The Heckler

“You think I enjoyed that call I got from Detective Lieutenant Abernathy yesterday afternoon? Right after you left, Steve, the phone buzzes and it’s a patrolman in the Public Relations Office downtown on High Street, and he asks me to hold on a moment for a call from Lieutenant Abernathy. So Abernathy gets on the phone and he wants to know if a man named Steve Carella works for me, and did I know that this man had sent out photos to all the newspapers except one and that if the police department was to expect co-operation from the press in the future, it would have to show equal consideration toall of the city’s newspapers. So he demanded that I give this Carella a reprimand and that a copy of the photo go out to Cliff Savage’s paper immediately, together with a note from Carella apologizing for his oversight. Abernathy wants to see a copy of the note, Steve.”

“Okay,” Carella said.

“You know I hate that son of a bitch Savage.”

“I know,” Carella said. “I should have sent him the picture. Kid stuff never gets anybody anyplace.”

“You sore at me?”

“What the hell for? The order came from upstairs, didn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Byrnes shook his bullet-shaped head and pulled a sour face. “Just write a little note, Steve. Sorry I overlooked your paper, something like that. The day we have to kiss Savage’s ass is the day I turn in my buzzer.”

“Okay,” Carella said. “I’ll get on it right away.”

“Yeah,” Byrnes said. “You get any make on that picture yet?”

“Not yet,” Carella said, and he opened the door. “Anything else, Pete?”

“No, no, go ahead. Get back to work. Go ahead.”

Carella went out into the squadroom. Hernandez came over to him and said, “There was a call for you while you were with the loot, Steve.”

“Oh?” Carella said.

“Yeah. Some guy saw the picture of the stiff in the papers. Said he recognized him.”

6.

THE MAN WHO HAD PHONED the 87th to identify the photograph of the stiff was named Christopher Random. He was a man in his early sixties, and he had only four teeth in his mouth, two upper front and two lower front. He had told Detective Hernandez that he could be found in a bar called Journey’s End, and it was there indeed that Carella and Hernandez found him at eleven-thirty that morning.

Journey’s End may have been just that for a good many of the bar’s customers. They were all wearing wrinkled and soiled gray suits. They were all wearing caps. They were all past fifty, and they all had the veined noses and fogged eyes of the habitual drinker.

Christopher Random had that nose and those eyes, and in addition he had only those four teeth, so that he looked like a remarkable specimen of something preserved in alcohol. Carella asked the bartender which of the men in the gray wrinkled suits was Random, and the bartender pointed him out and then he and Hernandez went to the end of the bar and Carella flashed the tin at Random, who blinked, nodded and casually threw off the shot of whiskey which rested on the bar before him.

He burped and the fumes damn near killed Carella and Hernandez.

“Mr. Random?” Carella said.

“That’s me,” Random said. “Christopher Random, scourge of the Orient.”

“What makes you say that?” Carella asked.

“I beg your pardon? Say what?”

“Scourge of the Orient.”

“Oh.” Random thought for a few moments. “No reason,” he said, shrugging. “Just an expression.”

“You called the precinct, sir, to say you knew who that dead man was, is that right?”

“That is right, sir,” Random said. “What is your name, sir?”

“Carella. And this is Detective Hernandez.”

“Nice to meet you two gentlemen,” Random said. “Would either of you care for a little refreshment, or are you not allowed to imbibe while wearing the blue?” He paused. “That’s just an expression,” he said.

“We’re not allowed to drink on duty,” Carella said.

“That is a shame,” Random said. “Sir, that is a crying shame. Barkeep, I would like another whiskey, please. Now then, about that photograph?”

“Yes, sir, what about it?” Carella said. “Who was he?”

“I don’t know.”

“But I thought—”

“That is to say, I don’t know what his name is. Or, to be more precise, I don’t know what his full name is. I do know his first name.”

“And what’s that?” Hernandez asked.

“Johnny.”

“But Johnny what, you don’t know?”

“That is correct, sir. Johnny what, I do not know. Or even Johnny Who.” Random smiled. “That’s just an expression,” he said. “Ahh, here’s my whiskey now. Drink hearty lads, this stuff here puts hair on your clavicle it does, arghhhhh!” He smacked his lips, set the glass down again and asked, “Where were we?”

“Johnny.”

“Yes, sir. Johnny.”

“What about him? How do you happen to know him?”

“I met him in a bar, sir.”

“Where?”

“On The Stem, I believe.”

“The Stem and where?”

“North Eighteenth?”

“Are you asking us or telling us?” Carella said.

“I don’t know the street exactly,” Random said, “but I do know the name of the bar, it is called, sir, the Two Circles, does that help you?”

“Maybe,” Carella said. “When did this meeting take place?”