Ed McBain - Pusher

"There she is," Terry said, and Carella nodded.

Maria sat on a stool at the far end of the bar. She nodded hello to Terry, glanced at Carella quickly to ascertain whether or not he was a prospective client, and then fell to staring through the plate glass window at the street. Carella walked over to her.

"Miss Hernandez?" he said.

She swung the stool around. "Yes?" she said coyly. "I'm Maria."

"I'm a cop," Carella said, figuring he'd set her straight from go, before she wasted any effort.

"I don't know anything about why my brother killed himself," Maria said, all coyness gone now. "Any other questions?"

"A few. Shall we sit in a booth?"

"I like it here," Maria said.

"I don't. A booth or the station house. Take your choice."

"You get down to business, don't you?"

"I try."

Maria climbed off the stool. They walked together to a booth opposite the steam table. Maria took off her coat and then slid into the booth opposite Carella.

"I'm listening," she said.

"How long have you been on the junk?"

"What's that got to do with my brother?"

"How long?"

"About three years."

"Why'd you start him on it?"

"He asked to start."

"I don't believe you."

"Why should I lie to you? He came in the bathroom one night while I was shooting up. The little snot didn't even knock. He wanted to know what I was doing. I gave him a snort."

"And then?"

"He liked it. He wanted more. You know."

"I don't know. Tell me about it."

"He got on mainline a couple of weeks later. End of story."

"When did you start hustling?"

"Aw, listen…" Maria said.

"I can find out."

"A little while after I got a habit. I had to make money some way, didn't I?"

"I suppose so. Who supplies you?"

"Oh, come on, cop, you know better than that."

"Who supplied your brother?"

Maria was silent.

"Your brother is dead, do you know that?" Carella said harshly.

"I know it," Maria answered. "What do you want me to do? He always was a stupid little snotnose. If he wants to kill himself…"

"Maybe he didn't kill himself."

Maria blinked, seemingly surprised. "No?" she said cautiously.

"No. Now who supplied him?"

"What difference does it make?"

"Maybe a lot."

"I don't know anyway." She paused. "Listen," she said, "why don't you leave me alone. I know cops."

"Do you?"

"Yeah. You looking for something free, is that it? You figure on scaring me so I'll…"

"I'm not looking for anything but information about your brother," Carella said.

"Yeah, I'll bet."

"You'd win," Carella said.

Maria kept staring at him, frowning. "I know cops who…" she started.

"I know hookers with syphilis," Carella said flatly.

"Listen, you got no right to…"

"Then let's drop this whole goddamn routine," he snapped. "I want information, period."

"Okay," Maria said.

"Okay," Carella repeated.

"And I still don't know anything." Maria added.

"You said you started him."

"Sure."

"All right, then you probably made a contact for him after he was hooked. Now, who?"

"I didn't make any contact for him. He always went his own way."

"Maria…"

"What do you want from me?" she said, suddenly flaring. "I don't know anything about my brother. I even found out he was dead from a stranger. I haven't been inside my own house for a year, so how would I know who supplied him or who didn't supply him, or even if he was supplying himself and others besides?"

"Was he pushing?"

"I don't know nothing. I didn't know him anymore, can you understand that? If I saw him on the street, I wouldn't recognize him. That's how much I knew about my own brother."

"You're lying," Carella said.

"Why should I lie? Who's there to protect? He hung himself, so…"

"I told you once," Carella said. "Maybe he didn't hang himself."

"You're making a federal case out of a lousy junkie," Maria said. "Why knock yourself out?" Her eyes clouded momentarily. "He's better off dead, believe me."

"Is he?" Carella asked. The table was very silent. "You're holding something back, Maria. What is it?"

"Nothing."

"What do you know? What is it?"

"Nothing."

Their eyes met. Carella studied her eyes, and he knew what was in them, and he knew she would tell him nothing more. He had just stared into a pair of opaque hoods. Her eyes had closed her mouth. "All right," he said.

The coroner didn't like to deal with new people. That was the way he'd been raised. He hated new faces, and he didn't like to confide secrets to strangers. The coroner's secret was a big one, and Bert Kling was a stranger, and so the coroner studied his face and reluctantly dredged through the facts in his mind, wondering how much he should reveal.

"How come they sent you?" he asked. "Couldn't they wait for our official report? What's the big rush?"

"Carella asked me to check with you, Dr. Soames," Kling said. "I don't know why, but I suppose he wants to get moving on this thing, and he figured he didn't want to wait for the report."

"Well, I don't know why he couldn't wait for the report," Soames said. "Everybody else waits for the report. In all my years here, everybody's waited for the report. So why can't Carella wait?"

"I'd appreciate it if…"

"You people think you can just barge in and expect immediate results. You think we have nothing else to do? You know how many corpses we have in there waiting for examination?"

"How many?" Kling asked.

"Don't get factual with me," Soames advised. "I'm trying to tell you this is an imposition. If I weren't a gentleman and a doctor, I'd tell you this is a big pain in the ass."

"Well, I'm sorry to trouble you, really. But…"

"If you were really sorry, you wouldn't trouble me. Listen, don't you think I'd love to forget typing up the report? I type with two fingers, and no one on my staff can do any better. Do you know how understaffed I am here? Do you think I can afford to give each case the special attention you're asking for? We've got to process these things like an assembly line. Any break in the routine, and the whole shop goes to pieces. So why don't you wait for the report?"

"Because…"

"All right, all right, all right," Soames said testily. "All this fuss over a drug addict." He shook his head. "Does Carella think this was a suicide?"

"He's… I think he's waiting to hear from you people on it. That's why he…"

"Do you mean to tell me there's a doubt in his mind?"

"Well, from… from outward appearances… that is, he's not sure the boy was… was asphyxiated."

"And what do you think, Mr. Kling?"

"Me?"

"Yes." Soames smiled tightly. "You."

"I… I don't know what to think. This is the first time I… I ever saw anybody hanging."

"Are you familiar with strangulation?"

"No, sir," Kling said.

"Am I supposed to give you a course in medicine? Am I supposed to run a seminar for every uninvited, uninformed detective on the force?"

"No, sir," Kling said. "I didn't want…"

"We're not talking about a technical hanging now," Soames said. "We're not talking about hanging with a hangman's noose, where the bulky knot and the sudden drop break the neck. We're talking about death by strangulation, death by asphyxia. Do you know anything at all about asphyxia, Mr. Kling?"

"No, sir. Choking is something I…"

"We are not talking about choking, Mr. Kling," Soames said, gaining momentum, annoyed by strangers, equally annoyed by ignorance. "Choking, in police work, presupposes hands. It is impossible to choke yourself to death. We are now discussing asphyxia induced by pressure on the neck arteries and veins through the use of ropes, wires, towels handkerchiefs, suspenders, belts, garters, bandages, stockings, or what have you. In the case of Aníbal Hernandez, I understand the alleged means of strangulation was a rope."