Make Room! Make Room! (12 page)

“That’s an answer to one half of my question,” Andy said. “Now, what were you doing in the cellar?”

“It’s cool in here, almost chill you might say after being outside. Quite a relief. Did you notice the heart that had been drawn in the dust on the cellar window?”

“Of course. I was the one who found it.”

“That is most interesting. Did you ever hear of an individual—you should have, he has a police record—by the name of Cuore?”

“Nick Cuore? The one who has been muscling into the rackets in Newark?”

“The very one. Though ‘muscling in’ is not quite correct, ‘in charge’ would be more accurate. He has taken over there, and is such an ambitious man that he is even casting his eyes in the direction of New York.”

“What is all this supposed to mean?”

“Cuore
is a good Italian word. It means heart,” Santini said as Shirl came into the room carrying a tray.

Andy took the drink with an automatic thank you, scarely aware of the other’s conversation. He understood now why all the pressure was being brought to bear upon this case. It wasn’t a matter of pity, no one seemed to really care that O’Brien was dead, it was the
why
of his killing that really counted. Had the murder been a brutal accident as it appeared to be? Or was it a warning from Cuore that he was expanding into New York City? Or was the killing a power move by one of the local people who was trying to put the blame on Cuore in order to cover himself? Once you entered the maze of speculation the possibilities expanded until the only way the truth could be uncovered was by finding the killer. The interested parties had pulled a few strings and his full-time assignment had been the result. A number of people must be reading his reports and waiting impatiently for an answer.

“I’m sorry,” he said, aware that the girl had spoken to him. “I was thinking of something else and I didn’t hear you.”

“I just asked you if the drink was all right. I can get you something else if you don’t like that.”

“No, this is fine,” he said, realizing that he had been holding his glass all this time, just staring at it. He took a sip, and then a second one. “In fact it’s very good. What is it?”

“Whiskey. Whiskey and soda.”

“It’s the first time I ever tasted it.” He tried to remember how much a bottle of whiskey cost. There was almost none being made now because of the grain shortage and each year the stored supplies grew smaller and the price increased. At least two hundred D’s a bottle, probably more.

“That was very refreshing, Shirl,” Santini said, placing his empty glass against the arm of his chair where it remained, “and you have my most heartfelt thanks for your kind hospitality. I’m sorry I must run along now, Rosa is expecting me, but could I ask you something first?”

“Of course, Judge—what is it?”

Santini took an envelope from his side pocket and opened it, fanning out the handful of photographs that it contained. From where he sat all Andy could see was that they were pictures of different men. Santini handed it over to Shirl.

“It was tragic,” he said, “tragic what happened to Mike. All
of us want to help the police as much as we can. I know you do too, Shirl, so perhaps you’ll take a look at these pictures, see if you recognize any of these people.”

She took the first one and looked at it, frowning in concentration. Andy admired the judge’s technique for talking a lot and really saying nothing—yet getting the girl’s cooperation.

“No, I can’t say I have ever seen him before,” she said.

“Was he ever a guest here, or did he meet Mike while you were with him?”

“No, I’m sure of that, he’s never been here. I thought you were asking if I had ever seen him on the street or anything.”

“What about the other men?”

“I’ve never seen any of them. I’m sorry I can’t be of any more help.”

“Negative intelligence is still intelligence, my dear.”

He passed the photographs to Andy, who recognized the top one as Nick Cuore. “And the others?” he asked.

“Associates of his,” Santini said as he rose slowly from the deep chair.

“I’ll keep these a while,” Andy said.

“Of course. You may find them valuable.”

“Must you go already?” Shirl protested. Santini smiled and started for the front door.

“Indulge an old man, my dear. Much as I enjoy your company, I must keep sensible hours these days. Good night, Mr. Rusch—and good luck.”

“I’m going to make myself a drink,” Shirl said after she had shown the judge out. “Can I liven up that one for you? If you’re not on duty, that is.”

“I’m on duty, and I have been for the last fourteen hours, so I think it is about time that duty and drink mixed. If you won’t report me?”

“I’m no ratfink!” She smiled, and when they sat opposite each other he felt better than he had for weeks. The headache was gone, he was cool and the drink tasted better than anything he remembered.

“I thought you were through with the investigation,” Shirl said. “That’s what you told me.”

“I thought so then, but things have changed. There is a lot of interest in getting this case solved. Even people like Judge Santini are concerned.”

“All the time I knew Mike I never realized he was so important.”

“Alive, I don’t think he was. It is his death that is important, and the reasons—if any—for it.”

“Did you mean that, what you said this afternoon about the police not wanting anything moved from this apartment?”

“Yes, for the present. I’ll have to go through everything, particularly the papers. Why do you ask?”

Shirl kept her eyes on her glass, clutching it tightly with both hands. “Mike’s lawyer was here today, and everything is pretty much like his sister said. My clothes, my personal belongings are mine, nothing else. Not that I expected anything more. But the rent has been paid here until the end of August—” she looked up squarely at Andy, “and if the furniture is left here I can stay on until then.”

“Do you want to do that?”

“Yes,” she said, nothing more.

She’s all right, Andy thought. She’s not asking any favors, no tears or that kind of thing. Just spreading her cards on the table. Well, why not? It doesn’t cost me anything. Why not?

“Consider it done. I’m a very slow apartment searcher, and an apartment this big will take until exactly midnight on the thirty-first of August to search properly. If there are any complaints refer them to Third Grade Detective Andrew Fremont Rusch, Precinct 12-A. I’ll tell the parties concerned to get lost.”

“That’s wonderful!” she said, jumping happily to her feet. “And it deserves another drink. To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t feel right about, you know, selling anything from the apartment. That would be stealing. But I don’t see anything wrong with finishing off the bottles. That’s better than leaving them for that sister of his.”

“I agree completely,” Andy said, lying back in the soft embrace of the cushions, watching her delicate and attractive wiggle as she took the glasses into the kitchen. This is the life, he thought, and grinned crookedly to himself, the hell with the investigation. At least for tonight. I’m going to drink Big Mike’s booze and sit back on his couch and forget everything about police business for just one night.

“No, I come from Lakeland, New Jersey,” she said, “we just moved here to the city when I was a kid. The Strategic Air
Command was putting in those extra-long runways for the Mach-3 planes and they bought our house and all the other ones nearby and tore them down. It’s my father’s favorite story, how they ruined his life, and he has never voted for a Republican since and swears he would rather die first.”

“I wasn’t born here either,” he said, and took a sip of the drink. “We came from California, my father had a ranch—”

“Then you’re a cowboy!”

“Not that kind of a ranch, fruit trees, in the Imperial Valley, I was just a little kid when he left and I hardly remember it. All the farming in those valleys was done with irrigation—canals and pumps. My father’s ranch had pumps and he didn’t think it was very important when the geologists told him he was using fossil water, water that had been in the ground thousands of years. Old water grows things just as well as new water, I remember him saying that. But there must have been little or no new water filtering down because one day the fossil water was all used up and the pump went dry. I’ll never forget that, the trees dying and nothing we could do about it. My father lost the farm and we came to New York, he was a sandhog on the Moses Tunnel when they were building it.

“I never kept an album,” Andy said.

“It’s the sort of things girls do.” She sat on the couch next to him, turning the pages. In the front were photographs of children, ticket stubs, programs, but he was only slightly aware of them. Her warm bare arm pressed against his and when she leaned over the album he could smell the perfume in her hair. He had drunk an awful lot, he realized vaguely, and he nodded his head and pretended to be looking at the album. All he was really aware of was her.

“It’s after two, I better get going.”

“Don’t you want some more kofee first?” she asked.

“No thanks.” He finished the cup and carefully set it down. “I’ll be around in the morning, if that will be all right with you.” He started toward the door.

“The morning is fine,” she said, and put her hand out. “And thanks for staying here this evening.”

“I should be thanking you for the party, remember I never tasted whiskey before.”

He meant to shake hands, that was all, to say good night. But for some reason he found her in his arms, his face against her hair and his hands pressed tight to the soft velvet skin of her back. When he kissed her she returned the kiss fiercely and he knew everything would be all right.

Later, lying on the crisp expanse of the bed, he could feel the touch of her warm body at his side and the light stir of her sleeping breath on his cheek. The hum of the air-conditioner seemed to make the night more quiet, covering and masking all the other sounds. He had had too much to drink, he realized now, and smiled up at the darkness. So what? If he had been sober he might never have ended up where he was. He might feel sorry in the morning, but at the present moment this felt like the best thing that had ever happened to him. Even when he tried to feel guilty he couldn’t; his hand tightened possessively on her shoulder and she stirred in her sleep. The curtains were parted slightly and through the opening he could see the moon, distant and friendly. This is all right, he said, this is all right, over and over again to himself.

The moon burned in through the open window, a piercing eye in the night, a torch in the breathless heat. Billy Chung had slept a little, earlier, but one of the twins had had a nightmare and wakened him and he had lain there wide awake ever since. If only the man hadn’t been in the bathroom…. Billy rolled his head back and forth, biting at his lower lip, feeling the sweat beading his face. He hadn’t meant to kill him, but now that he was dead Billy didn’t care. He was worried about himself. What would happen when they caught him? They would find him, that’s what the police were for, they would take the tire iron out of the dead man’s head and go over it in their laboratory the way they did and find the man who had sold it to him…. His head rolled from side to side on the sweat-dampened pillow and a low, almost voiceless moan was forced between his teeth.

“That’s not much of a shave you got there, Rusch,” Grassioli said in his normal, irritated tone of voice.

“It’s no shave at all, lieutenant,” Andy said, looking up from the sheaf of reports on the desk. The lieutenant had noticed him while he was passing the detective squadroom on the way to the clerical office; Andy had hoped to sign in and leave the precinct without meeting him. He thought fast. “I’m running down some leads over near Shiptown this afternoon, I didn’t want to be too obvious. There probably isn’t one razor in that whole neighborhood.” That sounded good enough. The truth was he had come in late this morning, direct from Chelsea Park, and never had a chance to shave.

“Yeah. What’s the progress on the case?”

Andy knew better than to remind the lieutenant that he had been working on it only since the previous evening.

“I’ve found out one positive thing that relates to it.” He looked around, but there was no one else within earshot, and he continued in a lower voice. “I know why the pressure has been put on the department.”

“Why?”

The lieutenant flipped through the pictures of Nick Cuore and his henchmen while Andy explained the significance of the
heart on the window and the identity of the men who were interested in the murder.

“All right,” Grassioli said when he had finished, “don’t write a damn thing about this in any reports, unless you find anything leading to Cuore, but I want you to tell me everything that happens. Now get going, you wasted enough time around here.”

It was a record-breaker. Day after day had passed, but the heat stayed the same. The street outside was a tub of hot, foul air, unmoving and so filled with the stench of dirt and sweat and decay that it was almost unbreathable. Yet, for the first time since the heat wave had set in, Andy did not notice it. The previous night was an overwhelming though still unbelievable presence, impossible to put out of his mind. He tried to, he had work to do, but Shirl’s face or body would slip around the edges of memory and, despite the heat, he would once again feel the sensation of suffused warmth. This wouldn’t do! He smashed his right fist into his open palm and had to smile at the startled looks of the nearby people in the crowd. There was work to do, a lot of it, before he could see her again.

He turned into the alleyway that ran between the locked row of garages behind Chelsea Park and the edge of the moat, leading to the service entrance to the buildings. There was a rumble of wheels behind him and he stepped aside to let a heavy tugtruck pass, a square, boxlike body mounted on old auto wheels, guided by the two men who pulled it. They were bent almost double and aware of nothing except their fatigue. As they plodded by, just a few feet from him, Andy could see how the traces cut into their necks, gouging into the permanent ulcers on their shoulders that stained their shirts wet with pus.