‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t going anyplace.’
We found piles of pictures in the room, all bundled neatly. Some of them were of Jean Ferroni. But there were other girls and other men. We found an expensive camera in the closet, and a darkroom setup in the bathroom. We also found a switch knife with a six-inch blade in the top drawer of his dresser.
‘I don’t know anything about it,’ Adams insisted.
He kept insisting that for a long time, even after we showed him the pictures we’d taken from Jean Ferroni’s safety deposit box. He kept insisting until we told him his knife would go down to the lab and they’d sure as hell find some trace of the dead girl on it, no matter how careful he’d been. We were stretching the truth a little, because a knife can be washed as clean as anything else. But Adams took the hook and told us everything.
He’d given the kid a come-on, getting her to pose alone at first, in the nude. From there, it had been simple to get her to pose for the big stuff, the stuff that paid off.
‘She was getting classy,’ Adams said. ‘A cheap tramp like that getting classy. Wanted a percentage of the net. I gave her a percentage, all right. I arranged a nice little party right in my hotel room. Six guys. They fixed her good, one after the other. Then I drove her up to her own neighbourhood and left her the way you found her — so it would look like a rape kill.’
He paused and shifted in his chair, making himself comfortable.
‘Imagine that broad,’ he continued. ‘Wanting to share with me. I showed her.’
‘You showed her, all right,’ Johnny said tightly.
That was when I swung out with my closed fist, catching Adams on the side of his jaw. He fell backward, knocking the chair over, sprawling onto the floor.
He scrambled to his feet, crouched low and said, ‘Hey, what the hell? Are you crazy?’
I didn’t answer him. I left the Interrogation Room, walking past the patrolman at the door. Johnny caught up with me in the corridor, clamped his hand onto my shoulder.
‘Why’d you hit him, Mike?’ he asked.
‘I wanted to,’ I said. ‘I just wanted to.’
Johnny’s eyes met mine for a moment, held them. His hand tightened on my shoulder, and his head nodded almost imperceptibly.
We walked down the corridor together, our heels clicking noisily on the hard floor.
A Very Merry Christmas
Sitting at the bar, Pete Charpens looked at his own reflection in the mirror, grinned, and said, ‘Merry Christmas.’
It was not Christmas yet, true enough, but he said it anyway, and the words sounded good, and he grinned foolishly and lifted his drink and sipped a little of it and said again, ‘Merry Christmas,’ feeling very good, feeling very warm, feeling in excellent high spirits. Tonight, the city was his. Tonight, for the first time since he’d arrived from Whiting Centre eight months ago, he felt like a part of the city. Tonight, the city enveloped him like a warm bath, and he lounged back and allowed the undulating waters to cover him. It was Christmas Eve, and all was right with the world, and Pete Charpens loved every mother’s son who roamed the face of the earth because he felt as if he’d finally come home, finally found the place, finally found himself.
It was a good feeling.
This afternoon, as soon as the office party was over, he’d gone into the streets. The shop windows had gleamed like pot-bellied stoves, cherry hot against the sharp bite of the air. There was a promise of snow in the sky, and Pete had walked the tinselled streets of New York with his tweed coat collar against the back of his neck, and he had felt warm and happy. There were shoppers in the streets, and Santa Clauses with bells, and giant wreaths and giant trees, and music coming from speakers, the timeless carols of the holiday season. But more than that. For the first time in eight months, he had felt the pulse beat of the city, the people, the noise, the clutter, the rush, and above all the warmth. The warmth had engulfed him, surprising him. He had watched it with the foolish smile of a spectator and then, with sudden realisation, he had known he was part of it. In the short space of eight months, he had become a part of the city — and the city had become a part of him. He had found a home.
‘Bartender,’ he said.
The bartender ambled over. He was a big red-headed man with freckles all over his face. He moved with economy and grace. He seemed like a very nice guy who probably had a very nice wife and family decorating a Christmas tree somewhere in Queens.
‘Yes, sir?’ he asked.
‘Pete. Call me Pete.’
‘Okay, Pete.’
‘I’m not drunk,’ Pete said, ‘believe me. I know all drunks say that, but I mean it. I’m just so damn happy I could bust. Did you ever feel that way?’
‘Sure,’ the bartender said, smiling.
‘Let me buy you a drink.’
‘I don’t drink.’
‘Bartenders never drink, I know, but let me buy you one. Please. Look, I want to thank people, you know? I want to thank everybody in this city. I want to thank them for being here, for making it a city. Do I sound nuts?’
‘Yes,’ the bartender said.
‘Okay. Okay then, I’m nuts. But I’m a hick, do you know? I came here from Whiting Centre eight months ago. Straw sticking out of my cars. The confusion here almost killed me. But I got a job, a good job, and I met a lot of wonderful people, and I learned how to dress, and I... I found a home. That’s corny. I know it. That’s the hick in me talking. But I love this damn city, I love it. I want to go around kissing girls in the streets. I want to shake hands with every guy I meet. I want to tell them I feel like a person, a human being. I’m alive, alive! For Christ’s sake, I’m alive!’
‘That’s a good way to be,’ the bartender agreed.
‘I know it. Oh, my friend, do I know it! I was dead in Whiting Centre, and now I’m here and alive and... look, let me buy you a drink, huh?’
‘I don’t drink,’ the bartender insisted.
‘Okay. Okay, I won’t argue. I wouldn’t argue with anyone tonight. Gee, it’s gonna be a great Christmas, do you know? Gee, I’m so damn happy I could bust.’ He laughed aloud, and the bartender laughed with him. The laugh trailed off into a chuckle, and then a smile. Pete looked into the mirror, lifted his glass again, and again said, ‘Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas.’
He was still smiling when the man came into the bar and sat down next to him. The man was very tall, his body bulging with power beneath the suit he wore. Coatless, hatless, he came into the bar and sat alongside Pete, signalling for the bartender with a slight flick of the hand. The bartender walked over.
‘Rye neat,’ the man said.
The bartender nodded and walked away. The man reached for his wallet.
‘Let me pay for it,’ Pete said.
The man turned. He had a wide face with a thick nose and small brown eyes. The eyes came as a surprise in his otherwise large body. He studied Pete for a moment and then said, ‘You a queer or something?’
Pete laughed. ‘Hell, no,’ he said. ‘I’m just happy. It’s Christmas Eve, and I feel like buying you a drink.’
The man pulled out his wallet, put a five dollar bill on the bar top and said, ‘I’ll buy my own drink.’ He paused. ‘What’s the matter? Don’t I look as if I can afford a drink?’
‘Sure you do,’ Pete said. ‘I just wanted to... look, I’m happy. I want to share it, that’s all.’
The man grunted and said nothing. The bartender brought his drink. He tossed off the shot and asked for another.
‘My name’s Pete Charpens,’ Pete said, extending his hand.
‘So what?’ the man said.