dollar.â Arnold launched himself using the sword as a crutch. The sword left nips in his rug. He went to a prostitute next door. The pros worked the garment area and most of the West Side. She was beholden to Arnold. Before the squad commander flopped him, Arnold provided little amenities for her at the stationhouse whenever the plainclothesmen from Coenâs district came down on the girls. Through Arnold Coen could connect with any whore at the hotel. He listened for sword clunks in the hall. Arnold gave the dollar back to Coen.
âBetty says Times Square. She wonât take money from you. This Elmo parks outside the Port Authority. Heâs a tough customer. The nigger pimps give him plenty of space. He clips country girls right off the bus. You know, runaways up from the South. Black and white, eleven and over. Manfred, he wonât scare.â
âHeâll scare,â Coen said, getting off the couch. Arnold tilted the sword, pursuing Coen.
âIâm going with you. Manfred, you wonât be able to flake him without me.â
âIâll flake him. Did Betty say anything about his car? Is it a tan Imperial?â
âShe says Apollo. Buick Apollo in some muddy color.â
Coen pulled on his chin, a habit he picked up from his father, who would go for days without selling an egg. âI canât even make the pimpâs car.â
âManfred, what do you want with such a geek?â
âIâm doing favors for the police department.â
Coen stepped over Swiss-Up bottles in the hall. A few SROs whispered to him from their rooms. âHey man, whatâs happening?â They didnât need Spanish Arnold to tell them about Coen. They knew him from Schillerâs ping-pong club, which was located in the basement of the hotel. When they grew tired of staring at walls and drinking rotten wine off their windowsills, they went down to Schillerâs, where they could convene on a bench and watch ping-pong balls fly under soft lights. They were particularly fond of the hours. Schillerâs never closed. Schiller, a bearded gnome who lived in a tiny parlor behind his tables, scorned his fancier customers to sit with the SROs. He shared his pumpernickel bread. He baked vegetable pies for them. But he was a man of variable moods. And if the SROs hogged him too much or threw lumps of bread at the players, Schiller cleared the bench. Usually it took a week before the SROs forgave Schiller enough to sniff horseradish with him and eat his pumpernickel. They also hated the Spic. Schiller wouldnât chase Arnold out along with them. Arnold had the chair opposite the table reserved for Coen. They felt beneath him because of the handcuffs Arnold owned and because of Arnoldâs proximity to the Manhattan bulls. So they belched out Arnoldâs secrets. They mimicked his walk. The foot comes from inbreeding, they said. A father fucks his daughter, and Arnold arrives with stuck-together toes. How else do you find a mama whoâs only twelve years older than her boy? It was common knowledge that Arnoldâs father was a grave-digger in San Juan. The Spic, they liked to say, came from Rico with his sister-mother-aunt at five to help her career as a prostituta in nigger Harlem. The little scumbag painted his bad toes in Easter-egg colors and limped through Harlem bagging Johns for his mother. He had to be a mutt, no? Only a reject would suck up to a blue-eyed Yid.
Coen was tempted to stop off at the club (Schiller kept Coenâs bat, sneakers, towel, and trunks in a closet filled with shoes). If he entered Schillerâs he would spend the afternoon slapping balls and there would be little energy or enthusiasm left for the Port Authority pimps. So he flattened the crease in his trousers and hiked to Times Square. Coen was one of the last detectives in New York who didnât have a car. Occasionally he borrowed a green Ford from the homicide pool and chauffeured