“So what’ve you got?” Carella asked. $25,000 was a big-enough prize in a city where you could buy anyone’s dead ass for a subway token. If Robert Keating and his wife Cynthia had been otherwise engaged while her father was being hoisted and hanged, the possibility existed that they’d hired someone to do the job for them. In this city, you could get anything done to anybody for a price. You want somebody’s eyeglasses smashed? You want his fingernails pulled out?
His legs broken? You want him more seriously injured? You want him hurt so he’s an invalid the rest of his life? You want him skinned, you want him burned, you want him-don’t even mention it in a whisper- killed! It can be done. Let me talk to someone. It can be done.
“I’ve got quite a lot, actually,” Danny said, seemingly more involved in his eclair than in doing business. “Oh really?” Carella said.
On the phone last night, Danny had said only that he’d come up with something interesting. This morning, it seemed to be more than that. But perhaps this was just the prelude to negotiation.
Actually, Danny knew that what he had was very good stuff. So good, in fact, that it might be worth more money than Carella was used to paying.
He hated negotiating with someone he considered an old friend, though he was never quite sure Carella shared the sentiment. At the same time, he didn’t want to pass on information that could conceivably lead to a bust in a murder case, and then have Carella toss fifty bucks or so across the table.
This was too good for that kind of chump change.
“I know who did it,” he said, flat out.
Carella looked surprised.
“Yeah, I got lucky,” Danny said, and grinned. His teeth looked bad, too. He was clearly not taking good care of himself.
“So let me hear it,” Carella said.
“I think this is worth at least what the killer got,” Danny said, lowering his voice.
“And how much is that?”
“Five grand,” Danny said.
“You’re joking, right?”
“You think so?” Danny said.
Carella did not think so.
“I’d have to clear that kind of money with the lieutenant,” he said.
“Sure, clear it. But I don’t think this guy’s gonna hang around very long.”
“What can I tell him?”
“Who?”
“My lieutenant.”
Five thousand was a lot of money to hand over to an informer. The squadroom slush fund sometimes rose higher than that, depending on what contributions went into it in any given month. Nobody asked questions about a few bucks that disappeared during drug busts hither and yon, provided the money went into what was euphemistically called “The War Chest”. But a big drug intercept on the docks downtown had slowed traffic in the precinct these past two months, and Carella wondered now if there was that much contingency cash lying around. He further wondered if the lieutenant would turn over that kind of money to a stoolie. Danny’s information would have to be pure gold to justify such an outlay.
“Tell him I know who did it and I know where he is,” he said. “If that ain’t worth five grand, I’m in the wrong business.”
“How’d you get this?” Carella asked.
“Fellow I know.”
“How’d he get it?”
“Straight from the horse’s mouth.”
“Give me something I can run with.”
“Sure,” Danny said. “Your man was in a poker game.”
“You talking about Robert Keating?” Carella said, surprised.
“No. Who’s Robert Keating?”
“Then who do you mean?”
“The guy you’re looking for,” Danny said. “He was in a poker game this past Saturday night.”
“Okay.”
“Who’s Robert Keating?” Danny asked again.
“Nobody,” Carella said. “What about this game?”
“Your man was betting big.”
“How big?”
“Thousand-dollar pots. Came in with a five-grand stake, worked it up to twenty before the night was through. Big winner.”
“Is he a gambler?”
“No, he’s a hit man who just likes to gamble.”
“He from this city?”
“Houston, Texas. And heading back there.”
“When?”
“Sometime this Wednesday. You want him, you better move fast.
Funny about Houston, ain’t it?”
Carella did not think there was anything funny about Houston.
“It must drive foreigners crazy,” Danny said. “The way words are spelled the same, but pronounced different. In English, I mean.”
“How does this guy spell his name?” Carella asked, fishing.
“Ho ho,” Danny said. “There’s a street in New York, you know, it’s spelled exactly the same as the city in Texas, but it’s pronounced House-ton Street. Instead, we say Youse-ton, Texas, after Sam Youse-ton, is the way he pronounced his name. Which is peculiar, don’t you think?”
“How does this hit man pronounce his name?”
“Ho, ho, ho,” Danny said, and shook his finger.
“Who hired him?” Carella said. “Can you tell me that?”
“I don’t know who hired him.”
“Why was the old man killed?”
“Somebody wanted what he had and he wouldn’t turn it over. So they took him out of the picture.”
“They?”
“Whoever.”
“More than one person?”
“I don’t know that for sure.”
“You said ‘they.’”
“Just an expression. All I know is the only way to get what they wanted was to have him dusted.”
“The old man didn’t have a pot to piss in, Danny.”
“I’m telling you what I heard.”
“From who?”
“My friend. Who got it straight from the hitter.”
