Sadie When She Died полностью

Carella shook Fletcher’s hand, and then sat. He felt extremely uncomfortable, nor could he tell whether his discomfort was caused by the room or the man with whom he was dining. The room was intimidating, true, brimming with lawyers discussing their most recent cases in voices best saved for juries. In their presence Carella felt somewhat like a numbers collector in the policy racket, picking up the work to deliver it to the higher-ups for processing and final disposition. The law was his life, but in the midst of lawyers he felt like a menial. The man sitting opposite him was a criminal lawyer, which was intimidating in itself. But he was something more than that, and it was this perhaps that made Carella feel awkward and clumsy in his presence. It did not matter whether or not Fletcher truly was cleverer than Carella, or more sophisticated, or better at his work, or handsomer, or more articulate—the truth was unimportant. Carella felt Fletcher was all of these things; the man’s manner and bearing and attack (yes, it could be called nothing else) utterly convinced Carella that he was in the presence of a superior being, and this was as good as, if not more potent than, the actual truth.

“Would you care for a drink?” Fletcher asked.

“Well, are you having one?” Carella asked.

“Yes, I am.”

“I’ll have a scotch and soda,” Carella said. He was not used to drinking at lunch. He never drank at lunch when he was on duty, and the next time he would drink at lunch in his own home would be on Christmas day, when the family came to celebrate the holiday.

Fletcher signaled for the waiter. “Have you ever been here before?” he asked Carella.

“No, never.”

“I thought you might have. It being so close to all the courts. You do spend a lot of time in court, don’t you?”

“Yes, quite a bit,” Carella said.

“Ah,” Fletcher said to the waiter. “A scotch and soda, please, and another whiskey sour for me.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fletcher,” the waiter said, and padded off.

“I cannot tell you how impressed I was by the speed with which you people made your arrest,” Fletcher said.

“Well, we had a lot of help from the lab,” Carella said.

“Incredible, wasn’t it? I’m talking about the man’s carelessness. But then I understand from Rollie . . .” Fletcher paused. “Rollie Chabrier, in the D.A.’s office. I believe you know him.”

“Yes, I do.”

“He’s the one who gave me your home number. I hope you won’t think too badly of him for it.”

“No, no, quite all right,” Carella said.

“I called you directly from his office this morning. Quite coincidentally, he’ll be prosecuting the case against Corwin.”

“Scotch and soda, sir?” the waiter asked rhetorically, and set the drink down before Carella. He put the second whiskey sour on the table before Fletcher and then said, “Would you care to see menus now, Mr. Fletcher?”

“In a bit,” Fletcher said.

“Thank you, sir,” the waiter answered, and went off again.

Fletcher raised his glass. “Here’s to a conviction,” he said.

Carella lifted his own glass. “I don’t expect Rollie’ll have any trouble,” he said. “It looks airtight to me.”

Both men drank. Fletcher dabbed his lips with a napkin and said, “You never can tell these days. I practice criminal law, as you know, and I’m usually on the other side of the fence. You’d be surprised at the number of times we’ve won acquittal on cases that seemed cinches for the people.” He lifted his glass again. His eyes met Carella’s. “I hope you’re right, though,” he said. “I hope this one is airtight.” He sipped at the drink. “Rollie was telling me . . .”

“Yes, you were starting to say . . .”

“Yes, that the man is a drug addict . . .”

“Yes . . .”

“Who’d never before burglarized an apartment.”

“That’s right.”

“I must admit I feel a certain amount of sympathy for him.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. If he’s an addict he’s automatically entitled to pity. And when one considers that the woman he murdered was a bitch like my wife . . .”

“Mr. Fletcher . . .”

“Gerry, okay?”

“Well . . .”

“I know, I know. It isn’t very kind of me to malign the dead. I’m afraid you didn’t know my wife, though, Mr. Carella. May I call you Steve?”

“Sure.”

“My enmity might be a bit more understandable if you did. Still, I shall take your advice. She’s dead, and no longer capable of hurting me. So why be bitter? Shall we order, Steve?”