by perforated folding edges. It was printed on a dull shade of offpink paper. Its outer edges were serrated. Each section measured 4½ inches by 3¾ inches.
Carella took the small official-looking document from Martino and studied the first section.
Carella read each item carefully. Then he turned the permit over to read its reverse side:
The third section of the permit simply granted Martino permission to purchase a pistol and was signed by the same Riverhead magistrate, Arthur K. Weidman.
Carella knew at once that the permit was legitimate. He nonetheless took his sweet time examining it. He turned it over in his big hands as if it were a questionable international document prepared by Russian spies. He studied the signature, and he studied the thumb print, and he made a great show of comparing the serial number on the permit with the number stamped into the metal of Martino’s .22.
Then he handed both gun and permit back to the trombonist.
“Now suppose you tell us why you carry it, Sal?”
“I don’t have to. The permit is enough. I got a gun, and I got a permit for it, and that’s all you have to know. If you don’t mind, I’m supposed to play some dinner music.”
“The dinner music can wait. Answer the question, Sal!” Kling said.
“I don’t have to.”
“We’d better pull him in,” Hawes said.
“Pull me in? What for?” Martino yelled.
“For refusing to co-operate with a duly appointed officer of the peace,” Hawes yelled right off the top of his head.
“Okay, okay, okay,” Martino said in rising crescendo, “Okay.”
“Well?”
“I’m scared.”
“What?”
“I’m scared. I play on jobs, and sometimes I don’t get home till three, four in the morning. I’m scared. I don’t like to walk the streets so late at night carrying money and my horn. I’m scared, okay? So I applied for a pistol permit, and I got it. Because I’m scared, okay? Okay? Does that answer your goddamn question?”
“It answers us,” Carella said, and he looked somewhat shamefacedly at his colleagues. “You’d better get back to the band.”
Martino folded his pistol permit in half and then shoved it back into his wallet, alongside his driver’s license.
“There’s no law against being afraid,” he said.
“If there were,” Carella answered, “we’d all be in jail.”
“Here it is,” Meyer Meyer called to the counter. “Donald Pullen, 131 Pondigo Street—no, wait, that’s the office. It’s 4251 Archer. That’s around here, isn’t it?”
“Search me,” O’Brien said. “We’d better ask a cop. You looked up the number too fast, Meyer. I haven’t finished my coffee yet.”
“Well, hurry up.”
Patiently, Meyer waited for O’Brien to gulp down his coffee.
“I’ve been thirsting for this cup of coffee all day,” O’Brien said. “I’ve got to work out that problem with Miscolo. Do you think maybe I can subtly hint that he change brands or something?”
“I don’t think that’d work, Bob.”
“No, I don’t think so, either.”
“Why don’t you bring your own coffeepot to the office? And buy yourself a hot plate? One of those single-burner jobs.”
“Gee, that sounds like a good idea,” O’Brien said. “Except for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know how to make coffee.”
“All right, come on, drink up.”
O’Brien finished his coffee. Together, they walked out to the unmarked police sedan parked at the curb.
“4251 Archer,” Meyer said. “We’ll ask the first traffic cop we see.”
They did not see a cop for ten blocks. They pulled over to him and asked him where Archer Street was.
“Archer Avenue, you mean?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“So say what the hell you mean. And pull over to the curb. You’re blocking traffic!”
“We only want to know—”
“I know what you want to know. You giving me an argument?”
“No, sir,” Meyer said, and he pulled to the curb and waited while the cop directed the cars behind
Carella took the small official-looking document from Martino and studied the first section.
Carella read each item carefully. Then he turned the permit over to read its reverse side:
The third section of the permit simply granted Martino permission to purchase a pistol and was signed by the same Riverhead magistrate, Arthur K. Weidman.
Carella knew at once that the permit was legitimate. He nonetheless took his sweet time examining it. He turned it over in his big hands as if it were a questionable international document prepared by Russian spies. He studied the signature, and he studied the thumb print, and he made a great show of comparing the serial number on the permit with the number stamped into the metal of Martino’s .22.
Then he handed both gun and permit back to the trombonist.
“Now suppose you tell us why you carry it, Sal?”
“I don’t have to. The permit is enough. I got a gun, and I got a permit for it, and that’s all you have to know. If you don’t mind, I’m supposed to play some dinner music.”
“The dinner music can wait. Answer the question, Sal!” Kling said.
“I don’t have to.”
“We’d better pull him in,” Hawes said.
“Pull me in? What for?” Martino yelled.
“For refusing to co-operate with a duly appointed officer of the peace,” Hawes yelled right off the top of his head.
“Okay, okay, okay,” Martino said in rising crescendo, “Okay.”
“Well?”
“I’m scared.”
“What?”
“I’m scared. I play on jobs, and sometimes I don’t get home till three, four in the morning. I’m scared. I don’t like to walk the streets so late at night carrying money and my horn. I’m scared, okay? So I applied for a pistol permit, and I got it. Because I’m scared, okay? Okay? Does that answer your goddamn question?”
“It answers us,” Carella said, and he looked somewhat shamefacedly at his colleagues. “You’d better get back to the band.”
Martino folded his pistol permit in half and then shoved it back into his wallet, alongside his driver’s license.
“There’s no law against being afraid,” he said.
“If there were,” Carella answered, “we’d all be in jail.”
“Here it is,” Meyer Meyer called to the counter. “Donald Pullen, 131 Pondigo Street—no, wait, that’s the office. It’s 4251 Archer. That’s around here, isn’t it?”
“Search me,” O’Brien said. “We’d better ask a cop. You looked up the number too fast, Meyer. I haven’t finished my coffee yet.”
“Well, hurry up.”
Patiently, Meyer waited for O’Brien to gulp down his coffee.
“I’ve been thirsting for this cup of coffee all day,” O’Brien said. “I’ve got to work out that problem with Miscolo. Do you think maybe I can subtly hint that he change brands or something?”
“I don’t think that’d work, Bob.”
“No, I don’t think so, either.”
“Why don’t you bring your own coffeepot to the office? And buy yourself a hot plate? One of those single-burner jobs.”
“Gee, that sounds like a good idea,” O’Brien said. “Except for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know how to make coffee.”
“All right, come on, drink up.”
O’Brien finished his coffee. Together, they walked out to the unmarked police sedan parked at the curb.
“4251 Archer,” Meyer said. “We’ll ask the first traffic cop we see.”
They did not see a cop for ten blocks. They pulled over to him and asked him where Archer Street was.
“Archer Avenue, you mean?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“So say what the hell you mean. And pull over to the curb. You’re blocking traffic!”
“We only want to know—”
“I know what you want to know. You giving me an argument?”
“No, sir,” Meyer said, and he pulled to the curb and waited while the cop directed the cars behind
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