Cop Hater (11 page)

"I was home."

"Anybody with you?"

"My landlady."

"What?"

"My landlady was with me. What's the matter, don't you hear good?"

"Shut up, Dizzy. What's her name?"

"Olga Fazio."

"Address?"

Ordiz gave it to him. "What am I supposed to done?" he asked.

"Nothing. You got a gun?"

"No. Listen, I been clean since I got out."

"What about those three decks?"

"I don't know where you got that garbage. Somebody's fooling you, cop."

"Sure. Get dressed, Dizzy."

"What for? I paid for the use of this pad."

"Okay, you used it already. Get dressed."

"Hey, listen, what for? I tell you I've been clean since I got out. What the hell, cop?"

"I want you at the precinct while I check these names. You mind?"

"They'll tell you I was with them, don't worry. And that junk about the three decks, Jesus, I don't know where you got that from. Hell, I ain't been near the stuff for years now."

"That's plain to see," Carella said. "Those scabs on your arm are from beri-beri or something, I guess."

"Huh?" Ordiz asked. "Get dressed."

Carella checked with the men Ordiz had named. Each of them was willing to swear that he'd been at the poker game from ten-thirty on the night of July 23rd, to four a.m. on the morning of July 24th. Ordiz' landlady reluctantly admitted she had spent the night of the 24th and the morning of the 25th in Ordiz' room. Ordiz had solid alibis for the times someone had spent killing Reardon and Foster.

When Bush came back with his report on Flannagan, the boys were right back where they'd started.

"He's got an alibi as long as the Texas panhandle," Bush said.

Carella sighed, and then took Kling down for a beer before heading over to see Teddy.

Bush cursed the heat, and then went home to his wife.

Chapter TEN

from where
Savage sat at the end of the bar, he could plainly see the scripted lettering on the back of the boy's brightly colored jacket. The boy had caught his eye the moment Savage entered the bar. He'd been sitting in a booth with a dark-haired girl, and they'd both been drinking beer. Savage had seen the purple and gold jacket and then sat at the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. From time to time, he'd glanced over at the couple. The boy was thin and pale, a shock of black hair crowning his head. The collar of the jacket was turned up, and Savage could not see the lettering across the back at first because the boy sat with his back tight against the padded cushioning of the booth.

The girl finished her beer and left, but the boy did not vacate the booth. He turned slightly, and that was when Savage saw the lettering, and that was when the insistent idea at the back of his mind began to take full shape and form.

The lettering on the jacket read: The Grovers.

The name had undoubtedly been taken from the name of the park that hemmed in the 87th Precinct, but it was a name that rang a bell in Savage's head, and it didn't take long for that bell to begin echoing and re-echoing. The Grovers had been responsible for a good many of the street rumbles in the area, including an almost titanic struggle in one section of the park, a struggle featuring knives, broken bottles, guns, and sawed-off stickball bats. The Grovers had made their peace with the cops, or so the story went, but the persistent idea that one of the gangs was responsible for the deaths of Reardon and Foster would not leave Savage's mind.

And here was a Grover.

Here was a boy to talk to.

Savage finished his gin and tonic, left his stool, and walked over to where the boy was sitting alone in the booth.

"Hi," he said.

The boy did not move his head. He raised only his eyes. He said nothing.

"Mind if I sit down?" Savage asked.

"Beat it, mister," the boy said.

Savage reached into his jacket pocket. The boy watched him silently. He took out a package of cigarettes, offered one to the boy and, facing the silent refusal, hung one on his own lip.

"My name's Savage," he said.

"Who cares?" the boy answered.

"I'd like to talk to you."

"Yeah? What about?"

"The Grovers."

"Mister, you don't live around here, do you?"

"No."

"Then, Dad, go home."

"I told you. I want to talk."

"I don't. I'm waitin' for a deb. Take off while you still got legs."

"I'm not scared of you, kid, so knock off the rough talk."

The boy appraised Savage coolly.

"What's your name?" Savage asked.

"Guess, Blondie."

"You want a beer?"

"You buying?"

"Sure," Savage said.

"Then make it a rum-coke." -

Savage turned toward the bar. "Rum-coke," he called, "and another gin and tonic."

"You drink gin, huh?" the boy said. "Yes. What's your name, son?"

"Rafael," the boy said, still studying Savage closely. "The guys call me Rip."

"Rip. That's a good name."

"Good as any. What's the matter, you don't like it?" "I like it," Savage sard. "You a nab?" "A what?" "A cop." "No."

"What then?" "I'm a reporter." "Yeah?" "Yes."

"So whattya want from me?" "I only want to talk." "What about?" "Your gang."

"What gang?" Rip said. "I don't belong to no gang." The waiter brought the drinks. Rip tasted his and said, "That
 
bartender's
 
a
 
crook.
 
He cuts
 
the juice here.
 
This tastes like cream soda." "Here's luck," Savage said. "You're gonna need it," Rip replied. "About the Grovers ..." "The Grovers are a club." "Not a gang?"

"Whatta we need a gang for? We're a club, that's all." "Who's president?" Savage asked.

'That's for me to know and you to find out," Rip answered.

"What's the matter? You ashamed of the club?" "Hell, no."

"Don't you want to see it publicized in a newspaper? There isn't another club in the neighborhood that ever got a newspaper's full treatment."

"We don't need no treatment. We got a big rep as it is. Ain't nobody in this city who ain't heard of The Grovers. Who you tryin' to snow, mister?"

"Nobody.
I
just thought you'd like some public relations work."

"What the hell's that?"

"A favorable press."

"You mean . . ." Rip furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"

"An article telling about your club."

"We don't need no articles. You better cut out, Dad."

"Rip, I'm trying to be your friend."

"I got plenty friends in The Grovers."

"How many?"

"There must be at least . . ." Rip stopped short. "You're a wise bastard, ain't you?"

"You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, Rip. Why do the boys call you 'Rip'?"

"We all got nicknames. That's mine."

"But why?"

"Because I can handle a blade good."

"Did you ever have to?"

"Handle one? You kidding? In this neighborhood, you don't carry a knife or a piece, you're dead. Dead, man."

"What's a piece, Rip?"

"A gun." Rip opened his eyes wide. "You don't know what a piece is? Man, you ain't been."

"Do The Grovers have many pieces?"

"Enough."

"What kind?"

"All kinds. What do you want? We got it."

".45's?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Nice gun, a .45."

"Yeah, it's big," Rip said.

"Do you ever use these pieces?"

"You got to use them. Man, you think these diddlebops are for fun? You got to use whatever you can get your hands on. Otherwise, you wind up with a tag on your toe." Rip drank a little more of the rum. "This neighborhood ain't a cream puff, Dad. You got to watch yourself all the time. That's why it helps to belong to The Gravers. They see this jacket comin' down the street, they got respect. They know if they mess with me, they got
all
The Grovers to mess with."

"The police, you mean?"

"Naw, who wants Law trouble? We steer away from them. Unless they bother us." "Any cops bother you lately?"

"We got a thing on with the cops. They don't bother us, we don't bother them. Man, there ain't been a rumble in months. Things are very quiet" "You like it that way?"

"Sure, why not? Who wants his skull busted? The Grovers want peace. We never punk out, but we never go lookin' for trouble, either. Only time we get involved is when we're challenged, or when a stud from another club tries to make it with one of our debs. We don't go for that kind of crap." "So you've had no trouble with the police lately?" "Few little skirmishes. Nothing to speak of." "What kind of skirmishes?"

"Agh, one of the guys was on mootah. So he got a little high, you know. So he busted a store window, for kicks, you know? So one of the cops put the arm on him. He got a suspended sentence."

"Who
put the arm on him?" "Why you want to know?" "I'm just curious."

"One of the bulls, I don't remember who." "A detective?" "I said a bull, didn't I?"

"How'd the rest of The Grovers feel about this?" "How do you mean?"

"About this detective pulling in one of your boys?" "Agh, the kid was a Junior, didn't know his ass from his elbow. Nobody shoulda given him a reefer to begin with. You don't handle a reefer right. . . well, you know, the guy was just a kid."

"And you felt no resentment for the cop who'd pulled him in?"

"Huh?"

"You had nothing against the cop who pulled him in?"

Rip's eyes grew suddenly wary. "What're you drivin' at, mister?"

"Nothing, really."

"What'd you say your name was?"

"Savage."

"Why you askin' about how we feel about cops?"

"No reason."

"Then why you askin'?"

"I was just curious."

"Yeah," Rip said flatly. "Well, I got to go now. I guess that deb ain't comin' back."

"Listen, stick around a while," Savage said. "I'd like to talk some more."

"Yeah?"

"Yes, I would."

"That's tough, pal," Rip said. "I wouldn't." He got out of the booth. "Thanks for the drink. I see you around."

"Sure," Savage said.

He watched the boy's shuffling walk as he moved out of the bar. The door closed behind him, and he was gone.

Savage studied his drink. There
had
been trouble between The Grovers and a cop—a detective, in fact. So his theory was not quite as far-fetched as the good lieutenant tried to make it.

He sipped at his drink, thinking, and when he'd finished it, he ordered another. He walked out of the bar about ten minutes later, passing two neatly dressed men on his way out.

The two men were Steve Carella and a patrolman in street clothes—a patrolman named Bert Kling.

Chapter ELEVEN

bush was limp
when he reached the apartment.

He hated difficult cases, but only because he felt curiously inadequate to cope with them. He had not been joking when he told Carella he felt detectives weren't particularly brilliant men. He thoroughly believed this, and whenever a difficult case popped up, his faith in his own theory was reaffirmed.

Legwork and stubbornness, that was all it amounted to.

So far, the legwork they'd done had brought them no closer to the killer than they originally were. The stubbornness? Well, that was another thing again. They would keep at it, of course. Until the break came. When would the break come? Today? Tomorrow? Never?

The hell with the case, he thought. I'm home. A man is entitled to the luxury of leaving his goddamn job at the office. A man is entitled to a few peaceful hours with his wife.

He pushed his key into the lock, twisted it, and then threw the door open.

"Hank?" Alice called.

"Yes." Her voice sounded cool. Alice always sounded cool. Alice was a remarkable woman.

"Do you want a drink?"

"Yes. Where are you?"

"In the bedroom. Come on in, there's a nice breeze here."

"A breeze? You're kidding."

"No, seriously."

He took off his jacket and threw it over the back of a chair. He was pulling off his shirt as he went into the bedroom. Bush never wore undershirts. He did not believe in the theory of sweat absorption. An undershirt, he held, was simply an additional piece of wearing apparel, and hi this weather the idea was to get as close to the nude as possible. He ripped off his shirt with almost savage intensity. He had a broad chest matted with curling red hair that matched the thatch on his head. The knife scar ran its crooked path down his right arm.