The Pusher полностью

"And you know, of course, that the face will usually be red when the knot's been tied at the side of the neck-as opposed to the face being pale when the knot's tied at the nape. You know that, don't you?"

"Sure, I know that," Joe said arrogantly. "And we've had them turn blue in both side-knot and nape-knot cases, so what the hell are you telling me? I've had a dozen blue strangle cases."

"How many dozen blue cyanide-poisoning cases have you had?"

"Huh?"

"How do you know the cause of death was asphyxiation?"

"Huh?"

"Did you see those burnt bottle caps on the orange crate? Did you see the syringe next to the boy's hand?"

"Sure, I did."

"Do you think he's a junkie?"

"I guess he is. It would be my guess that he is," Joe said. He paused and made a concerted effort at sarcasm. "What do the masterminds of the 87th think?"

"I would guess he's an addict," Carella said, "judging from the 'hit' marks on his arms."

"I saw his arms, too," Joe said. He searched within the labyrinthine confines of his intelligence for something further to say, but the something eluded him.

"Do you suppose the kid shot up before he hanged himself?" Carella asked sweetly.

"He might have," Joe said judiciously.

"Be a little confusing if he did, wouldn't it?" Carella asked.

"How so?" Joe said, rushing in where angels might have exercised a bit of caution.

"If he'd just had a fix, he'd be pretty happy. I wonder why he'd take his own life."

"Some junkies get morose," Fred said. "Listen, Carella, lay off. What the hell are you trying to prove, anyway?"

"Only that the masterminds of the 87th don't go yelling suicide until we've seen an autopsy report-and maybe not even then. How about that, Joe? Or do all blue bodies automatically mean strangulation?"

"You got to weigh the facts," Joe said. "You got to put them all together."

"There's a shrewd observation on the art of detection, Bert," Carella said. "Mark it well."

"Where the hell are the photographers?" Fred said, tired of the banter. "I want to get started on the body, find out who the hell the kid is, at least."

"He's in no hurry," Carella said.

The boy's name was Anнbal Hernandez. The kids who weren't Puerto Rican called him Annabelle. His mother called him Anнbal, and she pronounced the name with Spanish grandeur, but the grandeur was limp with grief.

Carella and Kling had trekked the five flights to the top floor of the tenement and knocked on the door of apartment fifty-five. She had opened the door quickly, as if knowing that visitors would soon be calling. She was a big woman with ample breasts and straight black hair. She wore a simple dress, and there was no make-up on her face, and her cheeks were streaked with tears.

"Police?" she asked.

"Yes," Carella said.

"Come in, por favor. Please."

The apartment was very still. Nothing broke the silence, not even the sullen sounds of sleep. A small light burned in the kitchen.

"Come," Mrs. Hernandez said. "In the parlor."

They followed her, and she turned on a floor lamp in the small living room. The apartment was very clean, but the ceiling plaster was cracked and ready to fall, and the radiator had leaked a big puddle onto the scrubbed linoleum of the floor. The detectives sat facing Mrs. Hernandez.

"About your son…" Carella said at last.

"Si," Mrs. Hernandez said. "Anнbal would not kill himself."

"Mrs. Hernandez…"

"No matter what they say, he would not kill himself. This I am sure… of this. Not Anнbal. My son would not take his own life."

"Why do you say that, Mrs. Hernandez?"

"I know. I know."

"But why?"

"Because I know my son. He is too happy a boy. Always. Even in Puerto Rico. Always happy. Happy people do not kill themselves."

"How long have you been in the city, Mrs. Hernandez?"

"Me, I have been here four years. My husband came first, and then he send for me and my daughter-when it was all right, you know? When he has a job. I leave Anнbal with my mother in Cataсo. Do you know Cataсo?"

"No," Carella said.

"It is outside San Juan, across the water. You can see all the city from Cataсo. Even La Perla. We live in La Perla before we go to Cataсo."

"What's La Perla?"

"A fanguito. How do you say-a slom."

"A slum?"

"Si, si, a slum." Mrs. Hernandez paused. "Even there, even playing in the mud, even hungry sometimes, my son was happy. You can tell a happy person, seсor. You can tell. When we go to Cataсo, it is better, but not so good as here. My husband send for me and Maria. My daughter. She is twenty-one. We come four years ago. Then we send for Anнbal."

"When?"

"Six months ago." Mrs. Hernandez closed her eyes. "We pick him up at Idlewild. He was carry his guitar with him. He plays very good the guitar."

"Did you know your son was a drag addict?" Carella asked.

Mrs. Hernandez did not answer for a long time. Then she said, "Yes," and she clenched her hands in her lap.

"How long has he been using narcotics?" Kling asked, looking hesitantly at Carella first

"A long time."

"How long?"

"I think four months."