He saw the blond head duck behind a boulder. He quickened his pace, panting hard, reflecting that he was not as young as he used to be. He was deep in the trees now, climbing over big boulders and smaller rocks, far from the path that wound through the park. He could see the blond head bobbing along in the distance, and then he didn't see it again, and he was afraid he'd lost
He was looking into the open end of a.32.
"Don't open your mouth, cop," the boy said.
Carella blinked. He had not expected a gun, and he cursed his own stupidity, and at the same time he sought for a way out of this. He looked at the kid's eyes, and the kid didn't seem to be high, so perhaps he could be talked to, perhaps reason could penetrate. But the.32 was held in a steady fist, and the eyes above the gun were unreasonable eyes.
"Listen…" he started.
"I said keep the mouth closed. I'll shoot you, cop." The boy delivered the speech so simply that all of its lethalness seemed innocuous. But there was nothing innocuous about the boy's eyes, and Carella watched those eyes carefully. He had been on the business end of a gun before, and it was his contention that a man always telegraphed the tightening of his trigger finger by a previous tightening of his eyes.
"Keep your hands away from your sides," the boy said. "Where is it?"
"Where's what?"
"The gun that patrolman turned up yesterday. Still got it in your waistband?"
"How do you know I'm a cop?" Carella asked.
"The holster. Don't ask me about intuition. None of the guys I know who carry pieces carry them in holsters. Fish it out for me, cop."
Carella's hand moved.
"No!" the boy said. "Tell me where it is. I'll get it myself."
"Why are you buying yourself trouble, kid? You could have got out of this with a simple misdemeanor."
"Yeah?"
"Sure. Put the gun up. I'll forget you ever had it."
"What's the matter, cop? You scared?"
"Why should I be scared?" Carella asked, watching the boy's eyes. "I don't think you'd be silly enough to shoot me here in the park."
"No, huh? You got any idea how many people are shot in this park every day?"
"How many, son?" Carella asked, stalling for time, wondering how he could get the.38 out of his pocket, divert the kid for an instant while he drew and fired.
"Plenty. Why are you following me, cop?"
"You won't believe this…" Carella started.
"Then don't waste it. Give me the real story the first time around."
"I was after your pal."
"Yeah? Which pal? I got lots of pals."
"The one you met by the cobra cage."
"Why him?"
"I've got some questions to ask him."
"About what?"
"That's my business."
"Where's your piece, cop? Tell me that first."
Carella hesitated. He saw the boy's eyes tighten almost imperceptibly. "My right-hand coat pocket," he said quickly.
"Turn around," the boy said.
Carella turned.
"Put the hands up. Don't try any tricks, cop, I'm warning you. You feel this? It's the muzzle of this piece. It'll be right up against your spine all the while I'm reaching into your pocket. You start to turn, you start to run, you even start to breathe crooked, and you've got a broken spinal cord. I ain't afraid to pull this trigger, so don't test me. You got that?"
"I've got it," Carella said.
He felt the boy's hand move quickly into his pocket. In an instant, the reassuring weight of the.38 was gone.
"All right," the boy said, "turn around again."
Carella turned to face him. He had not, up to that moment, really believed the situation to be a serious one. He had talked himself out of similar situations before, and he had been fairly certain-up to now-that he could either talk his way out of this one, or somehow get to the gun in his coat pocket. But the gun was no longer in his coat pocket, and the boy's eyes were hard and bright, and he had the peculiar feeling that he was staring sudden death in the face.
"You'd be stupid," he heard himself say, but the words sounded hollow and insincere. "You'd be shooting me for no reason. I told you I'm not after you."
"Then why were you asking me all those questions yesterday? You thought you were playing it real cool, didn't you, cop? Sounding me out about the meet. I was sounding you at the same time. It ain't easy, you know, not when you don't know what faces are gonna be at a meet. It ain't easy at all. I let you think I was stepping right into your pitches, but I saw your curves coming a mile off. That patrolman clinched it for me. When he dug that piece out of your pants, I knew for sure you were a bull. Up to then, I could only smell it on you."
"I'm still not after you," Carella said patiently. They were standing on loose rock in the shadow of the big boulder. Carella weighed the possibility of lunging at the boy suddenly, throwing him off balance on the loose rock, getting the gun away from him. The possibility seemed extremely remote.
