“He may be.”

  “I’ll see you,” Carella said.

  La Via de Putas was a street which ran north and south for a total of three blocks. The Indians probably had their name for it, and the tepees that lined the path in those rich days of beaver pelts and painted beads most likely did a thriving business even then. As the Indians retreated to their happy hunting grounds and the well‐worn paths turned to paved roads, the tepees gave way to apartment buildings, and the practitioners of the world’s oldest profession claimed the plush‐lined cubbyholes as their own. There was a time when the street was called Piazza Putana by the Italian immigrants, and The Hussy Hole by the Irish immigrants. With the Puerto Rican influx, the street had changed its language—but not its sole source of income. The Puerto Ricans referred to it as La Via de Putas. The cops called it “Whore Street.” In any language, you paid your money, and you took your choice.

  The gals who ran the sex emporiums called themselves Mama‐this or Mama‐that. Mama Theresa’s was the best‐known joint on the Street. Mama Carmen’s was the filthiest. Mama Luz’s had been raided by the cops sixteen times because of some of the things that went on behind its crumbling brick facade. The cops were not above visiting any of the various Mamas on social calls, too. The business calls included occasional raids and occasional rake‐offs. The raids were interesting sometimes, but they were usually conducted by members of the Vice Squad who were unfamiliar with the working arrangements some of the 87th Precinct cops had going with the madams. Nothing can screw up a good deal like an ignorant cop.

  Carella, perhaps, was an ignorant cop. Or an honest one, depending how you looked at it. He met Danny Gimp at Jenny’s, which was a small café on the corner of Whore Street, a café which allegedly served Old World absinthe, complete with wormwood and water to mix the stuff in. No Old World absinthe drinker had ever been fooled by Jenny’s stuff, but the café still served as a sort of no‐man’s‐land between the respectable workaday world of the proletariat and the sinful shaded halls of the brothels. A man could hang his hat in Jenny’s, and a man could have a drink there, and a man could pretend he was on a fraternity outing there, and with the third drink, he was ready to rationalize what he was about to do. Jenny’s was something necessary to the operation of the Street. Jenny’s, to stretch a point, served the same purpose as the shower stall does in a honeymoon suite.

  On July 26, with the heat baking the black paint that covered the lower half of Jenny’s front window—a window which had been smashed in some dozen times since the establishment was founded—Carella and Danny were not interested in the crossing‐the‐social‐barrier aspects of Jenny’s bistro. They were interested in a man named Luis “Dizzy” Ordiz, who may or may not have pumped a total of six bullets into a total of two cops. Bush was out checking on the burglar named Flannagan. Carella had come down in a squad car driven by a young rookie named Kling. The squad car was parked outside now, with Kling leaning against the fender, his head erect, sweltering even in his summer blues. Tufts of blond hair stuck out of his lightweight hat. He was hot. He was hot as hell.

  Inside, Carella was hot, too. “Where is he?” he asked Danny.

  Danny rolled the ball of his thumb against the ball of his forefinger. “I haven’t had a square meal in days,” he said.

  Carella took a ten spot from his wallet and fed it to Danny.

  “He’s at Mama Luz’s,” Danny said. “He’s with a broad they call La Flamenca. She ain’t so hot.”

  “What’s he doing there?”

  “He copped from a pusher a couple of hours back. Three decks of H. He stumbled over to Mama Luz with amorous intentions, but the H won the battle. Mama Luz tells me he’s been dozing for the past sixty.”

  “And La Flamenca?”

  “She’s with him, probably cleaned out his wallet by this time. She’s a big redheaded job with two gold teeth in the front of her mouth, damn near blind you with them teeth of hers. She’s got mean hips, a big job, real big. Don’t get rough with her, less she swallow you up in one gobble.”

  “Is he heeled?” Carella asked.

  “Mama Luz don’t know. She don’t think so.”

  “Doesn’t the redhead know?”

  “I didn’t ask the redhead,” Danny said. “I don’t deal with the hired help.”

  “Then how come you know about her hips?” Carella asked.

  “Your ten spot don’t buy my sex life,” Danny said, smiling.

  “Okay,” Carella said, “thanks.”

  He left Danny at the table and went over to where Kling was leaning on the fender.

  “Hot,” Kling said.

  “You want a beer, go ahead,” Carella told him.

  “No, I just want to go home.”

  “Everybody wants to go home,” Carella said. “Home is where you pack your rod.”

  “I never understand detectives,” Kling said.

  “Come on, we have a visit to make,” Carella said.

  “Where?”

  “Up the street. Mama Luz. Just point the car; it knows the way.”

  Kling took off his hat and ran one hand through his blond hair. “Phew,” he said, and then he put on his hat and climbed in behind the wheel. “Who are we looking for?”

  “Man named Dizzy Ordiz.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “He never heard of you, either,” Carella said.

  “Yeah,” Kling said drily, “well, I’d appreciate it if you introduced us.”

  “I will,” Carella said, and he smiled as Kling set the car in motion.

  Mama Luz was standing in the doorway when they pulled up. The kids on the sidewalk wore big grins, expecting a raid. Mama Luz smiled and said, “Hello, Detective Carella. Hot, no?”

  “Hot,” Carella agreed, wondering why in hell everybody and his brother commented about the weather. It was certainly obvious to anyone but a half‐wit that this was a very hot day, that this was a suffocatingly hot day, that this was probably hotter than a day in Manila, or even if you thought Calcutta hotter, this was still a lotta hotter heat than that.

  Mama Luz was wearing a silk kimono. Mama Luz was a big fat woman with a mass of black hair pulled into a bun at the back of her head. Mama Luz used to be a well‐known prostitute, allegedly one of the best in the city, but now she was a madam and never indulged, except for friends. She was scrupulously clean and always smelled of lilacs. Her complexion was as white as any complexion can be, more white because it rarely saw the sun. Her features were patrician; her smile was angelic. If you didn’t know she ran one of the wildest brothels on the Street, you might have thought she was somebody’s mother.

  She wasn’t.

  “You come on a social call?” she asked Carella, winking.

  “If I can’t have you, Mama Luz,” Carella said, “I don’t want anybody.”

  Kling blinked and then wiped the sweatband of his hat.

  “For you, toro,” Mama Luz said, winking again, “Mama Luz does anything. For you, Mama Luz is a young girl again.”

  “You’ve always been a young girl,” Carella said, and he slapped her on the backside and then said, “Where’s Ordiz?”

  “With la roja,” Mama Luz said. “She has picked his eyes out by now.” She shrugged. “These new girls, all they are interested in is money. In the old days…” Mama Luz cocked her head wistfully. “In the old days, toro, there was sometimes love, do you know? What has happened to love nowadays, eh?”

  “It’s all locked up in that fat heart of yours,” Carella said. “Does Ordiz have a gun?”

  “Do I shake down my guests?” Mama Luz said. “I don’t think he has a gun, Stevie. You will not shoot up the works, will you? This has been a quiet day.”

  “No, I will not shoot up the works,” Carella said. “Show me where he is.”

  Mama Luz nodded. As Kling passed her, she looked down at his fly and then laughed uproariously when he blushed. She followed the two cops in and then passed them and said, “This way. Upstairs.”

  The stairs shook beneath her. She turned her head over her shoulder, winked at Carella, and said, “I trust you behind me, Stevie.”

  “Gracias,” Carella said.

  “Don’t look up my dress.”

  “It’s a temptation, I’ll admit,” Carella said, and behind him, he heard Kling choke back a cross between a sob and a gasp.

  Mama Luz stopped on the first landing. “The door at the end of the hall. No blood, Stevie, please. With this one, you do not need blood. He is half‐dead already.”

  “Okay,” Carella said. “Get downstairs, Mama Luz.”

  “And later, when the work is done…” Mama Luz said suggestively, and she bumped one fleshy hip against Carella, almost knocking him off his feet. She went past Kling, laughing, her laughter trailing up the stairwell.

  Carella sighed and looked at Kling. “What’re you gonna do, kid?” he said. “I’m in love.”

  “I never understand detectives,” Kling said.

  They went down the hallway. Kling drew his service revolver when he saw Carella’s was already in his hand.

  “She said no shooting,” he reminded Carella.

  “So far, she only runs a whorehouse,” Carella said, “not the police department.”

  “Sure,” Kling said.

  Carella rapped on the door with the butt of his .38.

  “Quién es? ”a girl’s voice asked.

  “Police,” Carella said. “Open up.”

  “Momento,” the voice said.

  “She’s getting dressed,” Kling advised Carella.

  In a few moments, the door opened. The girl standing there was a big redhead. She was not smiling, so Carella did not have the opportunity to examine the gold teeth in the front of her mouth.

  “What you want?” she asked.

  “Clear out,” Carella said. “We want to talk to the man in there.”

  “Sure,” she said. She threw Carella a look intended to convey an attitude of virginity offended, and then she swiveled past him and slithered down the hallway. Kling watched her. When he turned back to the door, Carella was already in the room.

  There was a bed in the room, and a night table, and a metal washbasin. The shade was drawn. The room smelled badly. A man lay on the bed in his trousers. His shoes and socks were off. His chest was bare. His eyes were closed, and his mouth was open. A fly buzzed around his nose.

  “Open the window,” Carella said to Kling. “Jesus, this place stinks.”

  The man on the bed stirred. He lifted his head and looked at Carella.

  “Who are you?” he said.

  “Your name Ordiz?” Carella asked.

  “Yeah. You a cop?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did I do wrong now?”

  Kling opened the window. From the streets below came the sound of children’s voices.

  “Where were you Sunday night?”

  “What time?”

  “Close to midnight.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You better, Ordiz. You better start remembering damn fast. You shoot up just now?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You’re an H‐man, Ordiz, and we know it, and we know you copped three decks a little while back. Are you stoned now, or can you read me?”

  “I hear you,” Ordiz said.

  He passed a hand over his eyes. He owned a thin face with a hatchet nose and thick, rubbery lips. He needed a shave badly.

  “Okay, talk.”

  “Friday night, you said?”

  “I said Sunday.”

  “Sunday. Oh yeah. I was at a poker game.”

  “Where?”

  “South Fourth. What’s the matter, you don’t believe me?”

  “You got witnesses?”

  “Five guys in the game. You can check with any one of them.”

  “Give me their names.”

  “Sure. Louie DeScala, and his brother, John. Kid named Pete Diaz. Another kid they call Pepe. I don’t know his last name.”

  “That’s four,” Carella said.

  “I was the fifth.”

  “Where do these guys live?”

  Ordiz reeled off a string of addresses.

  “Okay, what about Monday night?”

  “I was home.”

  “Anybody with you?”

  “My landlady.”

  “What?”

  “My landlady was with me. What’s the matter, don’t you hear good?”

  “Shut up, Dizzy. What’s her name?”

  “Olga Pazio.”

  “Address?”

  Ordiz gave it to him. “What am I supposed to done?” he asked.

  “Nothing. You got a gun?”

  “No. Listen, I been clean since I got out.”

  “What about those three decks?”

  “I don’t know where you got that garbage. Somebody’s fooling you, cop.”

  “Sure. Get dressed, Dizzy.”

  “What for? I paid for the use of this pad.”

  “Okay, you used it already. Get dressed.”

  “Hey, listen, what for? I tell you I’ve been clean since I got out. What the hell, cop?”

  “I want you at the precinct while I check these names. You mind?”

  “They’ll tell you I was with them, don’t worry. And that junk about the three decks, Jesus, I don’t know where you got that from. Hell, I ain’t been near the stuff for years now.”

  “That’s plain to see,” Carella said. “Those scabs on your arm are from beriberi or something, I guess.”

  “Huh?” Ordiz asked.

  “Get dressed.”

  * * *

  Carella checked with the men Ordiz had named. Each of them was willing to swear that he’d been at the poker game from 10:30 on the night of July 23 to 4:00 A.M. on the morning of July 24. Ordiz’s landlady reluctantly admitted she had spent the night of the 24th and the morning of the 25th in Ordiz’s room. Ordiz had solid alibis for the times someone had spent killing Reardon and Foster.

  When Bush came back with his report on Flannagan, the boys were right back where they’d started.

  “He’s got an alibi as long as the Texas Panhandle,” Bush said.

  Carella sighed and then took Kling down for a beer before heading over to see Teddy.

  Bush cursed the heat and then went home to his wife.

  From where Savage sat at the end of the bar, he could plainly see the scripted lettering on the back of the boy’s brightly colored jacket. The boy had caught his eye the moment Savage entered the bar. He’d been sitting in a booth with a dark‐haired girl, and they’d both been drinking beer. Savage had seen the purple‐and‐gold jacket and then sat at the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. From time to time, he’d glanced over at the couple. The boy was thin and pale, a shock of black hair crowning his head. The collar of the jacket was turned up, and Savage could not see the lettering across the back at first because the boy sat with his back tight against the padded cushioning of the booth.

  The girl finished her beer and left, but the boy did not vacate the booth. He turned slightly, and that was when Savage saw the lettering, and that was when the insistent idea at the back of his mind began to take full shape and form.

  The lettering on the jacket read, THE GROVERS.

  The name had undoubtedly been taken from the name of the park that hemmed in the 87th Precinct, but it was a name that rang a bell in Savage’s head, and it didn’t take long for that bell to begin echoing and reechoing. The Grovers had been responsible for a good many of the street rumbles in the area, including an almost titanic struggle in one section of the park, a struggle featuring knives, broken bottles, guns, and sawed‐off stickball bats. The Grovers had made their peace with the cops, or so the story went, but the persistent idea that one of the gangs was responsible for the deaths of Reardon and Foster would not leave Savage’s mind.

  And here was a Grover.

  Here was a boy to talk to.

  Savage finished his gin and tonic, left his stool, and walked over to where the boy was sitting alone in the booth.

  “Hi,” he said.

  The boy did not move his head. He raised only his eyes. He said nothing.

  “Mind if I sit down?” Savage asked.

  “Beat it, mister,” the boy said.

  Savage reached into his jacket pocket. The boy watched him silently. He took out a package of cigarettes, offered one to the boy, and facing the silent refusal, hung one on his own lip.

  “My name’s Savage,” he said.

  “Who cares?” the boy answered.

  “I’d like to talk to you.”

  “Yeah? What about?”

  “The Grovers.”

  “Mister, you don’t live around here, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Then, Dad, go home.”

  “I told you. I want to talk.”

  “I don’t. I’m waitin’ for a deb. Take off while you still got legs.”

  “I’m not scared of you, kid, so knock off the rough talk.”

  The boy appraised Savage coolly.

  “What’s your name?” Savage asked.

  “Guess, blondie.”

  “You want a beer?”

  “You buying?”

  “Sure,” Savage said.

  “Then make it a rum‐coke.”

  Savage turned toward the bar. “Rum‐coke,” he called, “and another gin and tonic.”

  “You drink gin, huh?” the boy said.

  “Yes. What’s your name, son?”

  “Rafael,” the boy said, still studying Savage closely. “The guys call me Rip.”

  “Rip. That’s a good name.”

  “Good as any. What’s the matter, you don’t like it?”

  “I like it,” Savage said.

  “You a nab?”

  “A what?”

  “A cop.”

  “No.”

  “What then?”

  “I’m a reporter.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes.”

  “So whattya want from me?”

  “I only want to talk.”

  “What about?”

  “Your gang.”

  “What gang?” Rip said. “I don’t belong to no gang.”

  The waiter brought the drinks. Rip tasted his and said, “That bartender’s a crock. He cuts the juice here. This tastes like cream soda.”