Chapter 14 Chapter Fourteen

He took me around the corner and a block south to an indescribable saloon on Tenth Avenue.I can't remember its name, and I'm not sure it actually has one.One might call it "the last stop on the road to rehab." In front of the bar, two old men in second-hand suits were drinking in silence.A Hispanic man in his forties stood across the bar reading a newspaper and sipping red wine from an eight-ounce glass.The bartender, a bony bartender in a T-shirt and jeans, was staring at a small black-and-white TV with the volume turned down. Durkin and I found a table and I went to the bar to get our drinks.His was double vodka, mine was ginger ale.I carried them back to our table and he looked at my ginger ale in silence.The soda looks a lot like scotch and soda, and is about the same color.

He drank some vodka and said, "Wow, God, it works. It really works." I said nothing. "What were you asking. What do we do next? Can't you answer that question yourself?" "Maybe." "I asked my sister to buy a new TV and a typewriter, and put some extra locks on the doors so she didn't have to bother to call the police. What are we going to do next with Daquinen's case? We're not doing anything." "I got it." "We know who killed her." "Chance?" He nodded. — Stick School · E Book Group — "I think his alibi looks unassailable."

"Oh, as reliable as a gilt-edged bond, as secure as a bottle of wine seized by customs. So what? He could still commit crimes. Anyone who gave him an alibi could have lied for him." "You think they're lying?" "That's not true, but I can't guarantee they're not lying. Anyway, he can pay for murder. We talked about that." "That's right." "If he did it, he's acquitted. Because we can't find holes in his alibi. If he pays for the murder, we can't find the man he hired. Unless we get lucky. You know, Sometimes it happens. Luck happens. Someone slips in a bar, someone who has a grudge with him gets word out, and all of a sudden, we know things we didn't know before. But even so, it's far from putting the case together. There is still a long way to go before getting up and prosecuting. Besides, we don't plan to spend too much energy on this case."

I was not surprised to hear him say that, but my heart sank.I picked up the ginger ale and stared at it. He said: "Half of my business is based on the probability of success. Only take cases that have a chance of success, and put the rest aside. Do you know how high the murder rate is in this city?" "I know higher and higher." "Needless to say. It's growing every year. All kinds of cases are climbing every year, unless we ignore some of the less serious cases because people don't bother to report them. Like my sister's burglary. There's a rogue running into you Home, and you only lost some money. Oh, damn it, what a fuss, isn't it? You're lucky you're alive. Go home and pray and give thanks."

"Nagin Dakkinen—" "Fuck his Kim Duckinen," he said, "such a stupid little bitch traveled fifteen hundred miles to sell herself and give money to nigger pimps, who cares if anyone She cut it to pieces? I mean, why doesn't she stay in the goddamn Minnesota?" "It's Wisconsin." "I mean Wisconsin. But most of them are from Minnesota." "I know." "Murders used to be about a thousand a year, three a day in each district. That seemed high already." "It's high enough." "But it's twice as much now." He leaned forward. "But that's nothing, Matthew. Most murders are marital problems, or two friends drinking together and one of them shoots the other. , but the next day I forgot all about it. The proportion of such cases has remained the same, as before. What has changed is the murder of a stranger, where the murderer and the victim did not know each other. The proportion of such cases shows that you Whether the home environment is dangerous. If you only look at the murder of a stranger, put the other cases aside, and draw a table for the murder of a stranger, the ratio goes straight up like a rocket."

"There was a man with a bow in Queens," I said, "and the neighbor next door shot him dead with a .38." "I saw that news. About a dog who picked shit on the wrong lawn?" "That's about it." "Oh, it won't be on the charts. Those two guys know each other." "That's right." "But it's the same thing. People kill each other all the time. They don't even stop to think about it, they just do it. How long have you been away from the police, two or three years? I tell you, it's worse now than it was then many."

"I believe." "I'm serious. It's a primeval forest out there, and all the beasts are fully armed. Everyone has a gun. Do you know how many people walk outside with guns? Those honest residents, they must carry guns for self-defense now, So they all bought one, and one day they used it to kill themselves, or kill their wives, their neighbors." "There's another guy with a bow and arrow." "It's the same as everything. But who's going to tell him not to buy a gun?" He patted the arm belt with a revolver stuck in his stomach. "I have to carry this," he said. "It's the rule. But I'm telling you, I'm not going to walk around without a gun. I'm going to feel naked."

"I used to be just like you. You'll get used to it." "You don't carry any weapons?" "right." "Not scared at all?" I went to the bar to get drinks, vodka for him and ginger ale for myself. After I returned to my seat with my drink, Durkin drank it down and sighed like a flat tire.He put his hands together, lit a cigarette, took a deep breath, and then puffed it out again as if eager to get rid of it. "This damn city," he said.It's hopeless, he said, and started telling me how hopeless it was.He charts how the entire judicial system has changed, from the police to the courts to the prisons, how they are useless and in decline.You can't arrest a criminal, you can't convict him, and you can't end up putting that son of a bitch behind bars.

“Jails are full,” he said, “so judges don’t want to sentence them for too long, and the parole department releases them early. The district attorney trades a reduced sentence for a guilty plea, and defense attorneys plead not guilty for those crimes. Because The court schedule is overcrowded, and the law is careful to protect the rights and interests of the defendant. Even if you take the photo of the perpetrator for identification, you will be bitten back, because you used his photo without his permission and violated him. Citizenship. At the same time, the police are dwindling. There are ten thousand fewer police officers than there were twelve years ago. Ten thousand fewer police officers on the streets!"

"I know." "There are twice as many thieves and one-third less police, and you still wonder why it's so unsafe to go out on the streets. You know what? The city is broken. No money to pay the police, no money to keep the subway running, no money Money for anything. The whole country is leaking money, and it's in the hands of the goddamn Arabs. Those damned guys traded oil for Cadillacs, and our country is ruined." He stood up, "Turn until I bought it." "No, I'll buy it. I can pay for it." "By the way, you have a client." He sits down.I came back with the same drink and he asked, "What the hell did you drink?"

"Ginger ale." "Ah, it looks like it to me. Why don't you have something real?" "I've been quitting drinking lately." "Oh really?" Hearing this, his gray eyes fixed on me.He picked up the glass, drank half of it, and put it back on the battered wooden table with a bang. "You have a good idea," he said, and I thought he was referring to ginger ale, but he changed the subject. "Resign. Quit. You know what I want? I just want six more years." "Then you've worked for twenty years?" "And then it's twenty years," he said, "and I'll get my pension, and then I'll fuck off. Get out of this job, get out of this goddamn city. Florida, Texas, New Mexico , find somewhere warm, dry, clean. Oh, not in Florida, I hear it's full of damn Cubans and the crime rate is on par with here. Plus it's a drug transfer station. And those crazy Colombians. You know them, don't you?" I thought of Royal Walden. "A guy I know said they were okay," I said, "and he said you just don't lie to them." "You sure dare not lie to them. Did you see the news about the two girls in Long Island? It should have been six months, or eight months ago. The two sisters, one is twelve years old and the other is fourteen years old. People They were found in the storage room of an abandoned gas station with their hands tied behind their backs and shot twice in the head with small-bore pistols, .22 I think, but who cares?" He drank the rest of his drink: "Well, the case is bizarre. No rape, nothing. It's like a lynching, but who would execute two teenage sisters? Well, the case turned out to be self-evident, because a week Later, someone broke into their house and killed their mother. We found her in the kitchen, dinner was still on the stove. You know, this family is Colombian, and the father is in the drug business. for a living—" "I thought they were growing a lot of coffee." "Maybe it was just a cover. Where did I go? The point is, a month later, the father died in the capital of Colombia. He lied to someone and ran away, and finally they caught him in Colombia, but they killed him first Look, Colombians, they have another set of rules. You play them, and they kill more than you. They kill you all over the place. Children, no matter how old they are, die. Even your kittens, Puppies, even tropical fish." "God." "The mafia always cares about family. When they kill you, they even arrange to make sure your family doesn't see the horror. Now, our criminals just kill the whole family. Not bad?" "God." He stood up with his hands on the table. "This round I pay," he announced, "I don't buy me booze with pimp money." When he came back, he said, "He's your client, isn't he, Chance?" I didn't answer and he said, "Well, shit, you met him last night. He wanted to see you, and you now have a client, and you don't want to name him. Two plus two equals four, right? ?” "I can't tell you how to add it." "Assume I'm right and he's your client. It's just for discussion. You're not giving away." "Ok." He leans forward. — Stick School · E Book Group — "He killed her," he said, "so why did he hire you to investigate?" "Maybe he didn't kill her." "Oh, he must have done it." He waved away the possibility that Chance was innocent. "She said she was going to leave him, and he said yes, and she died the next day. Come on, Matthew. That's for sure." "Then we come back to your question. Why did he hire me?" "Perhaps it's a way to get away with it." "How to get rid of the crime?" "Maybe he thought that if he hired you, we would think he must be innocent." "But you don't think so at all." "That's right." "You think he really thinks that?" "How do I know what some drugged-up nigga pimp is thinking?" "You think he's on drugs?" "He's gotta spend it on something, isn't he? He's not going to pay country club dues, or buy a seat at a charity ball. Let me ask you a question." "Just ask." "Do you really think it's possible he didn't kill her? Didn't frame her or hire someone to kill her?" "I think it's possible." "why?" "First of all, he hired me. And that won't get him off the hook, because what are we going to convict him of? You've said there's no way we can convict him. You're going to put the case on hold and go to the Another case." "He doesn't necessarily know that." I will not talk about this for now. "Look at it another way," I suggested, "assuming I never called you." "When did you call?" "First call I made. Let's say you didn't know she was breaking up with her pimp." "If we don't get it from you, we'll get it elsewhere." "From where? King's dead, and Chance won't volunteer information. I'm sure no one else in the world knows." Except for Elaine, but I'm not going to involve her. "I don't think you'll know the information. Not right away, anyway." "So what?" "In that case, what do you think of the murder?" He didn't answer right away, looking down at his nearly empty wine glass, two vertical lines creased his forehead. "I see what you mean," he said. "How would you define this murder?" "Like we came to the conclusion before you called. What did the psychos do, you know? We're not allowed to call them that anymore. Order from above about a year ago. We can't call them psychos from now on. We have to call them EDP." "What is an EDP?" "Emotionally Disturbed Person. Some asshole on Central Avenue had nothing to do. The city is full of madmen, and our first concern is what to call them. We don't want to hurt their ego. No, I Think psychotic, modern day version of Jack the Ripper. Call up whore and chop her up." "What if it was a mental illness?" "You should be very clear. You hope you'll be lucky enough to get substantial evidence. In this case, fingerprints don't help much. It's a hotel room with people coming and going, and there are a million fuzzy fingerprints. You can't track it down." It would be nice to have a big bloody fingerprint, you know it must be the murderer, but we're out of luck." "Even if you're lucky—" "Even if we're lucky, only one fingerprint won't help. Unless you have a suspect on hand. You can't get Washington to be wanted all over the country with one fingerprint. They'll say you'll always collect enough evidence, but—" "They've been saying that for years." "Never. Even if it were possible, I'd have worked the remaining six years and retired to Arizona. If there's no real leads to follow, I think we'll have to wait for that lunatic to do it again. Do a few more cases with the same modus operandi, and he will always make mistakes, and you can catch him, compare him with some fingerprints of the Galaxy Hotel, and then close the case." He drank the wine dry: "Then he bargained, pleaded guilty to manslaughter, got out for up to three years, and continued to commit crimes, but I don't want to do it again. I swear to God that I never want to do it again." Next round is me please.At first he thought it unseemly to drink with the pimp's money, but the very drinks seemed to make him forget that.He's drunk, but you have to know how to see to tell.His eyes were glazed, and to match, his manners were dull.The way he talks is typical of drunks, like two drunks having a polite conversation when they're actually talking to themselves. If I drank as much as he did, I wouldn't have noticed any of this.But I was sober, and the wine worked together on him, and I felt the gap between us widen dramatically.I try my best to keep the conversation on Kim Duckinen, but I can't.He wanted to talk about all the evils of New York. "Do you know what the problem is?" He leaned forward and lowered his voice, as if we weren't the only customers in the bar at this moment, but it was just us and the bartender. "I'll tell you what's wrong. It's niggers." I said nothing. "And Latino bastards. Blacks and Latinos." Did I mention that the police also have blacks and Puerto Ricans.He immediately retorted. "Listen, don't tell me that," he said, "a guy I used to play with a long time ago, his name is Larry Haines, maybe you know him—" I do not recognize. — Stick School · E Book Group — "—he's a nice guy, I can put my life in his hands. Damn, I did put my life in his hands once. He's as black as coal, and I've never met a better man, inside or outside the police station. He's the better guy. But that has nothing to do with what I'm talking about." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, "Look," he said, "have you ever been on the subway?" "When you have to." "Well, shit, no one would take the subway if there were other options. The subway is a microcosm of the whole city. The equipment breaks down every now and then. The cars are full of dirty spray paint and smell like urine. There's nothing you can do about the crime there, but what I'm saying is, shit, I got on the subway and looked around, do you know where I've been? I'm in a fucking foreign country." "What's the meaning?" "I mean they are either black or Spanish. Or Oriental. We have many more Chinese immigrants now, and Koreans. Koreans are now outstanding citizens. They run excellent vegetable markets in the city. They work twenty hours a day and send kids to college, but it's all a conspiracy." "What conspiracy?" "Oh shit, that sounds so ignorant and bigoted, but I just can't stop thinking about it. It used to be a white city, and now I always feel like I'm the last white person here." There was a long silence. Then, he added: "They're smoking in the subway now. Did you notice that?" "I noticed." "It never happened in the past. Even if someone killed his parents with an axe, he would not dare to light a cigarette in the subway. Now, our middle class is also lighting a cigarette in the subway, and then puffing clouds. It is the last few months. thing. Do you know how it started?" "How did it start?" "Remember a year ago? A guy was smoking on the PATH subway, and a cop there told him to put it out, and the guy drew his gun and shot him dead? Remember?" "Remember." "That's where it started. Nobody, cop or civilian, would tell the guy across the aisle to put off his goddamn cigarette if you read that news. So, some people started smoking, nobody dared Control. Then more people started smoking, and even big crimes like burglary happened without wasting time to report, who would care about smoking in the subway? Law enforcement is not strict, and people no longer respect the law.” He frowned. "But think about that cop on the PATH subway. Would you want to die like him? Tell someone to put out their cigarette and bang, die." I found myself starting to tell him about Ludenko's mother, who was killed when her friend retrieved a TV she shouldn't have picked up. So we took turns telling horror stories.He mentioned a social worker who was tricked into going up to the top floor of an apartment building and was raped several times before being pushed down to his death. I remembered a news story about a fourteen-year-old boy who had been shot dead by another boy his age.They did not know each other and the killer claimed that the victim laughed at him. Durkin spoke of several child abuse deaths, as well as a man who smothered his girlfriend's baby girl because he was tired of having to pay babysitters every time he went to the movies with his girlfriend. I mentioned the woman in Grayson who was killed by a stray bullet while she was hanging her clothes in the closet. Our conversation was quite competitive. "The market thinks it has a solution. Death sentence, bring back the big black electric chair," he said. "Do you think this will work?" "Definitely, the public needs it. It has at least one effect you can't deny. Electrocute a bastard and you at least know he won't do it again. Shit, I'll vote for it. Get the electric chair out and TV the fuck The execution process, insert some advertisements, earn some money, hire more policemen. Do you want to know something?" "What's up?" "We have the death penalty, but it's not murderers, it's ordinary people. Ordinary people are more likely to be killed than murderers to go to the electric chair. We have five, six, seven executions a day." He raised his voice, and now the bartender is listening to our conversation.We've got him off his TV show. "I love the story about the TV blowing up," Durkin said. "I don't know how I missed that news. You feel like you've heard everything, but there's always something new, isn't it?" "I guess so." "There are eight million stories in this city alone," he drawled. "Do you remember that show? It was on TV a few years ago." "I remember." "Every time the show ends they say that line, 'There are eight million stories in this city. This is just one of them'." "I remember." "Eight million stories," he said, "do you know what's in this city, what's in the cesspool of the goddamn city? Eight million ways to die." I get him out of the bar.In the cool night air outside, he fell silent.We circled around two blocks and ended up at an intersection not far from the police station.His car is a Mercury, which is quite old.The corners are a bit bumpy.The letters on the front of the license plate clearly indicate that he is a policeman, the car is used to handle cases, and no ticket should be issued.Some seasoned thugs can also recognize it as a police car.I asked him if he could drive.He didn't like the question very much. He said, "Who are you, policeman?" Then, thinking of the absurdity of the statement, he laughed again.He balances on the open car door, rocking back and forth with laughter. "Who are you, policeman?" he said, giggling. "Who are you, policeman?" That emotion flashed like a fast shot in a movie.For a moment, he is serious and calm, his eyes squinted and his jaw cocked like a bulldog. "Listen," he said, in a low, stiff voice, "don't be so condescending, you understand?" I don't know what he was trying to say. "You pompous bastard. You're no better than me, you son of a bitch." He reversed the car and drove away.As far as I could see, he seemed to be driving just fine.I hope he doesn't have to drive too far.