emb.seethemdie-第5部分

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　The　low；　flat　steps　of　the　front　stoop　led　to　a　pair　of　glass…fronted　doors　which　were　open　now　to　permit　the　entrance　of　whatever　scant　breeze　rustled　across　Grover　Park。　The　breeze；　unfortunately；　did　not　get　very　much　further　than　the　entrance　doors。　It　certainly　did　not　pass　into　the　muster　room　where　Sergeant　Dave　Murchison　sat　behind　his　high　desk　pulling　at　his　undershorts　and　cursing　the　heat。　A　rotating　electric　fan　sat　on　top　of　the　switchboard　to　the　left　of　the　desk。　The　switchboard；　at　the　moment；　wasn't　blinking　with　calls　from　the　violated　citizenry；　thank　God。　Murchison　wiped　sweat　from　his　brow；　tugged　at　his　undershorts；　and　wondered　if　it　was　any　cooler　upstairs。
　A　long　wooden　plaque；　painted　white　and　then　overlaid　with　the　black　letters　DETECTIVE　DIVISION；　pointed　to　a　flight　of　narrow　iron…runged　steps　which　led　upstairs　to　the　bull　pen。　The　flight　of　steps；　gathering　heat　only　from　a　small　window　where　the　steps　turned　back　upon　themselves　before　continuing　to　the　second　floor；　was　perhaps　the　coolest　spot　in　the　station　house。　Beyond　the　steps；　a　long　corridor　led　to　the　detective　squadroom　where　a　battery　of　electric　fans　fought　valiantly　to　produce　some　semblance　of　a　breeze。　The　grilled　windows　at　the　far　end　of　the　squadroom　admitted　bright；　golden　sunlight　which　spread　across　the　wooden　floor　like　licking　flames。　The　men　in　the　squadroom　sat　in　shirt　sleeves　at　sun…drenched　desks。
　If　there　was　one　nice　thing　about　being　a　detective；　it　was　the　fact　that　a　gray　flannel　suit；　a　button…down　shirt；　and　a　neat　black　tie　were　not　requisites　of　the　job。　Detective　Steve　Carella　was　perhaps　the　only　detective　in　the　squadroom　on　that　Sunday　morning　in　July　who　looked　as　if　he　might　be　an　advertising　executive。　But　then；　Carella　always　looked　as　if　he　were　dressed　for　the　pages　of　Esquire。　Even　wearing　a　leather　jacket　and　dungarees；　he　managed　to　exude　the　scent　of　careful　grooming。　He　was　a　tall　man　whose　sinewy　body　gave　only　the　slightest　hint　of　the　power　he　possessed。　Unpadded；　slender　with　a　rawboned　simplicity；　he　seemed　built　to　flatter　whatever　clothes　were　heaped　onto　his　frame。　This　morning　he　was　wearing　a　blue　seersucker　suit；　the　jacket　of　which　was　draped　over　the　back　of　his　chair。　He　had　worn　a　bow　tie　to　work；　but　had　untied　it　the　moment　he　entered　the　squadroom　so　that　it　hung　loosely　about　his　neck　now；　his　shirt　unbuttoned；　his　head　bent　over　the　report　he　was　studying。
　The　other　cops　presented　a　slightly　less　sartorial　appearance。　Andy　Parker；　a　cop　who　would　have　looked　like　a　bum　even　when　dressed　for　his　own　funeral；　was　wearing　a　pair　of　tan　nylon　slacks　and　a　sports　shirt　which　had　surely　been　designed　in　honor　of　Hawaii's　having　achieved　statehood。　Hula　girls　swayed　their　hips　all　over　Parker's　shirt。　Surfboarders　flitted　over　his　huge　barrel　chest。　The　colors　on　the　shirt　exploded　like　Roman　candles。　Parker；　who　looked　unshaven　even　though　he　had　shaved　closely　before　reporting　to　the　squadroom；　pounded　at　a　typewriter　with　both　huge　hands；　using　his　fingers　like　fists。　The　typewriter　seemed　to　resist　each　successive　assault　wave；　a　machine　refusing　to　succumb　to　brute　force。　Parker　continued　to　smash　into　it　as　if　he　were　engaged　in　mortal　bat；　cursing　each　time　the　keys　locked；　slamming　the　carriage　over　whenever　he　reached　the　end　of　a　line　of　the　D。D。　report；　the　bell　clanging　savagely　in　protest。
　〃No　arrest；〃　he　muttered　savagely；　〃but　I　got　to　type　up　a　damn　report；　anyway。〃
　〃Be　glad　you're　alive；〃　Carella　said；　not　looking　up　from　the　sheet　in　his　hands。
　〃It'll　take　more　than　a　punk　like　Pepe　Miranda　to　put　the　blocks　to　me；　pal；〃　Parker　said。　He　continued　smashing　at　the　typewriter。
　〃You're　lucky；〃　Carella　said。　〃He　was　feeling　charitable。　He　had　your　gun；　and　he　had　everybody　else's　gun；　and　you're　just　damn　lucky　he　didn't　decide　to　kill　you　all。〃
　〃He　was　chicken；〃　Parker　said；　looking　up。　〃If　that　was　me　in　his　place；　I'd　have　blasted　every　cop　in　sight；　and　then　shot　a　few　passers…by　just　for　the　hell　of　it。　But　Miranda　was　chicken。　He　knows　the　jig's　up；　so　he　figured　he　wouldn't　add　anything　else　to　what　we　already　got　on　him。〃
　〃Maybe　he　liked　your　face；〃　Carella　said。　〃Maybe　he　figured　you　were　too　sweet　to　shoot。〃
　〃Yeah；〃　Parker　said；　and　he　ripped　the　D。D。　report　from　the　machine。　He　did　not　like　Carella。　He　could　still　remember　the　time　in　March　when　he　and　Carella　had　mixed　it　up　a　little　in　the　squadroom。　The　fight　had　ended　abruptly　because　Frankie　Hernandez　had　reminded　them　both　that　the　lieutenant　was　in　the　building。　But　Parker　didn't　like　unfinished　business。　And　maybe　Carella　had　forgotten　all　about　the　incident　…　though　he　doubted　it　…　but　Parker　had　not；　and　would　not　until　the　thing　was　resolved　finally；　one　way　or　another。　Thinking　back　to　that　March　day；　he　thought　it　odd　that　the　same　men　had　been　present　in　the　squadroom；　the　three　of　them；　and　that　Carella　had　taken　offense　at　a　chance　remark　made　to　Hernandez。　Why　the　hell　were　people　always　so　touchy？　He　dropped　the　report　on　his　desk　and　walked　to　the　water　cooler。
　Frankie　Hernandez；　the　third　man　who'd　been　there　on　that　March　day；　the　third　man　in　the　squadroom　on　this　day　in　July；　was　standing　at　one　of　the　filing　cabinets；　the　drawer　open。　He　wore　a　short…sleeved　white　shirt　and　dark…blue　trousers。　A　。38　police　special　protruded　from　the　holster　strapped　to　his　chest。　He　was　a　wide…shouldered　man　with　a　tan　plexion　and　straight；　black　hair。　His　eyes　were　brown；　the　eyes　of　man　who　expected　to　be　offended　and　who；　as　a　result；　was　constantly　prepared　for　the　eventuality。　It　was　not　easy　to　be　a　Puerto　Rican　cop　in　a　neighborhood　with　such　a　large　Puerto　Rican　population　…　especially　if　you　happened　to　have　been　born　and　raised　in　the　streets　of　the　precinct。　Whatever　battles　Hernandez　fought　with　his　neighbors；　the　police；　and　himself　were　reflected　in　his　eyes。　He　was　not　a　happy　man。　No　man　dedicated　to　a　single　cause　ever　is。
　〃What　do　you　think　of　your　pal　there？〃　Parker　asked　from　the　cooler。
　〃What　pal？〃　Hernandez　asked　〃Miranda。〃
　〃He's　no　pal　of　mine；〃　Hernandez　answered。
　〃I　thought　we　had　him　cold　yesterday；〃　Parker　said；　filling　a　paper　cup　and　drinking　from　it。　He　wiped　his　lips　with　the　back　of　his　hand。　〃Five　of　us　walked　into　that　apartment；　and　the　son　of　a　bitch　pulls　a　gun　from　someplace　up　his　sleeve　and　cold…cocks　us。　The　rotten　punk。　He　made　us　look　like　amateurs。　You　see　the　paper　today？　'Miranda　Foils　Cops。'　A　punk　getting　headlines。〃
　〃He's　still　no　pal　of　mine；〃　Hernandez　said。
　〃Yeah；〃　Parker　answered。　He　seemed　ready　to　say　more；　but　he　let　the　matter　drop。　〃Who　was　that　woman　up　here？〃　he　asked。
　〃Her　name's　Gomez；〃　Hernandez　answered。
　〃What'd　she　want？〃
　〃Her　son's　in　some　kind　of　trouble。　She　wants　me　to　talk　to　him。〃
　〃What　the　hell　does　she　think　you　are？　A　priest？〃
　Hernandez　shrugged。
　〃You　gonna　go？〃　Parker　asked。
　〃As　soon　as　I　finish　what　I'm　working　on。〃
　〃Maybe　you　are　a　priest。〃
　〃Maybe；〃　Hernandez　replied。
　Parker　walked　to　the　coat　rack　in　one　corner　of　the　room　and　took　a　dark…blue　Panama　from　one　of　the　pegs。　〃I'm　going　outside；〃　he　said；　〃see　if　I　can't　hear　something。〃
　〃About　what？〃　Carella　asked。
　〃About　that　punk　Miranda。　He　didn't　vanish　into　thin　air；　that's　for　sure。　So　where　would　you　go　if　you　was　him？〃
　〃To　Russia；〃　Carella　replied。
　〃Yeah。　Well；　I　think　he　came　back　here。　Right　here　someplace。　He　sure　as　hell　wouldn't　try　to　find　another　pad　in　Riverhead；　not　after　we　almost　collared　him　there。　So　where？　Home。　Home　to　the　87th。　And　if　he's　somewhere　around　here；　you　can　bet　your　ass　everybody　in　the　streets　knows　just　where。　So　Andy　Parker　goes　on　the　earie。〃　He　stopped　at　his　desk；　opened　the　top　drawer；　took　out　his　service　revolver　and　holster；　and　clipped　the　holster　into　his　right　hip　pocket。　〃Don't　work　too　hard；〃　he　said；　as　he　went　through　the　gate　in　the　railing。　〃Not　that　I　think　you　need　the　advice。〃
　His　footsteps　echoed　down　the　long　corridor。　Hernandez　watched　him　as　he　turned　to　go　down　the　flight　of　iron…runged　steps。　When　he　looked　back　into　the　squadroom；　he　saw　that　Carella　had　been　watching　the　other　man；　too。
　A　glance　passed　between　them。　N