Westlake, Donald E - Novel 41 (26 page)

 
          
 
"His faith, you mean?"

 
          
 
"Oh, that, too.
Maurice was not a religious man. But even more than that, do you follow me? He
lost his belief.
In the goodness of man —in life.
Do
you understand me?"

 
          
 
"I think so." Levine watched Gold's
face carefully.
Stettin
had said that the brothers had worked
together in the buying and selling of stolen goods, but Abner Gold was trying
very hard to convince them of his own innocence. Levine wasn't sure yet whether
or not he could be convinced.

 
          
 
"The last time you saw him," he
said, "did he act nervous at all?
As though he was
expecting trouble?"

 
          
 
"Maurice always expected trouble. But I
do know what you mean. No, nothing
like
that, nothing
more than his usual pessimism."

 
          
 
"Do you yourself know of any enemies he
might have made?"

 
          
 
"Ever since I read the article in the
paper, I've been asking myself exactly that question. Did anyone hate my
brother enough to want to kill
him.
But I can think of
no one. You must understand
me,
I didn't know my
brother's associates. We —drifted apart."

 
          
 
"You didn't know any of his friends at
all?"

 
          
 
"I don't believe so, no."

 
          
 
"Not Sal Casetta?"

 
          
 
"An Italian?
No,
I don't know him." Gold glanced at
Stettin
, then leaned forward to say to Levine,
"Excuse me, do you mind? Could I speak to you alone for a moment?"

 
          
 
"Sure," said
Stettin
promptly. "I'll wait outside."

 
          
 
"Thank you. Thank you very much."
Gold beamed at
Stettin
until he left, then leaned toward Levine
again. "I can talk to you," he said. "Not in front of the other
policeman."

           
 
Levine frowned, but said nothing.

 
          
 
"Listen to me," said Gold. His eyes
were dark, and deepset. "Maurice was my brother. If anyone has the right
to say what I am going to say now it is me, the brother. Maurice is better
dead.
Better for everyone.
The poHce are shorthanded,
I know this. You have so much work; forget Maurice, No one wants vengeance.
Listen to me, I am his brother. Who has a better right to talk?"

 
          
 
You re talking to the wrong man, Levine
thought.
Stettin
's the one who thinks your way. But he kept
quiet, and waited.

 
          
 
Gold paused, his hands out as though in
offering, presenting his ideas to Levine. Then he lowered his hands and leaned
back and said, "You understand me. That's why I wanted to talk to you
alone. You are a policeman, sworn to uphold the law, this new law in this new
country. But I am speaking to you now from the old law. You follow me, Levine.
And if I say to you, I don't want vengeance for the slaying of my
brother,
I speak within a law that is older and
deeper."

 
          
 
"A law that says murder should be ignored
and forgotten? A law that says life doesn't matter? I never heard of it."

 
          
 
"Levine, you know what law I'm talking
about! I'm his brother, and
I "

 
          
 
"You're a fool, Gold, and that's the
damnedest bribe I've ever been offered."

 
          
 
"Bribe?"
Gold seemed shocked at the thought. "I didn't offer you
any
"

 
          
 
"What do I do to
belong.
Gold?
I send in the label from a package of Passover
candles, and then what do I get? I le^rn all about the secret handshake, and I
get the ring with the secret compartment, and I get the magic decodifier so we
can send each other messages others won't understand. Is that it?"

 
          
 
"You shouldn't mock
what
"

 
          
 
"Is there anything you wouldn't
use.
Gold?
Do you have respect for
anything at all?"

           
 
Gold looked away, his expression stony.
"I thought I could talk to you," he said. "I thought you would
understand."

 
          
 
"I do understand," Levine told him.
"Get on your feet."

 
          
 
"What?"

 
          
 
"You're coming back to the precinct to
answer some more questions."

 
          
 
"But —but I've told you — "Gold
started to say.

 
          
 
"You told me you didn't want your
brother's murderer found. After a while, you'll tell me why.
On
your feet."

 
          
 
"For God's sake, Levine
— "

 
          
 
"Get on your feet!"

 
          
 
It was a small room. The echoes of his shout
came back to his ears, and he suddenly realized he'd lost his temper despite
himself, and his left hand jerked automatically to his chest, pressing.there to
feel for the heartbeat. He had a skip, every eighth beat or so, and when he
allowed himself to get excited the skipping came closer together. That
irregularity of rhythm was the most pronounced symptom he had to support his
fear of heart trouble and it was never very far from his consciousness. He
pressed his hand to his chest now, feeling the thumping within, and the skip,
and counted from there to the next
skip.
. . seven.

 
          
 
He took a deep breath. Quietly he said,
"Come along, Gold. Don't make me call in the other policeman to carry
you."

 
          
 
Abraham Levine couldn't bring himself to grill
Gold personally after all; he was afraid he'd lose control. So he simply filled
Stettin
in on what had been said, and what he
wanted to know.
Stettin
took care of the questioning, with assists
from Andrews and Campbell, two of the other detectives now on duty, while
Levine left the precinct again, to find Sal Casetta.

 
          
 
Casetta lived in the New Utrecht section of
Brooklyn
, in a brick tenement on
79th Street
. It was a walk-up, and the bookmaker's apartment
was on the fourth floor. Levine climbed the stairs slowly, stopping to rest at
each landing. When he got to the fourth floor, he paused to catch his breath,
and light a cigarette before knocking on the door marked 14.

 
          
 
A woman answered —a short blowsy woman in a
loose sweater and a tight black skirt. She was barefooted, and her feet were
dirty, her toenails enameled a deep red. She looked challengingly at Levine.

 
          
 
Levine said, "I'm looking for Sal
Casetta."

 
          
 
"He ain't home."

 
          
 
"Where can I find him?"

 
          
 
"What do you want him for?"

 
          
 
"Police," said Levine. "I don't
want to talk to him about bookmaking. A friend of his was killed; maybe he
could help us."

 
          
 
"What makes you think he wants to help
you?"

 
          
 
"It was a friend of his that was killed."

 
          
 
"So what?
You
ain't a friend of his."

 
          
 
"If Sal was killed," Levine said,
"and I was looking for his murderer, would you help me?"

 
          
 
The woman grimaced, and shrugged uneasily.
"I told you he wasn't here," she said.

 
          
 
"Just tell me where I can find him."

 
          
 
She thought it over. She was chewing gum, and
her jaw moved continuously for a full minute. Finally, she shrugged again and
said, "Come on in. I'll go get him for you."

 
          
 
"Thank you."

 
          
 
She led the way into a small living room, with
soiled drapes at the windows, and not enough furniture. "Grab a seat any
place," she said. "Look out for roaches."

 
          
 
Levine thanked her again, and sat down
gingerly on an unpainted wooden chair.

 
          
 
"What was the name of the friend?"
she asked.

 
          
 
"Morry Gold."

 
          
 
"Oh, that bum." Her mouth twisted
around its wad of gum. "Why waste time on him?"

           
 
"Because he was killed," said
Levine.

 
          
 
"You want to make work for
yourself," she told him, "it's no skin off my nose. Wait here, I'll
be right back."

 
          
 
While he waited Levine's thoughts kept
reverting to Morry Gold. After about ten minutes, he heard the front door open,
and a few seconds later the woman came back accompanied by a short, heavyset
man with bushy black hair and rather shifty eyes.

 
          
 
He came in nodding his head jerkily, saying,
"
I read about it in the papers. I read about it this
morning."

 
          
 
"You're Sal Casetta?"

 
          
 
"Yeah, yeah, that's right, that's me.
You're a cop, huh?"

 
          
 
Levine showed his badge,
then
said, "You used to play cards with Morry Gold?"

 
          
 
"Yeah, sure, that's right.
Poker.
Quarter, half-dollar.
Friendly game, you know."

 
          
 
"Who were the other players?" Levine
asked.

 
          
 
"Well, uh —" Casetta glanced
nervously at the woman, and rubbed the back of his hand across his nose.
"Well, you know how it is. You don't feel right about giving out
names."

 
          
 
"Why? Do you think one of them killed
Gold?"

 
          
 
"Hey now —Listen. We're all friends.
Nothing like that.
I wouldn't want to bump Morry, and
neither would those guys. We're all buddies."

 
          
 
"Then give me their names."