comer all day long without going to the bathroom, but still he hated to bother them all the time.