Jamal puffed on his cigarette.
Meyer and Kling watched him.
Their presence was a bit unsettling. He was beginning to wonder if they were cops headquarters or something. What kind of thing was this, two cops from headquarters here observing? he knew better than to ask why he was up here. Too easy to step into shit that way. So he puffed on his cigarette and sipped at his coffee and told them all about this Colombian crack dealer who thought he'd stole some shit from him, which he hadn't, but who let
the word out that he was looking for him and was going to kill him. So when he heard somebody banging on the door eight o' clock in the morning, the sun hardly up, he figured he'd better make the first move here because there might not be no second move. Which is why he'd pumped four through the door. Then, not hearing a sound out there, he figured he'd nailed whoever had done the knocking, and he opened the door expecting to find Manuel Diaz bleeding on the floor
'That's his name, Manuel Diaz, I just gave you something.'
As if they didn't already know the names of all the dealers in most of the precincts up here.
'But instead it was you two guys, who I almost shot, by the way, before you yelled 'Police.' ' Jamal shrugged. 'So here we are,' he said.
'Here we are,' Hawes agreed.
Jamal still knew better than to ask what this was all about. The big bald guy and the tall blond guy were both looking very stern now, as if he'd said something wrong a minute ago. He wondered what it could have been. Fuck em, he thought. I can wait this out as long as you can. He lit another cigarette. Meyer nodded. So did Kling. Jamal wondered why they were nodding. These two guys were making him very nervous. He felt relieved when Carella asked another question. 'Who was the girl with you?' 'Friend of mine,' Jamal said.
Carlyle Yancy was one of the two girls he ran. Her real name was Sarah Rowland, which he'd changed for her the minute he put her on the street. Jamal
wasn't about to discuss either her profession or 'Friend of mine' covered a lot of territory.
'How old is she?' Hawes asked. This also covered a lot of territory. Cops always asked how old was the girl figuring you'd wet your pants if she was underage. 'Twenty,' Jamal said. 'No cigar.' 'What's she do?'
'What do you mean, what's she do?'
'Is she a prostitute?'
'Hey, come on. What kind of question is that?' 'Well, Jamal, considering your record...' So that's how they'd got to him. But why? calling a man by his first name was an old cop trick. Jamal knew quite well, thank you.
'I haven't been in that line of work for a long time he said.
Meyer raised an eyebrow. He was wondering if being a pimp qualified as work. So was Kling Carella And Hawes. Jamal read their faces and figured them for a bunch of cynics. 'How about murder?' Carella asked. 'Have you been in that line of work recently?'
'I paid my debt to society,' Jamal said with dignity
'So we understand. Released last April, is that right?'
'That's right. The slate is clean.'
Still with dignity.
'What have you been doing since?'
'Different kinds of work.'
'Different from pimping?' Hawes asked. 'Different from murder?' Carella asked. 'Just different jobs here and there.'
'Here and where?' 'Here in the city.' 'Lucky us,' Hawes said.
'What kind of different jobs?' Carella asked.
They were harassing him now. Trying to put him on edge. He knew it and they knew it. He remained unruffled. He'd been involved with cops ever since he was twelve. Wasn't a cop in the world could rattle him now.
'Drove a taxi, drove a delivery truck, worked as a waiter,' he said. 'Odd jobs like that.'
'By the way,' Hawes said, 'we have another B-sheet here,' and turned it so Jamal could see the name typed across the top of it. MARX, YOLANDE MARIE, and below that, in parentheses, alias MARIE
ST. CLAIRE.
'Know her?' Carella asked.
If they had her B-sheet, they knew he was pimping for her. Was she in some kind of trouble again? The last time she'd shoplifted, he told her he'd break both her legs if she ever brought down heat again. Whatever this was, he figured it was time to play it straight. 'I know her,' he said. 'You're her pimp, right?' 'I know her.'
'How about the pimp part?'
Jamal nodded, shrugged, wagged his head, waggled his fingers, all intended to convey uncertainty, they guessed. They looked at him silently, waiting for elaboration. He was wondering what Yolande had done this time. Why had they punched up her B-sheet? He said nothing. Wait them out, he thought. Play the game.
'When did you see her last?' Hawes asked. 'Why?'. Jamal said. 'Can you tell us?'
'Sure, I can tell you. But why?'
'Just tell us, okay?'
'I drove her down by the bridge around nine o'clock.'
'Put her on the street at ten?' 'Well... yeah.' 'Which bridge?' 'The Majesta Bridge.' 'What was she wearing?'
'Little black skirt, fake-fur jacket, black stockin red boots, red handbag.' 'See her after that?' 'No. Is she in jail?'
The detectives looked at each other. As Yogi once said, 'When you come to a crossroads, take They took it.
'She's dead,' Carella said, and tossed a photo onto the desk. The photo had been taken in the alley St. Sebastian Avenue. It was a black-and-white with the address of the crime scene camera-lettered white at the bottom of the picture, the date and time the right-hand corner. Jamal looked at the picture.
That was it. Dead hooker, you go to her pimp.
'So?' Hawes said.
'So, I'm sorry. She was a good kid. I liked her.' 'Is that why you put her on the street in underwear last night? Twelve fuckin degrees out there, you liked her, huh?'
'Oh, did she freeze to death?' Jamal asked.
'Don't get smart,' Hawes warned.
'Nobody twisted her arm,' Jamal said. 'What was it? An overdose?'
'You tell us.'
'You think I did her? What for?'
'Where were you around seven this morning?' 'Home in bed.' 'Alone?'
'No, I was with my friend. You saw her. That's who I was with.'
'Carlyle Yancy, is that her name?' 'That's what she told you, isn't it?' 'Is that her real name?'
'She's never been busted, forget it.' 'What's her real name?' 'Sarah Rowland.'
'We'll check, you know.'
'Check. She's clean.'
'From what time to what time?' Carella asked. 'What do you mean?' 'Was she with you.'
'She got home around three-thirty. I was with her from then till you came busting down my door. We were waiting for Yolande, in fact.'
'We'll check that, too, you know.' 'She'll tell you.' Meyer turned to Carella.
'You looking for a bullshit gun bust?' he asked. 'I'm looking for a murderer,' Carella said.
'Then go home, there's nothing but a 265.01 here.' He turned to Jamal.
'You, too,' he said. 'We'll keep the piece, thanks.'
When you pull the boneyard shift, you quit work eight, nine in the morning, sometimes later if a turns up in your soup. Say you're lucky and you home at nine, nine-thirty, depending on traffic. You kiss the wife and kiddies, have a glass of milk and a piece of toast, and then tumble into bed ten, ten-thirty. After a few days, when you're used to the day-for-night schedule, you can actually sleep through a full eight hours and wake up refreshed. This
