haystack when the needle's not even there. But that's all right. You take this and play with it, and after you've run the string you just tellLondon it must have been a psycho. Believe me, he'll be happy to hear it.'
'Why?'
'Because that's what he thought nine years ago, and he got used to the idea. He accepted it. Now he's afraid it's somebody he knows and that's driving him crazy, so you'll investigate it all for him and tell him everything's okay, the sun still comes up in the east every morning and his daughter was still killed by a fucking Act of God. He can relax again and go back to his life. He'll get his money's worth.'
'You're probably right.'
'Course I'm right. You could even save yourself running around and just sit on your ass for a week and then tell him what you'll wind up telling him anyway. But I don't suppose you'll do that, will you?'
'No, I'll give it my best shot.'
'I figured you'd at least go through the motions. What it is, you're still a cop, aren't you, Matt?'
'I suppose so. In a way. Whatever that means.'
'You don't have anything steady, huh? You just catch a piece of work like this when it comes along?'
'Right.'
'You ever think about coming back?'
'To the department? Not very often. And never very seriously.'
He hesitated. There were questions he wanted to ask, things he wanted to say to me, but he decided to leave them unsaid. I was grateful for that. He got to his feet and so did I. I thanked him for the time and the information and he said an old friend was an old friend and it was a pleasure to be able to help a pal out. Neither of us mentioned the hundred dollars that had changed hands. Why should we? He'd been glad to get it and I was glad to give it. A favor's no good unless you pay for it. One way or the other, you always do.
Chapter 3
It had rained a little while I was with Fitzroy. It wasn't raining when I got back outside, but it didn't feel as though it was through for the day. I had a drink around the corner onThird Avenue and watched part of the newscast. They showed the police artist's sketch of the Slasher, the same drawing that was on the front page of the Post. It showed a round-faced black man with a trimmed beard and a cap on his head. Mad zeal glinted in his large almond-shaped eyes.
'Imagine that comin' up the street at you,' the bartender said. 'I'll tell you, there's a lot of guys gettin'
pistol permits on the strength of this one. I'm thinkin' about fillin'
out an application myself.'
I remember the day I stopped carrying a gun. It was the same day I turned in my shield. I'd had a stretch of feeling terribly vulnerable without that iron on my hip, and now I could hardly recall how it had felt to walk around armed in the first place.
I finished my drink and left. Would the bartender get a gun?
Probably not. More people talked about it than did it. But whenever there's the right kind of nut making headlines, a Slasher or an Icepick Prowler, a certain number of people get pistol permits and a certain number of others buy illegal guns.
Then some of them get drunk and shoot their wives. None of them ever seems to wind up nailing the Slasher.
I walked uptown, stopped at an Italian place along the way for dinner, then spent a couple of hours at the main library onForty-second Street , dividing my time between old newspapers on microfilm and new and old Polk city directories. I made some notes, but not many. I was mostly trying to let myself sink into the case, to take a few steps backward in time.
By the time I got out of there it was raining. I took a cab to Armstrong's, got a stool at the bar and settled in. There were people to talk to and bourbon to drink, with enough coffee to keep fatigue at bay.
I didn't hit it very hard, just coasted along, getting by, getting through. You'd be surprised what a person can get through.
* * *
THE next day was Friday. I read a paper with breakfast. There'd been no slashings the previous night, but neither had there been any progress in the case. InEcuador , a few hundred people had died in an earthquake. There seemed to be more of those lately, or I was more aware of them.
I went to my bank, put Charles London's check in my savings account, drew out some cash and a money order for five hundred dollars.
They gave me an envelope to go with the money order and I addressed it to Ms. Anita Scudder in Syosset. I stood at the counter for a few minutes with the bank's pen in my hand, trying to think of a note to include, and wound up sending the money order all by itself. After I'd mailed it I thought about calling to tell her it was in the mail, but that seemed like even more of a chore than thinking of something to put in a note.
It wasn't a bad day. Clouds obscured the sun, but there were patches of blue overhead and the air had a tang to it. I stopped at Armstrong's to cover my marker and left without having anything. It was a little early for the day's first drink. I left, walked east a long block toColumbus Circle , and caught a train.
I rode the D to Smith andBergen and came out into sunshine. For a while I walked around, trying to get my bearings. The Seventy-eighth Precinct, where I'd served a brief hitch, was only six or seven blocks to the east, but that had been a long time ago and I'd spent little time inBrooklyn since. Nothing looked even faintly familiar. I was in a part of the borough that hadn't had a name until fairly recently. Now a part of it was called Cobble Hill and another chunk was called Boerum Hill and both of them were participating wholeheartedly in the brownstone
