“I’m genuflecting,” Toomey said.

“Ah, I guess he’s not pushing it.” DiMaggio went back into the second bedroom. The lab men had left and someone else was in with the body, probably the M.E. Toomey went to the bottle.

“What’s his real first name?” I asked.

“Who, Joe?”

“Yes.”

“Joe.”

“Joe?”

“So there’s two of them. You know something makes it illegal?”

I let it pass, getting a new drink for myself. Toomey sat down in one of the sling chairs and scratched an ankle.

People wandered in and out. It was only 1:47 when they came for the body, which meant it was a quiet night at the morgue. Maybe the juvenile delinquents had declared a truce for Tuesdays. Fern’s door remained shut while they were getting the stretcher out.

DiMaggio was on the couch. “You see that bankbook in there?” he asked me.

“I didn’t dig around.”

He punched his tongue into his cheek. “Pretty queer. According to Miss Hoemer the girl was nineteen — came here after high school in Kansas City two years back. So first we get regular weekly deposits, checks, which would be a salary from somewhere—” He flipped pages in a notebook. “Yeah, here. Fifty-eight bucks and change. But then for the last eleven, twelve months the girl’d been putting away between one and three hundred a week—”

Toomey whistled. DiMaggio nodded and went on. “Spending a fair bit, but the income is regular enough — all deposits in cash, and never more than an even hundred at one time.” He grunted. “And no visible means whatsoever — at least none since Miss Hoerner met her. The girl claimed a relative was supporting her—”

“Uncle Aga Khan,” Toomey said.

DiMaggio looked from him to me. “The uptown chum?” I said. “This Connie?”

“There’s an address book, but nobody with the name. I think I’m ready to lay about eight to five she was on call.”

“Age nineteen,” Toomey said. “You suppose Vice Squad will have a make on the guy?”

“I want the other end of the odds on that one. Hell, there’s a high-class pimp working out of every other nightclub these days. But anyhow, one other thing. Like I say, all deposits are fairly consistent — and then two months ago there’s a fat one. July tenth. One thousand, eight hundred and fifty-two bills— again cash.”

“Daily double at Belmont,” Toomey said.

DiMaggio did not smile. “Miss Hoerner says she knows nothing about the uptown pitch — she’d rather read this Connie as a married cheater. There’s no lead to him — no letters, not even an uptown match folder. The girl was neat as a squirrel. Almost too neat, as if she had something to hide. And just incidentally we’ve got no family address either. We’ll have to contact Kansas City and see what they can file.”

He dropped the notebook into a side pocket of his jacket. After a minute he lifted his face toward me, squinting. “Ephraim Turk — a runt of a guy with a face like a sponge? A writer?”

“Close enough.”

“For Chrissakes, sure, that son of a bitch has a shoplifting record. Six, eight months ago — somebody had a party, reported some stones missing. One of those rich hens who thinks it’s quaint to let a pack of poets with greasy hands paw the draperies. We checked the guest list and this Turk’s background came out — he’d done a suspended on the coast someplace. San Francisco. We never did find the gems. Yeah, yeah, Turk left the party with friends and slept in someone else’s apartment. It gave him an out, since he didn’t have time or opportunity to get rid of the haul.”

“I remember,” Toomey said. “But didn’t we decide it was too big a job for him?”

“Swiping Miss Hoerner’s twenty-two wouldn’t be,” Di-Maggio said.

“I just thought of something,” I said.

DiMaggio raised his cardboard jaw an eighth of an inch.

“It doesn’t have to mean much,” I said. “Turk didn’t have his fight with the Welch girl until just recently. The gun was taken two weeks ago.”

DiMaggio traced his tongue across the tips of his teeth. “Okay, it’s a point. Still, we run him in the same time we run in these others. This Dana O’Dea, the girl Welch had the fight with at that party. And this Pete Peters — Peter J. Peters, Miss Hoerner says. Although well need the pregnancy report to bring him into it—”

“Me, I like the uptown bird,” Toomey said.

“I’ll let you fly up and find him for us,” DiMaggio said. He glanced toward Fern’s door, then puckered his lips.

“Hell,” I said.

“She has to be automatically suspect.”

“Me too,” I said.

“Okay, you too.” DiMaggio got to his feet. He fished around in his breast pocket and came up with a small white card. “You and Miss Hoerner can see the steno anytime — in the morning, if she doesn’t feel up to it now. Tell her, will you? Meanwhile, here — it’s got my home number on it. In case you just happen to be in some more bars and run into something before we wrap it up.”

I took the card. Only a rare cop would have one. It said:

Giovanni Boccaccio DiMaggio Detective Sergeant

Toomey laughed nasally, heading out.

Once, long ago, a girl had let me kiss her on a darkened stone stairway on a quiet street. Now she was letting me hold her hand, but she wasn’t the same girl, and my hand was any old hand. She would have held Iago’s, if he was the guy she happened to have to go to the station house with.

We had the statements to make. That sent us back past Vinnie’s and around a corner, then up a flight of worn concrete steps between two concrete pillars with green globes at their tops. And then we were in another country.

Cop Country. As bleak as picked bones, as dismal as the floor of the sea. DiMaggio had been and gone, and a young patrolman took down what we had to say in shorthand he had probably learned in hope of a promotion. He was no more than twenty-five, and a promotion was the only thing he would ever hope for in life. He had a face which had already seen everything twice, and had been bored the first time.

Cop Country. As cheerful as a leg in traction, as inviting as a secondhand toothbrush. Other cops came and went while we sat on a bench waiting to sign the typed copies. Cops with faces like wet gray sand, cops with eyes like whorls in hardened wax. One of them passed us carrying what might have been an undershirt. “He still bleeding?” I heard somebody ask him. “You need boots in the squad room,” he said.

Cop Country. It was pushing three o’clock when we got out. It hadn’t taken long. It had only seemed that way. It always will.

That corner of the Village was even more quiet than before. We had not spoken fifty words in an hour, but I stopped her when we came back past the Chevy. She was still wearing that work shirt, and there was a Band-Aid on her wrist.

“Listen — you don’t want to spend the night home alone. Is there some girl you can call? I’ll drop you anywhere you say.”

She stared at the pavement, animated by all the spontaneous gaiety of Joan of Arc on her way to the stake. “I don’t want to call anybody, Harry. Not to have to tell them about it, not tonight.”

“I know. Play it again, Sam.” I opened the door at the curb. “Come on,” I told her.

We got in. Halfway uptown she said, “Damn, oh damn,” and then nothing else. I lived on 68th and used a garage on Third, but there was an empty slot a few doors down from the apartment on the side which would be legal in the morning. I locked the car and we went up the one flight.

I had two and a half rooms. I’d gotten the place as a sublet five years before and the original tenant had never come back. He’d sold me the furniture by mail after a year, most of it battered and masculine, and then a girl named Cathy had added a few things in the ten months she’d used my name. Fern saw that. I’d turned on a Japanese lantern and she fingered its shade, not looking at me. “A woman bought this,” she said.