"Then you never went to 1217 Lincoln Street, apartment 3A, is that right?"
"Never."
"Mr. Schiavinato, I show you this weapon tagged as evidence and ask if you've ever seen it before."
"Never."
"Didn't you buy this pistol from a man named Jose Santiago…"
"No."
"On the night before…"
"No."
"… Svetlana Dyalovich was murdered?"
"No."
"Didn't you telephone her a few minutes before you bought the gun?"
"Mr. Schiavinato, we have here a tele company record showing that a call was made from a wall phone at a club called The Juice Bar at one- A.M. this past Friday night to a telephone listed to Svetlana Helder at 1217 Lincoln Street…"
"Cosa?"
The precinct's civilian stenographer read back the question. McNalley the interpreter translated it Lorenzo and his lawyer. Moscowitz nodded that it was okay to answer it.
"I don't know who called this woman," he said, "but it wasn't me."
"Weren't you in The Juice Bar that night at A.M.?"
"No. I don't know this place."
"Uptown in Riverhead?"
"No."
"Harris Avenue? Uptown?"
"No."
"Mr. Schiavinato…"
Such a damn difficult name to pronounce.
"Mr. Schiavinato, do you know a man named Bernard Himmel?"
"No."
"Bernie Himmel?"
"No."
"Benny Himmel?"
"No." 'Bernie the Banker Himmel?"
"I don't know any of these people."
"Never placed a bet with him, huh?"
"Never. Any of them."
A good imitation of a Robert Redford smile. Hawes wanted to smack him.
"Ever place a bet with him on the Super Bowl?"
"What is this Super Bowl?"
Smack the fucking smile off his face.
"Steelers against the Cowboys?"
"I don't know what any of this means."
"Twenty grand on the Steelers?"
"What is twenty grand?"
"You lost the bet. Because of the point spread."
"What is a point spread?"
"Twenty grand gone in a wink."
"What is a wink?"
"He sounds like Jeopardy t.," Carella said.
"Please, Detective," Moscowitz warned, raising an eyebrow.
"Sorry, Counselor," Carella said, and raised his own eyebrow. "Mr.
Schiavinato, didn't you lose twenty thousand dollars on the Steelers-Cowboys game?"
"I never had twenty thousand dollars in my entire life."
"You had it when you paid your marker, didn't you?"
"I don't know what a marker is."
"A promise to pay money you owed."
"I don't owe anybody money. I have an honest job. I do honest work."
"You owed Bernie Himmel the twenty thousand dollars you lost on the Super Bowl, didn't you?"
"No."
"You went to see him on Friday night…"
"… and he told you he'd kill you if you didn't the money by Sunday morning."
"I don't know who you're talking about."
"Bernie Himmel. Your bookie. Bernie the B You're a gambler, aren't you, Lorenzo?"
"Sometimes I bet on horse races. At the OTB. B don't know this man you're talking about."
"Then you don't remember him telling you to get money or you'd be swimming with your little fishie "I don't know him. How could he tell me this?"
"After which you went directly to the wall telephone…"
"No."
"… and called Svetlana Dyalovich. Why, did you want to make sure she'd be out of her apartment when you went there to burglarize it?"
"Cosa?" he said again.
The stenographer repeated the question. M translated it. Moscowitz cleared his throat.
"Detective," he said, "my client has told you repeatedly that he did not know Svetlana D) did not know her granddaughter, and never went to her apartment on Lincoln Street. Nor does he know a bookmaker named Bernie Himmel or a guy named Jose Santiago. Now, if…"
"He's not a gun dealer."
"Excuse me, I thought he's supposed to have my client a gun."
"He did sell him a gun. But he's not a dealer. He pumps gas at a Texaco station."
"Whatever he does, my client doesn't know him."
Carella figured he kept calling him "my client" only because he couldn't pronounce his last name.
"So unless you have something new to…"
"How about a clear chain on the gun, Counselor?"
"You!" Moscowitz shouted, and pointed his finger at the stenographer. "Hold it right there." He turned to Carella. "Is this off the record?" he asked.
"Sure."
The stenographer waited. Carella nodded.
"Then let me hear it," Moscowitz said.
"We've traced the gun from its registered owner…"
"Named"
"Rodney Pratt."
"TOT"
"Jose Santiago, who stole it from the glove compartment of Pratt's car…"
"He's admitted this"
"He has."
"And from there…?"
"To Mr. Schiavinato here, who bought it from him for two hundred and fifty dollars."
"Well, this is where it begins to get speculative, Detective. But let's assume for the moment, arguendo, that my client did buy a gun from this man. How does that make it the murder weaponT"
"The bullets that killed Mrs. Helder and her cat were fired from it.
We found them embedded in the door behind her body and the baseboard behind the cat. We recovered the gun itself in a sewer outside her building. The only thing we don't have is Mr. Schiavinato's fingerprints on the gun, and frankly…"
"Well, that's a very big negative, Detective. could have fired the gun."
"Perhaps your client…" Byrnes said.
He couldn't pronounce the name, either.
"can explain why he telephoned the minutes before he bought the gun that killed her."
