There was nothing Roger Havilland liked better than questioning suspects, especially when he could question them alone. Roger Havilland was probably the biggest bull in the 87th Precinct, and undoubtedly the meanest son of a bitch in the world. You couldn't really blame Havilland for his attitude about punks in general. Havilland had once tried to break up a street fight and had in turn had his arm broken in four places. Havilland had been a gentle cop up to that time, but a compound fracture that had to be rebroken and reset because it would not heal properly had not helped his disposition at all. He had come out of the hospital with a healed arm, and a somewhat curious philosophy. Never again would Havilland be caught unawares. Havilland would strike first and ask questions later.
So there was nothing he enjoyed more than questioning suspects, especially when he could question them alone and unassisted. Unfortunately, Carella was with him in the interrogation room on that Wednesday afternoon, December 20th.
The boy who'd been caught with the deck of heroin sat in a chair with his head high and his eyes defiant. The two boys who'd been in the back seat of the car were being questioned separately and respectively by Detectives Meyer and Willis outside. The objective of these related questioning sessions was to discover from whom these kids had made their buy. There was no fun in picking up a hop-head. He took a fall, and then the city bore the expense of a thirty-day cold turkey ride. The important man was the pusher. Had the detectives of the 87th wanted to pull in a hundred addicts a day, all of whom would be holding one form or another of narcotics, they had only to walk the streets of their precinct. Unauthorized possession of any quantity of narcotics was a violation of the Public Health Law Section and a misdemeanor. The offender would undoubtedly pull a term on Bailey's Island-thirty days or more-and then come out ready to seek the drug again.
On the other hand, the pusher was in a more vulnerable position. State law made the possession of certain quantities of narcotics a felony, and those quantities were:
One-quarter ounce or more of one-percent compounds of heroin, morphine, or cocaine.
Two ounces or more of other narcotics.
And this possession was punishable by imprisonment of from one to ten years. Then, too, the possession of two or more ounces aggregate weight of compounds containing three percent or more of heroin, morphine or cocaine-or sixteen ounces or more of other narcotics-created, according to the law, an unrebuttable presumption of intent to sell.
It was not a crime to be a drug addict, but things could be made tough for you if you possessed either drugs or instruments for using drugs, which possession
The boy who'd made his buy in Grover Park had been caught holding a sixteenth of H, which had probably cost him something like five bucks. He was small fry. The bulls of the 87th were interested in the man who'd sold the stuff to him.
"What's your name?" Havilland asked the boy.
"Ernest," the boy answered. He was tall and thin, with a shock of blond hair that hung onto his forehead dejectedly now.
"Ernest what?"
"Ernest Hemingway."
Havilland looked at Carella and then turned back to the boy. "All right, champ," he said, "we'll try again. What's your name?"
"Ernest Hemingway."
"What's the matter with you?" the boy said. "You asked me what my name was, and I-"
"If you don't want to be picking up your teeth in a minute, you'd better give me a straight answer. What's your name?"
"Ernest Hemingway. Listen, what's with-"
Havilland slapped the boy quickly and almost effortlessly. The boy's head rocked to one side, and Havilland drew his hand back for another blow.
"Lay off, Rog," Carella said. "That's his name. It's on his draft card."
"Ernest Hemingway?" Havilland asked incredulously.
"What's the matter with that?" Hemingway asked. "Listen, what's bugging you guys, anyway?"
"There's a fellow," Carella said. "A writer. His name is Ernest Hemingway, too."
"Yeah?" Hemingway said. He paused, then thoughtfully said, "I never heard of him. Can I sue him?"
"I doubt it," Carella said drily. "Who sold you that sixteenth?"
"Your writer friend," Hemingway answered, smirking.
"This is going to be cute," Havilland said. "I like them when they're cute. Kid, you are going to wish you were never born."
"Listen, kid," Carella said, "you're only making things tough for yourself. You can get thirty out of this or ninety, depending on how cooperative you are. You might even get a suspended sentence, who can tell?"
"You promising?"
"I can't make promises. It's up to the judge. But if he knows you helped us nail a pusher, he might be inclined toward leniency."
"Do I look like a stoolie?"
"No," Havilland answered. "Most stoolies are better looking than you."
