“Oh fuck,” Rackman sighed, exasperated. He reached under the seat and took one of the pints out of the bag. Breaking the seal, he handed the bottle to Doolan, who clawed at it, nearly dropped it, managed to screw off the top, and then stuffed it into his mouth.
Doolan slurped and gurgled as Rackman drove around the corner and parked beside an old warehouse whose windows were boarded up and marked with white Xs. Rackman turned to Doolan, who was looking at the label of the bottle and smiling beatifically.
“How’re you feeling, sport?” Rackman asked.
“Pretty good.”
“Like the wine?”
“Yup.”
“I just did you a favor, right?”
Doolan got confused. “When?”
“By giving you the wine.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right too.”
“Now it’s time for you to do me a favor.”
“What kind of favor?”
“I need to know where you picked up that jacket, Doolan.”
“What jacket?”
Rackman pointed to the red and black wool jacket lying on the back seat. “That jacket.”
“That’s my jacket!” Doolan exclaimed, and proceeded to climb over the seat to get it.
Rackman pulled him back and sat him down again. “I know it’s your jacket, but where did you get it?”
“Are you gonna give it back to me?”
“I need it for evidence.”
“I need it too,” Doolan whined.
“Where did you get it?”
“I found it.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know where.”
Rackman snatched the bottle out of his hands. “Where?”
Doolan clawed for the bottle but Rackman pushed him back.
“Make another move for this bottle and I’ll punch you right in the mouth.”
Doolan shouldered into the corner and sulked.
“If you tell me where you got the jacket, I’ll give this back to you.” Rackman jiggled the bottle in the air.
Doolan wiped his running nose with his finger. “I don’t remember where I got it.”
“Was it someplace around the Bowery?”
“I think so.”
“Is that where you hang out?”
“Most of the time.”
“How far away from the Bowery do you get?”
“Pretty far.”
“As far as Times Square?”
“Not that far.”
“How about Thirty-fourth Street?”
“Haven’t been there in years.”
“Fourteenth Street?”
“Very seldom.”
“So you’re mostly in the Bowery vicinity.”
“That’s what I told you before. Don’t you hear too good?”
“Could you have gotten the jacket in Chinatown?”
“Them chinks never throw away nothin’ good.”
“How about Little Italy.”
“I never go into Little Italy unless I have to. The dago kids like to beat up bums.”
“Then you probably got it somewhere in the Village.”
“Why can’t you gimme the jacket back?” Doolan whimpered. “I need a good jacket. It’s still cold out. If you need a jacket you can just go and buy one, but I can’t. I ain’t got no money. I ain’t got no home. I ain’t got nothin’. I’m just a poor old jakey-bum.”
Rackman scratched his nose. “You’re gonna make me cry, Doolan.”
“You oughta cry. The whole world oughta cry. Why can’t I have back my jacket?”
“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. If I buy you a jacket just like the one in the back seat there, do you think you might remember where you found it?”
It took a few seconds for that to sink into Doolan’s alcohol-besotted brain, and then he grinned. “I might. If you was to gimme back the bottle of wine, that might help too. I think best when I got some muscatel in my blood.”
“Okay Doolan, I’m going to give you the muscatel back and I’m going to get you a brand new jacket. If you can’t tell me what I want to know then, I’m not going to throw you in jail.” Rackman took out his .38 and pointed it at Doolan’s nose. “I’m going to blow your fucking head off.”
Doolan’s eyes goggled at the hole down the barrel of the gun.
“You wouldn’t do that, would ya, chief?”
“You’re damn straight I would. If you don’t think you’ll be able to tell me where you found that jacket, you’d better let me know now.”
Doolan winked. “I think I’ll be able to tell you something then, chief.”
Rackman didn’t know whether the old bum was jerking him off, but he had no choice but to follow through. He handed Doolan the bottle and then bent over the back of the seat, got the jacket, and placed it between them. “Maybe if you have it right next to you it’ll improve your memory.”
Doolan didn’t reply; he was too busy guzzling muscatel. Rackman started up the car and drove downtown, hoping the bum would remember where he got the jacket.
“Goddamn this is good muscatel,” Doolan murmured as they passed through the garment district.
“I hope it’s clearing out your mind a little.”
“My mind’s workin’ better than ever, chief. Why do you wanna know where I got the jacket?”
“Have you read in the papers about the New York Slasher?”
“The who?”
“The guy who’s cutting up the girls in Times Square.”
“A guy is doin’ that?”
“He sure is.”
“How come?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. He wore that jacket on two of his murders. The stain on the sleeve is some poor girl’s blood.”
“No shit.”
“I’m not shitting you.”
Doolan looked down at the jacket and started to hallucinate entrails and ghosts. “Get it away from me!” he screamed, scratching at the door beside him.
“What’s the matter with you!”
“Get it away! Get it away!”
Rackman stomped on the brakes. Doolan opened the door and jumped out of the car, which fortunately wasn’t going too fast in the heavy traffic. He fell to the pavement and rolled over outside a discount jewelry store on Broadway near Twenty-third Street. Rackman stopped the car and leapt out, almost getting sideswiped by a diaper delivery truck. He ran back to Doolan and knelt over him. A crowd formed out of nearby pedestrians.
“You stupid fuck!” Rackman yelled. “What are you trying to do!”
“Get that jacket away from me!” Doolan screamed.
Rackman was rattled and pissed off. He wanted to kick Doolan all over the street and then toss him down a sewer. “Okay, I’ll put the jacket on the floor in the back seat where you can’t see it, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Stay put right here, okay?”
“Right.”
Rackman returned to the car and threw the jacket on the floor of the back seat. Then he went back to Doolan, helped him to his feet, and put the fedora on the back of his head. A patrolman walked toward them. “What the hell’s going on here?”
Rackman showed his shield, and the patrolman backed off. “I was taking this witness downtown and he jumped out of my car.”
“I’ll help you with him.”
Rackman and the patrolman carried Doolan by his arms and deposited him back in the car. Rackman thanked the patrolman for his help, got in the car, and resumed his drive downtown.
Doolan picked the bottle off the floor and took a swig. “I didn’t know the coat belonged to a damn murderer,” he grumbled.
“That’s why I want you to remember where you found it.”
“It gives me the willies.”
“If you can remember where you found it, then I’ll be able to get the Slasher. No more girls will be killed. Wouldn’t you want to save some girls?”
“They gimme some pussy?”
“Doolan, you’re disgusting.”
“Ain’t had no pussy for a long time.”