Benjamin Calazo could understand why Isaac Kane wanted to draw only pretty places, clean and peaceful.
He walked cautiously down three crumbling steps to a littered doorway.
The name over the bell was barely legible. He rang, and waited. Nothing.
Rang again-a good long one this time. A tattered lace curtain was yanked aside from a streaky window; a gargoyle glared at him.
Calazo held his ID close to the window. The woman tried to focus, then she disappeared. He waited hopefully. In a moment he heard the sounds of locks opening, a chain lifted. The door opened.
'Mrs. Kane?' he asked.
'Yeah,' she said in a whiskey-blurred voice.
'What the hell do you want?'
A boozer, he thought immediately. That's all I need.
'Detective Benjamin Calazo, NYPD,' he said, 'I'd like to talk to you about your son.'
'He ain't here.'
'I know he's not here,' Calazo said patiently.
'I just left him at the Center. I want to talk to you about him.'
'What's he done now?' she demanded.
'Nothing, as far as I know.'
'He's not right in the head. He's not responsible for anything.'
'Look,' the detective said.
'Be nice. Don't keep me standing out here in the cold. How's about letting me in for a few questions? It won't take long.'
She stood aside grudgingly. He stepped in, closed the door, took off his hat. The place smelled like a subway urinalonly the piss was eighty proof.
The half-empty whiskey bottle was on the floor, a stack of paper cups beside it.
She saw him looking.
'I got a cold,' she said.
'I been sick.'
'Yeah.
She tried a smile. Her face looked like a punched pillow.
'Want a belt?' she asked.
'No, thanks. But you go ahead.'
She sat on the lumpy couch, poured herself a drink, slugged it down. She crumpled the cup in her fist, threw it negligently toward a splintered wicker wastebasket. Bull'seye.
'Nice shot,' Calazo said.
'I've had a lot of practice,' she said, showing a mouthful of tarnished teeth.
'Is Mr. Kane around?' the detective asked.
'Your husband?'
'Yeah, he's around. Around the world. Probably in Hong Kong by now, the son of a bitch. Good riddance.'
'Then you and your son live alone?'
'So what?'
'You on welfare?'
'Financial assistance,' she said haughtily.
'We're entitled.
I'm disabled and Isaac can't hold a job. You an investigator?'
'Not for welfare,' Calazo said.
'Your son goes to the Community Center every day?'
'I guess so.'
'Don't you know?'
'He's of age; he can go anywhere he likes.'
'What time does he leave for the Center?'
'I don't know; I sleep late. When I wake up, he's gone.
What the hell is all this about?'
'You're not asleep when he gets home from the Center, are you? What time does he get here?'
She peered at him through narrowed eyes, and he knew she was calculating what lies she could get away with. Not that there was any need to lie, but this woman would never tell the truth to anyone in authority if she could help it.
She stalled for time by taking another shot of the booze, crumpling the paper cup, tossing it toward the wastebasket.
This time it fell short.
'No,' she said finally, 'I'm not asleep in the evening. He gets home at different times.'
'Like what?'
'After nine o'clock.'
'How much after nine?'
'Different times.'
'Now I'll tell you what this is about,' the old gumshoe said tonelessly.
'This is about a murder, and if you keep jerking me around, I'm going to run your ass down to the drunk tank so fast your feet won't touch the ground. You can dry out with all those swell people in there until you decide to answer my questions straight. Is that what you want?'
Her face twisted, and she began to cry.
'You got no right to talk to me like that.'
'I'll talk to you any goddamned way I please,' Calazo said coldly.
'You don't mean shit to me.' He swooped suddenly, grabbed her bottle of whiskey, headed for the stained sink in a kitchenette so malodorous he almost gagged.
She came to her feet with a howl.
'What are you doing?' she screamed.
'I'm going to dump your booze,' he said.
'Then go through this swamp and break every fucking jug I can find.'
'Please,' she said, 'don't do-1 can't-the check isn't due for- I'm an old woman. What do you want to hurt an old woman for?'
'You're an old drunk,' he said.
'An old smelly drunk. No wonder your son gets out of the house every day.' He held the whiskey bottle over the sink.
'What time does he get home at night?'
'At nine. A few minutes after nine.'
'Every night?'
'Yes, every night.'
He tilted the bottle, spilled a few drops.
She wailed.
'Except on Fridays,' she said in a rush.
'He's late on Fridays. Then he comes home at ten, ten-thirty-like that.'
'Why is he late on Fridays? Where does he go?'
'I don't know. I swear to God I don't.'
'Haven't you asked him?'
'I have, honest to God I have, but he won't tell me.'
He stared at her a long time, then handed her the whiskey bottle. She took it with trembling claws, hugged it to her, cradling it like an infant.
'Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Kane,' Detective Calazo said.
Outside, he walked over to Broadway, breathing deeply, trying to get rid of the stench of that shithouse. It
