Genero was annoyed.
He was the one who'd found the first piece of the body, and now allfour pieces were out of his hands. So to speak. He blamed it on seniority. Both Brown and Hawes had been detectives longer than he had, and so they'd immediately taken charge of a juicy homicide. So here he was, back on the street again, cruising like a goddamn patrolman. He was more than annoyed. He was enormously pissed.
The streets at a quarter past ten were still teeming with people hellip; well, sure, who expected this kind of weather at the end of October? Guys in shirt sleeves, girls in summer dresses, everybody strolling up the avenue like it was summertime in Paris, not that he'd ever been there. Lady there on the corner with a French poodle, letting the dog poop right on the sidewalk, even though it was against the law. He wondered if he should arrest her. He considered it beneath his dignity, a Detective/Third having to arrest a lady whose dog was illegally pooping. He let the dog poop, drove on by.
Made a cursory tour of the sector.
Who else was out here?
Kling?
Came onto Culver, began heading east.
Past the first liquor store got robbed tonight, then the second one hellip;
What had they been talking about back there in the squad-room? Meyer and Carella. Midgets? Was it possible? Midgets holding up liquor stores? Those little Munchkins fromThe Wizard of Oz holding upliquor stores, for Christ's sake? He didn't know what kind of a world this was getting to be. He thanked God every night before he went to sleep that he had been chosen to enforce law and order in the kind of world this was getting to be. Even if sometimes he had a good ripe murder yanked out of his hands. The only way to get ahead in the Department was to crack a good homicide every now and then. Not that it had done Carella much good, all the homicides he'd cracked. Been a detective for how many years now? Still only Second Grade. Well, sometimes people got passed over. The meek shall inherit the earth, he thought. Still, he wished he'd had an honest crack at that homicide tonight. He was the one found the first piece, wasn't he?
Onto Mason Avenue, the hookers out in force, well, Halloween, lots of guys coming uptown to look for the Great Pumpkin. Went home with the Great Herpes and maybe the Great AIDS. He wouldn't screw a Mason Avenue hooker if you gave him a million dollars. Well, maybe he would. For a million, maybe. That one on the corner looked very clean, in fact. But you could never tell. Anyway, she was Puerto Rican, and his mother had warned him against fooling around with any girls who weren't Italian. He wondered if Italian girls ever got herpes. He was positive they never got AIDS.
Swinging north again, up one of the side streets, then onto the Stem, all gaudy and bright, he really loved this part of the hellip;
"Boy One, Boy One hellip;"
The walkie-talkie lying on the seat beside him. Dispatcher trying to raise hellip;
"Boy One."
Answering.
"10-21 at one-one-four-one Oliver, near Sixth. Apartment four-two. 10-21 at one-one-four-one Oliver, near Sixth. See the lady."
"What was that apartment again?"
"Four-two."
"Rolling."
A burglary past, couple of blocks down and to the south. No need for a detective on the scene. If it had been a 10-30, an armed robbery in progress, or even a 10-34, an assault in progress, he'd have responded along with the blues. He guessed. Sometimes it was better not to stick your nose into too many things. A 10-13 mdash;an assist officer mdash;sure. Man called in for help, you got to the scene fast,wherever you were.
Ran uptown on the Stem for a couple of blocks, made a right turn at random, heading south toward the park. He'd swing onto Grover there, parallel the park for a while, then run north to the river, come back down Silvermine, take a run around the Oval, then back south on hellip;
Up ahead.
Four teenagers.
Running into the building on the corner.
Just a glimpse of them.
Blue jeans and denim jackets.
Something in their hands.
Trouble?
Shit, he thought.
He eased the car over. No parking spaces on the street, he double-parked in front of the building and picked up the walkie-talkie.
"Eight-Seven," he said, "D.D. Four."
Calling home, identifying himself. One of the six unmarked sedans used by the Detective Division.
"Go ahead, Four."
"Genero," he said. "10-51, four in number, at twelve-seven-teen North Eleventh."
"Stay in touch, Genero."
He'd identified the four teenagers as a roving band, a non-crime incident, and he hoped that was what it turned out to be. Getting out of the car, he pulled back the flap of his jacket and was clipping the walkie-talkie to his belt when a loud whooshing sound erupted from inside the building. He almost dropped the walkie-talkie. He looked up sharply. Flames! In the lobby there! And running out of the building, the four teenagers, one of them still carrying in his right hand what looked like a Molotov cocktail. Instinctively, Genero yelled, "Stop! Police!" and yanked his service revolver from its holster.
The kids hesitated for only a moment.
"Police!" he shouted again.
The one with the firebomb held a Zippo lighter to the wick and hurled the bottle at Genero.