the eight wonders of the world.”
“Why don’t you ask Miscolo?”
“Now how can I do that, Meyer? He takes pride in the cup of coffee he makes. Can I ask him how come his coffee is suddenly no good? How can I do that, Meyer?”
“I guess you can’t.”
“And I can’t go out to buy coffee or he’ll be offended. What should I do, Meyer?”
“Gee, Bob, I don’t know. It seems to me you’ve got a problem. Why don’t you try some occupational therapy?”
“Huh?”
“Why don’t you call up some of the witnesses to that holdup we had the other day and see if you can’t get something more out of them?”
“You think I’m goofing, you mean?”
“Did I say that, Bob?”
“I’m not goofing, Meyer,” O’Brien said. “I’ve just got a thirst for some coffee, and the thought of drinking Miscolo’s is making me sick.”
“Have a glass of water instead.”
“At nine-thirty in the morning?” O’Brien looked shocked. “Do you think we can call the desk and ask Murchison to sneak in some coffee from outside?”
The telephone on Meyer’s desk rang. He snatched it from the cradle and said, “87th Squad, Detective Meyer.”
“Meyer, this is Steve.”
“Hi, boy. Lonely for the place, huh? Can’t resist calling in even on your day off.”
“It’s your twinkling blue eyes I miss,” Carella said.
“Yeah, everybody’s charmed by my eyes. I thought your sister was getting married today.”
“She is.”
“So what can I do for you? Need a few bucks for a wedding present?”
“No. Meyer, would you take a look at the new schedule and see who’s on my team this week? I want to know who else is off today.”
“You need a fourth for bridge? Hold on a second.” He opened his top desk drawer and pulled out a clipboard to which a mimeographed sheet was attached. He studied the grid, his index finger running down the page:
“Oh, I pity these poor bastards,” Meyer said into the phone. “Having to work with a schnook like—”
“Come on, come on, who are they?” Carella asked.
“Kling and Hawes.”
“Have you got their home numbers handy?”
“Is there anything else you’d like, sir? Shoes shined? Pants pressed? Loan of my wife for the weekend?”
“Now that isn’t a bad idea,” Carella said, grinning.
“Hold on. You got a pencil to take this down?”
“Sarah’s number?”
“Leave Sarah out of this.”
“You were the one who brought her up.”
“Listen, horny, you want these numbers or not? We’re trying to run a tight little squad here.”
“Shoot,” Carella said, and Meyer gave him the numbers. “Thank you. Now there are a few more things I’d like you to do for me. First, will you see what you can get on a guy named Marty Sokolin. You may draw a blank because he’s a resident of California and we haven’t got time to check with the FBI. But give our own IB a buzz and see if he’s turned up here in the past few years. Most important, try to find out if he’s here now.”
“I thought this was your day off,” Meyer said wearily.
“A conscientious cop never has a day off,” Carella said conscientiously. “The last thing is this. Can you send a patrolman over to my house to pick up a note? I’d like the lab to look it over, and I’d like a report on it as soon as possible.”
“You think we’re running a private messenger service here?”
“Come on, Meyer, loosen the reins. I should be home in a half-hour or so. Try to get back to me on Sokolin before noon, will you?”
“I’ll try,” Meyer said. “What else do you do for diversion on your day off? Pistol practice?”
“Goodbye, Meyer,” Carella said. “I’ve got to call Bert and Cotton.”
Cotton Hawes was dead asleep when the telephone rang in his bachelor apartment. He heard it only vaguely and then as a distant tinkle. During World War II, he’d been the only man aboard his PT boat who’d earned the distinction of having slept through the bleatings of the alarm announcing General Quarters. He’d almost lost his Chief Torpedoman’s rating because of the incident. But the captain of the vessel was a lieutenant, JG, who’d been trained as a radar technician for the Navy’s Communications Division and who didn’t know torpedoes from toenails. He recognized, with some injury to his ego, that the man who really commanded the boat, the man who established rapport with the crew, the man who knew navigation and ballistics, was really Cotton Hawes and not himself. The JG (anachronistically called “The Old Man” by the crew, even though he