Too Old a Cat (Trace 6) by Warren Murphy Page B

they’re going to be wondering what terrible mistake they made?”
    Razoni covered his eyes with both hands as Jackson slalomed his way through a busy intersection against a red light. When he heard no crash, he uncovered his eyes and said, “Serves them right. Anybody stupid enough to be a cop deserves misery in his life.”
    “You’re a cop,” Jackson said.
    “That’s right, and I’ve got you for a partner.”
    “That’s misery?”
    “That’s right. Misery. Who ever heard of a black detective? Who ever heard of a black who wasn’t a criminal? And here I get one who thinks that a guru’s a person who eats roses,” Razoni said.
    Jackson swerved around three pedestrians stepping from between parked cars. They were crossing the invisible dividing line into Alphabet City, a particularly degenerate sprawl outward from the eastern part of Greenwich Village.
    “Who drives like a maniac,” Razoni said.
    Jackson laughed and stepped hard on the gas.
    “And who’s arrogant.”
    Jackson drove faster.
    “And pushy.”
    Jackson skidded around a corner.
    “And arrogant.”
    “You already said arrogant,” Jackson said.
    “Did I say pushy?”
    “Yeah, you said pushy too.”
    “Shit,” Razoni said. “Drive slow and give me a chance to think of something else.”
    “Nobody drives that slow,” Jackson said. “We’re here.” He skidded the car into the curb in front of a fire hydrant and turned off the motor.
    “We’re where? The city dump?” asked Razoni as he lowered the window and gazed down the garbage-bedecked street.
    “The scene of the crime,” Jackson said.
    “I’ve got to go to the bathroom.”
    “They’ll have one inside.”
    “Why should they? When they’ve got the whole outdoors?”
    Two young uniformed policemen stood near a wooden barricade in front of the heavy planked door of one of a pair of matching long, low buildings. The building on the left seemed to be some kind of food market; the one on the right had old-fashioned glass store windows, but covered with heavy draperies. Jackson waved his badge at the two police officers as he and Razoni went into the second building, where a young man sat at a table just inside the door, dressed in a white robe.
    “Welcome to Salamanda Ashram,” he said.
    Razoni moved from side to side like a little boy trying to control his bladder by making it seasick.
    “Good afternoon,” said Jackson, moving up to the table, which was covered with a white cloth. The young man looked past him at Razoni, who stood rocking in place.
    “Is there anything wrong with your friend?” he asked pleasantly.
    “Just tell me where the men’s room is,” Razoni growled. “Emphasis on men.”
    The young man pointed to a door at the end of a small corridor. Razoni brushed past Jackson, whispering loudly, “Don’t give this twerp any money.”
    As Razoni vanished down the corridor, the young man at the table looked up expectantly at Jackson.
    “We’re here to see Mr. Gildersleeve,” Jackson said.
    “Brother Gildersleeve is busy inside with Sister Glorious. Your business is…?”
    “We’re detectives.”
    “You’re too late. Detectives have already been here. The press too.”
    “I know. We’re just following up a few things,” Jackson said.
    Razoni reappeared. “Hey, Tough,” he whispered. “This is a junk joint, I think.”
    “Why?”
    “There’s a whole bunch of guys in the men’s room and they’ve all got this retarded look on their faces. Like they’re on something.”
    “I think that’s called peace,” Jackson said. “Could you call Brother Gildersleeve?” he asked the young man.
    “Brother who?” Razoni said.
    “Brother Gildersleeve should be free any moment,” the young man said. “Please—”
     
     
    He was interrupted by a bustling sound behind him as double doors that led to a meeting room were pushed open. A small man wearing a conservative brown suit strutted through the door. He had slick black hair and the chesty walk