Killer's Wedge полностью

The muted sounds of October, greeted the punch line of Meyer Meyer's joke on that Friday afternoon.

"He really knows how to tell them," Bert Kung said.

"That's the one thing I can't do. Tell a story."

"There are many things you can't do," Meyer answered, his blue eyes twinkling, "but we'll excuse the slight inaccuracy. Storytelling, Bert, is an art acquired with age. A young snot like you could never hope to tell a good story. It takes years and years of experience."

"Go to hell, you old fart," Kung said.

"Right away he gets aggressive, you notice that, Cotton? He's very sensitive about his age."

Cotton Hawes sipped at his coffee and grinned.

He was a tall man, six feet two and weighing in at a hundred and ninety pounds. He had blue eyes and a square jaw with a cleft chin. His hair was a brilliant red, lighted now by the lazy October sunshine which played with particular intensity on the streak of white hair over his left temple.

The white streak was a curiosity in that it was the result of a long-ago knife wound. They'd shaved the original red to get at the cut, and the shaved patch had grown in white.

"Which shows how goddamn scared I was," Hawes had said at the time.

Now, grinning at Meyer, he said, "The very young are always hostile. Didn't you know that?"

"Are you starting on me, too?" Kung said.

"It's a conspiracy."

"It's not a conspiracy," Meyer corrected.

"It's a spontaneous program of hatred. That's the trouble with this world. Too much hatred. By the way, do either of you know the slogan for Anti Hate Week?"

"No," Hawes said in a perfect straight-man voice.

"What is the slogan for Anti-Hate Week?"

"Screw-All-Haters!" Meyer said vehemently, and the phone rang. Hawes and Kung looked puzzled for a moment, and then burst into belated laughter. Meyer shushed them with an outstretched palm.

"Eightyseventh Squad, Detective Meyer speaking," he said.

"What was that, ma'am? Yes, I'm a detective. What? Well, no, I'm not exactly in charge of the squad." He shrugged and raised his eyebrows in King's direction,

"Well, the lieutenant is pretty busy right now. May I help you, ma'am? Yes, ma'am, what is it? A bitch, you say? Yes, ma'am. I see. Well, ma'am, we can't very well keep him at home. That is not exactly the job of the police department. I understand. The bitch … Yes, ma'am. Well, we can't spare a man right now. We're a little short this afternoon … What? … Well, I'm sorry you feel that way. But you see… He stopped and stared at the receiver.

"She hung up," he said, and replaced the phone on its cradle.

"What was that all about?" Kung asked.

"She's got a great Dane who keeps chasing after this cocker spaniel bitch. She wants us to either keep the great Dane home or do something about the bitch."

Meyer shrugged again.

"L'amour, l'amour.

Always troubles with l'amour." He paused.

"You know what love is?"

"No, what's love?" Hawes said, straight manning it again.

"I'm not joking this time." Meyer said.

"I'm philosophizing. Love is only low-key hate."

"Christ, what a cynic!" Hawes said.

"I'm not cynical, I'm philosophizing.

And you should never believe a man when he's thinking out loud. How else can he test brilliant ideas unless he voices them?"

Hawes turned suddenly.

The woman who stood just outside the slatted-rail divider which separated the squad room from the corridor had entered so silently that none of the men had heard her approach. She had just cleared her throat, and the sound was shockingly loud, so that Kung and Meyer turned to face her at almost the same moment Hawes did.

She looked for a moment like Death personified.

She had deep black hair pulled into a bun at the back of her head. She had brown eyes set in a face without makeup, without lipstick, a face so chalky white that it seemed she had just come from a sickbed somewhere. She wore a black overcoat and black shoes with no stockings. Her bare legs were as white as her face, thin legs which seemed incapable of supporting her.

She carried a large black tote bag, and she clung to the black leather handles with thin bony fingers.

"Yes?" Hawes said.

"Is Detective Carella here?" she asked.

Her voice was toneless.

"No," Hawes said.

"I'm Detective Hawes." "May I know When he will he be back?" she interrupted.

"That's difficult to say. He had something personal to take care of, and then he was going directly to an outside assignment.

Perhaps one of us-" "I'll wait," the woman said.

"It may take quite a while."

"I have all the time in the world," she answered. Hawes shrugged.

"Well, all right.

There's a bench outside. If you'll just-" "I'll wait inside," she said, and before Hawes could stop her she had pushed open the gate in the railing and started walking toward one of the empty desks in the center of the room. Hawes started after her immediately.

"Miss, I'm sorry," he said, "but visitors are not permitt-" "Mrs.," she corrected.

"Mrs. Frank Dodge." She sat. She placed the heavy black bag on her lap, both hands resting firmly on its open top."