the career of a fourth-rater into something notorious, and then there was some nonsense to the effect that the cops were keeping mum.

Mum?

“We’re on Calder,” I told him. “No other assignment until we nail him. Got that?”

“Sure.”

“I wanted it that way. I want to get Calder. I want to get him good.”

“I thought you said it was impossible.”

“It is.”

“Then—”

“You talk too much,” I said. I waited for him to get mad but he didn’t. He was hurt—it showed in his face, in the way he wouldn’t look at me. But he wouldn’t get mad. And this made me like him that much less. He never got mad at anything. He didn’t know how to hate.

I don’t like college cops. I don’t like people who are up to their ears in understanding and sympathy and sweetness and sunshine. I don’t like people who don’t know how to hate.

Maybe it’s just the way a person is. If I were Calder I would hate cops. I’m a cop. I hate Calder. I hate him because he breaks laws and shoots people. I hate him because he gets away with it. I hated Johnny Blue. He used to get away with things too. Now he was dead and Calder had killed him and I hated Calder.

I was going to get him.

“Look it over again,” I said, sliding Calder’s file over to Fischer again. “Skip the record. Look at the picture.”

Dark black hair. A flat face, not too bad-looking. Hard eyes, a long nose, a little scar on the chin. I don’t know how he got the scar. Maybe he cut himself shaving.

“You said we pick him up today. Were you kidding?”

“I don’t kid. I was serious.”

“They found evidence?”

“No.”

He looked at me. He was afraid to open his mouth. Gutless.

“We worry him a little. Don’t bother your head about it. Go get the car and meet me out front. And wear a gun.”

He didn’t say anything, just went off for the car. I checked my gun, then stuck it back in the holster. I picked up Calder’s file, and took a good long look at it. I let the face burn into my brain. I stood there for a minute or two and hated.

Then I went out to the car where Fischer was waiting.

The building was fancy. A uniformed doorman stood at attention out in front. I had to show him my shield before he let us inside. He was there to keep out undesirables. Unless they lived in the penthouse.

The carpet was deep in the lobby. The elevator rose in silence. I stood there and hated Calder.

He had the whole top floor. I got out of the elevator and took my gun out of its holster, wondering whether or not the doorman had called Calder yet. Probably.

I rang the bell.

“Yeah?”

A penthouse overlooking the park didn’t get Hell’s Kitchen out of his speech. Nothing would.

“Police.”

“Whattaya want?”

“Open the door and shut up.”

A few seconds later the door opened. He was short, five-six or five-seven. He was wearing a silk bathrobe and slippers that looked expensive. The apartment was well-furnished but for what he had paid he could have used an interior decorator. There was a shoddiness about the place. Maybe the shoddiness was Calder.

“Come on in,” he said. “You use a drink?”

I ignored him. “You’re under arrest,” I told him.

“What for?”

“Murder.”

“Yeah?” A wide smile. “Somebody got killed?”

“Johnny Blue.”

“I’m covered,” he said. No I’m innocent but I’m covered. “I was playing cards with some fellows.”

“Uh-huh.”

He shrugged heroically. “You want, we can go down to the station. My lawyer’ll have me out right away. I’m clean.”

“You’re never clean,” I said. “You were born filthy.”

The smile widened. But there was uncertainty behind it. I was getting to him.

“You’re cheap and rotten,” I said. “You’re a punk. You spend a fortune on cologne and it still doesn’t cover the smell.”

Now the smile was gone.

“Your sister sleeps with bums,” I said. “Your mother was the cheapest whore on the West Side. She died of syphilis.”

That did it. He was a few feet away—then he lowered his head and charged. I could have clubbed him with the gun. I didn’t.

I shot him.

He gave a yell like a wounded steer and fell to his knees. The bullet had taken him in the right shoulder. I guess it hurt. I hoped so.

“You shot him.” It was Fischer talking.

“Good thinking,” I told him. “You’re on the ball.”

“Now what?”

I shrugged. “We can take him in,” I suggested. “We can book him for resisting arrest and a