“I already did taste them.” Haggerty touched the glass on the right. “The Schaefer,” he said.
“You sound so positive, you can’t be so positive, how can you be so positive?”
“Just lucky,” Haggerty said. “Let’s say I eeeny-meenied and that’s how it came out.”
“Did you?”
Haggerty shook his head.
“Tony,” Eric said to the waiter who was balancing a plate with a four-pound lobster in one hand, a platter of lamb chops in the other. “Is the one on the right the Schaefer?”
Tony nodded. Eric sagged.
Haggerty pocketed the money. “The lack of saline is the giveaway,” he told Eric.
“The what of what?”
“Water around here, it’s got a much lower saline content than water from Europe. Once you remember that, you won’t have any trouble telling them apart.”
“Saline content,” Eric said. “I’ll put that in my Rolodex next to sake quality.”
Haggerty started to laugh. He could not stop. When he was a kid he used to get the giggles when he went out of control and sometimes ended up peeing in his short pants. He hoped that would not happen now.
“What’s so goddam funny?” Eric asked finally.
Haggerty barely got it out: “I snookered you.”
Eric looked at him.
“When I booked…” Haggerty was trying desperately to get hold of himself… “When I booked tonight, I asked for Tony … and told him … I mean, you’re so easy to bait when it comes to beer… I just told him that if he got any nutty requests tonight, just to put the beer down in alpha… alphabetical order…”
“You old fart,” Eric said.
“I am, I am.”
Now Eric began to lose control. “And I swallowed it—who was your Japanese friend?-r—Mifune—same as the actor?—”
Haggerty nodded. “I went blank on any other Japanese names except for Hirohito and I figured even you wouldn’t buy that.”
“Mifune,” Eric said, roaring now. “Mifune and his saline content—”
“—Mifune was the sake quality—”
“—shit—” Eric said, and he sat back and laughed until there were tears. Then they had the shells, and a lot more beer, and the sirloin, perfectly rare, and more beer with that, and the cottage fries and the onion rings were so good they split an extra order, and Eric could not remember food ever having tasted a whole lot ^ better than this, and during coffee he reached over, touched Haggerty on the shoulder saying, “You cheered me, Frank, you cheered me good, I’m on a hot streak now.”
A few minutes later he wondered how he could ever be so wrong.
It was after ten and they were walking down Eighth Avenue when Eric stopped dead on the sidewalk. They were heading for The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas because Eric had never seen it and Haggerty felt “Hard Candy Christmas” to be the most underrated Broadway song of the decade when Eric froze. Haggerty shut up and stopped too, a half step later, and he followed Eric’s stare.
Up ahead, limping around, was the remnants of a Puerto Rican junkie. He was handing out pamphlets for a local massage parlor, moving painfully up to people, trying to push his wares into their hands. Most people avoided him; it wasn’t hard, the guy could hardly move.
“What the hell is it?” Haggerty said but then he shut up because he had been with Eric in a lot of strange places, but the look on Eric’s face was different now, different from anything Haggerty had seen before, angry but somehow sad.
The junkie kept limping around.
Eric could not take his eyes off him.
Haggerty did what all great cops are good at: he waited.
“Hey!” Eric said then, moving quickly toward the junkie, who instinctively backed up toward the protection of a building.
“It’s a clean place,” the Puerto Rican said. “I ain’t breakin’ nothin’.”
“Look at me,” Eric said.
“I’m lookin’, I’m lookin’.”
Eric took a while, gave him a good chance. “Well?”
“Lemme alone man, I gotta get rid of these.” He held up his massage parlor literature.
“I told you look at me!”
The Puerto Rican stared. Finally he said, “I know you’re a cop, you act like a cop, but I ain’t done nothin’ so how’s about a break?”
Eric took a step backward. “You mean… you don’t remember me?” Haggerty was just behind him now. Eric turned. “He doesn’t remember me.”
“I ain’t done a damn thing—you ask anyone on the street—now lemme just go about my business, all right?”
“You tried to kill me,” Eric told him.
Now he looked at Eric a long time. “It’s possible, maybe, but I don’t think so.”
“I’d know your face from the grave,” Eric said. He looked at Haggerty again. “It was our first night, Frank.” Now back at the junkie. “You and your partner, you robbed a newsguy, late one Saturday night, Harlem, across from Earl’s—you robbed him and you stole some magazines and I trailed you, like an idiot, and tried to play hero and make you return the stuff—you tried to kick me to death, you don’t remember any of this?”
The Puerto Rican shook his head. “How long ago?”
“Fifteen years, maybe.”
“Then you can’t run me in—too long—statute of limitations.”
“Where’s your partner?”
A shrug. “I don’t remember, man; everyone I know from those days is dead mostly.”
“Dead?” Eric said, and he looked sadder than ever. “Aw shit.”
“Am I free or not?”
“How can you not remember a kid you tried to kill?—it’s one of the most important times of my life, and all on account of you, how can you forget it?”
Another shrug. “I don’t know. I been busy.”
Haggerty moved close behind Eric now, whispered. “You want to run him in? Not hard coming up with something.”
Eric shook his head. Then he gestured for the Puerto Rican to go. Eric stood watching as he limped painfully away. “I really needed that.”
“What’s with you?”
“Nothing,” Eric said. “Not a god damned thing.” He slammed a fist into the side of the building. “But see, I’ve been looking for his face all these years. I don’t think a week’s gone by I haven’t played it out. I’m on duty somewhere and these two guys are doing something shitty, maybe stomping an old lady.”
“And you capture them and turn ‘em in.”
“No, no, no, Jesus—what I do is I capture them but I don V turn them in. Instead I take them into an alley and I say ‘look at my face’ and they’re scared shitless—they remember, and I’m armed and they think I’m going shoot them—but I don’t. Very slow, I take off my gun belt. And toss it away. Did you see the movie From Here to Eternity?’
“Maybe.”
“Well there’s this great gesture—Burt Lancaster’s about to fight Ernest Borgnine and he gestures with his left hand for Borgnine to come for him. I used the same gesture in the alley to the two guys. And what I didn’t know is that they both had been studying karate and were in great shape. But they didn’t stand a chance. I tore them apart. Didn’t make a wasted move. I was a machine. Then when they were both whipped and crying, I turned them in.”
“You’re lucky they didn’t kick the shit out of you all over again.”
“It’s my fantasy, Frank—they didn’t stand a chance.” And now he whirled on Haggerty. “And god damn it, don’t you mock me.”
“It’s not that big a deal, Eric.”
“It is. It is to me.” He looked out at Eighth Avenue then. It was cold but there was action, hookers and cops and theatregoers and across the street now, the crippled junkie was back at work, passing out his papers. “It’s as if you were in love with a girl when you were in your teens—nothing’s ever as intense as when you’re in love then—and she’s beautiful but she pisses on you, and you know, every day of your life you realize
there’s a tiny part of your mind where she’s on hold. Or maybe she didn’t piss on you, maybe she was wonderful but she had to move away. I don’t care, the point is, there’s an unfulfilled pulse inside you. And if you find out she’s dead or four hundred pounds, that’s not good news, Frank. Like with these two guys—it doesn’t matter that one of them’s probably dead and the other a burnt-out case—I wanted my second time with them—I wanted to go back into that alley. Son of a goddam bitch, another dream down the tubes.” And he stood there, scowling and angry that only a few minutes before, he had known he was on a roll, a hot streak, the dice dancing for him, and then this had to happen, and Haggerty was about to say, “Well, we missed ‘Hard Candy Christmas,’ what’ll we do now?’’ and he got the first part of it said, “Well, we missed,” but that was it, because right then Eric realized he’d been right, he was on a roll, but just sometimes he was dumb and things took awhile to register, and he whirled around Haggerty, shouting for a cab and traffic was heavy coming up Eighth and there was a cab on the far side but nothing like that was going to stop Eric, not now, as he raced into the after-theatre rush, Haggerty hotfooting it as best he could behind him…
“My name is Eric Lorber, I’m with the 19th Precinct, and this is Detective Haggerty. We phoned from across the street.”
The woman looked out at them from behind the chained door. “I’m a widow,” she said. “I’m in mourning. Come back tomorrow. I changed my mind, I don’t want to talk now.”
“It’s about your husband’s murder that we’re here, Mrs. Herodotos. We won’t be more than a few minutes.”
“You got a good face,” she said to Eric, releasing the chain. “But I don’t like detectives. I already talked to detectives. They done shit so far. Nick is dead, the store was robbed, and I don’t see no action.”
“I understand your feelings,” Haggerty told her. “I truly do.”
She opened the door. “I don’t want to be upset no more. I been through plenty these last couple days. You don’t know what it’s like, I’m young, but I got no more husband, I’m alone, all I do is mourn.”
Eric looked at her. If this was how she appeared in the middle of the night in mourning, she must have been a traffic-stopper on an ordinary day. She was full figured, and even with her robe pulled around her, she threw off sexuality. Her Greek face was probably too long for any claim at genuine beauty. But in any imperfect world, who cared. Now she stood in the doorway, back to the door, chest out, gesturing for them to enter. They brushed by her, both making contact, you had to make contact, there wasn’t enough room not to. Her body was soft, but there was muscle tone present.
The apartment was in one of the many new buildings that dotted the Murray Hill area. Six floors down, there was the occasional screech of brakes from Third Avenue. But otherwise, the place was quiet. Mrs. Herodotos sat on the living room sofa, they flanked her in chairs. “Let’s start with why this couldn’t wait till tomorrow,” she said, looking at Eric.
“I ran into an old acquaintance of mine tonight,” Eric told her. “Haven’t seen the guy in maybe fifteen years and he’d changed, changed a lot. I guess that set me to thinking.”
“I think a lot too these days,” Mrs. Herodotos said. “I think a lot about my future. You don’t think about the future so much when your husband’s around as you do when he’s gone.”
Haggerty sympathized.
“People do change,” she said. “So does your life. I’m a young woman, I’m married, he don’t drink, he’s got a good store, no complaints. Then zap. Mind if I smoke?” They said they didn’t. She lit up a Camel. “Now I got plenty of complaints believe me. My Nick, he never smoked, he was always after me to quit. ‘You’re killing yourself with those Camels,’ he used to say.” She inhaled deeply. “It’s goddam Byronic is what it is.” She stared at the ceiling. “I got plenty complaints now, I’m here to tell you …”
She went on talking, listing her grievances, but Eric was still back with things being “goddam Byronic.” It was such a whopper he was seriously tempted to correct her, except she looked the type that would take it badly so he shut up, let her ramble until he could get around to the subject of her husband’s clothes.
“It is ironic,” Haggerty put in.
She looked at him sharply. “Like I already said.”
“I think perhaps you might have said ‘Byronic,’” Haggerty explained, giving her a gentle smile.
“What the fuck is this!” Mrs. Herodotos exploded—”I get bothered in the middle of the night for English lessons?—”
“—I didn’t mean—” Haggerty tried.
“—A widow, a widow young and trying to help out, my Nick is dead, Vm alone and you gotta interrupt my mourning with insults!—”
Now a shattering of glass from out of sight in the kitchen. Followed by a muttered “shit.” Mrs. Herodotos jumped to her feet, hurried toward the sound. Fierce whispering now: “I told you to stay quiet”—”I got thirsty”—”you’re drunk enough now, you can’t even hold a bottle”—’it was slippery, you musta had cold cream when you made the last drinks”—”you put cold cream on your face, not your hands”—”—yeah, but you put it on your face with your hands—”
Then the sound of the whispering dropped so that no words were clear. Then silence. Then Mrs. Herodotos appeared in the hallway, a large, dark-skinned man behind her. He was wearing pajamas. “This is my cousin Constantine,” she said. “He’s staying here in the second bedroom. He and my Nick were very close and maybe some would say ‘appearances, appearances,’ but this is the twentieth century and it’s good to have a good friend in the second bedroom at a time like this.”
“To help you with your mourning,” Eric said.
“You got it,” Constantine said, waving again, backing out of sight.
“Especially a big man,” Eric said to her as she took her position again on the sofa. “So you don’t feel afraid.”
“I’ve always favored big men,” Mrs. Herodotos said.
“Your husband wasn’t that big though, was he?”
She took another cigarette. “Big Nick—his father—he was a moose—I think one of the reasons he opened Hero’s was to get decent clothes for himself. My Nick, he was a good-sized man, but not what you might call big.”
“Here’s what’s been bothering me,” Eric said. “Your husband was robbed, the store was robbed of cash, but your husband’s clothes were also taken. What struck me odd was why rob clothes from a person, why go to that trouble, when there are thousands of dollars of clothes just there, easy to grab off the racks? So the reason I’m here, I suppose, is to ask you this: Was there anything special about your husband’s clothes?”
“My Nick was very picky about how he looked—he was in the clothing business, after all—all his stuff was special. Perfect fit. To a tee.”
Eric sighed. “Can we be a little more specific? His jacket, his shirt—what was so special about them?”
“They just fit good is all I meant.”
“And his pants just ‘fit good’ too, right? Not tailor-made or like_ that?”
“He had his pants fit tight. I’ve always favored pants that fit that way.”
“And his shoes?”
“Boots.”
“His boots, then.”
“Funny about them. Remember me saying my Nick wasn’t big? It bothered him. He worked in a store for big people and he said that’s why he did it, but I know the reason he did it was to please me, to turn me on good.”
“Did what?”
“Designed those boots. Had them made. Hundreds they cost, but worth it. He was four inches taller with those boots on—”
“— the blond!” Eric said, and now he was out of his chair, looking at Haggerty. “The son of a bitching blond.”
Haggerty had seen Eric excited before, but never more than this, and in a few minutes they had said good-bye to Mrs. Herodotos, thanked her, wished her well with her mourning, and then they were headed toward the Bloomingda
le’s area, Eric explaining how Billy Boy had made himself bigger so no one would notice him, and then while Eric talked Haggerty began to remember the giant who spoke to them as they had walked out of Hero’s where the dead Nick had fallen, neck broken, naked.
It wasn’t only that he knew what the other guy looked like now, Eric was just as sure where he’d hit next—the same area he’d been lucky in so far, and Haggerty said maybe but you’re guessing and Eric said bullshit I’m guessing, I’m on a hot streak, and remember he came right back to Hero’s after he’d pulled the job and the Oliver woman had gotten it less than two blocks away.
So what we’ve got to do, Eric decided—it was after two by now and very cold but Eric insisted on walking around the Upper East Side because it helped him figure things, and what he was trying, to figure was how best to blanket the East Side, how many men it would take, and how long, logically, before Billy Boy came into view. It was a big area, Haggerty said, and of course it was, but what it depended on, Eric said, was if he could sell Captain Haig on his notion, and why did he have to pick this day to imply the man was a putz? Because if the Captain would free up only a few men, it would take a long time, and a long time meant that Billy Boy would be broke and somebody else would have a neck that angled off strangely. A week at the outside should do it, Eric felt, and Haggerty felt that was possible but optimistic, but Eric said no, he was blazing, and if Haig would really help, they should be able to nail Winslow inside of five days. Maybe three if God was on their side. Eric kept walking, kept narrowing the amount of time down, and yes, he was lucky, sure he was probably running a hot streak, but not even in his wildest imaginings did Eric expect to see Billy Boy less than a city block in front of him, leaving a porno house on First Avenue, walking slowly away …
… Billy Boy left the porno house feeling cheated. He’d gotten kind of a crush on Marilyn Chambers years ago, when he saw her in Behind the Green “Door, probably the last time he was legal on the outside. She’d been the Ivory Snow Girl or the Ivory Snow Baby or something, so there wasn’t any doubt she had a great face, a face you wanted to touch easy, not one you wanted to hurt. And yesterday, he’d seen Insatiable and if she was a great actress when she’d been a kid, now she was better than anything Hollywood had. Maybe Monroe might have been able to do what Chambers could do lying on a pool table, but all the others out there, they stunk. He was so horny after Insatiable he went right out and bought a broad and then went back and caught the flick again.