The Con Man (87th Precinct)

Murder will out, and it was a fine day for the outing of murder. The fiction con men could not have chosen a better day. They would have written it just this way, with the rain a fine-drilling drizzle that swept in over the River Harb, and the sky an ominous, roiling gray behind it. The tugboats on the river moaned occasionally, and the playgrounds on the other side of the River Highway were empty, the black asphalt glistening slickly under the steady wash of the rain. The movie con men would have panned their cameras down over the empty silent playgrounds, across the concrete of the River Highway, down the slopes of the embankments leading to the river. The sound track would pick up the wail of the tugs and the sullen swish of the rain and the murmur of the river lapping at rotted wooden beams.

There would be a close-up, and the close-up would show a hand suddenly breaking the surface of the water, the fingers stiff and widespread.

And then a body would appear, and the water would nudge the body until it washed ashore and lay lifeless with the other debris while the rain drilled down unrelentingly. The con men would have written it with flourish and filmed it with style, and they had a fine day for the plying of their trades.

The men of the 87th Precinct weren’t con men.

They only knew they had another floater.





The tattoo was obviously a mistake.

Mary Louise Proschek had had an almost identical tattoo. It had nestled snugly on the fold of skin between her right thumb and forefinger. The tattoo had been a heart, and the word MAC had decorated that heart. Mac—and a heart. A man—and love. For the con men throughout the ages have built a legend about the heart, have made the hardworking sump pump of the body the center of emotion, have disassociated love from the mind, have given a veneer of glamour to a bundle of muscle. It could have been worse. Their efforts could have descended upon the liver. In fact, the bile or the intestinal tract could have become the citadel of romance. The con men knew their trade. The shape of the heart makes a good symbol, easily recognized, easily worshipped. The eyes, the ears, the nose, the mind—the organs which see and hear and smell and know another human being, the organs which make another human being a living breathing part of yourself, a part as vital as your brain—these are discounted. St. Valentine had a good press agent.

The second floater was a girl.

There was a tattoo on the flap of skin between her right thumb and forefinger.

The tattoo was a heart.

There was a word in the heart.

And the word was NAC.

And, obviously, the tattoo was a mistake. Obviously, the man or woman who had been paid to decorate the skin had made a mistake. Obviously, he had been told to needle the word MAC into that heart, to fasten indelibly that man’s name onto that girl’s flesh. He had goofed. Perhaps he’d been drunk, or perhaps he’d been tired, or perhaps he simply didn’t give a damn. Some people are that way, you know—no pride in their work. Whatever the case, the name had come out all wrong. Not a MAC this time, but a NAC. The man who’d thrown those girls into the water must have been absolutely furious. Nobody likes his byline misspelled.





The idea was to combine business with pleasure.

It was an idea Steve Carella didn’t particularly relish, but he’d promised Teddy he’d meet her downtown at 8:00 on the button, and the call from the tattoo parlor had been clocked in at 7:45, and he knew it was too late to reach her at the house. He couldn’t have called her, in any case, because the telephone was one instrument Carella’s wife could never use. But he had, on other occasions, illegally dispatched a radio motor patrol car to his own apartment with the express purpose of delivering a message to Teddy. The police commissioner, even while allowing that Carella was a good cop, might have frowned upon such extracurricular squad car activity. So Carella, sneak that he was, never told him.

He stood now on the corner under the big bank clock, partially covered by the canopy that spread out over the entrance, shielding the big metal doors. He hoped there would not be an attempted bank robbery. If there was anything he disliked, it was foiling attempted bank robberies when he was off duty and waiting for the most beautiful woman in the world. Naturally, he was never off duty. A cop, as he well knew, is on duty 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, 366 days in leap year. Then, too, there was the tattoo parlor to visit, and he couldn’t consider himself officially clocked out until he’d made that call and then reported the findings back to whoever was catching at the squad.

He hoped there would not be an attempted bank robbery, and he also hoped it would stop drizzling, because the rain was seeping into his bones and making his wounds ache. Oh, my aching wounds!

He put his aches out of his mind and fell to wool-gathering. Carella’s favorite form of wool-gathering was thinking about his wife. He knew there was something hopelessly adolescent about the way he loved her, but those were the facts, ma’am, and there wasn’t much he could do to change his feelings. There were probably more beautiful women in the world, but he didn’t know who they were. There were probably sweeter, purer, warmer, more passionate women, too. He doubted it; he very strongly doubted it. The simple truth was that she pleased him. Hell, she delighted him. She had a face he would never tire of watching, a face that was a thousand faces, each linked subtly by a slender chain of beauty. Fully made up, her brown eyes glowing, the lashes darkened with mascara, her lips cleanly stamped with lipstick, she was one person—and he loved the meticulously calculated beauty, the freshly combed, freshly powdered veneer of that person.

In the morning, she was another person. Warm with sleep, her eyes would open, and her face would be undecorated, her full lips swollen, the black hair tangled like wild weeds, her body supple and pliable. He loved her this way, too, loved the small smile on her mouth and the sudden eager alertness of her eyes.

Her face was a thousand faces, quiet and introspective when they walked along a lonely shore barefoot and the only sound was the distant sound of breakers on the beach, a sound she could not hear in her silent world. Alive with fury, her face could change in an instant, the black brows swooping down over suddenly incandescent eyes, her lips skinning back over even, white teeth, her body taut with invective she could not hurl because she could not speak, her fists clenched. Tears transformed her face again. She did not cry often, and when she did cry, it was with completely unself-conscious anguish. It was almost as if, secure in the knowledge of her beauty, she could allow her face to be torn by agony.

Many men longed for the day when their ship would come in.

Carella’s ship had come in—and it had launched a thousand faces.

There were times, of course, like now, when he wished the ship could do a little more than fifteen knots. It was 8:20, and she’d promised to be there at 8:00 on the dot, and whereas he never grew weary of her mental image, he much preferred her in person.

Now! For the first time! Live! On our stage! In person! Imported from the Cirque d’Hiver in Paris…

There must be something wrong with me, Carella thought. I’m never really here. I’m always…

He spotted her instantly. By this time, he was not surprised by what the sight of her could do to him. He had come to accept the instant quickening of his heart and the automatic smile on his face. She had not yet seen him, and he watched her from his secret vantage point, feeling somewhat sneaky, but what the hell!

She wore a black skirt and a red sweater and, over that, a black cardigan with red piping. The cardigan hung open, ending just below her hips. She had a feminine walk, which was completely unconscious, completely uncalculated. She walked rapidly because she was late, and he heard the steady clatter of the black pumps on the pavement, and he watched with delighted amusement the men who turned for a second look at his wife.

When she saw him, she broke into a run. He did not know what it was between them that made the shortest separation seem like a ten-year stretch at Alcatraz. Whatever it was, they had it. She came into his arms, and he kissed her soundly, and he wouldn’t have given a damn if Twentieth Century Fox had been filming the entire sequence for a film titled The Mating Season Jungle.

“You’re late,” he said. “Don’t apologize. You look lovely. We have to make a stop. Do you mind?”

Her eyes questioned his face.

“A tattoo parlor downtown. Guy thinks he may remember Mary Louise Proschek. We’re lucky. This is business, so I was able to check out a sedan. Means we don’t have to take the train home tonight. Some provider, your husband, huh?”

Teddy grinned and squeezed his arm.

“The car’s around the corner. You look beautiful. You smell nice, too. What’ve you got on?”

Teddy dry-washed her hands.

“Just soap and water? You’re amazing! Look how nice you can make soap smell. Honey, this won’t take more than a few minutes. I’ve got some pictures of the Proschek girl in the car, and maybe we can get a make on them from this guy. After that, we’ll eat and whatever you like. I can use a drink, can’t you?”

Teddy nodded.

“Why do people always say they can ‘use’ a drink? What, when you get right down to it, can they ‘use’ it for?” He studied her and added, “I’m too talkative tonight. I guess I’m excited. We haven’t had a night out in a long while. And you look beautiful. Don’t you get tired of my saying that?”

Teddy shook her head, and there was a curious tenderness in the movement. He had grown used to her eyes, and perhaps he missed what they were saying to him, over and over again, repeatedly. Teddy Carella didn’t need a tongue.

They walked to the car, and he opened the door for her, went around to the other side, and then started the motor. The police radio erupted into the closed sedan.

“Car Twenty-one, Car Twenty-one, Signal One. Silvermine at North Fortieth…”

“I’ll be conscientious and leave it on,” Carella said to Teddy. “Some pretty redhead may be trying to reach me.”

Teddy’s brows lowered menacingly.

“In connection with a case, of course,” he explained.

Of course, she nodded mockingly.

“God, I love you,” he said, his hand moving to her thigh. He squeezed her quickly, an almost unconscious gesture, and then he put his hand back on the wheel.

They drove steadily through the maze of city traffic. At one stoplight, a traffic cop yelled at Carella because he anticipated the changing of the light from red to green. The cop’s raingear was slick with water. Carella felt suddenly like a heel.

The windshield wipers snicked at the steady drizzle. The tires whispered against the asphalt of the city. The city was locked in against the rain. People stood in doorways, leaned out of windows. There was a gray quietness to the city, as if the rain had suspended all activity, had caused the game of life to be called off. There was a rain smell to the city, too, all the smells of the day captured in the steady canopy of water and washed clean by it. There was, too, and strange for the city, a curious sense of peace.

“I love Paris when it drizzles,” Carella said suddenly, and he did not have to explain the meaning of his words because she knew at once what he meant, she knew that he was not talking about Paris or Wichita, that he was talking about this city, his city, and that he had been born in it and into it, and that it, in turn, had been born into him.

The expensive apartment houses fell away behind them, as did the line of high-fashion stores, and the advertising agency towers, and the publishing shrines, and the gaudy brilliance of the amusement area, and the stilled emptiness of the garment district at night, and the tangled intricacy of the narrow side streets far downtown, the pushcarts filled with fruits and vegetables lining the streets, the store windows behind them, the Italian salami, and the provolone, and the pepperoni hanging in bright-red strings.

The tattoo parlor nestled in a side street on the fringe of Chinatown, straddled by a bar and a Laundromat. The combination of the three was somewhat absurd, ranging from the exotica of tattooing into the nether world of intoxication and from there to the plebeian task of laundering clothes. The neighborhood had seen its days of glory, perhaps, but they were all behind it. Far behind it. Like an old man with cancer, the neighborhood patiently and painfully awaited the end—and the end was the inevitable city housing project. And, in the meantime, nobody bothered to change the soiled bedclothes. Why bother when something was going to die anyway?

The man who ran the tattoo parlor was Chinese. The name on the plateglass window was Charlie Chen.

“Everybody call me Charlie Chan,” he explained. “Big detective, Charlie Chan. But me Chen, Chen. You know Charlie Chan, Detective?”

“Yes,” Carella said, smiling.

“Big detective,” Chen said. “Got stupid sons.” Chen laughed. “Me got stupid sons, too, but me no detective.” He was a round, fat man, and everything he owned shook when he laughed. He had a small mustache on his upper lip, and he had thick fingers, and there was an oval jade ring on the forefinger of his left hand. “You detective, huh?” he asked.

“Yes,” Carella said.

“This lady police lady?” Chen asked.

“No. This lady’s my wife.”

“Oh. Very good. Very good,” Chen said. “Very pretty. She wants tattoo, maybe? Do nice butterfly for her on shoulder. Very good for strapless gowns. Very pretty. Very decorative.”

Teddy shook her head, smiling.

“Very pretty lady. You very lucky detective,” Chen said. He turned to Teddy. “Nice yellow butterfly, maybe? Very pretty?” He opened his eyes seductively. “Everybody say very pretty.”

Teddy shook her head again.

“Maybe you like red better? Red your color, maybe? Nice red butterfly?”

Teddy could not keep herself from smiling. She kept shaking her head and smiling, feeling very much a part of her husband’s work, happy that he’d had to make the call and happy that he’d taken her with him. It was curious, she supposed, but she did not know him as a cop. His function as a cop was something almost completely alien to her, even though he talked about his work. She knew that he dealt with crime, and the perpetrators of crime, and she often wondered what kind of man he was when he was on the job. Heartless? She could not imagine that in her man. Cruel? No. Hard? Tough? Perhaps.

“About this girl,” Carella said to Chen. “When did she come in for the tattoo?”

“Oh, long time ago,” Chen said. “Maybe five months, maybe six. Nice lady. Not so pretty like your lady, but very nice.”

“Was she alone?”

“No. She with tall man.” Chen scrutinized Carella’s face. “Prettier than you, Detective.”

Carella grinned. “What did he look like?”

“Tall. Movie star. Very handsome. Muscles.”

“What color was his hair?”

“Yellow,” Chen said.

“His eyes?”

Chen shrugged.

“Anything you remember about him?”

“He smile all the time,” Chen said. “Big white teeth. Very pretty teeth. Very handsome man. Movie star.”

“Tell me what happened?”

“They come in together. She hold his arm. She look at him, stars in her eyes.” Chen paused. “Like your lady. But not so pretty.”

“Were they married?”

Chen shrugged.

“Did you see an engagement ring or a wedding band on her finger?”

“I don’t see,” Chen said. He grinned at Teddy. Teddy grinned back. “You like black butterfly? Pretty black wings? Come, I show you.” He led them into the shop. A beaded curtain led to the back room. The walls of the shop were covered with tattoo designs. A calendar with a nude girl on it hung on the wall near the beaded curtain. Someone had jokingly inked tattoos onto her entire body. The tattooer had drawn a pair of clutching hands on the girl’s full breasts. Chen pointed to a butterfly design on one of the walls.

“This butterfly. You like? You pick color. Any color. I do. I put on your shoulder. Very pretty.”

“Tell me what happened with the girl,” Carella said, gently insistent.

Teddy looked at him curiously. Her husband was enjoying the byplay between herself and Chen, but he was not losing sight of his objective. He was here in this shop for a possible lead on the man who had killed Mary Louise Proschek. She suddenly felt that if the byplay got too involved, her husband would call a screaming halt to it.

“They come in shop. He say the girl want tattoo. I show them designs on wall. I try to sell her butterfly. Nobody like butterfly. Butterfly my own design. Very pretty. Good for shoulder. I do butterfly on one lady’s back, near base of spine. Very pretty, only nobody see. Good for shoulder. I try to sell her butterfly, but man say he wants heart. She say she wants heart, too. Stars in eyes, you know? Big love, big thing, shining all over. I show them big hearts. Very pretty hearts, very complicated, many colors.”

“They didn’t want a big heart?”

“Man wants small heart. He show me where.” Chen spread his thumb and forefinger. “Here. Very difficult. Skinny flesh, needle could go through. Very painful. Very difficult. He say he wants it there. Say if he wants it there, she wants it there. Crazy.”

“Who suggested what lettering to put into the heart?”

“Man. He say, ‘You put M-A-C in heart.’”

“He said to put the name Mac into that heart?”

“He no say name Mac. He say put M-A-C.”

“And what did she say?”

“She say, ‘Yes, M-A-C.’”

“Go on.”

“I do. Very painful. Girl scream. He hold her shoulders. Very painful. Tender spot.” Chen shrugged. “Butterfly on shoulder better.”

“Did she mention his name while she was here?”

“No.”

“Did she call him Mac?”

“She call him nothing.” Chen thought a moment. “Yes, she call him darling, dear, sweetheart. Love words. No name.”

Carella sighed. He lifted the flap of the manila envelope in his hands and drew out the glossy prints that were inside it. “Is this the girl?” he asked Chen.

Chen looked at the pictures. “That she,” he said. “She dead, huh?”

“Yes, she’s dead.”

“He kill her?”

“We don’t know.”

“She love him,” Chen said, wagging his head. “Love very special. Nobody should kill love.”

Teddy looked at the little round Chinese, and she suddenly felt very much like allowing him to tattoo his prize butterfly design on her shoulder. Carella took the pictures back and put them into the envelope.

“Has this man ever come into your shop again?” Carella asked. “With another woman, perhaps?”

“No, never,” Chen said.

“Well,” Carella said, “thanks a lot, Mr. Chen. If you remember anything more about him, give me a call, won’t you?” He opened his wallet. “Here’s my card. Just ask for Detective Carella.”

“You come back,” Chen said. “You ask for Charlie Chan, big detective, with stupid sons. You bring wife. I make pretty butterfly on shoulder.” He extended his hand, and Carella took it. For a moment, Chen’s eyes went serious. “You lucky,” he said. “You not so pretty, have very pretty lady. Love very special.” He turned to Teddy. “Someday, if you want butterfly, you come back. I make very pretty.” He winked. “Detective husband like. I promise. Any color. Ask for Charlie Chan. That’s me.”

He grinned and wagged his head, and Carella and Teddy left the shop, heading for the police sedan up the street.





“Nice guy, wasn’t he?” Carella said.

Teddy nodded.

“I wish they were all like him. A lot of them aren’t. With many people, the presence of a cop automatically produces a feeling of guilt. That’s the truth, Teddy. They instantly feel that they’re under suspicion, and everything they say becomes defensive. I guess that’s because there are skeletons in the cleanest closets. Are you very hungry?”

Teddy made a face that indicated she was famished.

“Shall we find a place in the neighborhood, or do you want to wait until we get uptown?”

Teddy pointed to the ground.

“Here?”

Yes, she nodded.

“Chinese?”

No.

“Italian?”

Yes.

“You shouldn’t have married a guy of Italian descent,” Carella said. “Whenever such a guy eats in an Italian restaurant, he can’t help comparing his spaghetti with what his mother used to cook. He then becomes dissatisfied with what he’s eating, and the dissatisfaction spreads to include his wife. The next thing you know, he’s suing for divorce.”

Teddy put her forefingers to her eyes, stretching the skin so that her eyes became slitted.

“Right,” Carella said. “You should have married a Chinese. But then, of course, you wouldn’t be able to eat in Chinese restaurants.” He paused and grinned. “All this eating talk is making me hungry. How about that place up the street?”

They walked to it rapidly, and Carella looked through the plateglass window.

“Not too crowded,” he said, “and it looks clean. You game?”

Teddy took his arm, and he led her into the place.

It was, perhaps, not the cleanest place in the world. As sharp as Carella’s eyes were, a cursory glance through a plateglass window is not always a good evaluation of cleanliness. And, perhaps, the reason it wasn’t too crowded was that the food wasn’t too good. Not that it mattered very much, since both Carella and Teddy were really very hungry and probably would have eaten sautéed grasshoppers if they were served.

The place did have nice checkered tablecloths and candles stuck into the necks of old wine bottles, the wax frozen to the glass. The place did have a long bar, which ran the length of the wall opposite the dining room, bottles stacked behind it, amber lights illuminating the bottles. The place did have a phone booth, and Carella still had to make his call back to the squad.

The waiter who came over to their table seemed happy to see them.

“Something to drink before you order?” he asked.

“Two martinis,” Carella said. “Olives.”

“Would you care to see a menu now or later, sir?”

“Might as well look at it now,” Carella said. The waiter brought them two menus. Carella glanced at his briefly and then put it down. “I’m bucking for a divorce,” he said. “I’ll have spaghetti.”

While Teddy scanned the menu, Carella looked around the room. An elderly couple was quietly eating at a table near the phone booth. There was no one else in the dining room. At the bar, a man in a leather jacket sat with a shot glass and a glass of water before him. The man was looking into the bar mirror. His eyes were on Teddy. Behind the bar, the bartender was mixing the martinis Carella had ordered.

“I’m so damn hungry I could eat the bartender,” Carella said.

When the waiter came with their drinks, he ordered spaghetti for himself and then asked Teddy what she wanted. Teddy pointed to the lasagna dish on the menu, and Carella gave it to the waiter. When the waiter was gone, they picked up their glasses.

“Here’s to ships that come in,” Carella said.

Teddy stared at him, puzzled.

“All loaded with treasures from the east,” he went on, “smelling of rich spices, with golden sails.”

She was still staring at him, still puzzled.

“I’m drinking to you, darling,” he explained. He watched the smile form on her mouth. “Poetic cops this city can do without,” he said, and he sipped at the martini and then put the glass down. “I want to call the squad, honey. I’ll be back in a minute.” He touched her hand briefly and then went toward the phone booth, digging in his pocket for change as he walked away from the table.

She watched him walk from her, pleased with the long athletic strides he took, pleased with the impatience of his hand as it dug for change, pleased with the way he held his head. She realized abruptly that one of the first things that had attracted her to Carella was the way he moved. There was an economy and simplicity of motion about him, a sense of directness. You got the feeling that before he moved he knew exactly where he was going and what he was going to do, and so there was a tremendous sense of security attached to being with him.

Teddy sipped at the martini and then took a long swallow. She had not eaten since noon, and so she was not surprised by the rapidity with which the martini worked its alcoholic wonders. She watched her husband enter the phone booth, watched as he dialed quickly. She wondered how he would speak to the desk sergeant and then to the detective who was catching in the squadroom. Would they know he’d been talking of treasure ships just a few moments before? What kind of a cop was he? What did the other cops think of him? She felt a sudden exclusion. Faced with the impenetrable privacy that was any man’s work, she felt alone and unwanted. Quickly, she drained the martini glass.

A shadow fell over the table.

At first she thought it was only a trick of her eyes, and then she looked up. The man who’d been sitting at the bar, the man in the leather jacket, was standing at the table, grinning.

“Hi,” he said.

She glanced hastily at the phone booth. Carella had his back to the dining room.

“What’re you doing with a creep like that?” the man said.

Teddy turned away from him and fastened her eyes to the napkin in her lap.

“You’re just about the cutest doll that ever walked into this dump,” the man in the leather jacket said. “Why don’t you ditch that creep and meet me later. How about it?”

She could smell whiskey on the man’s breath. There was something frightening about his eyes, something insulting about the way they roamed her body with open candor. She wished she were not wearing a sweater. Unconsciously, she pulled the cardigan closed over the jutting cones of her breasts.

“Come on,” the man said, “don’t cover them up.”

She looked up at him and shook her head. Her eyes pleaded with him to go away. She glanced again to the phone booth. Carella was talking animatedly.

“My name’s Dave,” the man said. “That’s a nice name, ain’t it? Dave. What’s your name?”

She could not answer him. She would not have answered him even if she could.

“Come on, loosen up,” Dave said. He stared at her, and his eyes changed, and he said, “Jesus, you’re beautiful, you know that? Ditch him, will you? Ditch him and meet me.”

Teddy shook her head.

“Let me hear you talk,” Dave said.

She shook her head again, pleadingly this time.

“I want to hear your voice. I’ll bet it’s the sexiest goddamn voice in the world. Let me hear it.”

Teddy squeezed her eyes shut tightly. Her hands were trembling in her lap. She wanted this man to go away, wanted him to leave her alone, wanted him to be gone before Steve came out of that booth, before Steve came back to the table. She was slightly dizzy from the martini, and her mind could only think that Steve would be displeased, that Steve might think she had invited this.

“Look, what do you have to be such a cold tomato for, huh? I’ll bet you’re not so cold. I’ll bet you’re pretty warm. Let me hear your voice.”

She shook her head again, and then she saw Carella hang up the phone and open the door of the booth. He was grinning, and then he looked toward the table and the grin dropped from his mouth, and she felt a sudden sick panic at the pit of her stomach. Carella moved out of the booth quickly. His eyes had tightened into focus on the man with the leather jacket.

“Come on,” Dave said, “what you got to be that way for, huh? All I’m asking—”

“What’s the trouble, mister?” Carella said suddenly. She looked up at her husband, wanting him to know she had not asked for this, hoping it was in her eyes. Carella did not turn to look at her. His eyes were riveted to Dave’s face.

“No trouble at all,” Dave said, turning to face Carella with an arrogant smile.

“You’re annoying my wife,” Carella said. “Take off.”

“Oh, was I annoying her? Is the little lady your wife?” He spread his legs wide and let his arms dangle at his sides, and Carella knew instantly that he was looking for trouble and wouldn’t be happy until he found it.

“You were, and she is,” Carella said. “Go crawl back to the bar. It’s been nice knowing you.”

Dave continued smiling. “I ain’t crawling back nowhere,” he said. “This is a free country. I’m staying right here.”

Carella shrugged and pulled out his chair. Dave continued standing by the table. Carella took Teddy’s hand.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

Teddy nodded.

“Ain’t that sweet?” Dave said. “Big handsome hubby comes back from—”

Carella dropped his wife’s hand and stood suddenly. At the other end of the dining room, the elderly couple looked up from their meal.

“Mister,” Carella said slowly, “you’re bothering the hell out of me. You’d better—”

“Am I bothering you?” Dave said. “Hell, all I’m doing is admiring a nice piece of—” and Carella hit him.

He hit him suddenly, with the full force of his arm and shoulder behind the blow. He hit him suddenly and full in the mouth, and Dave staggered back from the table and slammed into the next table, knocking the wine bottle candle to the floor. He leaned on the table for a moment, and when he looked up, his mouth was bleeding, but he was still smiling.

“I was hoping you’d do that, pal,” he said. He studied Carella for a moment, and then he lunged at him.

Teddy sat with her hands clenched in her lap, her face white. She saw her husband’s face, and it was not the face of the man she knew and loved. The face was completely expressionless, the mouth a hard, tight line that slashed it horizontally, the eyes narrowed so that the pupils were barely visible, the nostrils wide and flaring. He stood spread-legged with his fists balled, and she looked at his hands, and they seemed bigger than they’d ever seemed before, big and powerful, lethal weapons that hung at his sides, waiting. His entire body seemed to be waiting. She could feel the coiled-spring tautness of him as he waited for Dave’s rush, and he seemed like a smoothly functioning, well-oiled machine in that moment, a machine which would react automatically as soon as the right button were pushed, as soon as the right lever were pressed. There was nothing human about the machine. All humanity had left Steve Carella the moment his fist had lashed out at Dave. What Teddy saw now was a highly trained and a highly skilled technician about to do his work, waiting for the response buttons to be pushed.

Dave did not know he was fighting a machine. Ignorantly, he pushed out at the buttons.

Carella’s left fist hit him in the gut, and he doubled over in pain, and then Carella threw a flashing uppercut, which caught Dave under the chin and sent him sprawling backward against the table again. Carella moved quickly and effortlessly, like a cue ball under the hands of an expert pool player, sinking one ball and then rolling to position for a good shot at the next ball. Before Dave clambered off the table, Carella was in position again, waiting.

When Teddy saw Dave pick up the wine bottle, her mouth opened in shocked anguish. But she knew somehow this did not come as a surprise to her husband. His eyes, his face, did not change. He watched dispassionately while Dave hit the bottle against the table. The jagged shards of the bottleneck clutched in Dave’s fist frightened her until she wanted to scream, until she wished she had a voice so that she could scream until her throat ached. She knew her husband would be cut, she knew that Dave was drunk enough to cut him, and she watched Dave advancing with the broken bottle, but Carella did not budge an inch. He stood there motionless, his body balanced on the balls of his feet, his right hand open, the fingers widespread, his left hand flat and stiff at his side.

Dave lunged with the broken bottle. He passed low, aiming for Carella’s groin. A look of surprise crossed his face when he felt Carella’s right hand clamp onto his wrist. He felt himself falling forward suddenly, pulled by Carella who had stepped back lightly on his right foot, and who was raising his left hand high over his head, the hand still stiff and rigid.

And then Carella’s left hand descended. Hard and straight, like the sharp biting edge of an ax, it moved downward with remarkable swiftness. Dave felt the impact of the blow. The hard, calloused edge of Carella’s hand struck him on the side of his neck, and then Dave bellowed and Carella swung his left hand across his own body, and again, the hand fell, this time on the opposite side of Dave’s neck, and he fell to the floor, both arms paralyzed for the moment, unable to move.

Carella stood over him, waiting.

“Lay…lay off,” Dave said.

The waiter stood at the entrance to the dining room, his eyes wide.

“Get the police,” Carella said, his voice curiously toneless.

“But—” the waiter started.

“I’m a detective,” Carella said. “Get the patrolman on the beat. Hurry up!”

“Yes,” the waiter said. “Yes, sir.”

Carella did not move from where he stood over Dave. He did not once look at Teddy. When the patrolman arrived, he showed his shield and told him to book Dave for disorderly conduct, generously neglecting to mention assault. He gave the patrolman all the information he needed, walked out with him to the squad car, and was gone for some five minutes. When he came back to the table, the elderly couple had gone. Teddy sat staring at her napkin.

“Hi,” he said, and he grinned.

She looked across the table at him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t want trouble.”

She shook her head.

“He’ll be better off locked up for the night. He’d only have picked on someone else, hon. He was spoiling for a fight.” He paused. “The next guy he might have succeeded in cutting.”

Teddy Carella nodded and sighed heavily. She had just had a visit to her husband’s office and seen him at work. And she could still remember the terrible swiftness of his hands, hands which she had only known tenderly before.

And so she sighed heavily because she had just discovered the world was not populated with gentle little boys playing games.

And then she reached across the table, and she took his right hand and brought it to her mouth, and she kissed the knuckles, and she kissed the palm, and Carella was surprised to feel the wetness of her tears against his flesh.