“No bet.”
“He probably thought he was buying it for protection. Little rinky-dink Spanish gun, you could hit a mugger six times in the chest and not stop him, and all it’s good for is blowing your brains out. Had a guy about a year ago, it wasn’t even good for that. Decided to kill himself and only did half the job and he’s a vegetable now. Now he oughta kill himself, the life he’s got left to him, but he can’t even move his hands.” He lit another cigarette. “You want to drop around tomorrow and dictate a statement?”
I told him I could do better than that. I used Shari’s typewriter and knocked out a short statement with all the facts in the right places. He read it over and nodded. “You know the form,” he said. “Saves us all some time.”
I signed what I’d typed up, and he added it to the papers on his clipboard. He shuffled through them and said, “His wife’s where? Westchester. Thank Christ for that. I’ll phone the cops up there and let them have the fun of telling her her husband’s dead.”
I caught myself just in time to keep from volunteering the information that Prager had a daughter in Manhattan. It wasn’t something I was likely to know. We shook hands, and he said he wished Finch would get back. “The bastard scored again,” he said. “He figured to. Just so he don’t stick around for seconds. And he might. He really likes the spades.”
“I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it.”
“He always does.”
Chapter 13
I went to a bar, but stayed only long enough to throw down two double shots, one right after the other. There was a time factor involved. Bars remain open until four in the morning, but most churches close up shop by six or seven. I walked over to Lexington and found a church I couldn’t remember having been to before. I didn’t notice the name of it. Our Lady of Perpetual Bingo, probably.
They were having some sort of service, but I didn’t pay any attention to it. I lit a few candles and stuffed a couple of dollars in the slot, then took a seat in the rear and silently repeated three names over and over. Jacob Jablon, Henry Prager, Estrellita Rivera, three names, three candles for three corpses.
During the worst times after I shot and killed Estrellita Rivera, I had been unable to keep my mind from going over and over what had happened that night. I kept trying to repeal time and change the ending, like an antic projectionist reversing the film and drawing the bullet back into the barrel of the gun. In the new version that I wanted to superimpose on reality, all my shots were on target. There were no ricochets, or if there were they spent themselves harmlessly, or Estrellita spent an extra minute picking out peppermints in the candy store and wasn’t in the wrong place at the wrong time, or—
There was a poem I’d had to read in high school, and it had nagged at me from somewhere in the back of my mind until one day I went to the library and ran it down. Four lines from Omar Khayyam:
I had tried hard to blame myself for Estrellita Rivera, but in a certain sense it wouldn’t stick. I had been drinking, certainly, but not heavily, and my overall marksmanship that night could not be faulted. And it was proper for me to shoot at the robbers. They were armed, they were fleeing from one killing already, and there were no civilians in the line of fire. A bullet ricocheted. Those things happen.
Part of the reason I left the force was that those things happen and I did not want to be in a position where I could do wrong things for right reasons. Because I had decided that, while it might be true that the end does not justify the means, neither do the means justify the end.
And now I had deliberately programmed Henry Prager to kill himself.
I hadn’t seen it that way, of course. But I couldn’t see that it made too much difference. I had begun by pressuring him into attempting a second murder, something he would never have done otherwise. He had killed Spinner, but if I had simply destroyed Spinner’s envelope I’d have left Prager with no need ever to kill again. But I’d given him reason to try, and he had tried and failed, and then he’d been backed into a corner and chosen, impulsively or deliberately, to kill himself.
I could have destroyed that envelope. I had no contract with Spinner. I’d agreed only to open the envelope if I failed to hear from him. I could have given away the whole three thousand instead of a tenth of it. I had needed the money, but not that badly.
But Spinner had made a bet, and he’d turned out a winner. He had spelled it all out: “Why I think you’ll follow through is something I noticed about you a long time ago, namely that you happen to think there is a difference between murder and other crimes. I am the same. I have done bad things all my life but never killed anybody and never would. I have known people who have killed which I’ve known for a fact or a rumor and would never get close to them. It is the way I am and I think that you are that way too…”
I could have done nothing, and then Henry Prager would not have wound up in a body bag. But there is a difference between murder and other crimes, and the world is a worse place for the murderers it allows to walk unpunished, as Henry Prager would have walked had I done nothing.
There should have been another way. Just as the bullet should not have ricocheted into a little girl’s eye. And try telling all that to the moving finger.
Mass was still going on when I left. I walked a couple of blocks, not paying much attention to where I was, and then I stopped at a Blarney Stone and took communion.
It was a long night.
The bourbon kept refusing to do its job. I moved around a lot, because every bar I hit had one person in it whose company put me on edge. I kept seeing him in the mirror and taking him with me wherever I went. The activity and the nervous energy probably burned off a lot of the alcohol before it had a chance to get to me, and the time I spent walking around was time I could have more profitably spent sitting in one place and drinking.
The kind of bars I chose had something to do with keeping me relatively sober. I usually drink in dark quiet places where a shot is two ounces, three if they know you. Tonight I was hitting Blarney Stones and White Roses. The prices were considerably lower but the shot glasses were small, and when you paid for an ounce that’s what you got, and even so it was apt to be about 30 percent water.
At one place on Broadway they had the basketball game on. I watched the last quarter on a big color set. The Knicks were down by a point when the quarter started, and wound up dropping it by twelve or thirteen. That was the fourth game for the Celtics.
The guy next to me said, “And next year they lose Lucas and DeBusschere, and Reed’s knees are still gonna be shit, and Clyde can’t do it all, so where the fuck are we?”
I nodded. What he said sounded reasonable to me.
“Even at the end of three, dead even for three periods, and they got Cowens and What’s-his-name with five fouls, and then they can’t find the basket. I mean, they don’t fucking try, you know?”
“Must be my fault,” I said.
“Huh?”
“They started falling apart when I started watching. It must be my fault.”