'You're joking, right?'
'You think so?' Danny said.
Carella did not think so.
'I'd have to clear that kind of money with the lieu
tenant,' he said.
'Sure, clear it. But I don't think this guy's gonna hang
around very long.'
'What can I tell him?'
'Who?'
'My lieutenant.'
Five thousand was a lot of money to hand over to
an informer. The squadroom slush fund sometimes rose
higher than that, depending on what contributions went
into it in any given month. Nobody asked questions about a few bucks that disappeared during drug busts hither and
yon, provided the money went into what was euphemis
tically called 'The War Chest'. But a big drug intercept
on the docks downtown had slowed traffic in the precinct
Ed McBam
these past two months, and Carella wondered now if there
was that much contingency cash lying around. He further
wondered if the lieutenant would turn over that kind of
money to a stoolie. Danny's information would have to
be pure gold to justify such an outlay.
'Tell him I know who did it and I know where he is,'
he said. 'If that ain't worth five grand, I'm in the wrong
business.'
'How'd you get this?' Carella asked.
'Fellow I know.'
'How'd he get it?'
'Straight from the horse's mouth.'
'Give me something I can run with.'
'Sure,' Danny said. 'Your man was in a poker game.'
'You talking about Robert Keating?' Carella said,
surprised.
'No. Who's Robert Keating?'
'Then who do you mean?'
'The guy you're looking for,' Danny said. 'He was
in a poker game this past Saturday night.'
'Okay.'
'Who's Robert Keating?' Danny asked again.
'Nobody,' Carella said. 'What about this game?'
'Your man was betting big.'
'How big?'
'Thousand-dollar pots. Came in with a five-grand
stake, worked it up to twenty before the night was through. Big winner.'
'Is he a gambler?'
'No, he's a hit man who just likes to gamble.'
'He from this city?'
'Houston, Texas. And heading back there.'
'When?'
'Sometime this Wednesday. You want him, you better move fast. Funny about Houston, ain't it?'
Carella did not think there was anything funny about
Houston.
'It must drive foreigners crazy,' Danny said. 'The way words are spelled the same, but pronounced different. In English, I mean.'
'How does this guy spell his name?' Carella asked, fishing.
'Ho ho,' Danny said. 'There's a street in New York,
you know, it's spelled exactly the same as the city in Texas, but it's pronounced House-ton Street. Instead, we say Youse-ton, Texas, after Sam Youse-ton, is the way he pronounced his name. Which is peculiar, don't you think?'
'How does this hit man pronounce his name?'
'Ho, ho, ho,' Danny said, and shook his finger.
'Who hired him?' Carella said. 'Can you tell me that?'
'I don't know who hired him.'
'Why was the old man killed?'
'Somebody wanted what he had and he wouldn't turn
it over. So they took him out of the picture.'
'They?'
'Whoever.'
'More than one person?'
'I don't know that for sure.'
'You said 'they.''
'Just an expression. All I know is the only way to get
what they wanted was to have him dusted.'
'The old man didn't have a pot to piss in, Danny.'
'I'm telling you what I heard.'
'From who?'
'My friend. Who got it straight from the hitter.'
'He told your friend he killed somebody?'
'Of course not.'
'I didn't think so.'
'But he told him enough.'
Ed McBam
'Like what?'
'Drunk talk. Suppose this, suppose that.'
'Suppose what, Danny?'
'Okay, suppose there's this old fart got something
somebody else wants real bad and he won't part with it?
And suppose this something is worth a lotta money? And
suppose . .
.'
'This is our man talking?'
'This is him. Suppose somebody's willing to pay a person five large to get rid of the old man and make it
look like an accident? And suppose . . .'
