Ed McBain - Pusher

It was not a crime to be a drug addict, but things could be made tough for you if you possessed either drugs or instruments for using drugs, which possession was a crime.

The boy who'd made his buy in Grover Park had been caught holding a sixteenth of H, which had probably cost him something like five bucks. He was small fry. The bulls of the 87th were interested in the man who'd sold the stuff to him.

"What's your name?" Havilland asked the boy.

"Ernest," the boy answered. He was tall and thin, with a shock of blond hair that hung onto his forehead dejectedly now.

"Ernest what?"

"Ernest Hemingway."

Havilland looked at Carella and then turned back to the boy. "All right, champ," he said, "we'll try again. What's your name?"

"Ernest Hemingway."

"I got no time to waste with a wise punk!" Havilland shouted.

"What's the matter with you?" the boy said. "You asked me what my name was, and I—"

"If you don't want to be picking up your teeth in a minute, you'd better give me a straight answer. What's your name?"

"Ernest Hemingway. Listen, what's with—"

Havilland slapped the boy quickly and almost effortlessly. The boy's head rocked to one side, and Havilland drew his hand back for another blow.

"Lay off, Rog," Carella said. "That's his name. It's on his draft card."

"Ernest Hemingway?" Havilland asked incredulously.

"What's the matter with that?" Hemingway asked. "Listen, what's bugging you guys, anyway?"

"There's a fellow," Carella said. "A writer. His name is Ernest Hemingway, too."

"Yeah?" Hemingway said. He paused, then thoughtfully said, "I never heard of him. Can I sue him?"

"I doubt it," Carella said drily. "Who sold you that sixteenth?"

"Your writer friend," Hemingway answered, smirking.

"This is going to be cute," Havilland said. "I like them when they're cute. Kid, you are going to wish you were never born."

"Listen, kid," Carella said, "you're only making things tough for yourself. You can get thirty out of this or ninety, depending on how cooperative you are. You might even get a suspended sentence, who can tell?"

"You promising?"

"I can't make promises. It's up to the judge. But if he knows you helped us nail a pusher, he might be inclined toward leniency."

"Do I look like a stoolie?"

"No," Havilland answered. "Most stoolies are better looking than you."

"What was this lug before he turned cop?" Hemingway asked. "A television comic?"

Havilland smiled and then slapped Hemingway across the mouth.

"Put your hands away," Carella said.

"I don't have to take crap from a snotnose junkie. I don't have to—"

"Put your goddamn hands away!" Carella said, more loudly this time. "You feel like a workout, go down to the Headquarters gym."

"Listen, I—"

"How about it, kid?" Carella asked.

"Who the hell do you think you are, Carella?" Havilland wanted to know.

"Who the hell do you think you are, Havilland?" Carella said. "If you don't want to question this kid properly, then get the hell out. He's my prisoner."

"You'd think I broke his head or something," Havilland said petulantly.

"I don't want to give you the opportunity," Carella said. He turned back to Hemingway. "How about it, son?"

"Don't give me the 'son' routine, cop. I blab who pushed the junk, and I'll still go the limit."

"Maybe you'd like us to say we found you with a quarter instead of a sixteenth," Havilland suggested.

"You can't do that, big mouth," Hemingway said.

"We pulled in enough narcotics today to fill a steamboat," Havilland lied. "Who's to know what you were carrying?"

"You know it was a sixteenth," Hemingway said, weakening.

"Sure, but who else besides us knows it? You can get ten years for holding a quarter-ounce, pal. Slap onto that the intent to sell the junk to your pals outside."

"Who was trying to sell it? Jesus, I only bought it! And it was a sixteenth, not a quarter!"

"Yeah," Havilland said. "But it's a pity we're the only ones who know that, ain't it? Now, what's the pusher's name?"

Hemingway was silent, thinking.

"Possession of a quarter-ounce with intent to sell," Havilland said to Carella. "Let's wrap this up, Steve."

"Hey, wait a minute," Hemingway said. "You're not gonna railroad me like that, are you?"

"Why not?" Havilland said. "You're no relative of mine."

"Well, can't we…" Hemingway stopped. "Can't we…"

"The pusher," Carella said.

"A guy named Gonzo."

"Is that his first name or his last?"

"I don't know."

"How'd you contact him?"

"This was the first I heard of him," Hemingway said. "Today, I mean. The first time I ever copped from him."

"Yeah, sure," Havilland said.

"I snow you not," Hemingway answered. "I used to buy from another kid. The meet was in the park, near the lion house. I used to get from this other kid there. So today, I go to the meet, and there's this new character. He tells me his name is Gonzo, and he's got good junk. So, okay, I gambled on getting beat stuff. Then the law showed."

"What about the two kids in the back seat?"

"Skin poppers. You want to be smart, you'll throw them out. This whole business has scared them blue."

"This your first fall?" Carella asked.

"Yeah."

"How long have you been on the junk?"

"About eight years."

"Mainline?"

Hemingway looked up. "There's another way?" he asked.

"Gonzo, huh?" Havilland said.

"Yeah. Listen, you think I'll be able to get a fix soon? I mean, I'm beginning to feel a little sick, you dig me?"

"Mister," Havilland said, "consider yourself cured."

"Huh?"

"They don't meet near the lion house where you're going."

"I thought you said I might get a suspended sentence."

"You might. Do you expect us to keep you hopped up until then?"

"No, but I thought… Jesus, ain't there a doctor or something around?"

"Who'd you used to buy from?" Carella asked.

"What do you mean?"

"At the lion house. You said this Gonzo was new. Who pushed to you before?"

"Oh, Yeah, yeah. Listen, can't we talk a doctor into fixing me? You know, I mean, like I'll puke all over the floor or something."

"We'll give you a mop," Havilland said.

"Who was the other pusher?" Carella asked again.

Hemingway sighed wearily. "A kid named Annabelle."

"A broad?" Havilland asked.

"No, some spic kid. Annabelle. That's a spic name."

"Aníbal?" Carella asked, his scalp prickling.

"Yeah."

"Aníbal what?"

"Fernandez, Hernandez, Gomez? Who can tell with these spies? They all sound alike to me."

"Was it Aníbal Hernandez?"

"Yeah, I think so. Yeah, that sounds as good as any. Listen, can't I get a fix? I mean, I'll puke."

"Go ahead," Havilland said. "Puke."

Hemingway sighed heavily again, and then he frowned, and then he lifted his head and asked, "Is there really a writer named Ernest Hemingway?"

Chapter Seven

The lab report on the rope and the I.E. report on the fingerprints came in later that afternoon. There was only one piece of information in either of them that surprised Carella.

He was not surprised to learn that an analysis of the rope found around Hernandez' neck completely discounted the possibility of the boy having hanged himself. A rope, you see, has peculiar properties of its own, among which are the fibers of which it is constructed. Had Hernandez hanged himself, he undoubtedly would have first tied one end of the rope on the barred window, then tied the other end around his neck, and then leaned into the rope, cutting off his oxygen supply.

The fibers on the rope, however, were flattened in such a way as to indicate that the body had been pulled upwards . In short, the rope had first been affixed to Hernandez' neck, and then the loose end had been threaded through the bars and pulled upon until the body assumed its leaning position. The contact of the rope's fibers with the steel of the bar had given the fibers a telltale direction. Hernandez may have administered his own fatal dose of heroin, but he had certainly not strung himself to the barred window.