“I figured he had something big going for him,” Torr said. “He had to. A guy don’t come into a couple of cars and a new pad and clothes to knock your eyes out unless he’s got something big going for him. I don’t mean penny-ante stuff, either. I mean
“What do you consider penny-ante?”
“Pin money. You know.”
“No, I don’t. What’s pin money?”
“A couple of bills a month, you know. Hell, you can tell me better than I can tell you. How much was he getting from his marks?”
“Enough,” Kling said.
“I don’t mean the big marks, I mean the small ones,” Torr said.
“How do you know there are big ones and small ones?”
“I’m just guessing,” Torr said. “I figure the big ones set him up with the cars and the pad. The small ones buy his bread. Ain’t I right?”
“You could be.”
“Sure. So what can you expect from a small mark? Two, three bills? Five grand in a lump? It’s the big ones that count.”
“I guess so,” Kling said.
“Do you know who the ones are yet?”
“No.”
“The small ones?”
“Maybe.”
“How many small ones are there?”
“You should have been a cop, Torr.”
“I’m only interested in seeing justice done. Sy was my friend.”
“Justice will triumph,” Kling said. “I’m busy. If you’re finished, I’d like to get back to work.”
“Sure,” Torr said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
And he left.
THE CALL FROM Danny Gimp had told Carella that the informer had something for him, could they meet someplace away from the precinct? It had been Carella’s policy-up to the day of his idiocy-to give his home-phone number to no one but relatives, close friends, and of course the desk sergeant. He did not encourage business calls at home. It was annoying enough to be called there by the squad; he did not want crime detection or law enforcement to intrude on his off-duty hours. He had broken this rule with Danny Gimp.
The working arrangement between a cop and a stool pigeon is-even with men who bear no particular fondness for each other-a highly personal one. Crime detection is a great big horse race, and you choose your jockeys carefully. And a jockey working for your stable does not report your horse’s morning running-time to the owner of a rival stable. The bulls of the 87th worked with various stoolies, and these stoolies reported to them faithfully. The transaction was a business one, pure and simple-information for money. But a certain amount of trust and faith was involved. The policeman trusted the stoolie’s information and was willing to pay for it. The stoolie trusted the policeman to pay him once the information had been divulged. Cops were averse to working with pigeons they did not know and trust. And likewise, pigeons-whose sole source of income was the information they garnered here and there-were not overly fond of displaying their wares before a strange cop.
A call from the stoolie to the squad was generally a call directed at one cop and one cop alone. If that cop was off-duty or otherwise out of the office, the stoolie would not speak to anyone else, thanks. He would wait. Waiting could sometimes result in a lost collar. Waiting, in a homicide case, could sometimes result in another homicide. And so Danny Gimp had Carella’s home-phone number, and it was there that he called him when the desk sergeant informed him Carella was off that day.
The men arranged to meet at Plum Beach in River-head. Carella told Danny to bring along his swimming trunks.
They lay side by side on the sand like two old cronies who were discussing the bathing beauties. The sun was very strong that day.
“I hope you don’t mind my not wanting to come to the precinct,” Danny said. “I don’t like to be seen there too often. It hurts my business.”
“I understand,” Carella said. “What have you got for me?”
“The background on Sy Kramer.”
“Go ahead.”
“He’s been living big for a few years, Steve, but not as big as just before he got it. You know, he had a nice pad and a good car-a Dodge-but nothing like the new joint, and nothing like the Caddy, you dig?”
“I dig.”
A boy ran by, kicking sand in Carella’s face.
“I used to be a ninety-seven-pound weakling,” Carella said, and Danny grinned.
“Okay,” Danny said. “In September, he goes berserk. Spends like a drunken sailor. Two new cars, clothes, the new pad. This is when he picks up the O’Hara bitch. She’s impressed by loot, what dame isn’t? She moves in with him.”
“How’d he meet her?”
“How’d she say?”
“She said she’s a dancer, met him in a drugstore.”
“For the birds,” Danny said. “She did a crumby strip in a joint on The Stem. Half her salary came from conning guys into buying her colored water.”
“Prostitution?”
“Not from what I could gather, but I wouldn’t put it past her. She’s quite a looker, Steve. They billed her as Red Garters.”
“That’s a name for a stripper, all right.”
“Well, she’s got this flaming-red hair. Anyway, her act stunk. All she had was a body. The less dancing she did, the quicker she got her clothes off, the better it was for everybody concerned.”
“So she met Kramer and latched onto him,” Carella said.
