Nocturne [158-142-011-096-4.0]

By: Ed Mcbain

Category: fiction mystery

Synopsis:

Svetlana Helder's long, tragic life is over.  Concert pianist, refugee,
mother, she'd ended up being just another old lady living alone.  Now
she has been shot and the homicide detectives think she interrupted a
burglar.  Carella and Hawes disagree.

Elsewhere in the city, Yolande Marie Marx's short, tragic life is
nearly over.  Known on the street as Marie St.  Claire, she's been a
hooker and a crack addict for long enough to know better than to party
with more than one client.

The murderers are out there in the city, but not in the most obvious
places.  Carella and the other officers of the 87th Precinct won't make
their arrests until they have followed the weapons, the witnesses and
the dead ends through some surprising parts of the sleeping city.

This is McBain at his most compelling.  Unfolding his story entirely at
night, intertwining two tales in which almost everyone involved is
rotten, he weaves a virtuoso tapestry of murder, mayhem and
retribution.


Last printing: 04/05/02
`:-3,' "Ed McBain taught the American police procedural its best song and
dance steps... The stories behind these bluesy vignettes of one night's
life and sudden death in city can be sad, sordid, bizarre or
disgusting, but they are never not real.  "
Corporation.

First published in Great Britain in 1997 by Hodder and

Stoughton.  A division of Hodder Headline PLC.

The right of Ed McBain to be identified as the Author of the

Work has been-asserted by him in accordance with the

Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.  Compass Press Large Print
Book Series; an imprint of ISIS Publishing Ltd, Great Britain, and
Bolinda Press, Australia.

Published in Large Print in 1998 by ISIS Publishing Ltd,

7 Centremead, Osney Mead, Oxford, OX2 0ES, and

Australian Large Print Audio & Video Pty Ltd,

17 Mohr Street, Tullamarine, Victoria 3043, with the permission of
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd.

All rights reserved.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Australian Cataloguing in

British Library Cataloguil

Publication Data in Publication Data

McBain, Ed, 1926 McBain, Ed, 1926 Nocturne / Ed McBain.  Nocturne.
Large printed.

(Compass Press large print 87th Precinct (Imaginar book series), place)
Fiction

ISBN: 1-1101-863407855

2. Detective and mystery

1. Large print books, stories

2. Detective and mystery 3. Large type books stories, American.

I. Title

I. Title

813.5'4 IF]

813.54

ISBN 1-86340-785-5 (ALPAV Pty Ltd)

ISBN 0-7531-58402X (ISIS Publishing Ltd)

This is for

Rachel and Avrum BenAvi

The city in these pages is imaginary.

The people, the places are all fictitious.

Only the police routine is based on established investigatory
technique.

 The phone was ringing as Carella came into the squad room  The clock
on the wall read 11:45 P.M.

"I'm out of here," Parker.  said, shrugging into his overcoat.

Carella picked up.  "Eighty-seventh Squad," he said.

"Detective Carella."

And listened.

Hawes was coming into the squad room blowing on his hands.

"We're on our way," Carella said, and hung up the phone.  Hawes was
taking off his coat.  "Leave it on," Carella said.

The woman was lying just inside the door to her apartment.  She was
still wearing an out-of-fashion mink going orange.  Her hair was styled
in what used to be called finger waves.  Silver-blue hair.  Orangebrown
mink.  It was twelve degrees Fahrenheit out there in the street
tonight, but under the mink she was wearing only a flowered cotton
housedress.  Scuffed French-heeled-shoes on her feet.  Wrinkled hose.
Hearing aid in her right ear.  She must have been around eighty-five or
so.  Someone had shot her twice in the chest.  Someone had also shot
and killed her cat, a fat female tabby with a bullet hole in her chest
and blood in her matted fur.

The Homicide cops had got here first.  When Carella and Hawes walked
in, they were still speculating on what had happened.

"Keys on the floor there, must've nailed her the minute she come in the
apartment," Monoghan said.  "Unlocks the door, blooie," Monroe said.

It was chilly in the apartment; both men were still wearing their outer
clothing, black overcoats, black fedoras, black leather gloves.  In
this city, the appearance of Homicide Division detectives was mandatory
at the scene, even though the actual investigation fell to the
responding precinct detectives.  Monoghan and Monroe liked to think of
themselves as supervisory and advisory professionals, creative mentors
so to speak.  They felt black was a fitting color, or lack of color,
for professional Homicide Division mentors.  Like two stout giant
penguins, shoulders hunched, heads bent, they stood peering down at the
dead old woman on the worn carpet.  Carella and Hawes, coming into the
apartment, had to walk around them to avoid stepping on the corpse.

"Look who's here," Monoghan said, without looking up at them.

Carella and Hawes were freezing cold.  On a night like tonight, they
didn't feel they needed either advice or supervision, creative or
otherwise.  All they wanted to do was get on with the job.  The area
just inside the door smelled of whiskey.  This was the first thing both
cops registered.  The second was the broken bottle in the brown paper
bag, lying just out of reach of the old

woman's bony arthritic hand.  The curled fingers seemed
extraordinarily long.

"Been out partying?"  Monoghan asked them.

"We've been here twenty minutes already," Monroe said petulantly.

"Big party?"  Monoghan asked.

"Traffic," Hawes explained, and shrugged.

He was a tall, broad-shouldered man wearing a woolen tweed overcoat an
uncle had sent him from London this past Christmas.  It was now the
twentieth of January, Christmas long gone, the twenty-first just a
heartbeat away but time was of no consequence in the 87th Precinct.
Flecks of red in the coat's fabric looked like sparks that had fallen
from his hair onto the coat.  His face was red, too, from the cold
outside.  A streak of white hair over his left temple looked like glare
ice.  It was the color his fear had been when a burglar slashed him all
those years ago.  The emergency room doctor had shaved his hair to get
at the wound, and it had grown back white.  Women told him they found
it sexy.  He told them it was hard to comb.

"We figure she surprised a burglar," Monroe said.  "Bedroom window's
still open."  He gestured with his head.  "We didn't want to touch it
till the techs got here."

"They must be out partying, too," Monoghan said.

"Fire escape just outside the window," Monroe said, gesturing again.
"Way he got in."

"Everybody's out partying but us," Monoghan said.

"Old lady here was planning a little party, that's for sure," Monroe
said.

"Fifth of cheap booze in the bag," Monoghan said.

"Musta gone down while the liquor stores were still open."

"It's "Saturday, they'll be open half the night," Monroe said.

'Didn't want to take any chances."

"Well, she won't have to worry about taking chances anymore" Monroe
said.

"Who is she, do you know?"  Carella asked.

He had unbuttoned his overcoat, and he stood now in an: easy slouch,
his hands in his trouser pockets, looking down at the dead woman.  Only
his eyes betrayed that he was feeling any sort of pain, He was thinking
he should have asked Who was she?  Because someone had reduced her to
nothing but a corpse afloat on cheap whiskey.

"Didn't want to touch her till the M.E. got here," Monroe said.

Please, Carella thought, no par

"He's probably out partying, too," Monoghan said.  Midnight had come
and gone without fanfare.

But morning would feel like night for along while yet.

To no one's enormous surprise, the: medical examiner cited the apparent
cause of death as gunshot wounds.  This was even before one of the
crime scene techs discovered a pair of spent bullets embedded in the
door behind the old woman, and another one in the baseboard behind the
cat. They looked like they might be thirty-eights, but not even the
creative mentors were willing to guess.  The tech bagged them and
marked them for transport to the lab.  There were no latent
fingerprints on the windowsill, the sash, or the

fire escape outside.  No latent footprints, either.  To everyone's
great relief, the tech who'd been out there came back in and closed the
window behind him.

The coats came off.

The building superintendent told them the dead.  woman was Mrs. 
Helder. He said he thought she was Russian or something.  Or German, he
wasn't sure.  He said she'd been living there for almost three years. 
Very quiet person, never caused any trouble.  But he thought she drank
a little.

This was what was known as a one-bedroom apartment.  In this city, some
so-called one-bedrooms were really L-shaped studios, but this was a
genuine one-bedroom, albeit a tiny one.  The bedroom faced the street
side, which was unfortunate in that the din of automobile horns was
incessant and intolerable, even at this early hour of the morning. This
was not a particularly desirable section of the city or the precinct. 
Mrs.  Helder's building was on Lincoln Street, close to the River Harb
and the fish market that ran dockside, east to west, for four city
blocks.

The team had relieved at a quarter to twelve and would in turn be
relieved at seven forty-five A.M. In some American cities, police
departments had abandoned what was known as the graveyard shift.  This
was because detective work rarely required an immediate response except
in homicide cases, where any delay in the investigation afforded the
killer an invaluable edge.  In those cities, what they called
Headquarters, or Central, or Metro, or whatever, maintained homicide
hot lines that could rustle any

detective out of bed in a minute flat.  Not this city.  In this city,
whenever your name came up on the rotating schedule, you pulled a month
on what was accurately called the morning shift even though you worked
all through the empty hours of the night.  The graveyard shift, as it
was familiarly and un affectionately called, threw your internal clock
all out of whack, and also played havoc with your sex life.  It was now
five minutes past midnight.  In exactly seven hours and forty minutes,
the day shift would relieve and the detectives could go home to sleep.
Meanwhile, they were in a tiny one-bedroom apartment that stank of
booze and something they realized was cat piss.  The kitchen floor was
covered with fish bones and the remains of several fish heads.

"Why do you suppose he shot the cat?"  Monroe said.  "Maybe the cat was
barking," Monoghan suggested.

"They got books with cats in them solving murders," Monroe said.

"They got books with all tdnds of amateurs in them solving murders,"
Monoghan said.

Monroe looked at his watch.

"You got this under control here?"  he asked.

"Sure," Carella said.

"You need any advice or supervision, give us a ring."  "Meanwhile, keep
us informed."  "In triplicate," Monoghan said.

There was a double bed in the bedroom, covered with a quilt that looked
foreign in origin, and a dresser that " definitely was European, with
ornate pulls and painted drawings on the sides and top.  The dresser
drawers

were stacked with underwear and socks and hose and sweaters and
blouses.  In the top drawer, there was a painted candy tin with costume
jewelry in it.

There was a single closet in the bedroom, stuffed with clothes that
must have been stylish a good fifty years ago, but which now seemed
terribly out of date and, in most instances, tattered and frayed. There
was a faint whiff of must coming from the closet.  Must and old age. 
The old age of the clothes, the old age of the woman who'd once worn
them.  There was an ineffable sense of sadness in this place.

Silently, they went about their work.

In the living room, there was a floor lamp with a tasseled shade.

There were framed black-and-white photographs of strange people in
foreign places.

There was a sofa with ornately carved legs and worn cushions and fading
lace antimacassars.

There was a record player.  A shellacked 78 rpm record sat on the
turntable.  Carella bent over to look at the old red RCA Victor label
imprinted with the picture of the dog looking into the horn on an
old-fashioned phonograph player.  The label read:

Albums of 78s and 33 1/3s were stacked on the table beside the record
player.

Against one wall, there was an upright piano.  The keys were covered
with dust.  It was apparent that no one had played it for along while.
When they lifted the lid of the piano bench, they found the
scrapbook.

There are questions to be asked about scrapbooks.

Was the book created and maintained by the person who was its subject?
Or did a second party assemble it?

There was no clue as to who had laboriously and fastidiously collected
and pasted up the various clippings and assorted materials in the
book.

The first entry in the book was a program from Albert Hall in London,
where a twenty-three year-old Russian pianist named Svetlana Dyalovich
made her triumphant debut, playing Tchaikovsky's B-flat Minor Concerto
with Leonard Home conducting the London Philharmonic.  The assembled
reviews from the London Times, the Spectator and the Guardian were
ecstatic, alternately calling her a "great musician" and a "virtuoso,"
and praising, her "electrical temperament," her "capacity for animal
excitement" and "her physical genius for tremendous climax of sonority
and for lightning speed."

The reviewer from the Times summed it all up with, "The piano, in Miss
Dyalovich's hands, was a second orchestra, nearly as powerful and
certainly as eloquent as the first, and the music was spacious, superb,
rich enough in color and feeling, to have satisfied the composer
himself.  What is to be recorded here is the wildest welcome a pianist
has received in many

seasons in London, the appearance of a new pianistic talent which
cannot be ignored or minimized."

There followed a similarly triumphant concert at New York's Carnegie
Hall six months later, and then three concerts in Europe, one with the
La Scala Orchestra in Milan, another with the Orchestre Symphonique de
Paris and a third with the Concertgebouw Orchestra in Holland.  In
rapid succession, she gave ten recitals in Sweden, Norway and Denmark,
and then went on to play five more in Switzerland, ending the year with
concerts in Vienna, Budapest, Prague, Liege, Anvers, Brussels, and then
Paris again.  It was not surprising that in March of the following
year, the then twenty-four-year-old musical genius was honored with a
profile in Time magazine.  The cover photo of her showed a tall blond
woman in a black gown, seated at a grand piano, her long, slender
fingers resting on the keys, a confident smile on her face.  They kept
turning pages.

Year after year, review after review hailed her extraordinary
interpretive gifts.  The response was the same everywhere in the world.
Words like "breathtaking talent" and "heaven-storming octaves" and
"conquering technique" and "leonine sweep and power" became commonplace
in anything anyone ever wrote about her.  It was as if reviewers could
not find vocabulary rich enough to describe this phenomenal woman's
artistry.  When she was thirty-four, she married an Austrian impresario
named Franz Helder... "There it is," Hawes said.  "Mrs.  Helder."

"Yeah."

 .. and a year later gave birth to her only child, whom they named
Maria, after her husband's mother At the age of forty-three, when Maria
was eight, exactly twenty years after a young girl from Russia had
taken the town by storm, Svetlana returned to London to play a
commemorative concert at Albert Hall.  The critic for the London Times,
displaying a remarkable lack of British restraint, hailed the
performance as "a most fortunate occasion" and went on to call Svetlana
"this wild tornado unleashed from the Steppes

There followed a ten-year absence from recital halls "I am a very poor
traveler," she told journalists.  "I am afraid of flying, and I can't
sleep on trains.  And besides, my daughter is becoming a young woman,
and she needs more attention from me."  During this time, she devoted
herself exclusively to recording for RCA Victor, where she first put on
wax her debut concerto, the Tchaikovsky B-flat Minor, and next the
Brahms D Minor, one of her favorites.  She went on to interpret the
works of Mozart, Prokofieff, Schumann, Rachmaninoff, Beethoven, Liszt,
always paying strict attention to what the composer intended, an
artistic concern that promoted one admiring critic to write, "These
recordings reveal that Svetlana Dyalovich is first and foremost a
consummate musician, scrupulous to the nth degree of the directions of
the composer."

Shortly after her husband's death, Svetlana returned triumphantly to
the concert stage, shunning Carnegie Hall in favor of the venue of her
first success, Albert Hall in London.  Tickets to the single comeback

performance were sold out in an hour and a half.  Her daughter was
eighteen.  Svetlana was fifty-three.  To thunderous standing ovations,
she played the BachBusoni Toccata in C Major, Schumann's Fantasy in C,
Scriabin's Sonata No.  9 and a Chopin Mazurka, Etude and Ballade.  The
evening was a total triumph.  But then... Silence.

After that concert thirty years ago, there was nothing more in the
scrapbook.  It was as if this glittering, illustrious artist had simply
vanished from the face of the earth.

Until now.

When a woman the super knew as Mrs.  Helder lay dead on the floor of a
chilly apartment at half past midnight, on the coldest night this
year.

They closed the scrapbook.

The scenario proposed by Monoghan and Monroe sounded like a possible
one.  Woman goes down to buy herself a bottle of booze.  Burglar comes
in the window, thinking the apartment is empty.  Most apartments are
burglarized during the daytime, when it's reasonable to expect the
place will be empty.  But some "crib" burglars, as they're called" are
either desperate junkies or beginners, and they'll go in whenever the
mood strikes them, day or night, so long as they think they'll score.
Okay, figure the guy sees no lights burning, he jimmies open the window
though the techs hadn't found any jimmy marks goes in, is getting
accustomed to the dark and acquainted with the pad when he hears a key
sliding in

the keyway and the door opens and all at once the lights come on, and
there's this startled old broad standing there with a brown paper bag
in one hand and a pocketbook in the other.  He panics.  Shoots her
before she can scream.  Shoots the cat for good measure.  Man down the
hall hears the shots, starts yelling.  Super runs up, calls the police.
By then, the burglar's out the window and long gone.

"You gonna want this handbag?."  one of e techs asked.

Carella turned from where he and Hawes were going through the small desk
in the living room.  "Cause we're done with it," the tech said. Any
prints?"

"Just teeny ones.  Must be the vie's."

"What was in it?"

"Nothing.  It's empty."

"Empty?"

"Pew must've dumped the contents on the floor, grabbed whatever was in
it."

Carella thought this over for a moment.

"Shot her first, do you mean?  And then emptied the bag and scooped up
whatever was in it?"

"Well... yeah," the tech said.

This sounded ridiculous even to him.

"Why didn't he just run off with the bag itself?."

"

"Listen, they do funny hings.

"Yeah," Carella said.

He was wondering if there'd been money in that bag when the lady went
downstairs to buy her booze.

"Let me see it," he said

The tech handed him the bag.  Carella peered into it, and then turned
it upside down.  Nothing fell out of it.

He peered into it again.  Nothing.

"Steve?"

Cotton Hawes, calling from the desk.

"A wallet," he said, holding it up.

In the wallet, there was a Visa card with a photo ID of the woman
called Svetlana Helder in its left-hand corner.

There was also a hundred dollars in tens, fives and singles.

Carella wondered if she had a charge account at the local liquor
store.

They were coming out into the hallway when a woman standing just
outside the apartment down the hall said, "Excuse me?"

Hawes looked her over.

Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, he figured, slender dark-haired woman with
somewhat exotic features spelling Middle Eastern or at least
Mediterranean.  Very dark brown eyes.  No makeup, no nail polish.  She
was clutching a woolen shawl around her.  Bathrobe under it.  Red
plaid, lambskin-lined bedroom slippers on her feet.  It was slightly
warmer here in the hallway than it was outside in the street.  But only
slightly.  Most buildings in this city, the heat went off around
midnight.  It was now a quarter to one.

"Are you the detectives?"  she asked.

"Yes," Carella said.

"I'm her neighbor" the woman said.

They waited.

"Karen Todd," she said.

"Detective Carella.  My partner, Detective Hawes.  How do you do?"

Neither of the detectives offered his hand.  Not because they were male
chauvinists, but only because cops rarely shook hands with so-called
civilians.  Same way cops didn't carry umbrellas.  See a guy with his
hands in his pockets, standing on a street corner in the pouring rain,
six to five he was an undercover cop.

"I was out," Karen said.  "The super told me somebody killed her."

"Yes, that's right," Carella said, and watched her eyes.  Nothing
flickered there.  She nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Why would anyone want to hurt her?"  she said.  "Such a gentle
soul."

"How well did you know her?"  Hawes asked.  "Just to talk to.  She used
to be a famous piano player, did you know that?  Svetlana Dyalovich.
That was the name she played under."

Piano player, Hawes thought.  A superb artist who had made the cover of
Time magazine.  A piano player.

"Her hands all gnarled," Karen said, and shook her head.

The detectives looked at her.

"The arthritis.  She told me she was in constant pain.  Have you
noticed how you can never open bottles that have pain relievers in
them? That's because America is full of loonies who are trying to hurt
people.  Who would want to hurt her?"  she asked again, shaking her
head.  "She was in so much pain already.  The arthritis.
Osteoarthritis, in fact, is what her doctor called it.  I

went with her once.  To her doctor.  He told me he was switching her
to Voltaren because the Naprosyn wasn't working anymore.  He kept
increasing the doses, it was really so sad."

"How long did you know her?"  Carella asked.  Another way of asking How
well did you know her?  He didn't for a moment believe Karen Todd had
anything at all to do with the murder of the old woman next door, but
his mama once told him everyone's a suspect till his story checks out.
Or her story.  Although the world's politically correct morons would
have it "Everyone's a suspect until their story checks out."  Which was
worse than tampering with the jars and bottles on supermarket shelves
and ungrammatical besides.

"I met her when I moved in," Karen said.

"When was that?"

"A year ago October.  The fifteenth, in fact."

Birth date of great men, Hawes thought, but did not say.

"I've been here more than a year now.  Fourteen months, in fact.  She
brought me a housewarming gift.  A loaf of bread and a box of salt.
That's supposed to bring good luck.  She was from Russia, you know.
They used to have the old traditions over there.  We don't have any
traditions anymore in America."

Wrong, Carella thought.  Murder has become a tradition here.

"She was a big star over there," Karen said.  "Well, here, too, in
fact."

Bad verbal tic, Hawes thought.

"She used to tell me stories of how she played for royalty all over
the world, in fact, She had a lot of memories."

"When did she tell you these stories?"

"Oh, in the afternoons.  We had tea together every now and then."

"In her apartment?"

"Yes.  It was another tradition.  Tea time.  She had a lovely tea set.
I had to pour because of her hands.  We used to sit and listen to
records she'd made when she was famous.  And sip tea in the late
afternoon.  It reminded me of T. S. Eliot somehow."

Me, too, Hawes thought, but again did not say.

"So when you said you knew her just to talk to," Carella said, "you were
including these visits to her apartment..."

"Oh, yes."

"... when you listened to music together."

"Yes.  Well, my apartment, too.  Some nights, I invited her in.  We had
little dinner parties together.  She was alone and lonely and.."  well,
I didn't want her to start drinking too early.  She tended to drink
more heavily at night."

"By heavily... ?"

"Well ... she started drinking as soon as she woke up in the morning,
in fact.  But at night.."  well.."  she sometimes drank herself into a
stupor."

"How do you know that?"  Hawes asked.

"She told me.  She was very frank with me.  She knew she had a
problem."

"Was she doing anything about it?"

"She was eighty-three years old.  What could she do about it?  The
arthritis was bad enough.  But she wore a hearing aid, you know.  And
lately, she began hearing ringing in her head, and hissing, like a
kettle, you know?  And sometimes a roaring sound, like heavy machinery?
It was really awful.  She told me her ear doctor wanted to send her to
a neurologist for testing, but she was afraid to go."

"When was this?"  Hawes asked.

"Before Thanksgiving.  It was really so sad."  "These afternoon teas,"
Carella said, "these little dinner parties.."  was anyone else at them?
Besides you and Miss Dyalovich?"

Somehow he liked that better than Mrs.  Helder.  Cover of Time
magazine, he was thinking.  You shouldn't end up as Mrs.  Helder.

"No, just the two of us.  In fact, I don't think she had any other
friends.  She told me once that all the people she'd known when she was
young and famous were dead now.  All she had was me, I guess.  And the
cat.  She was very close to poor Irina.  What's going to happen to her
now?  Will she go to an animal shelter?"  "Miss, he killed the cat,
too," Hawes said.

"Oh dear.  Oh dear," Karen said, and was silent for a moment.  "She
used to go out early every morning to buy fresh fish for her, can you
imagine?  No matter how cold it was, arthritic old lady.  Irina loved
fish."

Her brown eyes suddenly welled with tears.  Hawes wanted to take her in
his arms and comfort her.  Instead, he said, "Did she have any living
relatives?"

People to inform, Carella thought.  He almost sighed.

"A married daughter in London."  "Do you know her name?"  "No."

"Anyone here in this country?"

"I think a granddaughter someplace in the city."  "Ever meet her?"
"No."

"Would you know her name?"

"No, I'm sorry."

"Did Miss Dyalovich ever mention any threatening phone calls or
letters?"

"NO."

Run her through the drill, Carella was thinking.

"Had she ever seen anyone lurking around the building ... ?"

"No."

"Following her... ?"

"No."

"Do you know of any enemies she may have had?"  "No."

"Anyone with whom she may have had a continuing dispute?"

"No."

"Anyone she may have quarreled with?"

"NO o o o"

"Even anyone on unfriendly terms with her?"

"NO "

"Did she owe anyone money?"

"I doubt it."

"Did anyone owe her money?"

"She was an old woman living on welfare.  What money did she have to
lend?"

 Toast of six continents, Hawes thought.  Ends up living on welfare in
a shithole on Lincoln.  Sipping tea and whiskey in the late afternoon.
Listening to her own old 78s.  Her hands all gnarled.

"This granddaughter," he said.  "Did you ever see her?"

"No, I never met her.  I told you."

"What I'm asking is did you ever see her?  Coming out of the apartment
next door.  Or in the hall.  Did she ever come here to visit, is what
I'm asking?"

"Oh.  No.  I don't think they got along."

"Then there was someone on unfriendly terms with her," Carella said.

"Yes, but family," Karen said, shrugging it off.

"Was it Miss Dyalovich who told you they didn't get along?"

"Yes."

"When was thisT"

"Oh, two or three months ago."

"Came up out of the blue, did it?"

"No, she was lamenting the fact that her only daughter lived so far
away, in London..."

"How'd that lead to the granddaughterT"

"Well, she said if only she and Priscilla could get

along..."

"Is that her name?"  Hawes asked at once.  "The granddaughter?"

"Oh.  Yes.  I'm sorry, I didn't remember it until it popped out of my
mouth."  "Priscilla what?"  "I don't know."

"Maybe it'll come to you."

"No, I don't think I ever knew it."

"The obit will tell us," Carella said.  "Later this morning."

It was now exactly one A.M.

The man who owned the liquor store told them Saturdays were his biggest
nights.  Made more in the hour before closing on Saturday nights than
he did the rest of the entire year.  Only thing bigger was New Year's
Eve, he told them.  Even bigger than that was when New Year's Eve fell
on a Saturday night.  Couldn't beat it.

"Biggest night of the year," he said.  "I could stay open all night New
Year's Eve and sell everything in the store."

This was already Sunday, but it still felt like Saturday night to the
guy who owned the store.  It must have still felt like Christmas, too,
even though it was already the twenty-first of January.  A little
Christmas tree blinked green and red in the front window.  Little
cardboard cutouts, hanging across the ceiling, endlessly repeated HAPPY
HOLIDAYS.  Gift-packaged bottles of booze sat on countertops and
tables.

The store owner's name was Martin Keely.  He was maybe sixty-eight,
sixty-nine, in there, a short stout man with a drunkard's nose and wide
suspenders to match it.  He kept interrupting their conversation, such
as it was, to make yet another sale.  This hour of the night, he was
selling mostly cheap wine to panhandlers who straggled in with their
day's take.  This became a different city after midnight.  You saw
different people in the streets and on the sidewalks.  In

the bars and clubs that were open.  In the subways and the taxicabs.
An entirely different city with entirely different people in it.

One of them had killed Svetlana Dyalovich.

"What time did she come in here, would you remember?"  Hawes asked.

"Around eleven o'clock."

Which more or less tied in.  Man down the hall said he heard the shots
at about eleven-twenty.  Super called

911 five minutes after that.  "What'd she buy?"  "Bottle of Four
Roses."

Exactly the brand that had dropped to the floor when someone shot
her.

"How much did it cost?"

"Eight dollars and ninety-nine cents."  "How'd she pay for it?" 
"Cash." "Exact?"

"What do you mean?"

"Did she hand you exactly eight dollars and ninety-nine cents."

"No, she handed me a ten-dollar bill.  I gave her change."

"Where'd she put the change?"

"In this little purse she was carrying.  Took a ten out of the purse,
handed it to me.  Gave her one dollar and one cent in change.  Put that
in the purse."  "The dollar was in change, too?"  "No, the dollar was a
bill."

"And you say she put the change in her handbag?"

"No, she put it in this purse  A little purse.  A change purse.  With
the little snaps on top you click open with your thumb and forefinger.
A purse, you know?"  he said, seeming to become inappropriately
agitated.  "You know what a purse is?  A purse ain't a handbag.  A
purse is a purse.  Doesn't anybody in this city speak English
anymore?"

"Where'd she put this purse?"  Carella asked calmly.  "In her coat
pocket."

"The pocket of the mink," he said, nodding.

"No, she wasn't wearing a mink.  She was wearing a cloth coat."

The detectives looked at him.

"Are you sure about that?"  Hawes asked.  "Positive.  Ratty blue cloth
coat.  Scarf on her head.  Silk, I think.  Whatever.  Pretty.  But it
had seen better days."

"Cloth coat and a silk scarf," Carella said.

"Yeah."

"You're saying that when she came in here at eleven o'clock last
night..."

"No, I'm not saying that at all."

"You're not saying she was wearing a cloth coat and a silk scarf?."

"I'm not saying she came in at eleven last night."

"If it wasn't eleven, what time was it?"

"Oh, it was eleven, all right.  But it was eleven yesterday morning."

They found the change purse in the pocket of a blue cloth coat hanging
in, the bedroom closet.

There was a dollar and a penny in it.

 In the year 1909, There used to be forty-four morning newspapers in
this city.  By 1929, that figure had dropped to thirty.  Three years
later, due to technological advances, competition for circulation,
standardization of the product, managerial faults, and, by the way, the
Great Depression, this number was reduced to a mere three.  Now there
were but two.

Since there was a killer out there, the detectives didn't want to wait
till four, five A.M."  when both papers would hit the newsstands.  Nor
did they think a call to the morning tabloid would be fruitful, mainly
because they didn't think it would run an obit on a concert pianist,
however famous she once may have been.  It later turned out they were
wrong; the tabloid played the story up big, but only because Svetlana
had been living in obscurity and poverty after three decades of
celebrity, and her granddaughter but that was another story.

Hawes spoke on the phone to the obituary editor at the so-called
quality paper, a most cooperative man who was ready to read the full
obit to him until Hawes assured him that all he wanted were the names
of Miss Dyalovich's surviving kin.  The editor skipped to the last
paragraph, which noted that Svetlana was survived by a daughter, Maria
Stetson, who lived in London, and a granddaughter, Priscilla Stetson,
who lived right here in the big bad city.

"You know who she is, don't you?"  the editor asked.  Hawes thought he
meant Svetlana.  "Yes, of course," he said.

"We couldn't mention it in the obit because that's supposed to be
exclusively about the deceased."  "I'm not following you," Hawes
said.

"The granddaughter.  She's Priscilla Stetson.  The singer."

"Oh?  What kind of singing does she do?"  "Supper club.  Piano bar.
Cabaret.  Like that."

"You wouldn't know where, would you?"  Hawes asked.

In this city, many of the homeless sleep by day and roam by night.
Nighttime is dangerous for them; there are predators out there and a
cardboard box offers scant protection against someone intent on robbery
or rape.  So they wander the streets like shapeless wraiths, adding a
stygian dimension to the nocturnal landscape.

The streetlamps are on.  Traffic lights blink their intermittent reds,
yellows and greens into the empty hours of the night, but the city
seems dark.  Here and there, a bathroom light snaps on.  In the
otherwise blank face of an apartment building, a lamp burns steadily in
the bedroom of an insomniac.  The commercial buildings are all ablaze
with illumination, but the only people in them are the office cleaners,
readying the spaces for the workday that will begin at nine Monday
morning.  Tonight it still feels like night even though the morning is
already an hour and a half old the cables on the bridges that span the
city's river are festooned with bright lights that reflect in the

black waters below.  Yet all seems so dark, perhaps because it is so
empty.

At one-thirty in the morning the theater crowd has been home and in bed
for along time, and many of the hotel bars have been closed for a half
hour already.  The clubs and discos will be open till four A.M."  the
outside legal limit for serving alcoholic beverages, at which time the'
delis and diners will begin serving breakfast.  The underground clubs
will grind on till six in the morning.  But for now and for the most
part, the city is as still as any tomb.

Steam hisses up from sewer lids.

Yellow cabs streak like whispered lightning through deserted streets.

A black-and-white photograph of Priscilla Stetson was on an easel
outside the entrance to the Cafe Mouton at the Hotel Powell.  Like an
identifying shot in a home movie, the script lettering above the photo
read Mrs.  Priscilla Stetson.  Below the photo, the same script
lettering announced:

Now Appearing

9:00 P.M. - 2:00 A.M.

The woman in the photo could have been Svetlana Dyalovich on the cover
of Time magazine.  The same flaxen hair falling straight to her
shoulders and cut in bangs on her forehead.  The same pale eyes.  The
same high Slavic cheekbones.  The same imperial nose and confident
smile.

The woman sitting at the piano was perhaps thirty years old, dressed
in along black gown with a risky decolletage.  A creamy white expanse
of flesh from bosom to neck was interrupted at the throat by a silver
choker studded with black and white stones.  She was singing "Gently,
Sweetly" when the detectives came in and took stools at the bar.  There
were perhaps two dozen people sitting at tables scattered around the
smallish candlelit room.  It was twenty minutes to two in the
morning.

Here with a kiss

In the mist on the shore Sip from my lips And whisper

I adore you... Gently, Sweetly,

Ever so completely, Take me, Make me Yours.

Priscilla Stetson struck the final chord of the song, bent her head,
and looked reverently at her hands spread on the keys.  There was a
spatter of warm applause.  "Thank you," she whispered into the piano
mike.  "Thank you very much."  Raising her head, tossing the long blond
hair.  "I'll be taking a short break before the last set, so if you'd
like to order anything before closing, now's your chance."  A wide
smile, a wink.  She played a lithe signature riff, rose, and was
walking toward a table where two burly men

sat alone, when the detectives came off their stools to intercept
her.

"Miss Stetson?"  Carella said.

She turned, smiling, the performer ready to greet an admirer.  In
high-heeled pumps, she was perhaps five-eight, five-nine.  Her
blue-grey eyes were almost level with his.

"Detective Carella," he said.  "This is my partner,

Detective Hawes."

"Yes?"

"Miss Stetson," he said.  "I'm sorry to have to tell you this,
but..."

"My grandmother," she said at once, looking certain rather than
alarmed.

"Yes.  I'm sorry.  She's dead."

She nodded.

"What happened?"  she asked.  "Did she fall in the bathtub again?"

"No, she was shot."  "Shot?  My grandmother?"  "I'm sorry," Carella
said.

"Jesus, shot," Priscilla said.  "Why would... ?"  She shook her head
again.  "Well, this city," she said.  "Where'd it happen?  On the
street someplace?"

"No.  In her apartment.  It may have been a burglar."  Or maybe not,
Hawes thought, but said nothing, just allowed Carella to continue
carrying the ball.  This was the hardest part of police work, informing
the relatives of a victim that something terrible had happened.  Carella
was doing a fine job, thanks, no sense g him.  Not at a quarter to two
in the when the whole damn world was asleep.

"Was she drunk?"  Priscilla asked.

Flat out.

"There hasn't been an autopsy yet," Carella said.  "She was probably
drunk," Priscilla said.

"We'll let you know," Carella said.  It came out more harshly than he'd
intended.  Or maybe it came out exactly as he'd intended.  "Miss
Stetson," he said, "if this is what it looks like, a burglar surprised
during the commission of a felony, then we're looking for a needle in a
haystack.  Because it would've been a random thing, you see."

"Yes."

"On the other hand, if this is someone who wanted your grandmother
dead, who came into the apartment with the express purpose of killing
her..."

"Nobody wanted her dead," Priscilla said.

"How do you know that?"

"She was already dead.  No one even knew she existed.  Why would anyone
go to the trouble of shooting her?"

"But someone did, you see."

"A burglar then.  As you said."

"The problem with that is nothing was stolen."  "What was there to
steal?"  "You tell us."  "What do you mean?

"There didn't seem to be anything of value in the apartment but was
there?  Before he broke in?"

"Like what?  The Imperial Czar's crown jewels?  My grandmother didn't
have a pot to piss in.  Whatever she got from welfare, she spent on
booze.  She was drunk morning, noon and night.  She was a pathetic,
whining

old bitch, a has-been with nothing of value but her memories.  I hated
her."

But tell us how you really feel, Carella thought.

He didn't much like this young woman with her inherited good looks and
her acquired big-city, wise ass manner.  He would just as soon not be
here talking to her, but he didn't like burglaries that turned into
murders, especially if maybe they weren't burglaries in the first
place.  So even if it meant pulling teeth, he was going to learn
something about her grandmother, anything about her grandmother that
might put this thing to rest one way or another.  If someone had wanted
her dead, fine, they'd go looking for that someone till hell froze
over.  If not, they'd go back to the squad room and wait until a month
from now, a year from now, five years from now, when some junkie
burglar got arrested and confessed to having killed an old lady back
when you and I were young, Maggie.  Meanwhile... "Anyone else feel the
way you do?"  he asked.  "How do you mean?"  "You said you hated
her."

"Oh, what?  Did I kill her?  Come on.  Please."  "You okay, Priss?"

Carella turned at once, startled.  The man standing at his elbow was one
of the two Priscilla had been heading to join when they'd intercepted
her.  Even before he noticed the gun in a holster under the man's
arm

Carella would have tapped him for either a or a mobster.  Or maybe both.
Some and weighing in at a possible two-twenty, he advanced on the
balls  of his feet, hands dangling

half-clenched at his sides, a pose that warned Carella he could take
him out in a minute if he had to.  Carella believed it.

"I'm fine, Georgie" Priscilla said.

Georgie, Carella thought, and braced himself when he saw the other man
getting up from the table and moving toward them.  Hawes was suddenly
alert, too.  "Because if these gentlemen are disturbing you..."  Carella
flashed the tin, hoping to end all discussion.  "We're police
officers," he said.

Georgie looked at the shield, unimpressed.

"You got a problem here, Georgie?"  the other man said, approaching.
Georgie's twin, no doubt.  Similarly dressed, down to the hardware
under the wide-shouldered suit jacket.  Hawes flashed his shield,

too.  It never hurt to make the same point twice.  " "Police officers,"
he said.

Must be an echo in this place, Carella thought.

"Is Miss Stetson in some kind of trouble?"  Georgie's twin asked.  Two
hundred and fifty pounds of muscle and bone draped in Giorgio Armani
threads.  No broken nose, but otherwise the stereotype was complete.

"Miss Stetson's grandmother was killed," Hawes said calmly.
"Everything's under control here.  Why don't you just go back to your
table, hm?"

A buzz was starting in the room now.  Four big guys surrounding the
room's star, looked like there might be some kind of trouble here.  One
thing people in this city didn't much care for was trouble.  First
whiff of trouble, people in this city picked up their skirts and ran
for the hills.  Even out-of-towners in this city (which some of the
people in the room looked like),

even foreigners in the city (which some of the other people in the
room looked like), the minute they caught that first faint whiff of
trouble brewing, they were out of here, man.  Miss Priscilla Stetson,
Now Appearing 9:00 P.M.-2:00 A.M. was in imminent danger of playing her
last set to an empty room.  She suddenly remembered the time.  "I'm
on," she said.  "We'll talk later," and left the four men standing
there with their thumbs up their asses.  Like most macho fools who
display their manhood to no avail, the men stood glaring at each other a
moment longer, and then mentally flexed their muscles with a few
seconds of eye lock before the two cops went back to the bar and the
two gun-toting whatever-they-weres went back to their table. 
Priscilla, professionally aloof to whatever masculineness were surfacing
here, warmly sang a setting of 'My Funny Valentine," "My Romance," I Loved You" and "Sweet and
Lovely."  A woman at one of the tables asked her escort why they don,t write
love songs like that anymore, and he said,

now they write hate songs."  It was 2:00 A.M.

Either Georgie (or his twin brother Frankie or or Dominick or Foongie)
asked Priscilla why she hadn't played the theme song from The Godfather

She sweetly told them no one had requested it, them both on their
respective cheeks and kissed them off.  Big detectives that were,
neither Carella nor Hawes yet knew they were bodyguards or wiseguys.
Priscilla the bar.

"Too late for a glass of champagne?"  she asked the bartender.

He knew she was kidding; he poured one in a flute.  Dispersing guests
came over to tell Priscilla how terrific she'd been.  Graciously, she
thanked them all and sent them on their early morning way.  Priscilla
wasn't a star, she was just a good singer in a small cafe in a modest
hotel, but she carried herself well.  They could tell by the way she
merely sipped at the champagne that she wasn't a big drinker.  Maybe
her grandmother had something to do with that.  Which brought them back
to the corpse in the shabby mink coat.

"I told you," Priscilla said.  "All her friends are dead.  I couldn't
give you their names if I wanted to."

"How about enemies?"  Carella asked.  "All of them dead, too?"

"My grandmother was alonely old woman livin alone.  She had no friends,
she had no enemies.  Period."

"So it had to be a burglar, right?"  Hawes asked.  Priscilla looked at
him as if discovering him for the first time.  Looked him up and down.  Red
hair white streak, size twelve gunboats.

"That's your job, isn't it?"  she asked coolly "Determining whether it
was a burglar or not?"

"And, by the way, she did have a friend,"
he
corrected.

"Oh?"

"Woman down the hall.  Played her old records to her."

"Please.  She played those old 78s for anyone who'd listen."

"Ever meet her?"

"Who?"

"Woman named Karen Todd.  Lived down the hall from your grandmother."

"No."

"When's the last time you saw her alive?"  Hawes asked.

"We didn't get along."

"So we understand.  When did you see her last?"  "Must'a been around
Eastertime."  "Long time ago."

"Yeah," she  said, and fell suddenly silent.  I guess

'i'll have to call my mother, huh?"  she asked.  "Might be a good idea,"
Carella said.  "Let her know what happened."  "Mm."

"What time is it in London?"

"I don't know," Carella said.

"Five or six hours ahead, is that it?"

Hawes shook his head, shrugged.

Priscilla fell silent again.

The champagne glass was empty now.  "Why'd you hate her?"  Carella
asked.  "For what she did to herself."

"She didn't cause the arthritis," Hawes said.  "She caused the
alcoholism."  "Which came first?"

"Who knows?  Who cares?  She was one of the

She ended up a nobody."

"Enemies," Carella said again.

don't know of any."

it had to be a burglar," Hawes said again.

"Who cares what it was?"  Priscilla asked.  "We do," Carella said.

It was time to stop the clock.

Time was running by too fast, someone out there had killed her, and
time was on his side, her side, whoever's side.  The faster the minutes
went by, the greater would become the distance between him, her,
whomever and the cops.  So it was time to stop the clock, hardly a
difficult feat here in the old Eight-Seven, time to pause for a moment,
and reflect,

time to make a few phone calls, time to call time out.  Carella called
home.

When he'd left there at eleven last night, his son Mark was burning up
with a hundred-and two-degree fever and the doctor was on the way.
Fanny Knowles,

the Carella housekeeper, picked up on the third ring.  "Fanny," he said,
"hi.  Did I wake you?"  "Let me get her," Fanny said.

He waited.  His wife could neither speak nor hear.  There was a TDD
telephone answering device in the house, but typing out long messages
was time consuming tedious, and often frustrating.  Better that Teddy
should sign and Fanny should translate.  He waited.

"Okay," Fanny said at last.

"What'd the doctor say?"

"It's nothing serious," Fanny said.  "He thinks it's the flu."

"What does Teddy think?"

"Let me ask her."

 There was a silence on the line.  Fanny signing,

Teddy responding.  He visualized both women in their nightgowns Fanny
some five feet five inches tall, a stout Irish woman with red hair and
gold-rimmed eyeglasses, fingers flying in the language Teddy had taught
her.  Teddy an inch taller, a beautiful woman with raven-black hair and
eyes as dark as loam, fingers flying even faster because she'd been
doing this  from when she was a child.  Fanny was back on the line.

"She says what worried her most was when he started shakin like a leaf
all over.  But he's all right now.  The fever's come down, she thinks
the doctor's right, it's only the flu.  She's going to sleep in his
room, she says, just in case.  When will you be home, she wants to
know."  "Shift's over at eight, she knows that."  "She thought, with
the lad sick and all ..."  "Fanny, we've got a homicide.  Tell her
that."  He waited.

Fanny came back on the line.

"She says you've always got a homicide."

Carella smiled.

I'll be home in six hours," he said.  "Tell her I love her."

"She loves you too," Fanny said.

"Did she say that?"

"No, I said it," Fanny said.  "Its two in the mornin, mister.  Can we
all go back to bed now?"

"

"Not me, Carella said.

Hawes was talking to a Rape Squad cop named Annie Rawles.  Annie
happened to be in his bed.  He was telling her that since he'd come to
work tonight, he'd

met a beautiful Mediterranean-looking woman and also a beautiful piano
player with long blond hair.

"Is the piano player a woman, too?  "Annie asked.  Hawes smiled.

"What are you wearing?"  he asked.

"Just a thirty-eight in a shoulder holster," Annie said.

"I'll be right there," he said.

"Fat Chance Department," she said.

The clock began ticking again.

Every hour of the day looks the same inside a morgue.  That's because
there are no windows and the glare of fluorescent light is neutral at
best.  The stench, too, is identical day in and day out, palpable to
anyone who walks in from the fresh air outside, undetectable to the
assistant medical examiners who are carving up corpses for autopsy.

Dr.  Paul Blaney was a shortish man with a scraggly black mustache and
eyes everyone told him were violet, but which he thought were a pale
bluish-grey.  He was wearing a bloodstained blue smock and yellow
rubber gloves, and was weighing a liver when the detectives walked in. 
He immediately plopped the organ into a stainless-steel basin, where it
sat looking like the Portnoy family's impending dinner.  Yanking off
one of the gloves, presumably to shake hands, he remembered where the
hand had recently been, and pulled it back abruptly.  He knew why the
detectives were here.  He got directly to the point.

"Two to the heart," he said.  "Both bull's-eyes, and not a bad title
for a movie."

 "I think there was one," Hawes said.

"Bull's-Eyes?"

"

"No, no... "You're thinking of One-Eyed Jacks."

"No, Two to the Heart, something like that."

"Two for the Road, you're thinking of," Blaney said.

"No, that was a song," Hawes said.

"That was, "One for the Road."  "

"This was a movie.  Two from the Heart, maybe."

"Cause Two for the Road was very definitely a movie."

Carella was looking at them both.

"This had the word 'heart' in the title," Hawes said.  Carella was still
looking at them.  Everywhere around them were bodies or body parts on
tables and countertops.  Everywhere around them was the stink of
death.

"Heart, heart," Blaney said, thinking out loud.  "Heart of Darkness?
Because that became a movie, but it was called Apocalypse Now.""

"No, but I think you're close."

"Is it Coppola?"

"Carella," Carella said, wondering why Blaney,

'whom he had known for at least a quarter of a century,

was getting his name wrong.

"Something Coppola directed?"  Blaney asked, ignoring him.

"I don't know," Hawes said.  "Who's Coppola?"

"He directed the Godfather movies."

Which reminded Carella of the two hoods in the hotel bar.  Which further
reminded him of Svetlana's

granddaughter.  Which brought him full circle to why they were here.

"The autopsy," he reminded Blaney.

"Two to the heart," Blaney said.  "Both of them in a space the size of
a half-dollar.  Which didn't take much of a marksman because the killer
was standing quite close."

"How close'

"I'd say no more than three, four feet.  All the guy did was point and
fire.  Period."

"Was she drunk?"  Carella asked.

"No.  Percentage of alcohol in the brain was point-oh-two, well within
the normal range.  Urine and blood percentages were similarly
normal."

"Can you give us a PMI?"

"Around eleven, eleven-thirty last night.  Ballpark."  No postmortem
interval was entirely accurate.  They all knew that.  But Blaney's
educated guess coincided with the time the man down the hall had heard
shots.  "Anything else we should know?"  Hawes asked.  "Examination of
the skull revealed a schwannoma arising from the vestibular nerve, near
the porus acusticus, extending into both the internal auditory meatus.
"

"In English, please," Carella said.  "An acoustic neuro ma "Come on,
Paul."

"In short, a tumor on the auditory nerve.  Quite large and cystic,
probably causing hearing loss, headache, vertigo, disturbed sense of
balance, unsteadiness of gait, and tinnitus."

"Tinnitus?"

"Ringing of the ears."

"oh."

"Liquid chromatography of the coagulated blood disclosed a drug called
diclofenac, in concentrations indicating therapeutic doses.  But the
loose correlation between dosage and concentration is a semi
quantitative process at best.  All I can say for certain is that she
was taking the drug, not why she was taking it.  "Why do you think she
was taking it?"

"Well, we don't normally examine joints in a post, and I haven't here.
But a superficial look at her fingers suggest what I'm sure a vertebral
slice would reveal."  "And what's that?"

"Lipping on the anterior visible portion."  "What'slipping

"Knobby, bumpy, small excrescences of bone.  In short, smooth,
asymmetric swellings on the body of the vertebrae."

"Indicating what?"

"Arthritis?"

"Are you asking?"

"Do you know whether or not she was arthritic?"  "She was."

"Well, there," Blaney said.

Hawes was still trying to remember the title of that movie.  He asked
Sam Grossman if he remembered seeing it.

"I don't go to movies," Grossman said.

He was wearing a white lab coat, and standing before a counter covered
with test tubes, graduated cylinders, beakers, spatulas, pipettes and
flasks, all of

which gave his work space an air of scientific inquiry that seemed in
direct contrast to Grossman himself.  A tall, angular man with blue
eyes behind dark-framed glasses, he looked more like a New England
farmer worried about drought than he did the precise police captain who
headed up the lab.

Some ranking E-flat piano player in the department had undoubtedly
decided that the death of a once-famous concert pianist rated special
treatment, hence the dispatch with which Svetlana's body and personal
effects had been sent respectively to the Chief Medical Examiner's
Office and the lab.  The mink coat, the cotton housedress, the pink
sweater, the cotton panty hose, and the bedroom slippers were all on
Grossman's countertop, dutifully tagged and bagged.  At another table,
one of Grossman's assistants sat with her head bent over a microscope.
Hawes looked her over.  A librarian type, he decided, which he
sometimes found exciting.

"Why do you ask?"  Grossman said.

"Cause of death was two to the heart," Carella said.  "Plenty of blood
to support that," Grossman said, nodding.  "All of it hers, by the way.
Nobody else bled all over the sweater and dress.  The dress is a cheap
cotton schmatte you can pick up at any Woolworth's.  The house slippers
are imitation leather, probably got those in a dime store, too.  But
the sweater has a designer label in it.  And so does the mink.  Old,
but once worth something."

Which could have been said of the victim, too, Carella thought.

"Anything else?"

"I just got all this stuff," Grossman said.  "Then when?"

"Later."

"When later?"

"Tomorrow afternoon."

"Sooner."

"A magician I'm not," Grossman said.

They went back to the apartment again.

The yellow CRIME SCENE tapes were still up.  A uniformed cop stood on
the stoop downstairs, his hands behind his back, peering out at the
deserted street.  It was bitterly cold.  He was wearing earmuffs and a
heavy-duty overcoat, but he still looked frozen to death.  They
identified themselves and went upstairs.  Another of the blues was on
duty outside the door to apartment 3A.  A cardboard CRIME SCENE card
was taped to the door behind him.  The door was padlocked.  He produced
a key when they identified themselves.

Hidden under a pile of neatly pressed and folded, lace-trimmed silk
underwear at the back of the bottom drawer in her dresser, they found
another candy tin.  There was a savings account passbook in it.

The book showed a withdrawal yesterday of an even one hundred and
twenty-five thousand dollars, leaving a balance of sixteen dollars and
twelve cents.  The withdrawal slip was inserted in the passbook at the
page that recorded the transaction.  The date and time on the slip were
January 20"I0:27 A.M.

This would have been half an hour before Svetlana Dyalovich went
downstairs to buy a fifth of Four Roses.

According to Blaney and the man down the hall, she was killed some
twelve hours later.

The man in apartment 3D did not enjoy being awakened at ten minutes to
three in the morning.  He was wearing only pajamas when he grumblingly
unlocked the door for them, but he quickly put on a woolen robe, and,
still grumbling, led the detectives into the apartment's small kitchen.
A tiny window over the sink was rimed with frost.  Outside, they could
hear the wind howling.  They kept on their coats and gloves.

The man, whose name was Gregory Turner, went to the stove, opened the
oven door, and lighted the gas jets.  He left the door open.  In a few
moments, they could feel heat beginning to seep into the kitchen.
Turner put up a pot of coffee.  A short while later, while he was
pouring for them, they took off the coats and gloves.

He was sixty-nine years old, he told them, a creature of impeccable
habit, set in his ways.  Got up to pee every night at three-thirty.
They'd got him out of bed forty minutes early, he didn't like this
break in his routine.  Hoped he could fall back asleep again after they
were done with him here and he had his nocturnal pee.  For all his
grumbling, though, he seemed cooperative, even hospitable.  Like
buddies about to go on an early morning fishing trip, the three men sat
around the oil cloth covered kitchen table sipping coffee.  Their hands
were warm around the steaming cups.  Heat poured from the oven.
Springtime didn't seem all that far away.

"I hated those records she played day and night," he told them.
"Sounded like somebody practicing.  All
clasical music sounds that way to me.  How
could


 anyone make any sense of it?  I like swing, do you know what swing
is?  Before your time, swing.  I'm sixty-nine years old, did I tell you
that?  Get up to pee regular every night at three-thirty in the
morning, go back to sleep again till eight, get up, have my breakfast,
go for along walk.  Jenny used to go with me before she died last year.
My wife.  Jenny.  We'd walk together in the park, rain or shine.
Settled a lot of our problems on those walks.  Talked them out.  Well,
I don't have any problems now she's gone.  But I miss her like the
devil."

He sighed heavily, freshened the coffee in his cup.  "More?"  he
asked.

"Thank you, no," Carella said.

"Just a drop," Hawes said.

"Benny Goodman, Glenn Miller, that was swing.  Harry James, the Dorsey
Brothers, wonderful stuff back then.  You had a new song come out,
maybe six, seven bands covered it.  Best record usually was the one
made the charts.  "Blues in the Night' came out, there must've been a
dozen different big-band versions of it.  Well, that was some song. 
Johnny Mercer wrote that song.  You ever hear of Johnny Mercer?"

Both detectives shook their heads.

"He wrote that song," Turner said.  "Woody Herman had the best record
of that song.  That was some song."  He began singing it.  His voice,
thin and frail, filled the stillness of the night with the sound of
train whistles echoing down the track.  He stopped abruptly.  There
were tears in his eyes.  They both wondered if he'd been singing it to
Jenny.  Or for Jenny.

"People come and go, you hardly get a chance to say hello to them, not
less you really know them," he said.  "Woman who got killed tonight, I
don't think I even knew her name till the super told me later on.  All
I knew was she irritated me playing those damn old records of hers. 
Then I hear three shots and first thing I wonder is did the old lady
shoot herself?.  She seemed very sad," he said, "glimpses I got of her
on the stairs.  Very sad.  All bent and twisted and bleary-eyed, a very
sad old lady.  I ran out in the hall..."

"When was this?"

"Right after I heard the shots."

"Do you remember what time that was?"  "Around a quarter past eleven."
"Did you see anyone in the hall?"

"No."

"Or coming out of her apartment?"

"No."

"Was the door to the apartment open or closed?"  "Closed."

"What'd you do, Mr.  Turner?"

"I went right downstairs and knocked on the super's door."

"You didn't call the police?"  "No, sir."  "Why not?"

"Don't trust the police."

"What then?"

"I stayed in the street, watched the show, Cops coming, ambulances
coming.  Detectives like you.  A regular show.  I wasn't the only
one."

"Watching, do you mean?"

"Watching, yes.  Is it getting too hot in here for you?"  "A
little."

"If I turn this off, though, we'll be freezing again in five minutes.
What do you think I should do?"  "Well, whatever you like, sir," Hawes
said.

"Jenny liked it warm," Turner said.  He nodded.  He was silent for
several moments, staring at his hands folded on the kitchen table.  His
hands looked big and dark and somehow useless against the glare of the
white oilcloth.

"Who else was there?"  Carella asked.  "Watching the show?"

"Oh, people I recognized from the building mostly.  Some of them
leaning out their windows, others coming downstairs to see things
firsthand." "Anyone you didn't recognize?"  "Oh, sure, all those
cops."

"Aside from the cops or the ambulance people

"Lots of others, sure.  You know this city.  Anything happens, a big
crowd gathers,"

"Did anyone you didn't recognize come out of the building?  Aside from
cops or..."

"See what you mean, yeah.  Just let me think a minute."

The gas jets hissed into the stillness of the apartment.  Somewhere in
the building, a toilet flushed.  Outside on the street, a siren;
doowah, doo-wahed to the night.  Then all was still again.

"A tall blond man," Turner said.

As he tells it, he first sees the man when he comes out of the alleyway
alongside the building.  Comes out and

stands there with the crowd behind the police lines, hands in his
pockets.  He's wearing a blue overcoat and a red muffler.  Hands in the
pockets of the coat.  Black shoes.  Blond hair blowing in the wind.
"Beard?  Mustache?"  "Clean-shaven."

"Anything else you remember about him?"

He just stands there like all the other people, behind the barricades
the police have set up, watching all the activity, more cops arriving,
plainclothes cops, they must be, uniformed cops, too, with brass on
their hats and collars, the man just stands there watching, like
interested.  Then the ambulance people carry her out of the building on
a stretcher, and they put her inside the ambulance and it drives off.

"That's when he went off, too," Turner said.  "You watched him leave?"
"Well, yes."  "Why'?"

"There was a... a sort of sad look on his face, I don't know.  As if...
I don't know."

"Where'd he go?"  Hawes asked.  "Which direction?"

"Headed south.  Toward the corner.  Stopped near the sewer up the
street..."

Both detectives were suddenly all ears.

"Bent down to tie his shoelace or something, went on his way again."

Which is how they found the murder weapon.

The gun they'd fished out of the sewer was registered to a man named
Rodney Pratt, who on his application for the pistol permit had given
his occupation as "security escort" and had stated that he needed to
carry a gun because his business was "providing protection of privacy,
property, and physical wellbeing to individuals requiring personalized
service."  They figured this was the politically correct way of saying
he was a private bodyguard.

In the United States of America, no one is obliged to reveal his race,
color, or creed on any application form.  They had no way of knowing
Rodney Pratt was black until he opened the door for them at five
minutes past three that morning, and glowered out at them in undershirt
and boxer shorts.  To them, his color was merely an accident of nature.
What mattered was that Ballistics had already identified the gun
registered to him as the weapon that had fired three fatal bullets
earlier tonight.

"Mr.  Pratt?"  Hawes asked cautiously.

"Yeah, what?"  Pratt asked.

He did not have to say This is three o'fucking clock in the morning,
why the fuck are you knocking my door down?  His posture said that, his
angry frown said that, his blazing eyes said that.

"May we come in, sir?"  Hawes asked.  "some  questions we'd like to ask
you."

"What kind of questions?"  Pratt asked.

The "sir" had done nothing to mollify him.  THere were two honkie cops
shaking him out of bed in the middle of the night, and he wasn't buying any
thank you.  He stood barring the door in his tank undershirt and
striped boxer shorts, as muscular as a prizefighter at a weigh-in.  Hawes
now saw that tattoo on his bulging right biceps read Semper Fidelis An
ex-Marine, no less.  Probably a sergeant.  had seen combat in this or
that war the United State seemed incessantly waging.  Probably drank
the bl of enemy soldiers.  Three o'clock in the momingl Hawes bit the
bullet.

"Questions about a .38 Smith & Wesson reg to you, sir."

"What about it?"

"It was used in a murder earlier tonight, sir.  May come in?"

"Come in," Pratt said, and stepped out of the frame, back into the
apartment.

Pratt lived in a building on North Carlton Street, the intersection of
St.  Helen's Boulevard, across way from Mount Davis Park.  The
neighborhood mixed black, white, Hispanic, some A rents price-fixed.
These old prewar apartments boasted high ceilings, tall windows and parquet

In many of them, the kitchens and bathrooms were hopelessly outdated.
But as they followed Pratt toward a lighted living room beyond, they
saw at a glance that his kitchen was modern and sleek, and an
open-door

 of a hall bathroom revealed marble and shed brass.  The living room
was furnished in  oak wood and nubby fabrics, throw pillows

, chrome-framed prints on the white walls.  upright piano stood against
the wall at the far end of the room, flanked by windows that overlooked the
park.  "Have a seat," Pratt said, and left the room.  Hawes looked at
Carella.  Carella merely shrugged.  He was by the windows, looking down
at the park stories below.  At this hour of the night, it appeared
ghostly, its lampposts casting eerie

illumination on empty winding paths.

Pratt was back in a moment, wearing a blue robe over his underwear. The
robe looked like cashmere.  It conspired with the look of the apartment
to create a distinct impression that the "security escort" business
paid very well indeed these days.  Hawes wondered if he should ask for
a job recommendation.  Instead, he said, "About the gun, Mr. Pratt."

"It was stolen last week," Pratt said.

They had seen it all and heard it all, of course, and they had probably
heard this one ten thousand, four hundred and thirteen times.  The
first thing any criminal learns is that it is not his gun, his dope,
his car, his burglar's tools, his knife, his mask, his gloves, his
bloodstains, his semen stains, his anything.  And if it is his, then it
was either lost or stolen.

Catch a man red-handed, about to shoot his girlfr a gun in his
fist, the barrel in the woman's mouth, and he will tell you first that
it isn't his gun,

hey, what kind of individual do you think I am?  Besides, we're only
rehearsing a scene from a play

here.  Or if they won't quite appreciate that one in Des Moines, then
how about she was choking on a fish bone, and I was trying to hook it
out with the gun barrel while we were waiting for the ambulance to take
her to the hospital?  Or if that sounds a bit fishy, how about she
asked me to put the barrel in her mouth in order to test her mettle and
her courage?  Anyway, isn't even my gun, and if it is my gun, it was
stolen lost.  Besides, I'm a juvenile.

"Stolen," Carella said, turning from the windows No intonation in his
voice, just the single unstresse word, spoken softly, and sounding like
a boomin accusation in that three A.M. living room.

"Yes," Pratt said.  "Stolen."

Unlike Carella, he did stress the word.  "When did you say this was?"
Hawes asked.  "Thursday night."

"That would've been..."

Hawes had taken out his notebook and was pointing to the calendar page.

"The eighteenth," Pratt said.  "A hoodoo jinx ofa  day.  First my car
quits dead, and next somebody takes my gun from the glove compartment."

"Let's back up a little," Hawes said.

"No, let's back up a lot," Pratt said.  "Reason putting me through this
shit at three A.M. in the mornin is I'm black.  So just do your little
ritual dance and get the hell out, okay?  You've got the wrong party
here."

"We may have the wrong party," Carella said, "but we've got the right
gun.  And it happens to be yours."

"I don't know anything about what that gun was doing earlier tonight.  You
say it killed somebody, I'll

take your word for it.  I'm telling you the gun has not been in my
possession since Thursday night, when my car quit and I stopped at an
all-night gas station to have it looked at."

"Where was that?"

"Just off the Majesta Bridge."

"Which side of it?"

"This side.  I'd driven a diamond merchant home and was coming back to
the city."

The location marked him as a native.  This sprawling city  was divided
into five separate distinct geographical zones, but unless you'd just
moved here from Mars, only one of these sectors was ever referred to as
"the city."

"Started rattling on the bridge," Pratt said.  "Time I hit Isola, she
quit dead.  Brand-new limo.  Less than a thousand miles on it."  He
shook his head in disgust and disbelief.  "Never buy a fuckin American
car," he said.

Carella himself drove a Chevrolet that had never given him a moment's
trouble.  He said nothing.  "What time was this?"  Hawes asked. 
"Little before midnight."  "This past Thursday."

"Hoodoo jinx of a day," he said again.  "Remember the name of the gas
station?"  "Sure."

"What was it?"

"Bridge Texaco."

"Now that's what I call inventive," Hawes said.  "You think I'm lying?"
Pratt said at once.  "No, no, I meant..."

"When did you discover the gun was missing?"  Carella asked.

Get this thing back on track, he thought.  Pratt wasn't  quite getting
all this.  He thought two white cops here hassling him only because he
was black when instead they were hassling him only because he owned the gun
used in a murder.  So let's hear about the gun, okay?

"When I picked the car up," Pratt said, turning on him.  He still
suspected a trap, still figured they were setting him up somehow.

"And when was that?"

"Yesterday morning.  There weren't any mechanics on duty when I pulled
in Thursday night.  The man told me they'd have to work on it the next
day."  "Which they did, is that right?"

"Yeah.  Turned out somebody'd put styrene in my fuckin crankcase."

Carella wondered what styrene in the crankcase had to do with buying an
American car.

"Broke down the oil and mined the engine," Pratt said.  "They had to
order me a new one, put it in on Friday."

"And you picked the car up yesterday?"  "Yes."  "What time?"

"Ten o'clock in the morning."

"So the car was there all night Thursday and all day Friday."

"Yeah.  And two hours yesterday, too.  They open eight."

"With the gun in the glove compartment."  "Well, it disappeared during
that time."  "When did you realize that?"

"When I got back here.  There's a garage in the

I parked the car, unlocked the glove conpartment to take out the gun, and saw it
was gone."

"Always take it out of the glove compartment when you get home?"

"Always."

"How come you left it at the garage?"

"I wasn't thinking.  I was pissed off about the car quitting on me.
It's force of habit.  I get home, I unlock the box, reach in for the
gun.  The garage wasn't home.  I just wasn't thinking."

"Did you report the gun stolen?"

"No."

"Why not?"  Hawes asked.

"I figured somebody steals a piece, I'll never see it again, anyway. So
why bother?  It not like a TV set.

A piece isn't gonna turn up in a hockshop.  It's gonna end up on the
street."

"Ever occur to you that the gun might be used later in the commission
of a crime?"

"It occurred to me."

"But you still didn't report its theft?"

"I didn't report it, no."

"How come?"

This from Hawes.  Casually.  Just a matter of curiosity.  How come your
gun is stolen and you know somebody might use it to do something bad,
but you don't go to the cops?  How come?

Carella knew how come.  Black people were beginning to believe that the
best way to survive was to keep their distance from the police. Because
if they

didn't, they got set up and framed.  That was O.J."s legacy.  Thanks a
lot Juice, we needed you.

"Talked privately to the day manager," Pratt said.  "Told him somebody'd
ripped off the piece.  He said he'd ask around quietly."

"Did he ask around?  Quietly."

"None of his people knew anything about it."  Naturally, Carella
thought.

Hawes was thinking the same thing.

"And you say the glove compartment was locked when you got back home
here?"

"I think so, yeah."

"What do you mean, you think so?"

"Why do you guys think everything I say is a lie?"  Carella sighed in
exasperation.

"Come on, was it locked or wasn't it?"  he said.  "That isn't a trick
question.  Just tell us yes or no."

"I'm telling you I don't know.  I put the key in the lock and turned
it.  But whether it was locked or not..."

"You didn't try to thumb it open before you put the key in?"

"No, I always leave it locked."

"Then what makes you think it may have been unlocked this time?"

"The fucking gun was missing, wasn't it?"

"Yes, but you didn't know that before you opened the compartment."

"I know it now.  If it was already unlocked when I turned the key, then
what I was doing was locking it all over again.  So I had to turn the
key back again to unlock it."

"Is that in fact what you did?"

"I don't remember.  I might have.  A glove compartment isn't like your
front door, you know, where you lock it and unlock it a hundred times a
day, and you know just which way to turn the key to open it."

"Then what you're saying now, in retrospect, is that it might have been
unlocked."

"Is what I'm saying in retrospect.  Because the gun was missing.  Which
means somebody had already got in there."

"Did you leave a valet key with the car, or... ?"  "I lost the valet
key."

"So the key you left in the ignition could have unlocked the glove
compartment, is that it?"  "That's it."

"So you're saying someone at the garage unlocked it and  stole the
gun."

exactly what I'm saying."

"You don't think whoever put styrene in the crankcase might have stolen
the gun, do you?"

"I don't see how."

"You didn't notice the hood open, did you?"

"Yeah, the hood was open.  How would they get at the engine without
liftingthe hood?"
,"I
mean, before you took it to the garage.

"No, I didn't see the hood open."

"Tell us where you went with the car that Thursday.  Before somebody
did the styrene job"

"I don't know when the styrene job was done."

"Tell us where you went, anyway, okay?  Help us out here, willya?"

"First, I drove an actress over to NBC for a television interview that
morning..."

"NBC where?"

"Downtown.  Off Hall Avenue."

"When was that?"  "Six-thirty in the morning."  "Did you go inside with
her?"  "No, I stayed with the car."  "Then what?"

"Drove her back to her hotel, waited downstairs for her."

"Leave the car?"

"No.  Well, wait a minute, yeah.  I got out of the car to have a smoke,
but I was standing right by it."  "Gun still in the glove compartment?"
"Far as I know.  I didn't look."

"You said you waited for her downstairs..."  "Yeah."

"What time did she come back down?"  "Twelve-fifteen."  "Where'd you go
then?"

"To J. C. Willoughby's for lunch.  She was meeting her agent there."

"And then?"

"Picked her up at two, drove her to..."

"Were you with the car all that time?"

"Come to think of it, no.  I went for a bite myself.  Parked it in a
garage."

Where?

"Near the restaurant.  On Lloyd."

"So somebody could have lifted the hood and poured that styrene in."

"I guess."

"Did you leave the key in the car?"

"Of course.  How else could they drive it?"

"Then someone could have unlocked the glove compartment, too."  "Yeah,
but..."  "Yeah?"

"I still think somebody at the gas station swiped that piece."

"What makes you think that?"

"Just a feeling.  You know how you get a feeling something's wrong?  I
had the feeling those guys knew something about the car I didn't
know."

"Like what?"

"I don't know what."

"Which guys?"

"All of them.  The day manager when I went to pick it up, all the guys
working..."

"When did you pick up your diamond merchant?"  "What?"  "You said..."

"Oh, yeah, Mr.  Aaronson.  I was with the actress all day, stayed with
her while she shopped Hall Avenue.  She was doing some shopping before
she went back to L.A. Drove her to meet some friends for dinner, took
her back to the hotel afterward."

"Stayed with the car all that time?"

"Didn't budge from it.  Picked up Mr.  Aaronson at ten-thirty, drove
him home.  He was heavy that night."  "Heavy."

"Lots of gems in his suitcase."

"What'd you do then?"

"Started back over the bridge, heard the car starting to conk out."

"Would you remember where you parked the car while you were having
lunch?"

"I told you.  Place on Lloyd, just offDetavoner.  Only one on the
block, you can't miss it."

"You wouldn't know who parked it, would you?"  "All those guys look the
same to me."

"Can you think of anyone who might've put that styrene in your
crankcase?"

"No."

"Or stolen the gun?"

"Yeah.  Somebody at the fuckin gas station."

"One last question," Carella said.  "Where were you tonight between ten
and midnight?"

"Here it comes," Pratt said, and rolled his eyes.  "Where were you?"
Carella asked again.  "Right here."  "Anyone with you?"

"My wife.  You want to wake her up, too?"  "Do we have to?"  Carella
asked.  "She'll tell you."  "I'll bet she will."

Pratt was beginning to glower again.  "Let her sleep," Carella said.
Pratt looked at him.

"I think we're finished here.  Sorry to have bothered you." "Cotton?
Anything?"

"One thing," Hawes said.  "Do you know who worked on your car?"

"Yeah, somebody named Gus.  He's the one who signed the service order,
but he wasn't there when I picked the car up yesterday."

"Do you know if the day manager asked him about the gun?"

"He says he did."

"What's his name?"

"The day manager?  Jimmy."  "Jimmy what?"  "I don't know."

"How about the night manager?  The one you left the car with?"

"Ralph.  I don't know Ralph what.  They have their names stitched on
the front of their coveralls.  Just the first names."

"Thanks," Hawes said.  "Good night, sir, we're sorry to have bothered
you."

"Mm," Pratt said sourly.

In the hallway outside, Carella said, "So now it becomes the tale of a
gun."

"I saw that movie, too," Hawes said.

Bridge Texaco was in the shadow of the Majesta Bridge, which connected
two of the city's most populous sectors, creating massive traffic jams
at either end.  Here in Isola simply and appropriately named since it
was an island and Isola meant "island" in Italian.  the side streets
and avenues leading to the bridge were thronged with taxis, trucks and
passenger vehicles from six A.M. to midnight, when things began slowing
down a bit.  At three-thirty in the morning, when the detectives got
there, one would never have guessed that just a few hours earlier the
surrounding streets had resonated with the din of

honking horns and shouted epithets, the result of a stalled track in
the middle of the bridge.

There were two city statutes, both of them punishable by mere fines,
that made the blowing of horns unlawful.  Using profanity in public was
also against the law.  The pertinent section in the Penal Law was
240.20, and it was titled Disorderly Conduct.  It read: "A person is
guilty of disorderly conduct when, with intent to cause public
inconvenience, annoyance or alarm, or recklessly creating a risk
thereof, he uses abusive or obscene language, or makes an obscene
gesture."  Disorderly conduct was a simple violation, punishable by not
more than a term of fifteen days in jail.  The two statutes and the
Penal Law section only  defined civilization.  Perhaps this was why a
uniformed cop on the street corner had merely scratched his ass at
midnight while an angry motorist leaned incessantly on his horn,
yelling "Move it, you fuckin cocksucker!"

Now, at 3:30 A.M."  all the horn-blowing stopped, all the profanity had
flown on the wind.  There  was only the bitter cold of the January
streets, and a gas station with fluorescent lights that seemed to
winter's chill.  A yellow taxicab was parked at one of the pumps.  Its
driver, hunched against the cold, jiggling from foot to foot, was
filling the tank.  The paneled doors opening on the service bays were
closed tight against the frigid air.  In the station's warmly lighted
office, a man wearing a brown uniform and a peaked brown hat sat with
his feet up on the desk, reading a copy of Penthouse.  He looked up
when the detectives came in.  The stitched name on the front of his
uniform read Ralph.

Carella showed the tin.

"Detective Carella," he said.  "My partner, Detective Hawes."

"Ralph Bonelli.  What's up?"

"We're trying to trace a gun that..."

"That again?"  Bonelli said, and looked heavenward.  "Any idea what
happened to it?"

"No.  I told Pratt nobody here knew anything about it.  That hasn't
changed."

"Who'd you ask?"

"The mechanic who worked on it.  Gus.  He didn't see it.  Some of the
other guys who were working on

Friday.  None of them saw any gun."

"How many other guys?"

"Two, They're not mechanics, they just pump gas."  "So Gus is the only
one who worked on the car."  "Yeah, the only one."  "Where'd he Work on
it?"

"One of the service bays in there," Bonelli said, and gestured with his
head.  "Had it up on the hydraulic lift."  "Key in it?"

"Yeah, he had to drive it in, didn't he?"

"How about when he was finished with it?  Where'd the key go then?"

"Key box there on the wall," Bonelli said, indicating a grey metal
cabinet fastened to the wall near the cash register.  A small key was
sticking out of a keyway on the door.

"Do you ever lock that cabinet?"

"Well... no."

"Leave the key in it all the time?"

"I see where you're going, but you're wrong Nobody who works here
stole that gun."

"Well, it was in the glove compartment when

Pratt drove the car in..."

"That's what he says."

"You don't think it was, huh?"

"Did I see it?  Did anybody see it?  We got only jig's word for it."

"Why would he say there was a gun in the compartment if there wasn't
one?"

"Maybe he wanted me to write off the repair job, who knows?"

"What do you mean?"

"A trade, you know?  He forgets the gun, we forget the bill."

"You think that's what he had in mind, huh?"  "Who knows?"

"Well, did he actually suggest anything like that?"  "No, I'm just
saying."

"So, actually," Hawes said, "you have no reason to believe there wasn't a
gun in that glove compartment?"

"Unless the jig had some other reason to be about it."

"Like what?"

"Maybe he had some use for it later on.  Claim it was stolen, build an
alibi in advance, you follow?"

"Can you write down the names of everyone who was working here while the
car was in the shop?"  Carella asked.

"Would anyone else have access to that key cabinet?  Aside from your
people?" Hawes asked.

"Sure.  Anybody walking in and out of the office But there's always
one of us around.  

'we would have seen anybody trying to get in the cabinet."  "Addresses and phone
numbers, too," Carella said.

Despite the cold, the blonde was wearing only a brief black miniskirt,
a short red fake-fur jacket, gartered black silk stockings and
high-heeled, red leather, ankle-high boots.  A matching red
patent-leather clutch handbag was tucked under her arm.  Her naked
thighs were raw from the wind, and her feet were freezing cold in the
high-heeled boots.  Shivering, she stood on the corner near the traffic
light, where any inbound traffic from Majesta would have to stop before
moving into the city proper.

The girl's name was Yolande.

She was free, white, and nineteen years old, but she was a hooker and a
crack addict, and she was here on the street at this hour of the
morning because she hoped to snag a driver coming in, and spin him
around the block once or twice while she gave him a fifty dollar blow
job.

Yolande didn't know it, but she would be dead in three hours.

The detectives coming out of the gas station office spotted the blonde
standing on the corner, recognized her for exactly what she was, but
didn't glance again in her direction.  Yolande recognized them as well,
for exactly what they were, and watched them warily as they climbed
into an unmarked, dark blue sedan.  A white Jaguar pulled to the curb
where she was standing.  The window on the passenger side slid

noiselessly down.  The traffic light bathed the car the sidewalk and
Yolande in red.  She waited until she saw a plume of exhaust smoke billow
from the   dark sedan up the street.  Then she leaned to the window
of the car at the curb, smiled and said "Hey, hiya.  Wanna party?"

"How much?"  the driver asked.

The changing traffic light suddenly turned  everything to green.

A moment later, the two vehicles moved off opposite directions.

The night was young.

They found Gus Mondalvo in an underground club a largely Hispanic
section of Riverhead.  This was a little past four in the morning.  His
mother, refused to open the door of her apartment repeated declarations
that they were police, told them they could find her son at the Club Fajardo
"up block," which is where they were now, trying to convince the heavyset
man who opened the door that they weren't here to bust the place.

The man protested in Spanish that they weren't serving liquor here,
anyway, so what was there bust?  This was just a friendly neighborhood
club having a little party, they could come in and see for themselves, all
of this while incriminating bottles  and glasses were being whisked from
behind the bar  and off the table tops  By the time he took off the some
five minutes later, you would have thought it was a teenage corner malt
shop instead of a club selling booze after hours to a clientele that
included

kids.  The man who let them in told them Gus was sitting at the bar
drinking... "But nothing alcoholic," he added hastily.  and pointed him
out to them.  A Christmas tree  stood in the corner near the bar,
elaborately decorated, extravagantly lighted.  The detectives made
their way across a small dance floor packed with teenagers dancing and
groping to Ponce's Golden Oldies, moved past tables where boys and
girls, men and women alike were all miraculously drinking Coca-Cola in
bottles, and approached the stool where Gus Mondalvo sat sipping what
looked like a lemonade.

"Mr.  Mondalvo?"  Hawes asked.

Mondalvo kept sipping his drink.

"Police," Hawes said, and flipped a leather case open to show his
shield.

There are various ways to express cool when responding to a police
presence.  One is to feign total indifference to the fact that cops are
actually here and may be about to cause trouble.  Like "I've been
through this a hundred times before, man, and it don't faze me, so what
can I do for you?"  Another is to display indignation.  As, for
example, "Do you realize who I am?  How dare you embarrass me this way
in a public place?"  The third is to pretend complete ignorance.  Cops.
Are you really cops?  Gee.  What business on earth could cops possibly
have with me?"  Mondalvo turned slowly on his stool.  "Hi," he said,
and smiled.

They had seen it all and heard it all.

This time around, it would be pleasant indifference.

"Mr.  Mondalvo," Hawes said, "we understand you worked on the engine of a
Cadillac belonging to a Rodney Pratt on Friday, would you remember doing
that?"

"Oh, sure," Mondalvo said.  "Listen, do you think we'd be more comfortable at
a table?  Something to drink?  A Coke?  A ginger ale?"

He slid off the stood to reveal his full height five-six, five-seven,
shorter than he'd looked while sitting, a little man with broad
shoulders and a waist, sporting a close-cropped haircut and mustache.
Carella wondered if he'd acquired the weight lifter  build in prison,
and then realized he was someone who was, after all, gainfully employed
as automobile mechanic.  They moved to a table near the dance floor.  Hawes
noticed that the club was discreetly and gradually beginning to clear out,
slipping into their overcoats and out the door.  If a bust was on the
cards, nobody wanted to be here when it came down.  Some foolhardy
couples, enjoying music and maybe even the sense of imminent clan.
flitted past on the dance floor, trying to ignore them but everyone
knew The Law was here, and sideswiped them with covert glances.

"We'll get right to the point," Carella said.  "Did you happen to notice
a gun in the glove compartment of that car?"

"I didn't go in the glove compartment," Mondalvo said.  "I had to put
in a new engine, why would I go in the glove compartment?"

"I don't know.  Why would you?"

"Right.  Why would I?  Is that what this is about?"

"Yes."

"Because I already told Jimmy I didn't know anything about that guy's gun."

"Jimmy Jackson?"

"Yeah, the day manager.  He asked me did I see a gun, I told him what
gun?  I didn't see no gun."

"But you did work on the Caddy all day Friday."  "Yeah.  Well not all
day.  It was a three-, four-hour job.  What it was, somebody put
styrene in the crankcase."

"So we understand."

"Styrene is what they use to make fiberglass.  It's this oily shit you
can buy at any marine or boat supply store, people use it to patch
their fiberglass boats.  But if you want to fuck up a guy's engine, all
you do you mix a pint of it with three, four quarts of oil and pour it
in his crankcase.  The car'll run maybe fifty, sixty miles, a hundred
max, before the oil breaks down and the engine binds.  Pratt's engine
was shot.  We had to order a new one for him.  Somebody didn't like
this guy so much, to do something like that to his car, huh?

Maybe that's why he packed a gun."

Maybe, Carella was thinking.

"Anybody else go near that car while you were working on it?"

"Not that I saw."

"Give us some approximate times here," Hawes said.  "When did you start
working on it?"

"After lunch sometime Friday.  I had a Buick in needed a brake job, and
then I had a Beamer had something wrong with the electrical system.  I
didn't

get to the Caddy till maybe twelve-thirty, one o'clock.

That's when I put it up on the lift."

"Where was it until then?"

"Sitting out front.  There's like a little parking space out front,
near where the air hose is?"  "Was the car locked?"  "I don't know."

"Well, were you the one who drove it into the bay and onto the lift?"

"Yeah."

"So, was the car locked when you... ?"

"Come to think of it, no."

"You just got into it without having to unlock the door."

"That's right."

"Was the key in the ignition?"

"No, I took it from the cabinet near the cash register."

"And went to the car..."

"Yeah."

"And found it unlocked."  "Right.  I just got in and started it."
"What time did you finish work on it?"  "Around four, four-thirty."
"Then what?"

"Drove it off the lift, parked it outside again."  "Did you lock it?" 
"I think so."

"Yes or no?  Would you remember?"

"I'm pretty sure I did.  I knew it was gonna be outside all night, I'm
pretty sure I would've locked it."

"What'd you do with the key after you, locked it?"

 "Put it back in the cabinet."

"You weren't there on Thursday night when Mr.

Pratt brought the car in, were you?"  Carella asked.

"No, I go home six o'clock.  We don't have any mechanics working the
night shift.  No gas jockeys,

either.  It's all self-service at night.  There's just the night
manager there.  We mostly sell gas to cabs at night.  That's about
it."

"What time did you get to work on Friday morning?"

"Seven-thirty.  I work along day."

"Who was there when you got there?"

"The day manager and two gas jockeys."

Carella took out the list Ralph had written for him.

"That would be Jimmy Jackson..."

"The manager, yeah."

"Jose Santiago ..."

"Yeah."

... "And Abdul Sikhar."

"Yeah, the Arab guy."

"See any of them going in that Caddy?"

"No."

"Hanging around it?"

"No.  But I have to tell you the truth, I wasn't like watching it every
minute, you know?  I had work to do."

"Mr.  Mondalvo, the gun we're tracing was used in a homicide earlier
tonight..."

"I didn't know that," Mondalvo said, and looked around quickly, as if
even mere possession of this knowledge was dangerous.

"Yes," Hawes said.  "So if you know anything at all . . ."

"Nothing."

... "About that gun, or who might have taken off  the cross

gun from the car..."

"Nothing, I swear."

"Then you should tell us now.  Becaus otherwise..."

"I swear to God," Mondalvo said, and made the sl

"Otherwise you'd be an accessory after the fact.  Carella said.

"What does that mean?"

"It means you'd be as guilty as whoever pulled the trigger."

"I don't know who pulled any trigger."

Both cops looked at him hard.

"I swear to God," he said again.  "I don't know."  Maybe they believed
him.

 The three kids were all named Richard.

Because they were slick-as-shit preppies from a New England school,
they called themselves Richard the First, Second, and Third, after
Richard the Lion-Hearted, Richard the son of Edward, and Richard who
perhaps had his nephews murdered in the Tower of London.  They were
familiar with these monarchs through an English history course they'd
had to take back in their sophomore year.  The three Richards were now
seniors.  All three of them had been accepted at Harvard.  They were
each eighteen years old, each varsity football heroes, all smart as
hell, handsome as devils, and drunk as skunks.  To coin a few
phrases.

Like his namesake Richard Coeur de Lion, Richard Hopper for such was
his real name was six feet tall and he weighed a hundred and ninety
pounds, and he had blond hair and blue eyes, just like the twelfth
century king.  Unlike that fearless monarch, however, Richard did not
write poetry although he sang quite well.  In fact, all three Richards
were in the school choir.  Richard the First was the team's star
quarterback.

The real Richard the Second had ruled England from 1377 to 1399 and was
the son of Edward the Black Prince.  The present-day Richard the Second
was named Richard Weinstock, and his father was

 Irving the Tailor.  He was five feet ten inches tall and weighed two
hundred and forty pounds, all of it muscle and bruised bones.  He had
dark hair and brown

" eyes, and he played fullback on the team.

Richard the Third, whose true and honorable name was Richard O'Connor,
had freckles and reddish hair and greenish eyes and he was six feet
three inches tall and weighed two-ten.  His fifteenth-century namesake
was the third son of the duke of York, a mighty feudal baron. Richard's
left arm was withered and shrunken,

 but this did not stop him from being a fierce fighter and a conniving
son of a bitch.  The king, that is.  The present-day Richard was known
to cheat on French exams, but he had two strong arms and very good
hands and he played wide receiver on the Pierce

Academy team.

All three Richards had come down to the city for the weekend.  They
were not due back at school till Monday morning.  All three Richards
were wearing the team's hooded parka, navy blue with a big letter P in
white on the back.  Just below the stem of the P, there was a white
logo in the shape of a football, about three inches wide and five
inches long.  The patch indicated which team they played on.  Over the
left pectoral on the front of the parka, the name of the school was
stitched in white script lettering, Pierce Academy tara.

The Richards Three.

At four-thirty on that gelid morning, it was doubtful that any of the
three, despite the similarity, knew his

 own name.  Turning back to yell "Fuck you!"  and "g

 eat shit!"  at the bouncer who'd told them the club was now closed
and then politely but firmly showed them

the front door, they came reeling out onto the sidewalk and stood
uncertainly toggling their parkas closed, pulling the hoods up over
their heads, wrapping their blue and white mufflers, trying to light
cigarettes, burping, farting, giggling, and finally throwing their arms
around each other and going into a football huddle.

"What we need to do now," Richard the First said, "is to get ourselves
laid."

"That's a good idea," Richard the Third said.  "Where can we find some
girls?"

"Uptown?"  Richard the First suggested.

"Then let's go uptown," Richard the Second agreed.  They clapped out of
the huddle.

Uptown, Yolande was Climbing into another automobile.

The three Richards hailed a taxi.

Jimmy Jackson's kids knew there was a black Santa Claus because they'd
seen one standing alongside a fake chimney and ringing a bell outside a
department store downtown on Hall Avenue after their mother had taken
them to sit on the lap of a white Santa Claus inside.  The white Santa
apparently hadn't listened all that hard because James Jr.  hadn't got
the bike he'd asked for, and Millie hadn't got this year's hot doll,
and Terrence hadn't got this year's hot warrior.  So when the doorbell
rang at a quarter to five that Sunday morning, they ran to wake up
their father because they figured this might be the black bell ringing
Santa coming back to make amends for the white department-store Santa's
oversights.

Jimmy Jackson was only mildly annoyed to be awakened by his kids so early
on a Sunday mornin when his mother-in-law was coming to visit, not
to mention his sister Naydelle and her two screamin brats.  He became
singularly irritated, however, when he opened the door and found it wasn't
no joke but, really two honkie dicks, just like they'd said through the
wood, standing there with gold and blue badges in their  hands.  On a Sunday
no less, did the motherfuckers have no consideration whatever?

The kids were asking if he would make pancakes.  since everybody was
up, anyway.

Jackson told them to go ask their  mother.

"So whut is it?"  he said to the cops.

"Mr.  Jackson," Carella said, "we realize it's early in the morning..."

"Yeah, yeah, whut is it?"

"But we're investigating a homicide..."

"Yeah, yeah."

"And we're trying to track the murder weapon."  Jackson looked at
them.

He was a tall, rangy, very dark man, wearing a over pajamas, his eyes
still bleary from sleep, his mouth pulled into a thin angry line.  Man
had a right to the sancty of his own home on Sunday morning, he was
thinking, th out these motherfuckers comin roun.  Murder weapon my ass,
he was thinking.

"Is this about that damn gun again?"  he asked.

From somewhere in the apartment, a woman asked, "Who is it, James?"

"It's

the police,"  one of the children shouted gleefully.  "Can Daddy make
pancakes now?"

"The police?"  she said.  "James?"

"Yeah, yeah," he said.

"It's about the gun again, yes," Hawes said.

"I tole Pratt I dinn see no damn gun in his car.  Nobody seen that damn
gun.  You want my opinion, that gun is a fiction of Pratt's
imagination."

No one had yet invited them into the apartment.  Mrs.  Jackson came
down the hall now in a robe and slippers, a perplexed frown on her
face. She was a tall woman with the bearing of a Masai warrior, the
pale yellow eyes of a panther.  She didn't like cops here scaring her
kids, and she was ready to tell them so.

"What's this," she said, "five o'clock in the mornin?"

"Ma'am," Carella said, "we're sorry to be bothering you, but we're
working a homicide and..."

"What's anybody in this household got to do with a homicide?"

"We're simply trying to find out when the murder weapon disappeared
from the owner's car.  That's all."  "What car?"  she asked.

"Caddy was in for service," her husband explained.

"You work on that Caddy?"

"No.  Gus did."

"Then why they botherin you?"  she said, and turned to the cops again.
"Why you botherin my man?"

"Because an old lady was killed," Carella said simply.

Mrs.  Jackson looked into their faces.

"Come in," she said, "I'll make some coffee."  They went into the
apartment.  Jackson closed the door behind them, double-bolted it, and
put on the safety chain.  The apartment was cold; in this city, in

this building, they couldn't expect heat to start comin up till
six-thirty, seven o'clock.  The radiators will begin clanging then, loud
enough to wake the  dead. Meanwhile, all was silent, all was chilly.  The children
wanted to hang around.  This was better than TV.  Jackson hushed them
off to bed again.  Husband and wife sat at the small kitchen table with the
two  detectives, drinking coffee like family.  This was A.M."  it was
pitch-black outside.  They could hear   police sirens, ambulance sirens
wailing into the night.  All four of them could tell the difference; sirens
the nocturnes of this city.

"That car was a headache minute it come in," Jackson said.  "I'da been
the night man, I'da tole go get a tow truck, haul that wreck outta
here, trouble'n it's worth.  Had to turn away two, three cars the next
day, cause Gus had that damn Caddy on the lift.  When I finely figured
we were done with it. I come in yesterday mornin, the car's a mess.  Man'
coming in to pick it up at ten, it's a mess like I seen before in my
life."

"What do you mean?  Was there still trouble with the engine?"  Carella
asked.

"No, no.  This was inside the car."

Both detectives looked at him, puzzled.  So did his wife.

"Somebody musta left the window open when  they moved it outside," Jackson
said.

They were still looking at him, all three of them trying to figure out
what kind of mess he was talkin about.

"You see The Birds  he asked.  "That movie Alfred   Hitchcock wrote.?"

Carella didn't think Hitchcock had written it.  "Birds tryin'a kill
people all over the place?"  "Whut about it?"  Mrs.  Jackson asked
impatiently.

"Musta been birds got in the car," Jackson said.  "Maybe cause it was
so cold."

"What makes you figure that?"  Hawes asked reasonably.

"Bird shit and feathers all over the place," Jackson said.  "Hadda put
Abdul to cleanin it up fore the man came to claim his car.  Never seen
such a mess in my life.  Birds're smart, you know.  I read someplace
when they was shootin that movie, the crows used to pick the locks on
their cages, that's how smart they are.  Musta got in the car."

"How?  Did you notice a window down?"

"Rear window on the right was open about six inches, yeah."

"You think somebody left that window open overnight?"

"Had to've been."

"And a bird got in, huh?"

"At least a few birds.  There was shit and feathers all over the
place."

"Where was all this?"  Carella asked.

"The backseat," Jackson said.

"And you asked Abdul to clean it up, huh?"

"Directly when he come in Saturday mornin.  I seen the mess put him to
work right away."  "Was he alone in the car?"  "Alone, yeah."

"You didn't see him going into that compartment, did you?"

"Nossir."

"Fiddling around anywhere in the front seatg" "No, he was busy cleanin
up the mess in back."  "Did you watch him all the time he was in the
car?"  "No, I din't.  There was plenty other work to do."  "How long
was he in the car?"

"Hour or so.  Vacuuming, wiping.  It was some you better believe it.
Man came to pick it up at ten, was spotless.  Never've known some birds
was nesting in it overnight."

"But the birds were already gone when you noticed, that open window,
huh?"

"Oh yeah, long gone.  Just left all their  feathers and shit."

"I wish you'd watch your mouth," Mrs.

Jackson said, frowning.

"You figure they got out the same way they got in Hawes asked.

"Musta, don't you think?"

Hawes was wondering how they'd managed a little trick.

So was Carella.

"Well, thank you," he said, "we appreciate your time.  If you can remember
anything else, here's my..."  "Like what?"  Jackson asked.

"Like anyone near that glove compartment."

"I already tole you I didn't see anyone near the glove compartment."

"Well, here's my card, anyway," Carella said.  "If you think of
anything at all that  might help us... "Just don't come around five
o'clock again,"

Jackson said.

Mrs.  Jackson nodded.

What we'd like to do," Carella said on the phone, "is send someone
around for the car and have our people go over it."

"What?"  Pratt said.

This was a quarter past five in the morning.  Carella was calling from a
cell phone in the police sedan.  Hawes was driving.  They were on their
way to Calm's Point, where Abdul Sikhar lived.

"When do I get some sleep here?"  Pratt asked.

"I didn't mean someone coming by right this minute.  If we can..."

"I'm talking about you waking me up right this minute."

I'm sorry about that, but we want to check out the car, find out..."

"So I understand.  Why?"

"Find out what happened inside it."

"What happened is somebody stole my gun."

"That's what we're working on, Mr.  Pratt.  Which is why we'd like our
people to go over the interior."  "What people?"  "Our techs." 
"Looking for what?"

Carella almost said feathers and shit.  "Whatever they can find," he
said.  "You're lucky it's Sunday," Pratt said.  "Sir?"

"I'm not working today."

The three Richards were beginning to sober up beginning to get a
little surly.  They had come all way up here to Diamondback which was
not such a good idea to begin with and now they couldn't find any girls on the
streets, perhaps because a sensible girl was already asleep at five-twenty in
the morning.  Richard the First wasn't afraid of black  people.  He knew that
Diamondback was a notoriou dangerous black ghetto, but he'd been up
here in search of cocaine not for nothing was he nicknamed Lion-Hearted
and he felt he knew how to deal with African Americans.

It was Richard the First's contention that a man, or a black woman, for
that matter, could tell in a wink whether a person was a racist or not.
Of the only black men and women he knew were dealers and prostitutes,
but this didn't lessen his conviction.  A black person could look in a
man's eyes and either find those dead blue eyes he' been conditioned to
expect, or else he might that the white person was truly colorblind.
the First liked to believe he was color-blind, which was why he was up here
in Diamondback at this looking for black pussy.

"Trouble is," he told the other two Richards,
"We
are 
here too late.  Everybody's asleep already."

"Trouble is we're here too early," Richard the Second said.  "Nobody's
awake yet."  "Man, it's fuckin cold out here," Richard the said.  Up
the street, three black men warmed hands at a fire blazing in a
sawed-off oil drum, oblivious to the three preppies in their hooded

The lights of an all-night diner across the street threw warm yellow
rectangles on the sidewalk.  The sun still an hour and forty-five
minutes away.  The three boys decided to urinate in the gutter.  This
was perhaps a mistake.

They were standing there with their dicks in their hands--what the
hell, this was five-thirty in the morning, the streets were deserted
except for the three old farts standing around the oil drum looking
like three monks in their hooded parkas, certainly intending no
affront, merely answering the call of nature, so to speak, on a dark
and stormless night.  It was not perceived in quite this manner by the
black man who came out of the night like a solitary guardian of public
decency, the sole member of the Pissing in Public Patrol, dressed in
black as black as the night, black jeans, black boots, a black leather
jacket, a black O.J. Simpson watch cap pulled down over his ears.

He came striding toward them at exactly the same moment Yolande stepped
into a taxi a mile and a half downtown.

"Thing I hate about the boneyard shift," Hawes said, "is you just start
getting used to it and you're back on the day shift again."

Carella was dialing his home number.

The boneyard shift was the graveyard shift, which was the so-called
morning shift that kept you up all night.

Fanny piked up on the third ring.

"How is he?"  Carella asked.

angel."  She paused for the briefest tick of "Which is what I'd like
to be doing," she said.

"Sorry," Carella said.  "I won't call again.  See you in a few hours."

That's what he thought.

"You a working girl?"  the cabbie asked.  "You a cop?"  Yolande said.
"Sure, a cop," he said.

"Then mind your own business," she said.

"I'm just wondering if you know where you're going."

"I know where I'm going."

"White girl going up to Diamondback..."

"I said I..."

"This hour of the night."

"I know where I'm going.  And it's morning."  "By me, it ain't morning
till the sun comes up."

Yolande shrugged.  It had been a pretty good night for her, and She was
exhausted.

"Why you going to Diamondback?"  the cabbie asked.  His name on the
plastic-enclosed permit on the dashboard to the right of the meter read MAX
LIEBOWITZ.  Jewish, Yolande thought.  Last dying breed of big-city
cabdrivers.  Nowadays, most of your cabbies were from India or the Middle
east.  Some of them couldn't speak English.  None knew where Duckworth Avenue
was.  Yolande knew where it was.  She had blown a Colombian drug on
Duckworth Avenue in Calm's Point.  He had given  her a five-hundred-dollar
tip.  She would never

Duckworth Avenue in her life.  She wondered if Max Liebowitz knew
where Duckworth Avenue was.  She wondered if Max Liebowitz knew she
herself was Jewish.

"I didn't hear your answer, miss," he said.

"I live up there," she said.

"You live in Diamondback?"  he said, and shot a glance at her in the
rearview mirror.

"Yes."

Actually Jamal lived in Diamondback.  All she did was live with Jamal.
Jamal Stone, no relation to Sharon, who had built a career by flashing
her wookie.  Yolande flashed her wookie a thousand times a day.  Too
bad she couldn't act.  Then again, neither could a lot of girls who
were good at flashing their wookies.  "How come you live up there?"
Liebowitz asked.  "I like paying cheap rent," she said.

Which wasn't exactly true.  Jamal paid the rent.  But he also took
every penny she earned.  Kept her in good shit, though.  Speaking of
which, it was getting to be about that time.  She looked at her watch.
Twenty-five to six.  Been a hard day's night.

"Worth your life, a white girl living up there," Liebowitz said.

Nice Jewish girl, no less, Yolande thought, but did not say it because she
couldn't bear seeing a grown man cry.  A nice Jewish girl like you?
Giving blow jobs to passing motorists at fifty bucks a throw.  A Jewish
girl?  Suck your what?  She almost smiled.

"So what are you then?"  Liebowitz asked.  "A dancer?"

"Yeah," she said, "how'd you guess?"

"Pretty girl like you, this hour of the night, I'm a dancer in one of
the topless bars."

"Yeah, you hit it right on the head."

"I'm not a mind reader," Liebowitz said, chuckling.  "You were standing
in front of the Stardust when you hailed me."

Which was where she'd given some guy from Connecticut a twenty-dollar hand
job while the girts onstage rattled and rolled.

"Yep," she said.

Tipped the manager two bills a night to let her freelance in the joint.
Pissed the regulars workin there, but gee, tough shit, honey.

"So where you from originally?"  Liebowitz asked.

unlo, she said.

"I knew it wasn't here.  You don't have the accent."  She almost told
him her father owned a deli in Cleveland.  She didn't.  She almost told
him  she had once been to Paris, France.  She didn't.  Yolande Marie was
her mother's idea.  Yolande Marie Marx, Known in the trade as Groucho,
just kidding.  known in the trade as Marie St.  Claire, which Jamal had
come up with, lot of difference it made to the johns on wheels.  My
name is Marie St.  Claire, case you're interested.  Nice to meet you,
Marie, take it deeper.

She had nightmares about a john pulling up in a blue station wagon and
she leans in the window and "Hey, hiya.  Wanna party?"  and she gets in
the car and unzips his fly and it's her father.  Dreamt that on average
twice a week.  Woke up in a cold sweat every time.  Dear Dad, I am
still working here in the toy shop, it's a shame you never get out of
Cleveland now

that Mom's bedridden, maybe I'll be home for Yom Kippur.  Sure. Take
it deeper, hon.

"So do you have to do anything else at that bar?"  "How do you mean?"

"You know," Liebowitz said, and looked at her in the rearview mirror.
"Besides dancing?"

She looked back at him.  He had to be sixty years old, short
bald-headed little fart could hardly see over the steering wheel.
Hitting on her.  Next thing you knew he'd offer to barter.  Fare on the
meter was now six dollars and thirty cents.  He'd agree to swap it for
a quickie in the backseat.  Nice Jewish man.  Unzip his fly, out would
pop her father.  "So do you?"  "Do what?"

"Other things beside dancing topless."  "Yeah, I also sing topless,"
she said.  "Go on, they don't sing in those places."  "I do."

"You're kidding me."

"No, no.  You want to hear me sing, Max?"

"Nah, you don't sing."

"I sing like a bird," Yolande said, but did not demonstrate.  Liebowitz
was thinking this over, trying to determine whether or not she was
putting him on.

"What else do you really do?"  he asked.  "Besides sing and dance?
Topless."

She was beginning to think it might not be a bad idea to turn another
trick on the way home.  But not for the six-ninety now on the meter.
How much cash you carrying, Zayde?  she wondered.  Want a piece of
nineteen-year-old Jewish-girl ass you can tell your

grandchildren about next Hanukkah?  She thought her father again,
decided no.  Still, talk old Max into a hundred for a quick blow job,
might be worth it.  Twice the going price for a street girl, but oh
such tender goods, what do you say, Granpa?

"What'd you have in mind?"  she asked coyly.

The black man in the black jeans, black leather jacket, black boots,
and black watch cap appeared in front of them like an avenging angel of
death.  They almost all three of them peed on his boots, he was
standing that close.

"Now what do you call this?"  he asked rhetorically.

"We call it pissing in the gutter," Richard the Second said.

"I call it disrespect for the neighborhood," the black man said.  "That
what the letter P stand for? Pissing."

"Join us, why don't you?"  Richard the Third suggested.

"My name is Richard," Richard the First said,

zipping up and extending his hand to the black man.  "So is mine"
Richard the Second said.  "Me, too," Richard the Third said.

"As it happens," the black man said, "my name is Richard, too."

Which now made four of them.

Bloody murder was only an hour and sixteen minutes away.

Abdul Sikhar lived in a two-bedroom Calm's Point apartment with five
other men from Pakistan.  They had all known each other in their native
town of

Rawalpindi, and they had all come to the United States at different
times over the past three years.  Two of the men had wives back home. A
third had a girlfriend there.  Four of the men worked as cabdrivers and
were in constant touch by CB radio all day long.  Whenever they babbled
in Urdu, they made their passengers feel as if a terrorist act or a
kidnapping was being plotted.  The four cabbies drove like the wind in
a camel's mane.  None of them knew it was against the law to blow your
horn in this city.  They would have blown it anyway.  Each and every
one of them could not wait till he got out of this fucking city in this
fucking United States of America.  Abdul Sikhar felt the same way,
though he did not drive like the wind.  What he did was pump gas and
wash cars at Bridge Texaco.

When he answered the door at ten to six that morning, he was wearing
long woolen underwear and along-sleeved woolen top.  He looked like he
needed a shave but he was merely growing a beard.  He was twenty years
old, give or take, a scrawny kid who hated this country and who would
have wet the bed at night if he wasn't sleeping in it with two other
guys.  The detectives identified themselves.  Nodding, Sikhar stepped
out into the hallway, closing the door behind him, whispering that he
did not wish to awaken his "mates," as he called them, an archaic term
from the days of British rule back home, those bastards.  When he
learned what their business here was, he excused himself and went back
inside for a moment, stepping into the hallway again a moment later,
wearing along black overcoat over his long johns, unlaced black shoes
on his feet.  They stood now beside a grimy hall

window that sputtered orange neon from outside.  Sikhar lighted a
cigarette.  Neither Carella or Hawes smoked.  They both wished they could
arrest him.

"So what is this about a pistol?"  he asked

"Everyone wishes to know about this pistol."  "The feathers, too,"
Carella said.  "And the bird shit," Hawes said.

"Such a mess," Sikhar agreed, nodding, puffing the cigarette, holding
it the way Peter Lorre did in Maltese Falcon.  He himself looked
something ofa mess, but perhaps that was because the deveh beard looked
like a smudge on his face

"What kind of feathers were they, would you  know?"  Hawes asked.

"Pigeon feathers, I would say."

"Why would you say that?"

"There are many pigeons near the bridge."

"And you think some of them got in the car  somehow, is that it?"

"I think so, yes.  And panicked.  Which is why shit all over
everything."

"Pretty messy in there, huh?"  Carella said.

"Oh yes."

"How do you suppose they got out again?"  Hawes asked.

"Birds have ways," Sikhar said.

He looked at the men mysteriously.

They looked back mysteriously.

"How about the gun?"  Carella said.

"What gun?"

"You know what gun."

Sikhar dropped the cigarette to the floor, ground it out under the
sole of one black shoe, and took a crumpled package of Camels from the
right-hand pocket of the long black coat.  "Cigarette?"  he asked,
offering the pack first to Carella and next to Hawes, both of whom
refused, each shaking his head somewhat violently.  Sikhar did not get
the subtle message.  He fired up at once.  Clouds of smoke billowed
into the hallway, tinted orange by the sputtering neon outside the
window.  For some peculiar reason, Carella thought of Dante's inferno.
"The gun," he prompted.

"The famous missing pistol," Sikhar said.  "I know nothing about it."

"You spent an hour or so in that car, didn't you?  Cleaning up the
mess?"

"A terrible mess," Sikhar agreed.

"Did the birds get anywhere near the glove compartment?"

"No, the mess was confined exclusively to the backseat."

"So you spent an hour or so in the backseat of the car."  "At least."

"Never once went into the front seat?"

"Never.  Why would I?  The mess was in the backseat."

"I thought, while you were cleaning the car..."  "No."

"You might have gone up front, given the dashboard a wipe..."

"No,"

"The glove compartment door, give everything a  wipe up there, too."

"No, I didn't do that."  "Then you wouldn't know whether the
compartment was unlocked or not, would you?"

"I would not know."

"What time did you start work on the car?"

"When I got there.  Jimmy showed me the mess told me to clean it up.  I
got immediately to work."  "What time was that?"  "About seven
o'clock." "On Saturday morning."

"Yes, Saturday.  I work six days a week," he said pointedly, and looked
at his watch.  It was now close six o'clock on Sunday morning.  Dawn
would come in an hour and fifteen minutes.

"Anybody else come near that car while you were in it?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"Jose Santiago."

The thing Richard the Fourth did up here in  Diamondback was sell  crack
cocaine to nice little like the three Richards he was now leading up
the street to an underground bar where he promised them there'd be
girls aplenty.  Richard's family name was Cooper, and he was sometimes
called Coop by people who wanted to get friendly with him, not knowing
he despised the name Coop.  This was the same as some jackass coming up
to some dude and slamming him on the back and yelling in his face,
"Hey, remember me,

Sal?"  Only his fuckin name ain't Sal, dig?  Richard's name was
Richard, and that was what he preferred being called, thank you.
Certainly not Coop, nor Rich or Richie neither, nor even Ricky or Rick.
Just plain Richard.  Like the three Richards with him now, who he was
telling about these quite nice jumbo vials he happened to have in his
pocket, would they care for a taste at fifteen a pop?

The crack and the money were changing hands, black to white and white
to black, when the taxi pulled up to the curb, and along-legged white
girl in a fake-fur jacket and red leather boots stepped out.  The
driver's window rolled down.  The driver looked somewhat dazed; as if
he'd been hit by a bus.  "Thanks, Max," the girl said, and blew him a
kiss, and was swiveling onto the sidewalk, a slender, red, patent
leather bag under her arm, when Richard Cooper said, "Hey, Yolande, you
jess the girl we lookin for."

Fifty-six minutes later, she was dead.

She has done three-ways before, but this is what promises to be a
four-way and then possibly if Richard puts in his two cents.  She knows
from the hood, he deals good shit.  In fact, he used to be in business
together with Jamal for some time they went their separate ways.  She
is not  eager for this to turn into a five-way with Richard the
equation, but as Jamal is fond of saying, "Business  is business and never the
twain shall meet."

At the same time, it's been a very busy night, God, and she's really
very sleepy, and would like  nothing better than to go back to the pad and
present Jamal with  the spoils of the night, so to speak, and cuddle with him
a little, he is very good at cuddlin when you lay almost two thousand
bucks on him.  Richard here is talking six hundred for the preppies
here, two hundred apiece for the next hours, and giving her the nod to
indicate he must  wet his wick a bit, too, in which case he will put into
the  pot five jumbos.

What he is suggesting and she is considering seriously now, even though
she is bone-tired and besides is that they all go up to his place to do
crack and get down to realities, sistuh, you hear what  I'm sayin?  She is
thinking six hundred and the jumbos, which at today's market price is
fifteen for the red-topped vials, and wondering how she can escalate

thing a bit higher, it being so late at night or so early in the
morning, depending on where you're coming from.  She wonders if they'll
go for a big one and ten jumbos.  She decides that's too far a reach.
Instead, she tells Richard and the three preppies who are nodding
sympathetically while ripping off her clothes with their eyes tells
Richard she's been out since eleven last night and it's been along one,
bro, so maybe we ought to just pass unless we can sweeten the pot a
little, hm?  He asks her what she means by sweeten it, how sweet does
she wish to sweeten it, and she decides to push the envelope, what the
hell.

"If you'll be joining the party," she says, I'll need ten jumbos..."

"No problem," Richard says at once.

Jesus!  she thinks.

"And a grand from the college boys here."

The preppies are flattered that she thinks they'-re from Princeton or
Yale instead of some shiny little boys' school in Vermont or wherever
the fuck.  But the thousand-dollar tab sticks in their craw, she can
see that, so she says at once, "Though you're all so cute, I might do
it for nine."

One of the preppies she later learns they're all named Richard, this is
going to be some kind of confusing gang bang immediately says, "Make it
eight," but she knows he's just trying to sound like his banker father
in Michigan or wherever, so she says, "I can't do it for less than
nine.  Hey, you're all real cute, but..."

"How about eight-fifty?"  one of the other Richards 'asks.

"It has to be nine or I'm out of here," she says.  She does not know,
at that juncture in time, she walks right this minute, she will still
be al fifty-one minutes from now.  She does not begin realize she's in
serious danger until it is almost late, when things begin getting out
of hand.  This much later.  Right now, they are haggling over and if
she walks she still has a shot at survival.  boys go into a kind of a
football huddle she learns they're all stars on their school's team
come clapping out of it, big financial over, big white Ps on the back
of their parkas, and one of them says, "Will you accept traveler's check,
Richard busts out laughing.  Laughing as Yolande says, "Done deal."

She has done three-ways before and in fact enjoyed some of them,
especially when it's two and a guy.  With most of the girls you fake
it, you know, you make a lot of lapping, slurping sounds, you moan Oh yeah,
honey, do it, while nobody's anything to anybody.  But the john gets
all thinking he's got two hot lezzies here really getting off.  With
some girls in a three-way, though, you're  really doing what the john
thinks you're doing, and can be quite enjoyable, really, all that
tongue because another girl knows just where the target is, knows just
which buttons to push, so yeah it can  be really really good.

Two guys and a girl, you kind of lose control.  that they get all macho
on you, one of them fucking you from behind while you're blowing the
other one and they start saying, You love it, don't you, cunt?  

It gets degrading when there are two guys flexing, their muscles and
trying to prove how big  their cocks are.  It's not that she thinks she's
a princess or anything, she knows what she does for a living, she knows
she's a fucking whore, I mean, she knows that.  It's just that when
there are two guys, she really begins to feel used, you know, she
really begins to feel they have no respect at all for her, and she
comes away with a dirty feeling afterward, no matter how much she tells
herself she was detached the whole time.  It's that they  used her, is
all.  They flat out used her.

So now, here in Richard's pad where she remembers coming to a party
once with Jamal when the two of them were first starting out in
business together, dealing pot to kindergarten kids, that's a

:. joke, son, they never went near any of the schools, you think
they're crazy?  Can remember coming to a party here, but not this kind
of party with three white preppies and a black guy has a shlong the
size of a python.  The only black guy she does it with is Jamal and
that's because he takes care of her and she loves him.  She knows how
big black guys can be, and she gets sore even after she does it with
Jamal, which is not too frequently because business is business and
never the twain shall meet.

Anyway, what she shares with Jamal transcends mere sex, he was the one
took her under his wing when she got off the bus from Cleveland, he's
the one makes sure nobody hurts her.  Anybody gets funny with her, she
tells Jamal about it and he breaks the guy's legs.  Besides, Jamal is
regularly fuckin this other girl he takes care of,: whose name is
Carlyle, which Jamal

 gave her.  Carlyle is black and very beautiful,

can understand the attraction.  Occasionally they three-ways together.
Jamal Stone and Carlyle

(which he also gave her) and Marie St.  Claire

Sometimes Yolande wonders how she ever got into this stuff, boy.  But
listen, what the hell.

She is wondering now how she got into this tonight when she's so
goddamn bone-weary, but ,

course nine bills is nine bills, not to mention the jumbos, which are
worth a cool hundred and

Plus, the preppies are sharing their stash with everybody beaming up to
the Enterprise on the  nickel, until they're all sitting stoned in their
underwear and grinning at each other, Jesus the shlong on Richard, the
black Richard, which is she discovers they're all four of them named Richard
how cute.  Richard the black Richard is standin front of her now and
idly gliding the head of his dick over her lips, while a preppie on
either side

 is grabbing a tit and the third preppie is watching jerking off in
preparation.

'

So far, no one has called her cunt or bitch.

Or cocksucker is a favorite, too.

Later, she will wonder how this got so out
of
hand. Nobody seemed to know where Jose Santiago was.

This was now six-forty in the morning.      His mother
didn't know,    none of his friends knew, the guy at the
counter at the local hangout hamburger joint didn't know, nobody knew,
the whole neighborhood suddenly gone deaf, dumb, and blind.  The
police

took this to mean that everybody knew where   Santiago was, but you are
The Man, man, and nobody going to tell you, ÆÊsave  for

a
 faint hint of mom gloam only seemed to touch the sky.  It was still
thirty-five minutes till dawn, the night refused to yield.  The bleak
January morning was still flat, dull and dark, but there was activity
in the streets right   now.  Even on a Sunday, there was work to be done in
this city, and early risers were beginning to move sluggishly toward
the subways and the bus stops,

passing revelers and predators who were just now heading home to bed.
The homeless, sensing dawn, anticipating the safety that would come
with full light, were already crawling back into their cardboard
boxes.

Outside a candy store on the corner of Santiago's block, a man was
carrying in a tied bundle of newspapers.  He was still wearing his
overcoat and earmuffs.  The scalloped edge of the furled green awning
over the front of the store read:,  HErnandez VARIETY- NEWSPAPERS
LOTTERY-COFFEE.  They assumed he was Hernandez himself; there was a
bustling air of ownership about him.  The store lights beckoned warmly
behind him.  Coffee sounded pretty good just about now.

"Cops, right?"  Hernandez asked the moment they stepped inside.

"Right," Hawes said.

"How did I know, right?"

Not a trace of an accent.  Hawes figured him for a third-generation
Puerto Rican, grandfather probably came over on the Marine Tiger with
the first wave of

immigrants from the island.  Probably had kids at college.

"How did you know?"  he asked.  Hernandez shrugged as if to indicate he
wasted  valuable time answering such a ridicuh question.  He had still
not taken off the overcoat and earmuffs.  The store was cold.  The entire
universe cold this morning.  Ignoring them, he busied himself cutting the
cords around the newspaper bundles.  big headline on the morning
tabloid read:

PIANIST

SLAIN

On the so-called quality paper, big headlines reserved for acts of war
or national disaster.  smaller headline over a boxed article in the right corner of the front page read:

VIRTUOSO MURDERED

SVETLANA

DYALOVICH VICTIM OF

SHOOTING

Easy come, easy go.

"You serving coffee yet?"  Carella asked.  "Should be ready in a few
minutes."

"Know anybody named Jose Santiago?"  asked.

What the hell, they'd already asked everyone else the neighborhood.  He
looked to Carella for

Carella was watching the hot plate on a narrow shelf behind the counter.
Brewing coffee dripped into the pot.  The aroma was almost too much. 
"Why, what'd he do?"  Hernandez asked.  "Nothing.  We just want to talk
to him."

Hernandez shrugged again.  The shrug said that this also too
ridiculous even to acknowledge.  "Do you know him?"  Hawes persisted.

"He comes in here," Hernandez admitted offhandedly.  "Know where he is
right now?"  "No, where?"

Little joke there.  Hee hee hee.

"Do you or don't you?"  Hawes asked.

They were smelling something besides coffee here.  "Why?  What'd he
do?" "Nothing."

Hernandez looked at them.

"Really," Hawes said.

"Then try the roof of his building.  He keeps pigeons."

Richard, the black Richard, has already come all over her face, as a
matter of fact, which she didn't quite appreciate, but he's the one set
up the party, after all.  He's sitting in a corner now, a blanket
around him, watching television, so she knows for sure he's not the one
who starts this thing going haywire.  For once you can't blame the
black guy, mister.

She doesn't think it's the Richard with the red hair, either, because
he's sort of content to keep toying with her right tit, which she has
to admit she has terrific knockers, even back in Cleveland they said
so.  The Richard with the dark hair is now sticking his fingers inside
her, searching for her clit, good luck, mister, the condition you're
in.  He's very hard.  She has his cock in her hand and she is stroking
it pretty fiercely, hoping she can bring him off this way, get this
thing over with, go home to bed.  But he's spreading her legs

now, and trying to climb into her, they're all so stoned nobody knows
how to do diddly, except the preppie who's licking her nipple like it's his
mother's.  He knows just what he's doing, and seems to be having a nice
time doing it, maybe he'll  come this way, she certainly hopes so, kill two
with one stone here.

So it must be the blond Richard who pulls the freezer bag over her
head.

She knows at once that she is going to die.

She knows this is going to be her worst nightmare realized.

She is going to suffocate inside a plastic freezer bag one of those sturdy
things you stuff a leg of lamb in not the kind of thin plastic that clings
to your face, warn you to keep away from children.  No, she's n going
to die with plastic clinging to her nostrils her lips.  Instead, she's
going to exhaust all the inside the bag, she's going to die that way,
there'll be  no more oxygen left to breathe inside the bag, she's going to
die... "No, cunt," he says, and takes the bag from her and sticks his
cock in her mouth.

She is actually grateful for the cock.  She will have a cock any day of the
week over a freezer bag on her head, accept the one in her mouth and the
one in her hand and the one in her vagina she always thinks of it as her
vagina, it is her vagina, thank you, same as vagina on a lady in
London.  So happy is she that the freezer bag isn't on her head
anymore, she will even accept black Richard's big shlong again, if he
would like to bring it over right this minute.  But no, black

Richard seems content to be lying there in the corner all huddled up,
watching television.  She wonders if she should yell over to him that
this preppie son of a bitch tried to scare her a minute ago by putting
a freezer bag over her head.

"Cocksucker," the preppie says.

And pulls the bag over her head again.

Steaming cardboard containers of coffee in their hands, the detectives
climbed the six stories to the roof of Santiago's building, opened the
fire door, and stepped outside.  The city almost caught them by
surprise.  They almost found it beautiful.  They stood by the parapet,
sipping their coffees, staring down at the lights spread below them
like a nest of jewels.  Darkness was fading fast.  On the far side of
the roof, they could hear the gentle cooing of Santiago's pigeons. They
walked over to the coop.

The perching pigeons were hunkered down inside their grey and white
overcoats.

The floor of the coop was covered with feathers and shit.

Santiago was nowhere in sight.

The time was 6:5.  

In three minutes, Yolande would be dead.

The preppie whose cock was in her hand a minute ago now has her by the
right wrist, and the one who was fucking her has hold of her left
wrist, and now they all join in the fun, the three Richards, two of
them keeping her pinned down, the third one making sure the bag is in
place over her head and tight around her

neck.  She is going to die, she knows she is going to die.  She knows
that in a minute, in thirty seconds,

two seconds, she will run out of breath and... "No, bitch."

And he yanks off the bag, and sticks his cock in her mouth again.

This is a game for them, she thinks.  She hopes.

a game.  Put the bag on, take the bag off.  They read someplace that
depriving a person of air heightens the sexual pleasure.  She hopes.  But
why are they calling her cunt and bitch and  shit face why is one of
them pushing... "No!"  she screams, but it is too late, he has shoved
it inside her, whatever it is, hurting her, tearin her, no, please, and
now the plastic bag is on her again, and she hears over the ringing in
her ears Richard from across the room mumbling, "Hey, whut's... ?"  and
she screams inside the bag, tries to scream inside the bag, and she hears
black yelling, "The fuck you doin?"  and she thinks Help!  and she
screams "Help!"  inside the bag, and this time she knows she is going to
die, this time the pain is so overwhelming, why is he doing this to
her twisting something jagged and sharp inside her, she is going to die,
please, she wants to die, she breathes, she can't bear it a moment...
"No, cunt!"  he shouts, and yanks the bag from head.

The rush of oxygen is so sweet.

She feels something Sticky,and wet on her lips.

She thinks this will be the end of it.  They will leave her alone now.
She hurts too badly.  She is too torn and

ragged below, she knows she is hemorrhaging below.  Please, she
thinks. Just leave me alone now.  Please.  Enough.

"You guys crazy?"

Richard.

Good, she thinks.  This is the end of it.  But the bag is over her head
again.  And they are holding her down again.

They were back in the car maybe two or three minutes when they caught a
10-29 to proceed to 841 St.  Sebastian Avenue.  The dispatcher wouldn't
call this a homicide for sure because all she had was a dead body in
the alleyway there and nobody yet knew what the cause of death was.
Could've been a heart attack there in the alley.  So she told them the
blues had a corpse there, and mentioned that she had also notified
Homicide just in case, which is how Monoghan and Monroe got into the
act for the second time that night.

The time was a quarter past seven, the sun was just coming up, sort of.
This wasn't going to be any rosy-fingered dawn, that was for sure. This
was just the end of another hard day's night, the shift almost having
run its course, except that now they did, as it turned out, have
another homicide on their hands.  The freezer bag over the girl's head
told them that.

The girl looked like a hooker, but nowadays it was difficult to
separate the wheat from the chaff.  You got Hollywood starlets showing
up at the Academy Awards wearing dresses that made them look like
streetwalkers, but you also got bona fide prosties standing on the

corner looking like apple-cheeked college girls

Minnesota, so who was to say for sure?  "A hooker," Monoghan said. 
"For sure," Monroe said.

"Probably her pimp done her," Monoghan suggested.

"That's why her handbag's gone."

Which was keen deduction.  Carella figured if he hung around long enough,
he might learn something.  He was wondering why, if this had been a
pimp, why the guy hadn't simply stabbed her.  Or shot her.  Why fancy?  Why a
freezer bag over her head?  It was obvious that someone, pimp or whoever,
had dragged her into the alley.  She was lying on her back in a pool of
coagulating blood, but bloody smears led from the curb, where the track
seemed to have begun.  someone driven her here, and then dragged her to
where she now lay beside a bank of garbage cans and stacks of
black-bagged garbage?

"She might have been pregnant," speculated.  "All that blood."

"Nowadays, people kill you so they can tear the baby out of your belly,"
Monoghan said.

"It's ancient times all over again," Monroe said.

"There's no civilization anymore," Monoghan said.  "Fucking savages
nowadays," Monroe said, with more feeling than Carella had ever thought
he'd possessed.

In the dim light of a cold grey dawn, the girl's face under the plastic
freezer bag was as white as the ice on the alley floor.

 They had wrapped her in the sheet before carrying her down to black
Richard's car, and then had driven a mile uptown on St.  Sab's, where
they'd dragged her into the alley still wrapped in it.  But black
Richard knew cops had ways of tracing sheets and shit, and he'd
convinced the others to roll her out of it before they left her there
by the garbage cans, rats big as cats running all over the alley, made
him shiver all over

again just to think of them.

Fuckin honkies wanted no part of him once they'd used his car to drop
the bitch off, but he reminded them it wasn't him had suffocated her,
wasn't him had torn her open, was three fuckin rich guys named

Richard, from a school named Pierce Academy,

which was stitched on the front of all their fuckin P

parkas the fuckin football on the back, dig?  So either they helped him
clean up the car and the apartment and get rid of the bloody sheet, or
whut he was gonna do,

ole black Richard here, would  run straight to the cop shop.  They
believed him.  Maybe cause he also showed them a switchblade knife
bigger than any of their  dicks and tole them he was gonna circumscribe
them real bad if they tried to split on him now.

Ended up they'd tidied up the apartment like four speed queens come to
work from a cleaning service.

Weren't no car washes open this time of night, day,

whatever the fuck, and Richard didn't want to go to no garage, neither,
blood all over the backseat that way,

he never knew anybody could bleed that bad.  He remembered a movie he'd
seen one time, blood and shit all over a car from a shootin inside it,
this wasn't like that, but there was plenty blood, anyway, and he

didn't know any big-shot gangster he could call come set it straight.
All he knew was these honkies better help him or their  name was shit.

In movies and on television, blacks and whites all pals and shit, that
was all make-believe.  In real life you never saw blacks and whites together
hardly at all In that movie where the guy's brains were spattered over the
car, this black guy and this white guy two contract hitters tighter'n
Dick's hatband.  But was make-believe, callin each other "nigger" and
that, black guy callin the white guy "nigger," guy callin the nigger
"nigger" right back, break the fuckin head any white man called Richard
"nigger," never mind that movie bullshit!  Was a white wrote that
movie, the luck he knew about black

What was real, my friend, was equality never come to pass here in this
land of the free and home the brave, wasn't no black man ever trusted a
man and vice versa, never.  Richard didn't trust these three white
bastards and they didn't trust him, but they needed each other right
now cause a girl been killed in his apartment and they were the guy's who killed
her.  The white guys, not him.  But it was his apartment, don't forget
that.  Cops had a way of never forgettin little black mishaps like
that, fuckin cops.

So this was what you might call strange bedfellows here, which was what
it actually was called in a book Richard read one time.  Oh, he was
literate, man, don't kid your fuckin self.  Read books, saw movies,
even went to see a play downtown one time had all blacks in it about
soldiers.  His opinion blacks were the best actors in the world cause
they knew what sufferin was

all about.  That movie with the brains all over the car, was the black
guy shoulda got the Cademy Award, never mind the white guy.

So here they were, the four of them, three white guys didn't know shit
about anything, and one black guy teachin them all about survival here
in the big bad city.  Thing they didn't know was that soon as they
cleaned up his car and got rid of the sheet they'd wrapped the bitch
in, he was gonna stick it to them good.

The girl's name was Yolande Marie Marx.  Her fingerprints told them
that.  She had a B-sheet not quite as long as her arm, but long enough
for a kid who was only nineteen.  Most of the arrests were for
prostitution.  But there were two for shoplifting and half a dozen for
possession, all bullshit violations when she was underage that had got
her off with a succession of slaps on the wrist from bleeding-heart
judges.  When she turned eighteen, she finally did three months at
Hopeville, some name for a female correctional facility.  She worked
under the name Marie St.  Claire, which alias was on the record.  Her
pimp's name was there, too.

The shift had changed without them.

At fifteen minutes to eight, give or take, the eight-man team of
detectives on the day shift had relieved six of the detectives on the
morning shift, but not Carella and Hawes, who were still out in the
field.  They were there, instead of home in bed, because maybe they had
something to go on in the murder of Yolande Marie Marx.  Her death
might never make

newspaper headlines; she was not Sw

Even if they caught whoever had brutally slain her, murder would never
result in anything more than media mention.  But they had the name of
her pimp And the man had a substantial record, including arrest for a New
Orleans murder some ten years afor which he had done time at
Louisiana's An State Penitentiary.  He was now gracing this city with his
presence; a policeman's lot was not a happy
one.
Especially not at eight in the morning, when Carel and Hawes knocked on
Jamal Stone's door and bullets came crashing through the wood even when they
announced themselves.

"Gun!"  Hawes shouted, but Carella had already hit the deck, and Hawes came
tumbling immediately afterward.  Both men lay side by side the hallway
outside the door now, breathing sweating heavily despite the cold,
heads close together, guns in their hands.

"Guy's a mind reader," Hawes whispered.

Carella was wondering when the next shots would come.

Hawes was wondering the same thing.  The door opened, surprising them.
They almost shot him.

"Who the fuck are you?"  Jamal asked.

What it was or so he explained in the secon interrogation room up at
the old Eight-Seven he was expecting someone else, was what it was.
Instead, he got two policemen breaking down the door.  Crack of dawn.
Two cops.

"You always shoot at people who knock on your door?"  Hawes asked.

"Only when I expect them to shoot me," Jamal said.  This was now
beginning to get interesting.  In fact, Bert Kling was almost happy
they'd asked him and Meyer to sit in on the interrogation.  It was
still early enough on the shift to enjoy a cup of coffee with
colleagues who'd been out in the freezing cold all night long.  But
aside from the camaraderie, and the bonhomie, and the promise of some
entertainment from a man who'd been around the block once or twice and
who  felt completely at home in a police station, the doubling-up was
a way of bringing them up to speed on one of the two squeals Carella and
Hawes had caught during the night.

There used to be a sign on the squad room wall (before Detective Andy
Parker tore it down in a fit of pique) that read: IT'S YOUR CASE! STICK
WITH IT!  The Dyalovich murder and the Marx murder did indeed belong to
Carella and Hawes as the detectives who'd caught them.  But they would
not be on duty again until 11:45 tonight and meanwhile there were two
long eight-hour shifts between now and then.  In police work, things
could become fast-breaking in the wink of an eye; briefing the oncoming
team was a ritual these men observed more often than not.

Jamal figured the two new cops for the brains here.  The ones asking
the questions were the ones almost got themselves shot, so how smart
could they be?  But the big bald-headed guy his ID tag read DET/2ND GR
MEYER MEYER, must've been a computer glitch looked smart as could be. 
The tall blond guy

with the appearance of a farm boy, DET/3RD BERT KLING, was probably
the one played Go, Cop to the bald guy's Bad Cop when they had some cheap
thief.  Right now, though, both of them were as still as coiled snakes,
watching, listening.

"Who were you expecting to shoot you?"  Carella asked.

This was all vamping till ready.  They didn't actually care who wanted to
shoot him, good riddance to bad  rubbish, as Carella's mother was fond of
saying. All  they really wanted to know was whether Jamal was the one who'd put
that freezer bag over Yolande's head. Toward that end, they would let him
talk forever all his real or imagined enemies out there, make him feel
comfortable, ply him with cigarettes and wait for him to reveal through
word or gesture that they already knew why he was here being questioned by
a 
pair of detectives, which no one had yet told him, which he hadn't yet
asked about, either.  Which might  or might not have meant something.
felons, it was difficult to tell.

Jamal puffed on his cigarette.

Meyer and Kling watched him.

Their presence was a bit unsettling.  He was beginning to wonder if they
were cops headquarters or something.  What kind of thing was this, two cops
from headquarters here observing?  he knew better than to ask why he
was up here.  Too easy to step into shit that way.  So he puffed on his
cigarette and sipped at his coffee and told them all about this
Colombian crack dealer who thought he'd stole some shit from him, which
he hadn't, but who let

the word out that he was looking for him and was going to kill him. So
when he heard somebody banging on the door eight o' clock in the
morning, the sun hardly up, he figured he'd better make the first move
here because there might not be no second move.  Which is why he'd
pumped four through the door.  Then, not hearing a sound out there, he
figured he'd nailed whoever had done the knocking, and he opened the
door expecting to find Manuel Diaz bleeding on the floor

"That's his name, Manuel Diaz, I just gave you something."

As if they didn't already know the names of all the dealers in most of
the precincts up here.

"But instead it was you two guys, who I almost shot, by the way, before
you yelled "Police."  " Jamal shrugged.  "So here we are," he said.

"Here we are," Hawes agreed.

Jamal still knew better than to ask what this was all about.  The big
bald guy and the tall blond guy were both looking very stern now, as if
he'd said something wrong a minute ago.  He wondered what it could have
been.  Fuck em, he thought.  I can wait this out as long as you can. He
lit another cigarette.  Meyer nodded.  So did Kling.  Jamal wondered
why they were nodding.  These two guys were making him very nervous. 
He felt relieved when Carella asked another question.  "Who was the girl
with you?"  "Friend of mine," Jamal said.

Carlyle Yancy was one of the two girls he ran.  Her real name was Sarah
Rowland, which he'd changed for her the minute he put her on the
street.  Jamal

wasn't about to discuss either her profession or "Friend of mine"
covered a lot of territory.

"How old is she?"  Hawes asked.  This also covered  a lot of territory.
Cops always asked how old was the   girl figuring you'd wet your pants if she
was underage.  "Twenty," Jamal said.  "No cigar."  "What's she do?"

"What do you mean, what's she do?"

"Is she a prostitute?"

"Hey, come on.  What kind of question is that?"  "Well, Jamal,
considering your record..."  So that's how they'd got to him.  But why?
calling a man by his first name was an old cop trick. Jamal knew quite well,
thank you.

"I haven't been in that line of work for a long time he said.

Meyer raised an eyebrow.  He was wondering if being a pimp qualified as
work.  So was  Kling  Carella  And Hawes.  Jamal read their faces and
figured them for a bunch of cynics.  "How about murder?"  Carella asked.
 "Have you been in that line of work recently?"

"I paid my debt to society," Jamal said with dignity

"So we understand.  Released last April, is that right?"

"That's right.  The slate is clean."

Still with dignity.

"What have you been doing since?"

"Different kinds of work."

"Different from pimping?"  Hawes asked.  "Different from murder?"
Carella asked.  "Just different jobs here and there."

"Here and where?"  "Here in the city."  "Lucky us," Hawes said.

"What kind of different jobs?"  Carella asked.

They were harassing him now.  Trying to put him on edge.  He knew it
and they knew it.  He remained unruffled.  He'd been involved with
cops ever since he was twelve.  Wasn't a cop in the world could rattle
him now.

"Drove a taxi, drove a delivery truck, worked as a waiter," he said.
"Odd jobs like that."

"By the way," Hawes said, "we have another B-sheet here," and turned it
so Jamal could see the name typed across the top of it.  MARX, YOLANDE
MARIE, and below that, in parentheses, alias MARIE

ST.  CLAIRE.

"Know her?"  Carella asked.

If they had her B-sheet, they knew he was pimping for her.  Was she in
some kind of trouble again?  The last time she'd shoplifted, he told
her he'd break both her legs if she ever brought down heat again. Whatever
this was, he figured it was time to play it straight.  "I know her," he
said.  "You're her pimp, right?"  "I know her."

"How about the pimp part?"

Jamal nodded, shrugged, wagged his head, waggled his fingers, all
intended to convey uncertainty, they guessed.  They looked at him
silently, waiting for elaboration.  He was wondering what Yolande had
done this time.  Why had they punched up her B-sheet?  He said nothing.
Wait them out, he thought.  Play the game.

"When did you see her last?"  Hawes asked.  "Why?".  Jamal said.  "Can
you tell us?"

"Sure, I can tell you.  But why?"

"Just tell us, okay?"

"I drove her down by the bridge around nine o'clock."

"Put her on the street at ten?"  "Well... yeah."  "Which bridge?"  "The
Majesta Bridge."  "What was she wearing?"

"Little black skirt, fake-fur jacket, black stockin red boots, red
handbag."  "See her after that?"  "No.  Is she in jail?"

The detectives looked at each other.  As Yogi once said, "When you come
to a crossroads, take They took it.

"She's dead," Carella said, and tossed a photo onto the desk.  The photo
had been taken in the alley St.  Sebastian Avenue.  It was a
black-and-white with the address of the crime scene camera-lettered
white at the bottom of the picture, the date and time the right-hand
corner.  Jamal looked at the picture.

That was it.  Dead hooker, you go to her pimp.

"So?"  Hawes said.

"So, I'm sorry.  She was a good kid.  I liked her."  "Is that why you
put her on the street in underwear last night?  Twelve fuckin degrees
out there, you liked her, huh?"

"Oh, did she freeze to death?"  Jamal asked.

"Don't get smart," Hawes warned.

"Nobody twisted her arm," Jamal said.  "What was it?  An overdose?"

"You tell us."

"You think I did her?  What for?"

"Where were you around seven this morning?"  "Home in bed."  "Alone?"

"No, I was with my friend.  You saw her.  That's who I was with."

"Carlyle Yancy, is that her name?"  "That's what she told you, isn't
it?"  "Is that her real name?"

"She's never been busted, forget it."  "What's her real name?"  "Sarah
Rowland."

"We'll check, you know."

"Check.  She's clean."

"From what time to what time?"  Carella asked.  "What do you mean?" 
"Was she with you."

"She got home around three-thirty.  I was with her from then till you
came busting down my door.  We were waiting for Yolande, in fact."

"We'll check that, too, you know."  "She'll tell you."  Meyer turned to
Carella.

"You looking for a bullshit gun bust?"  he asked.  "I'm looking for a
murderer," Carella said.

"Then go home, there's nothing but a 265.01 here."  He turned to
Jamal.

"You, too," he said.  "We'll keep the piece, thanks."

When you pull the boneyard shift, you quit work eight, nine in the
morning, sometimes later if a turns up in your soup.  Say you're lucky
and you home at nine, nine-thirty, depending on traffic.  You kiss the
wife and kiddies, have a glass of milk and a piece of toast, and then
tumble into bed ten, ten-thirty.  After a few days, when you're used to the
day-for-night schedule, you can actually sleep through a full eight hours and
wake up refreshed.  This would put you on your feet again six,
six-thirty in the evening.  That's when you have your lunch or dinner or
whatever you might choose to call it at that hour.  You're then free till
around P.M. At that time of night, it shouldn't take more than half an hour,
forty-five minutes to get to the precinct.

While you're asleep or spending some time with your family or friends, the
precinct is awake bustling.  A police station is in operation twenty-four hours a
day, seven days a week, every day of the That accounts for its worn and
shoddy look.  Criminals never rest; neither does a police station.  So
while Carella and Hawes slept, the day worked from 7:45 in the morning
to 3:45 in the afternoon, when the night shift took over.  And while
Carella was having dinner with Teddy and-the twins, and Hawes was making
love with Annie Rawles, the night shift learned some things and
investigated some

things but only some of these had to do with their two homicide
cases.

During the hours of nine-fifteen that Sunday morning, when Carella and
Hawes left the squad room and eleven forty-five that night, when they
reported back to work again, things were happening out there.  They
would learn about some of these things later.  Some of these things,
they would never learn about.

At nine-thirty that Sunday morning, two of the Richards were in the
empty lot across the street from the abandoned produce market, waiting
for the other two Richards to come back with fresh pails of water. 
They had done a good job of cleaning the trunk of the black Richard's
car, but now they wanted to make sure there weren't any bloodstains
anyplace else.  The other two had gone for fresh water and fresh rags
at a car wash some three blocks away, under the expressway.  This part
of Riverhead was virtually forlorn at nine thirty on a Sunday morning.
Hardly a car passed by on the overhead expressway.  Empty window frames
with broken shards of glass in them stared like eyeless sockets from
abandoned buildings.  The sun was shining brightly now, but there was a
feel of snow in the air.  Richard the Lion-Hearted knew when snow was
coming.  It was a sense he'd developed as a kid.  He hoped snow
wouldn't screw up what he had in mind.  He was telling Richard the
Second how he saw this thing.

"The girl dying was an accident," he said.  "We were merely playing a
game."

"Merely," Richard the Second said.

"She should've let us know if she was having  difficulty breathing."

"That would've been the sensible thing to do."  "But she didn't.  So
how were we to know?"  "We couldn't have known."

"In a sense, it was her own fault."

"Did you come?"  Richard the Second asked.  "Yes, I did."  "I
didn't."

"I'm sorry, Richard."

"Three hundred bucks, it would've been nice to come."

"I think he took the money, you know."

Who?"

"Richard.  Took her money and the jumbos given her earlier.  Nine
hundred bucks and ten j "You didn't see her bag anywhere around, did
you.

When we carried her down to the car?"

"No, I didn't, come to think of it."

"I'm sure he stole her bag with the money and jumbos in it.  Which is
how we're going to tie him to this thing."

"Tie him to what thing?"

"The girl's accident.  Yvonne.  Whatever her was."

"Claire, I think her name was.  I wish I

had
come before she passed out."  "Well, that was her fault."  "Even so."

"We have to find that bag, Richard."

"Which bag is that?"

"It's not in the car, I looked.  It has to be in his apartment."

"Which bag, Richard?"

"The one with the money and the jumbos in it.  Once we find it, we can
link him to the accident."

"How?"

"If he stole the bag, his fingerprints'll be on it."  "He might've
wiped them off."

"They only do that in the movies.  Besides, he wouldn't have had time.
We were all of us together, don't you remember?  Wrapping her in the
sheet, getting her downstairs into the trunk?  He wouldn't have had
time."

"She was heavy."

"She was."

"She looked so small.  But she was heavy."  "Deceptive, yes."

"I still don't understand about the bag."

"What don't you understand?"

"How will it link him to the accident?"  "Well, his prints are on it."
"Yes, but..."

"The prints will link him to it."

"But if we go to the police with her bag..."  "No, no, no, we can't do
that."  "Then what?"

"We leave it alongside the body."

"You think it's still there?  She's probably in the morgue by now,
don't you think?"

"I'm not talking about her body, Richard."

Paul Blaney was trying to determine which had come first, the chicken or
the egg.  Had the white female corpse on his autopsy table suffocated
to death, or had her death been caused by severe hemorrhaging from the
genital area?  He had already determined that there was a sizable
amount of cocaine derivative in the bloodstream.  The girl had not died
of an overdose, that was certain, but the detectives nonetheless would
want to know about the presence of the drug, which could mean that the
murder was drug-related so what else was new?  He wasn't confident that
the detectives would care a whit whether she was so badly injured below
that she had bled to death or whether the bag over her head had caused
her to suffocate.  But it was Blaney's job to determine cause of death
and establish a postmortem interval.

He was not paid to speculate.  He was paid to examine the remains and to
gather the facts that led to a scientific conclusion.  Suffocation in his
lexicon was described as "traumatic asphyxia resulting when obstructed
air passages prevent the entrance of air to the lungs."  But if the girl
had suffocated, then where were all the telltale signs?  Where was the
cyanosis of the face, the blue coloration he always found somewhat
frightening, even after all these years performing autopsies?  Where
were the small circular ecchymoses on the scalp, those tiny bruises
indicative of strangulation, smothering, or choking?  Where were the
minute blood spots in the whites of the eyes?  Lacking any of these
certain indications, Blaney cut open the girl's chest.

What black Richard was thinking as he lugged the water back from the
car wash was he would go to the police and tell them these four rich
kids from a prep school in Massachusetts someplace, Connecticut,
wherever, a school named Pierce Academy stitched right there on the
front of their parkas these three rich white football players had come
to him to see did he have any dope to sell, which of course he did, you
all know I deal a little dope every now and then, who's kidding who
here?  I'm not here to lie to you, gents, I'm here to help you.

Cops lookin at him like Sure, the nigger's here to help us.  Started as
a mere clocker in the hood, and now he's dealing five, six bills a day,
he's here to help us.  Get lost, nigger.

Hey, no.  I seen these boys do a murder.

Ah?

Ears perkin up now.

"What're you smiling at?"  Richard the Third asked.  Hulking along in
his blue parka with the big white P on the back, little football right
under the P, carrying two pails of water, same as black Richard
himself.  Both of them with clean rags from the car wash stuffed in
their  pockets.  Shagging along under the expressway.  If it was
nighttime stead of mornin right now, they could both get killed, this
neighborhood.

"Whut I'm thinking," Richard said, "is soon as we finish here, you go
your way, I go mine."

And never the twain shall meet, he thought.

"It was a shame what happened to the girl," the other Richard said.

"Mm."

"But it wasn't our fault."

"Sure as shit wasn't my fault, Richard thought.  They were the ones holdin
her down, doin her with the Which is why I'll feel safe goin to the
police.  By my car being all spic-and-span, my apartment clean as a whistle,
my bedsheets burned to ashes along with all rags we used.  Get that
little bonfire started soon as finish with the car.  Watch it all go up
in smoke.  kiss the boys goodbye and go straight to the cops.

"Still," the other Richard said, "I feel sort of sorrn for her."

Oh, man, you don't know how sorry you gonna feel Richard thought. Cause
what I'm gonna do is sell you to the police.  I'm going to trade your  ass
for money, boy, whatever the traffic will bear.  Cause this is to be a
big bust, three rich white kids from a fancy school suffocating a white
hooker?  Oh, this is a bust, cops up here in the asshole of the
universe kill for a bust like this one, never mind just layin out
three, four large from a slush fund they keep handy hot information
like this.  Might be worth even five grand, information like this,
three rich white kids?

Can see the motherfuckin cops salivatin.  Just got to keep clear of it,
is all.  Keep myself out of it.

Make it plain I had nothin to do with it.  I only seen them do it.
Which, anyway, is the truth.

"I wish you'd stop smiling that way," Richard said.  "You look like a
hyena."

Oh yes, Richard thought.

There was something that kept troubling Jamal about the picture the
cops had shown him.  Well, sure, Yolande being dead and all, that was
very troubling.

Laying on her back there in the alley, skirt hiked up over all that
blood on the inside of her legs, plastic bag over her head, that was
troubling.  To see her that way.  Beautiful young girl, dead that way.
Man, you never knew.

But there was something else troubling him about that picture and he
didn't realize what it was until he was back in the apartment again,
telling Carlyle all about his encounter with The Law.

"Thing they do," he said, "they tries to wait me out, like I don't know
they got some reason to have me up the precinc, like I'm some dumb
nigger frum Alabama visitin Granma in the big city.  They finey gets aroun
to Yolande..."

"Are you telling me she's dead?"  Carlyle asked.  Sitting at the
kitchen table eating one of the croissants he'd brought back from the
All Night Bakery on the Stem.  Sipping coffee the color of her skin. 
Cafe au lait was what you could call Carlyle.  Yancy, who was Sarah
Rowland when he first met her fresh and sassy at-nineteen.  Twenty
years old now, a fire-cracker pussy and a dedicated crack addict, thank
you, Jamal Stone.

"Yes, she is dead," Jamal said, affecting a pious tone and a mounful
look.  Carlyle kept eating her buttered croissant.  She appeared
thoughtful for a moment, bad failing for a hooker.  You never wanted
them to start thinking about the perils of the occupation.  But then
she gave a slight shrug and took another bite of the

croissant.  Jamal went back to his tale of Derring-Do the Face of
Imminent Arrest and Incarceration.

"They had these two big dudes from headquarters  there, I knew this was
something big even before they brung up Yolande's name.  Then they lays her
on me, and asts when I seed her last and whut she wearin an all that
shit, and they throws  dis pitcher of her dead in a alley on St. Sab's,
bleedin her snatch."

"Urgh," Carlyle said, and bit into the croissant  again.

"Yeah," Jamal said, "with a plastic bag over her fuckin head."

Carlyle got up and went to the stove.  She wearing just this little
silk wrapper he'd got her Victoria's Secret, floral design on it, all
laven looking, and high-heeled bedroom slippers, looked as delicious as
any of the croissants on the table.  Man, he loved this girl.  Yolande had
been good money-maker, but this one he loved.  Even if never again made
a dime for him, he'd keep her take care of her.  Well, maybe.  He
watched her as she poured more coffee into her cup.  Watched her tight
little ass, actually.  Wouldn't care if she never brought home a
nickel, this one.

Which was when he realized what was wrong with the picture the cops had
shown him.  "The bag," he said.

Carlyle turned from the stove, puzzled.  "Yolande's bag.  That red bag
she has."  "The patent leather," Carlyle said, nodding.  "She was
carryin it last night."

Carlyle sipped at her coffee.  "But it wasn't in the pitcher."  "What
picture?"

"The one they showed me.  Ain't them crime scene pitchers spose to
show jus how everything was?"

"I don't know."

"They can't touch nothin before they take they pitchers, can they?"

"I don't know."

"So where was the bag?"

"Whoever done her must've taken it," Carlyle said.  "Yeah, with my
fuckin money in it," Jamal said.

He started making his calls at ten minutes past ten.

"Hello," the recorded voice said, "welcome to the Mayor's Action
Center, the front door to city government  If you are calling from a
touch-tone phone and you want to continue in English, press One."

He had dialed 300-9600, and now he pressed One.  "We aim to guide you
if you don't know where to go, to listen thoughtfully to your opinions,
and to help you if you have a problem.  We can't promise to always
solve what's wrong, but we can promise to do our best.  By pressing
selected buttons on your phone, this twenty-four-hour-a-day service can
answer many of your questions without your speaking to an operator.  It
also allows you to leave your opinion of city policies.  To speak
directly to one of our representatives between the hours of nine and
five, press Zero at any time.  However, if you choose this option,
please understand that you may need to hold for a while."

He chose the option.

He pressed Zero.

"You will experience a slight delay on the transl

Please do not hang up."

He did not hang up.

"Hello, you have reached the Mayor's Action  Center.  All service
representatives are serving clients.  Your call will be handled by the
available representative.  Please make sure that you have all the materials
relevant to your request  available.  Please provide as much detail as
possible that we can serve you promptly."

He waited for exactly thirty seconds.

"All service representatives are still busy.

continue to hold for the next available

He waited another thirty seconds.

The same announcement repeated itself.

He waited again.

Five minutes of utter silence.  Then:

"Mayor's Action Center.  How may I help you?"

"Hello, my name is Randolph Hurd?  To whom do I speak about noise
pollution?"

"What kind of noise pollution?"

"The honking of horns in the vicinity of Hamilton Bridge.  Which I
believe is against the law anywhere in the city."

"The honking of what?"

"Horns.  Car horns, taxicab horns, truck horns..."

"You want Environmental Protection.  Let me give you the number there."

She gave him the number.

3374357.

He dialed it.

"This is the Department of Environmental Protection.  If you are
calling about a water or sewer problem, air or noise pollution..."

Good, he thought.

"... asbestos or hazardous materials, please hold.  Our customer
service agents handle calls in the order they come in, twenty-four
hours a day. We will get to your call as quickly as possible.  Thank
you for waiting."

He waited for a minute or so.

"All of our agents are still busy," the recorded voice said.  "would.
you please continue to hold?"

The announcement repeated itself a moment later.  And then there was
silence for two or three minutes.  "Environmental Protection," a man's
voice said.

"Hello," Hurd said, "I'd like some information about noise
pollution?"

"What type of noise pollution?"

"The honking of automobile horns?  Taxis, trucks,

cars?  In the vicinity of the Hamilton Bridge?"

A silence.  Then:

"What type of noise is that again?"

"Horns.  Taxicab horns, track..."

"You want the Taxi and Limousine Commission,"

the man said.  "That's 3078294."

He dialed the number.

"This is the Taxi and Limousine Commission," a recorded voice said. "If
you are calling from a touch-tone phone, press One for further
information."

He pressed One.

"If you are calling to report a complaint, press

If you are calling regarding property left in a press Two.  All other
inquiries, press Three."  He had a complaint.  He pressed One.

"All complaints must be made in writin recorded voice advised him, and
then went on to give him an address to which he could write.

"To return to the main menu," the recorded said, "press Eight."

He pressed Eight.

He listened to the options again.  "All other  inquiries" suddenly sounded
very good.  He pressed Three.  A recorded voice said, "if you are calling
licensing or owner information, press One.  If you have a question about a
hearing, summons, or appeal, press Two.  If you have an inquiry regarding
medallion renewal..."

He thought it over for a moment, figured that he most certainly wanted
was a hearing of any and pressed Two.  There were yet more options. Did
he want to reschedule a hearing?  Did want to check his subpoena
status?  Did he... ?

"If you are calling regarding an appeal," the recorded voice said,
"press Four."

He pressed Four.

"Please remain on the line.  There will be a moment of silence."

He felt as if he were standing at the Tomb of the

Unknown Soldier.

He waited.

The brief moment of silence passed.

"Appeals," a voice said:

"Are you a recording?"  he asked.

"No, sir, I am a person."

"God bless you," he said, and eagerly told her that he wasn't calling
regarding an actual appeal as such, but that he just wanted to talk to
a human being who might be able to give him some information about
motor vehicles blowing horns in the vicinity of the... "You want Public
Affairs," she said.  "That's 3074738."

"Is that still the Taxi and Limousine Commission?"  "Yes, sir, it
is."

"Thank you," he said, and  dialed the number.  "Public Affairs," a
man's actual voice said.  He was on a roll.

"Sir," he said, "is it against the law for taxicabs to blow their
horns?"

"Except in an emergency, yes, sir," the man said.  "It's part of the
Vehicle and Traffic Law."

"Are taxi drivers told it's against the law?"  "They're supposed to
know it, yes, sir."

"But who informs them?  Is the information in a booklet or
something?"

"They're supposed to familiarize themselves with the law, yes, sir."

"How?"

"They're supposed to know it, sir."

"Well, they don't seem to be too familiar with it."

"Do you have a complaint about a taxi driver blowing his horn, sir?"

"I have a complaint about ten thousand of them blowing their horns!"

"11,787, sir," the man corrected.  "But if you have a specific taxi in mind,
you can call 307-TAXI with complaint."

"I don't have a specific taxi in mind."

"Then you should call DEP-HELP.  They'll be to take a nonspecific
complaint."

He hung up, and immediately dialed DEPH realizing an instant too late
that this was in 3374357... This is the Department of Environme
Protection.  If you, are calling about a water or problem, air or noise
pollution, asbestos or materials, please..."

He waited through two more announcements which told him that everyone was still   busy,
and finally he got a customer service agent.  He explained that he wanted to
make a nonspecific complaint about the honking horns in the vicinity of
the Hamilton Bridge between the hours of..."

"The honking of what?"

"Horns.  Car horns, taxi horns, truck horns."

"And you say you wish to make what kind of complaint?"

"Nonspecific.  I've just been informed it's against the law, and that you
would take my complaint."

"I don't know if it's against the law or not.  If you want a copy of
the Noise Pollution Rules, you can send four dollars and seventy-five
cents to this address, have you got a pencil?"

"I don't want a copy of the rules.  The Taxi and Limousine Commission
just told me the honking of horns is against the Vehicle and Traffic
Law."

"Then you want Traffic," the agent said.  "Let me give you a
number."

She gave him a number and he dialed it.  The line was busy for four
minutes.  Then a voice said, "Customer Service."

"Hello," he said, "I'm calling to complain about the honking of
horns..."

"You want Traffic," the woman said.  "Isn't this traffic?"  "No, this
is Transit."

"Well, have you got a number for Traffic?"  She gave him a number for
traffic.  He dialed it.

"Hello," he said, "I'm calling to complain about the honking of horns
in the vi.  "

"We only take complaints for traffic lights and streetlights."

"Well, to whom do I talk about... ?".  "Let me give you Traffic."  "I
thought this was traffic."  "No, I'll switch you."  He waited.

"Department of Transportation."

"I'm calling to complain about the honking of homs in the vicinity
of..."

"What you want is the DEP."

"I want the what?"

"Department of Environmental Protection.  Hold on, I'll give you the
number."

"I have the number, thanks."

He called Environmental Protection again.  All agents were busy again.
After a wait of some six minutes, he got someone on the phone and told
her

about his problem all over again.  She listened patiently.

Then she said, "We don't take auto horns."  "Are you telling me that
the Department Environmental Protection can't do anything noise
pollution?"

"I'm not saying there's no one here can do about it," she said.  "All
I'm saying is we don't auto horns."

"Well, isn't the honking of auto horns noise pollution?"

"Not in this department.  Day construction, night construction, all
that kind of stuff is what we call noise pollution."

"But not horn honking?"

"Not horn honking."

"Even though it's against the law?"

"I don't know if it's against the law or not.  You can check that with
your local precinct."

"Thank you," he said.

He looked up the number for the precinct closest to the Hamilton
Bridge.  The 87th Precinct.  41 Grover Avenue.  387-8024.  He dialed
it.:

A recorded voice said, "If this is an emergency, hang up and dial 911.
If this is not an emergency, hang on and someone will be with you
shortly."

He hung on.

"Eighty-seventh Precinct, Sergeant Murchison."  He went straight for
the jugular.

"The honking of automobile horns is against the law," he said.  "Isn't
that true?"

"Except in an emergency situation, yes, sir, that very definitely is
true."

Good, he thought.

"But it's a law that's extremely difficult to enforce," Sergeant
Murchison said.  "Because, sir, we can't pinpoint who's doing the
actual honking, do you see, sir?  Where the honk is coming from, do you
see?  If we could find out who was actually leaning on his horn, why,
we'd give him a summons, do you see?"

He did not mention that standing on the corner of Silvermine and
Sixteenth, listening to the infernal, incessant cacophony of horns, he
could without fail and with tremendous ease pinpoint exactly which
cabdriver, truck driver or motorist was doing the honking, sometimes
for minutes on end.

"What if he gets a summons?"  he asked.

"He goes to court.  And gets a fine if he's found guilty."

"How much is the fine?"

"Well, I would have to look that up, sir."  "Could you do that,
please?" "You mean right now?"  "Yes."

"No, I can't do that right now, sir.  We're very busy here right
now."

"Thank you," he said, and hung up.

He sat with his hand on the telephone receiver for a very long time,
his head bent.  Outside, the noise was merciless.  He rose at last, and
went to the window, and threw it wide open to the wintry blast and the
assault of the horns.

"Shut up," he whispered to the traffic below.

"Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!"  he shouted.

Ten minutes later, he shot and killed a guy who was blowing his horn on the
approach ramp to Hamilton Bridge.

 The car looked as if it had just come out of the showroom.  Black
Richard had never seen it looking so good.  He told the three rich
white fucks they should go into the car wash business together.  They
all laughed.

In an open bodega not far from the car wash, they bought a can of
starter fluid and then found a soot-stained oil drum that had already
been used for fires a hundred times before.  This neighborhood, when it
got cold the homeless gathered around these big old cans, started these
roaring fires, sometimes roasted potatoes on a grate over them, but
mostly used them just to keep warm.  It was warmer in the shelters,
maybe, but in a shelter the chances were better of getting mugged or
raped.  Out here, standing around an oil drum fire, toasting your hands
and your ass, you felt like a fuckin cowboy on the Great Plains.

They started the fire with scraps of wood they picked up in the lot,
old newspapers, picture flames without glass, wooden chairs with broken
legs, a dresser missing all of its drawers, curled and yellowing
telephone directories, broomstick handles, whatever they could find
that was flammable.  On many of the streets and roadways in this city,
in most of the empty lots, the discarded debris resembled a trail left
by war refugees.  When the fire was roaring and crackling, they threw
in the bloody sheets and rags, and then stirred them into the flames
with a

broomstick, Richard the First intoning, "Double double toil and
trouble," Richard the Second chiming in with "Fire burn and cauldron
bubble," which black Richard thought was some kind of fraternity
chant.

They stayed around the oil drum till everything in had burned down to
ashes.  Well, not everything.  some wood in there, turning to charcoal,
beginning to smolder.  But anything they were worried about was now
history.  No more bloody sheets, no more bloody rags.  Poof.  Gone.

"Time to celebrate," Richard the First said.

The man sitting at Meyer Meyer's desk was Randolph Hurd.  He was a
short slender man, almost bald as Meyer himself, wearing a brown suit
and a muted matching tie, brown shoes, brown socks.  An altogether drab
man who had killed a cabdriver in cold blood and been apprehended by
a traffic cop before he'd taken six steps from the taxi, The tagged and
bagged murder weapon was on Meyer's desk.  Hurd had just told Meyer
about all the phone calls he'd made this morning.  Brown eyes wet, he
now asked, "Isn't horn-blowing against the law?"

There were, in fact, two statutes against the blowing of horns, and
Meyer was familiar with both of them.  The first was in Title 34 of the
Rules of the City, which rules were authorized by the City Charter.
Title 34 governed the Department of Transportation.  Chapter 4 of Title
34 defined the traffic rules.  Chapter 4, Subsection 12(i) read:

Horn for danger only.  No person shall sound the horn of a vehicle
except when necessary to warn a person or animal of danger.

The penalty for violating this rule was a $45 fine.  The second statute
was in the City's Administrative Code.  Title 24 was called
Environmental Protection and Utilities.  Section 221 fell within
Chapter 2, which was called Noise Control, within Subchapter 4, which
was called Prohibited Noise and Unnecessary Noise Standards.  It
read:

Sound signal devices.  No person shall operate or use or cause to be
operated or used any sound signal device so as to create an unnecessary
noise except as a sound signal of imminent danger.

The fines imposed for violating this statute ranged from a minimum of
$265 to a maximum of $875.

"Yes, sir," Meyer said.  "Horn-blowing is against the law.  But, Mr.
Hurd, no one has the right to take..."

"It's the cabbies and the truck drivers," Hurd said.  "They're the
worst offenders.  All of them in such a desperate hurry to drop off a
fare or a precious cargo.  Other motorists follow suit, it's
contagious, you know.  Like a fever.  Or a plague.  Everyone hitting
his horn.  You can't imagine the din, Detective Meyer.  It's
ear-splitting.  And this flagrant breaking of the law is carried on
within feet of traffic officers waving their hands or policemen sitting
in parked patrol cars. Something should be done about it."

"I agree," Meyer said.  "But Mr.  Hurd..."  "I did something about it,"
Hurd said.  Meyer figured it was justifiable homicide.

Priscilla Stetson thought she was keeping

Agnello and Tony Frascati as sex toys.  Georgie

and Tony thought they were taking advantage of a beautiful blonde who liked
to tie them up blindfold them while she blew them.

It was a good arrangement all around.

Anybody came near her, they would break his head.  She was theirs.  On the
other hand, they were hers.  She could call them whenever she needed them,
send them home whenever she tired of them.  It was an arrangement none of them
ever discussed for fear of jinxing it.  Like a baseball pitcher with a
natural fast-breaking curve.  Or a writer with a knack for good
dialogue.

At eleven o'clock that Sunday morning, they were!

all having breakfast in bed together when Priscilla mentioned her
grandmother.

Georgie and Tony hated eating breakfast in bed."

You got crumbs all over everything, you spilled coffee all over
yourself, they hated it.  Priscilla was between them, naked, enjoying
herself, drinking coffee and eating a cheese Danish.  The boys, as she
called them,

had each and separately eaten her not twenty minutes ago, and they were
waiting now for her to reciprocate in some small way, which she showed
no sign of doing just yet.  She did this to show the boys who was boss
here.  On the other hand, they occasionally beat the shit out of her,
though they never hurt her hands or her face.  Which she sometimes
enjoyed, depending on her mood.  But not very often.

It was all part of their arrangement.

Like the suite the hotel provided on the nights she played.  That was
another arrangement.  It wasn't the presidential suite, but it went for
four-fifty a night, which wasn't litchi nuts.  They were in the suite
now, which had been named the Richard Moore Suite after the noted
Alpine skier who had stayed here back in the days when he was winning
gold medals hither and yon, the Richard Moore Suite at the Hotel
Powell, Priscilla naked between them, drinking coffee and munching on
her cheese Danish, Georgie and Tony wearing nothing but black silk
pajama tops and erections, trying not to spill coffee or crumbs on
themselves.  After breakfast, and after she had taken care of
them, if she decided to take care of them, they might do a few lines of
coke, who could say?  Priscilla had connections.  Georgie and Tony
liked being kept in this state of heightened anticipation, so to speak.
Priscilla liked keeping them there.  She might decide to send them home
as soon as she finished the second pot of coffee room service had
brought up, who could say?  Out, boys.  I have things to do, Sunday is
my day off.  Or maybe not.  It depended on how she felt ten minutes
from now.

"I know she had money," she said out loud.

The boys turned to look at her.  Bookends in black silk.  The sheet
lowered to their waists, Priscilla sitting there naked, breasts
exposed.  The boys made sly eye contact across her.

"Your grandmother, you mean?"  Georgie asked.

Priscilla nodded.  "Otherwise, why'd she keep saying I'd be taken care
of?."

"How about taking care of this a little?"  Tony had  glanced down at
the sheet.

"She the one lived in the rat hole on Lincoln Street?"  Georgie
asked.

"Take care of this a little," Tony said, impressed by  his earlier
witty remark.

"She meant when she died," Priscilla said.  "I'd taken care of her when she
died."

"How?"  Georgie said.  "She didn't have a pot to piss in."

"I don't know how.  But she said she'd take care of me."

"Take care of this a little," Tony said again.

"Maybe she had a bank account," Priscilla suggested.

"Maybe she left a will," Georgie said.

"Who knows?"

"Maybe she left you millions."

"Who knows?"

Tony was thinking these two had just escalated an old lady's  empty
pisspot into a fortune.  "There are two old people in a nursing home,"
he said.  "The man's ninety-two, the woman's ninety.  They start a
relationship.  What they do, he goes into her room, and gets in bed
with her, and they watch television together with his penis in her
hand.  That's the extent of the relationship.  She holds his penis in
her hand while they watch television."

"Don't you ever think of anything else?"  Priscilla asked.

"No, wait, this is a good one.  The woman is passing her girlfriend's
room one night she's ninety years

old, too, the girlfriend and lo and behold, what does she see?  Her
man is in bed with the girlfriend.  They're watching television, she's
holding his penis in her hand.  The woman is outraged.  "How can you
do this to me?"  she wants to know.  "Is she prettier than I am?  Is
she smarter than I am?  What has she got that I

haven't got?"  The guy answers, "Parkinson's."" "That's sick,"
Priscilla said, laughing.  "But funny," Tony said, laughing with her. 
"I don't get it," Georgie said.  "Parkinson's," Tony explained.

"Yeah, Parkinson's Parkinson's, I still don't get it."  "You shake,"
Priscilla said.  "What?"

"When you have Parkinson's."

"She's jacking him off, "Tony explained.  "So what was the other one
doing?"  "Just holding him in her hand."

"I thought she was jacking him off, too."

"No, she was just holding him in her hand," Tony said, and looked
across at Priscilla.  "Which is little enough to ask," he suggested
pointedly.

"I'll bet all that money is still in her apartment," Priscilla said.

At that moment, a knock sounded on the door to the suite.

Jamal knew something the cops didn't know and that was where Yolande
had been at what time.  She had called him around five-thirty in the
morning, told him she was just leaving the Stardust and would be home
soon as she caught a cab.  He'd asked her what the take

was and she said close to two large, and he told her hurry on home,
baby, Carlyle's already here, wait up for you.  So from the Stardust to
the alley on Sab's and First would've taken five, ten minutes most,
which would've put her uptown at twenty to six a quarter to six,
depending on how long it took her to find a taxi.  Never mind the time
in the corner of picture: 07:22:03.  All Jamal knew was that had been
there almost an hour and a half before that.  But who'd been there with
her?

Jamal knew the nighttime city.

He knew the people who frequented the night.

He kissed Carlyle goodbye and went out into the glare of a cold winter
morning.

He didn't have to go very far.

Richard the First had bought six bottles of Dom Perignon, and he and
all the other Richards had already consumed three of them by eleven-ten
that morning.  Or at least that's what black Richard thought.  What he
didn't know was that the other three Richards weren't drinking at all,
but were instead laughing it up while one or the other of them took a
walk to the bathroom, back and forth, emptying glass after glass of
champagne behind his back, dumping down the toilet bubbly that had cost
$107.99 a fifth.  The idea was to get Richard drunk.  The idea was to
drown him.

What the bellhop delivered to Priscilla's suite was a plain white
envelope with her name written on the front of it.  She recognized her
grandmother's frail

handwriting at once, tipped the bellhop a dollar, and immediately tore
open the flap of the envelope.

A key was inside the envelope.

The accompanying notes in her grandmother's hand, read:

My darling Priscilla,

Go to locker number 136 at the Rendell Road Bus Terminal.  your loving
grandmother,

Svetlana.

Priscilla went to the phone, picked up the receiver, and dialed the
front desk.

"This is Priscilla Stetson" she told an assistant manager.  "A letter
was just delivered to me?"

"Yes, Miss Stetson?"

"Can you tell me who left it at the desk?"

"A tall blond man."

"Did he give you his name?"

"No, he just said to be certain it was sent up to your suite.  Sort
of."

"What do you mean sort of."  "Well, he had a very heavy accent."  "What
kind of accent?"  "I have no idea."

"Thank you," Priscilla said, and hung up.

"What the hell is this?"  she asked aloud.  "A spy movie?"

The white man who approached Jamal the moment he came out of his
building was named Curly Joe Simms,

and he ran a book up here in Diamondback.  Jamal knew him because every now
and then he would have a girl for a horse, so to speak, asking Curly Joe to
put two bills on a nag as an even swap for an hour with one of his girls. Jamal
never ran more than two girls at a time.  And nobody underage, thanks. 
He knew they  escalated from a class-A misdimeanor to a class-D felony
if:i person promoted "prostitution activity by two or more prostitutes" or
"profited from prostitution of a less than nineteen years old."  He
figured a judge go easier on him if he didn't have say, five, six girls
in his stable, ha ha.  Anyway, even two girls were a handful, and to tell
the truth, he got tired of them soon and was always on the lookout for
fresh talent.

Curly Joe was bald, of course, and he wore earmuffs on this
frighteningly cold morning, hands  in the pockets of a brown woolen coat
buttoned over green muffler, his eyes watery, his nose red.  He had not
been waiting for Jamal, but when he spotted him coming out of his building,
he walked right over.

Janm, he said.  "It's me."

Jamal recognized him at once, and figured he was looking for a piece of
ass.

"How you doin, man?"  he said.  "Good, how you been?"  "I'm survivin,"
Jamal said.

"Cold as a fuckin witch's tit, ain't it?"

"Cold," Jamal agreed.

"Was that your girl last night?"  Curly Joe asked.

"Got herself juked on St.  Sab's?"

"Yeah," Jamal said cautiously.

"I thought I recognized her from that time."

"Yeah."

"What a shame, huh?"

"Yeah."

"How'd she get all the way down there?"

Jamal looked at him.

"What do you mean?"  he asked.

"Cause I seen her up here not long before," Curly Joe said.

"What do you mean?"  Jamal asked again.

"Musta been six or so in the morning.  I was in the diner havin a
coffee.  She got out of a taxi."

Jamal waited.

"You know Richie Cooper?"

"I know him," Jamal said.

"She went off with him and three young kids who were pissing in the gutter.
I seen them from the diner."

He had finally passed out, and they were dragging him into the bathroom
where they had filled the tub with water.  Not passed out entirely
cold, but so sklonked he couldn't walk or even stand, didn't know what
the hell was happening to him, just kept waving one arm in the air like
a symphony conductor except that he was singing "I Want to Hold Your
Hand" as they dragged him across the floor by the ankles.  Something
fell out of his pocket, the switchblade knife he'd threatened them with
earlier tonight.  Richard the First stooped to pick it up, jammed it in
the pocket of his own jacket.  He was sweating heavily.  They were
about to kill someone, but this had to be done.  The girl had been an
accident, but this was murder, but it had to be done.
They
all knew that.  The three Richards now as one.

They were

Richard acting in concert, dragging yet another  Richard into the
bathroom where the tub full of water waited.

The water looked brownish, this city.   Richard the Third was the
strongest of them, he grabbed black Richard under the arms, while the
two each grabbed a leg.  "One... two . .  three," they said, and they hoisted
him off the floor and swung him into the tub.

"Hey!"  he yelled.

Too late.

Jamal knew Richard as a dope dealer pulled down what, five, six bills a
day, maybe a thou when business was good and the cotton was high.  Used
to be in trade together many a moon back, before Jamal tipped to the
fact that dealing was a hazardous occupation whereas living off the
sweat and toil of the female persuasion was less strenuous and nowhere
near as dangerous.

What puzzled Jamal now was what Yolande had been doing with Richard and
three white dudes at six this morning, directly after she'd phoned to
say she was on the way home.  Had Richard decided to do a little
freelance pimping on his own?  In which case he had to be taught about
territorial imperative and not stepping on a fellow entrepreneur's
toes.  Or had Yolande and Richard decided to share an early morning
breakfast with the three honkies?  In which case, what had happened to
the red patent-leather handbag containing--by Yolande's own admission
on the phone."  close to two thousand dollars?

Teaching Richard a lesson was no longer necessary now that Yolande was
dead.

Recovering that handbag with the money in it was of prime importance,
however, and it was the memory of that bag and anticipation of what was in
that bag that propelled Jamal up the steps two at a time to Richard's
third-floor apartment.

The time was three minutes to noon.

He started fighting the minute they threw him in the tub.  He didn't
know how to swim and the first thing that entered his mind was that he
had somehow fallen into a swimming pool and was going to drown.

Only the second half of this supposition was true.

Jamal was thinking if Richard didn't hand that bag over the minute he
asked for it, he was going to beat him senseless.

No cyanosis.

No bruises on the galea of the scalp.

No punctate hemorrhages in the conjunctivae.

And now no dark red fluid blood in the heart, or excess serous fluid in
the lungs.

Ergo, no suffocation.

Considering the way she had bled, Blaney wondered if the girl had died
from a botched abortion.

If the Pro-Lifers--a hypocritical designation if ever he'd heard one,
and don't send me letters, he thought ........ had scared her away from
seeking help at any of the city's legal clinics, perhaps she'd found a
back-alley butcher to do the job or, worse yet, maybe

she'd tried to do it herself.  Too many women attempted tearing the
fetal membrane release the amniotic fluid, thereby causing contractions
and expulsion of the fetus.  Then whatever long thin object they could
find, not just a coat hanger depicted in the Pro-Choice propaganda  and
don't you write to me, either, he thought but also umbrella ribs and
knitting needles.

Blaney was a doctor.

He felt the best and only place to perform a gynecological procedure
was in a hospital.

Period.

By a trained physician.

Period.

But here in the silence of the morgue, there were moral or religious
judgments to be made, no agendas to be met.

There was only search and discovery.  How had the girl died?  Period.

Blaney found no fetus, nor any fetal parts, in the girl's genital tract
or peritoneal cavity.  Moreover, he had measured the thickness, length
and width of the uterus, the density of the uterine wall, the length of
the uterine cavity, the circumference of both the internal and external
vaginal openings, and the length of the lower part of the uterus, he
found no indication that the girl had been pregnant before her death. 
Nor was there any indication that the vaginal vault had been
accidentally punctured while she'd been seeking to abort herself,
unsurprising in that there had been nothing to abort.

What he found instead was a massive assault on the uterus by a sharp
instrument with a saw-toothed edge.  The instrument had passed through
the cervix, wreaking havoc in its relentless wake, and had ripped
through the abdominal cavity where it caused hugely significant damage;
Blaney found eighteen inches of the small intestine severed and hanging
in the uterus.  The pain would have been excruciating.  Hemorrhaging
would have been profuse.  The girl could have died within minutes.

Which might have been a blessing, he guessed.

Only one of the three Richards knew he had just for the fun of it
inserted a bread knife with a serrated blade into the girl's vagina.
The other two didn't know such a thing had happened although later they
saw a lot of blood running down the inside of her legs and figured it
was the black guy with his big shlong had hurt her somehow.  Even the
one who'd experimented with the knife didn't realize this was what had
killed her.  He figured the bag over her head had done it, the girl's
stupidity in not informing them that the game had gone too far.  She
should have told them.  No one had wanted her dead.  Every one of them
wanted black Richard dead.  Black Richard was their link to the dead
girl, who had died by accident, after all, and for whom they most
certainly were not about to ruin their lives, all three of them
accepted at Harvard?.  Hey.

So as Richard thrashed around in the tub, trying to keep his head above
water, the three other Richards kept forcing him back under again, time
after time, avoiding his pummeling fists, trying not to get

themselves all wet, trying just to for Christ's sake drown him.

They were succeeding in doing just that, finally succumbing to their
overpowering insistence subsiding below the surface of the water,
unclenching at last, a final thin bubble of air his mouth and rising,
rising, when a voice behind them yelled, "The fuck you doin?"

They were each and separately, all three Richards overwhelmed by a
powerful feeling of deja vu all again, a black man standing there with
outraged  surprise on his face, only this time Richard the First had a
knife, and he snapped the blade open at once because the last thing on
earth they needed was another asshole linking them to a murder.

Jamal remembered too late what his sacred mother taught him about the
streets of this here city,  it was Mind your  own business, son, an stay
out of harms  way.  But this wasn't a city street, this was the bathroom
of a onetime business associate sometime friend, and he was being
drowned in his own bathtub by three fuckin college boys, or whatever they were,
and one of them had a knife in his fist and he was coming at Jamal with
a tiny little smile on his face.  It was then that Jamal knew this was
serious.  Man with a big mother knife in his hand and a smile on his
face was dangerous.  But, of course, all of this was too late, the
memory of his mother's admonition, the memory of smiles he had seen on
the faces of other would-be assassins, of whom there were far too many
in this part of the city in this part of the world.

Smiling, Richard the First slashed Jamal's jugular with a single swipe
of the blade, and then dropped the knife as if it were on fire.

The other two Richards went pale.

And now it became the tale of a handbag.

The door to Svetlana Dyalovich's apartment was padlocked and a printed
CRIME SCENE notice was tacked to it.  But Meyer and Kling had obtained
a key from the Property Clerk's Office, and they marched right in.

"What a dump," Meyer said.  "Smells, too," Kling said.  "Cat piss,"
Meyer agreed.

A pair of uniformed cops had already delivered the old lady's dead cat
to the Humane Society for cremation, but Meyer and Kling didn't know
that, and besides the apartment still stank.  They did know that Carella
and Hawes, and presumably the technicians from the Mobile Crime Unit,
had conducted a thorough search of the apartment.  But this morning
Carella had suggested that they might have missed something namely a
hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars in cash and another
run-through might be a good idea.

They both thought about that kind of money for a moment.

A hundred and twenty-five thousand was about a third more than their
combined annual salaries.  It was a sobering thought.  They began
looking.

There was a dead man in the bathtub and another dead  man on the bathroom
floor.  One of them had been drowned, and the other's throat had been
slit.  This almost had comic possibilities.  Too bad the one bleeding
all over the tile floor wasn't named Richard, too.  Then there would
have been five Richards in the apartment instead of just four, three of
whom were running around looking for a red patent-leather bag.  The
fourth one wasn't doing any running at all.  The fourth one would never
do any running ever again Nor swimming, either, which he'd never learned to
do, anyway.  None of the live Richards knew who the other dead man was,
and they were squeamish about going through his pockets for
identification.  Slitting a man's  throat was one thing.  Frisking him
was quite another.

Richard the First knew the girl's handbag had to be in this apartment
someplace.  It didn't have legs, did it?: She herself had carried it up
here, and they themselves had carried her out of here without it.  So
where the was it?  He was eager to find that bag because it contained
traveler's checks with their signatures on them, and these could all
too easily link them to the dead girl, and by extension the man they'd
drowned and the one whose throat they'd slit.

In his mind, the three Richards had acted and were still acting in
concert.  No longer was it he alone who'd slit the second black man's
throat.  Now it was they who'd done it.  Just as it was they who were
now looking for the patent-leather bag that would irrevocably tie them
to the girl who'd died by accident because she'd been too reticent to
tell them she was having difficulty breathing.  An asthmatic
shouldn't

have been in her profession, anyway, the things unfeeling men asked
her to do with her mouth.

Neither of the other two Richards quite shared the first Richard's
feelings about the second murder.  The first murder, of course, was
drowning black Richard in the tub, a necessity.  The girl had not been
murdered; you couldn't count her as a murder victim.  All of them
firmly believed, the girl had died by accident.  However, both the
second Richard and the third Richard knew damn well that neither of
them had slit the black  stranger's  throat, whoever he may have been and
no longer was.  Richard the First was solely responsible for that
little bit of mayhem.  So whereas they dutifully turned that apartment
upside down, trying to find that elusive handbag, they did so only
because they didn't want the dead girl to come back to haunt them.  And
though neither of them would dare speak such a blasphemy aloud, if push
ever came to shove they were quite willing to throw old Lion-Heart here
to the lions.

At the end of a half hour's search, they still had not found the bag.

It was now twenty minutes to two.

"Where would you be if you were a red patent-leather handbag?"  Richard
the First asked.  "Where indeed?"  Richard the Second asked.  Richard
the Third stood in the center of the room, scratching his ass and
thinking. "Let's reconstruct it minute by minute," he said.  "From when
we first met her on the street to when we carried her out of here."

"Oh yes, let's do that," Richard the Second said sarcastically.  "Two
dead Negroes in the bathroom,

with more of their friends possibly coming to visit, we have all the
time in the world."

Richard the First hadn't heard anyone using the word "Negroes" in a
very long time.

"She definitely had that bag in her hand when she stepped out of the
taxi," he said.

"She had it here in this apartment, too," Richard the Third said.  "She
put the traveler's checks and the jumbos in it.  I saw her do that with
my own eyes."

"Okay, so where did she put it when we started making love?"

Richard the Second's use of this euphemism startled the other two.  He
saw their surprised looks and shrugged.  "Does anyone remember?"  No
one remembered.

So they started searching the apartment yet another time.

Meyer and Kling were experienced at searching apartments.  They knew
where people hid money and jewelry.  Lots of old people, they didn't
trust banks.  Suppose you fell down in the bathtub and hurt yourself
and nobody found you till you starved to death and were all skin and
bones, how could you go to the bank to take your money out?  You
couldn't, was the answer.  Also, if you were an old person and you were
squirreling away the bucks to give to your grandchildren, you didn't
want a bank account because then there was a record, and Uncle Sam
would come in and take almost all of it in inheritance taxes.  So what
lots of old people did, they kept their money or their jewelry in
various hiding places.

Ice cube trays were a favorite.  Everybody figured no thief would ever
dream of looking for gems in a tray of frozen ice cubes.  Except that
some cheap writer of detective stories had written a book some time
back in which a cheap thief froze diamonds inside ice cubes and now
everybody in the world knew about it, including other cheap thieves.
Meyer and Kling were not thieves, cheap or otherwise, but they did know
about the ice cube ploy.  So hiding your diamonds in an ice cube tray
was a ridiculous thing to do since this was where most burglars looked
first thing.  Open the fridge door, check out the freezer compartment,
there you are, you little darlings!

Another favorite hiding place was inside the bottom rail of a Venetian
blind, which was weighted, and which had caps on either end of it.  You
could remove these end caps and slide wristwatches or folded bills into
the hollow rail.  This worked very nicely, except that every thief in
the world knew about it.  They also knew that people hid jewelry or
money inside the bag on a vacuum cleaner, or at the bottom of a toilet
tank, or inside the globe of a ceiling light fixture from which the
bulbs had been removed so if anybody threw the switch you wouldn't see
the outline of a necklace up there under the glass.

Meyer and Kling tried all of these favorite hiding places.

And found nothing.

So they looked under the mattress.

There was nothing there, either.

The envelope looked as if it had been through the Crimean War.  Perhaps
Georgie and Tony shouldn't have opened the envelope, but then again
they had been entrusted with the key to locker number 136 at the Wendell Road
Bus Terminal, and if Priscill hadn't wanted them to examine whatever
they found in that locker, she should have specifically said so.  Besides,
the envelope hadn't been sealed.  It was just a thick yellowing envelope
with the word written across the front of it, a bulging envelope with
rubber band around it, holding the flap closed.  There was money in the
envelope.  Hundred-dollar bills.  Exactly a thousand of them.

Georgie and Tony knew because they took the envelope into the men's room to
count the bills.

A thousand hundred-dollar bills.

Which on their block came to a hundred dollars in cold hard cash.

There was also a letter in the envelope.

This didn't interest them as much as the money did, but they read it,
anyway, though not in the men's room.

It was Richard the Third who found the bag.  "Bingo!"  he yelled.

Where he found the bag was under black Richard's mattress, the dope.
Did he think they were so dumb they wouldn't look under the mattress,
where for Christ's sake everybody in the entire world hid things?  What
he must have done, they figured, was slide it in between the mattress
and the bedsprings while they were ripping off the sheets to wrap her
in.

Nobody had yet touched the bag.

Richard the Third was still standing beside the bed with his parka on
because it was freezing cold in this part of the city unless you turned
on a kerosene heater or a coal stove, grinning from ear to
freckle-faced ear, holding up the corner of the mattress to reveal the
red patent-leather bag nestled there all shiny and flat.

Richard the Second took a pair of gloves from the pocket of his parka
and pulled them on with all the aplomb a surgeon to perform surgery.

  

Gingerly, he lifted the bag from where it rested on the bedsprings.  He
unsnapped the flap, opened the bag, and reached into it.

There was nineteen hundred dollars in cash in the bag.

Plus the ten jumbo vials black Richard had paid the girl for his piece
of the action.

Plus nine hundred dollars in traveler's checks respectively signed
by Richard Hopper, Richard Weinstock, and Richard O'Connor.  They each had
separately pocketed the checks at once, and then debated whether or not
to leave all the money and crack in the bag, or to take some of it for
all the trouble they'd gone through.  It was Richard the First who
suggested that a good way to extricate themselves entirely was to link
the dead girl to the two dead men.  If they left her handbag in the
bathroom, the presence of such a large amount of cash, not to mention
the sizable stash of crack, would lend credibility to the police theory
that the hooker had been killed in a robbery.  Or what he hoped would
be the police theory.

All three of them went into the bathroom.

Jamal, whose name they didn't yet know, was still lying on his back on
the floor with his throat slit.  He had stopped bleeding.  Black
Richard was lying on the bottom of the tub.  Richard the Second
suggested that they leave the bag open on the floor, with a lot of
hundred-dollar bills and a few jumbo vials spread on the tiles, as if
the two of them had been fighting over it before they killed each
other.

Richard the Third looked puzzled.  "What is it?"  Richard the First
asked.  "What's the scenario here?"  "Scenario?"

"Yes, how did this happen?"

"I see his point," Richard the Second said.

"What point?  They were fighting over the bag.  They killed each
other."

"How can a person stab another person while that person is drowning
him?"

"That's not how it happened."

"Then how did it happen?"

Richard the First thought this over for a moment.  "They were fighting
over the bag," he said again.  The other two waited.

"Richard stabbed him, whoever he is."

They still waited.

"Then he got in the tub so he could wash off the blood."

"With his clothes on?"

"He was drunk," Richard the First said.  "That's why he got in the tub
with all his clothes on.  In fact, that's how he drowned.  He was
trying to wash himself, but he fell in the tub.  He was drunk!"

He looked at the other two expectantly.  "Sounds good to me," Richard
the Second said.  "Just might fly," Richard the Third said.

Grinning, Richard the First winked at himself in the mirror over the
bathroom sink.

It was snowing when they left the apartment for the bus terminal.

The time was ten minutes past two.

Detective First Grade Oliver Weeks known far and wide, but particularly
wide, as Fat Ollie Weeks though never to his face got into the act
because two dead bodies were found in an apartment in Eighty-eighth
Precinct, which happened to be his bailiwick.

The discovery was made by a woman who lived on  Richard Cooper's
floor, who happened to be by his door when she saw it standing wide
open.  She called into him, and then stepped inside   and saw a
mess there, clothes thrown all over which way, drawers pulled out, and
figures somebody's been in there and ripped him off, so she went
downstairs to tell the super.  This was seventeen minutes past five,
about a half hour after Ollie and his team had relieved the day watch. 
super went upstairs with her and found the two bodies in the bathroom
and ran right down again to dial Nine-One-One.  The responding blues
radioed precinct with a double DOA and Ollie and an Eight-Eight
detective named Wilbur Sloat, who sounded black but who was actually a
tall, thin blond man with a scraggly blond mustache, rode over there to
Ainsley and North Eleventh.  They got there at a quarter to six.

Since Ollie was a bigot in the truest sense of the word that is to say,
he hated everyone he was

naturally tickled to death to see two of the precinct's more
contemptible black specimens dead by their own hands.  For such was
what it appeared to be at first glance.

"Make either one of them?"  Sloat asked.

He was a new detective, and he affected mannerisms and speech he heard
on cop television shows.  Ollie would have liked it better if Sloat had
stayed back in the squad room answering telephones and picking his
nose.  Ollie was aloner.  He preferred being aloner.  That way, you
didn't have to deal with assholes all the time.

The one with his throat slit, he recognized at once as a small-time
pimp named Jamal "The Jackal" Stone, formerly known as Jackson Stone
before he picked himself a name he thought sounded African.  Jamal, my
ass.  Ollie had recently read in Newsweek magazine that forty-four
percent of all persons of color in America preferred being called
"black," whereas only twenty-eight percent liked to be called African
American So why did all these niggers (Ollie's own choice of
appellation by a personal margin of one hundred percent) give
themselves African names and run around celebrating African holidays
and wearing fezzes and robes, what the hell was it?

The way Ollie looked at it, a simple fact of American life was that one
out of every three black males was currently enmeshed in the criminal
justice system.  That meant that thirty-three and athird percent of the
black male population was either in jail, on parole, or awaiting trial.
So, yeah, if a white guy crossed the street when he saw three black men
approaching him, it was because one of them might be

Johnnie Cochran, sure, and another might be Darden, okay, but the
third one might be O Simpson.

So here were two dead black men in a bathroom.  Big surprise.

The way Ollie saw it, there were two instituti that should be
reinstated all over the world.  One of them was dictatorship and the other
was slavery.  He told Sloat who the one on the floor was.  "Got himself
juked real good," Sloat said Juked, Ollie thought.  Jesus.

The one in the tub he didn't recognize under allthat  water, which distorted
his good looks.  But when the M.E. had him pulled out of the tub so he
could examine him, Ollie pegged him at once, as a two-bit drug dealer named
Richard Cooper, who once broke both a man's legs for calling him
Richie.  M.E. wouldn't even speculate that the cause of death was
drowning, having been burned on a similar call years ago where it
turned out a man had been before someone shoved his head facedown in a
toilet bowl.  The one on the floor had definitely been slashed,
though, so the M.E. had no trouble determining that the cause of death
was severance of the carotid artery.

The two Homicide detectives working the night shift were called
Flaherty and Flanagan.  Ollie told them he knew both of the victims,
one of them by his ugly face, the other by his ugly reputation.  Sloat
suggested that perhaps they'd got into a fight over the handbag there
on the floor, one thing leading to another, and so on and so forth, the
same old story.

Same old story, Ollie thought.  Fuckin dope's been a detective hardly
three months, he's talkin about the same old story.

"A clutch," Flaherty said.

"Well, I don't know whether they were grabbing each other or not,"
Sloat said.  "I'm only suggesting they may have done each other."

Done each other, Ollie thought.

"The bag, I mean," Flaherty said.  "A clutch."  "It's called a clutch,"
Flanagan said.  "The type of bag," Flaherty said.  "A clutch bag."

"A handbag without handles."

"What's that got to do with the price of fish?"  Ollie asked
impatiently.

"For the sake of accuracy," Flaherty said.  "In your report.  You
should call it a clutch bag."

"A red patent-leather clutch handbag," Flanagan said.  Most Homicide
Division detectives favored wearing black, the color of mourning, the
color of death.  But black suited these two more than it did many of
their colleagues.  Tall and thin, with pale features and slender waxen
hands, the two resembled vampires who had wandered in out of the snowy
cold, the shoulders of their black coats damp, their eyes a watery
blue, their lips bloodless, their shoes a sodden black.  They were both
wearing white woolen mufflers, a limp sartorial touch.

"How much money is that on the floor?"  Flanagan asked.

"Five C-notes," Sloat said.

C-notes, Ollie thought.

"Don't forget the three jumbo vials," Flaherty said.  "Hey, you!"
Ollie yelled to one of the technicians.  "Okay to look in this bag now?
This clutch bag?  This red patent-leather clutch handbag?"

The technician turned off his vacuum cleaner, walked over to where they
were standing, and began dusting the bag for latents.  The detectives
wandered around the apartment, waiting for him to finish.

"No sheets on the bed, you notice that?"  Flaherty said.

"What do these people know about sheets?"  Ollie said.  "You think they
have sheets in Africa?  In Africa they sleep in huts with mud floors,
they have flies in their fuckin eyes day and night, they drink goat's
milk with blood in it, what the fuck do they know about sheets?"

"This ain't Africa," Flanagan said.

"And there still ain't no sheets on the bed," Flaherty said.

"Looks like somebody really tossed the place," Flanagan said, observing
the clothes strewn everywhere, the open dresser drawers and kitchen
cabinets, the overturned trash basket.

"Maybe it was an interrupted crib job," Sloat suggested.

"Jamal's a fuckin pimp," Ollie said.  "What does he know about
burglaries?"

"Which one is Jamal?"

"The one with his tonsils showing."

"Maybe he was the one being burglarized, Maybe he walked in and found
the other guy..."

"No, the mailbox says Cooper.  Who don't like to be called Richie. You
gonna take all day with that fuckin clutch bag?"  Ollie yelled to the
technician.

"You can have it now," the technician said, handing it to him.

"What'd you get?"

"Some good ones.  Patent's a good surface."  "What do they look
like?"

"Smaller ones may be female.  The others, who knows."?"

"When can I have something?"

"Later today?"

"How much later?  I go home at midnight."  "A quarter to midnight,"
Sloat amended.  "Soon as we process them," the technician said.

"Run them through Records at the same time,

okay?"  Ollie said.  "See if we come up roses."  "Sure."

"So what timeT"

"What's the rush?  They're not going anywhere," he said, and glanced
toward the open bathroom door, where the police photographer was taking
his Polaroids.

"I'm just wonderin what really happened here, is all," Ollie said.
"Send me what you get the minute you get it, okay?  The Eight-Eight.
Oliver Weeks."

"Sure," the technician said, and shrugged and went back to his
vacuuming.

"I think what happened here is what the kid says happened here,"
Flaherty said.

Sloat looked flattered.

"They killed each other, right?"  Ollie said.  He was already beginning to
go through the bag the technician had handed him.  The clutch bag,
excuse me all to hell.  Looked like some more hundred-dollar bills in
here..

"Dude's about to take a bath," Sloat suggested, "he hears somebody
coming in the apartment, he immediately grabs for a knife ..."  '

"I think the kid's got it," Flaherty said, and approval again.

Fuckin Homicide jackass, Ollie thought.  Fourteen hundred in the bag,
plus the five on the `:-3,' floor, came to  nineteen.  Money like that spelled
dope or prostitution.  More red tops on the bottom of the bag, looked
more, like a dope thing every minute.  He fished out a driver's license
with a photo ID on it.

"What've you got?"  Flanagan asked.  "Ohio driver's license," Ollie
said.  "Out-of-towner," Sloat surmised.

"Probably mugged her, one or the other of them, then got into a fight
over the bag."

"When was this?"  Ollie asked.  "Before he turned apartment upside down
or after?"

"What?"

"Whoever got killed first.  Give me the sequence, Wilbur."

He made the name sound like a dirty word.  "Start with the muggin,"
Flanagan said.

"Cooper mugged her, brought the bag back to his apartment," Sloat
said.

"Who's Cooper?"  Flaherty asked.

"The one who drowned."

From the door, where he was putting on his hat, the

M.E. called, "I didn't say he drowned."

"If he drowned," Sloat said.

"For all I know, he was poisoned."

Yeah, bullshit, Ollie thought.

"Good night, gentlemen," the M.E. said, and headed downstairs to the
snow and the wind.  Ollie looked at his watch.  A quarter to seven.

"So let's hear it, Wilbur," he said.

"I've got an even better idea," Sloat said.

"Even better than your first one?"  Ollie said, sounding surprised.

"They both mugged her."

"That's very good," Flaherty said appreciatively.

"Came back here to celebrate.  All these empty champagne bottles?  They
were drinking champagne."

"Got drunk, got wild, started throwing around clothes and stuff,"
Flanagan suggested.

"I like it," Flaherty said.

"A drunken party," Sloat said.  "Cooper goes in the bathroom to run a
tub.  Jamal comes in after him, and they start arguing about how to
split the money."  "Better all the time," Flaherty said.

"Cooper pulls a knife, slashes Jamal.  Jamal shoves out at him as he
goes down.  Cooper falls in the tub and drowns."

"Case closed," Flaherty said, grinning.

Assholes, Ollie thought.

"Hey, you!"  he yelled to the technician.

The technician turned off his vacuum cleaner again.

"I want the knife and the champagne bottles dusted.  I want every
fuckin surface in this dump dusted.  I want comparison prints lifted
from both those two black shits in the bathroom.  I want comparison
hairs from their heads, and comparison fibers from their clothes, and I
want them checked against whatever you pick up with.  that fuckin noisy
vacuum of yours.  Where'd you buy that vacuum, anyway?  From a pushcart
Majesta?"

"It's standard departmental issue," the technician said, offended.

"Stand on this awhile," Ollie said, and clutched his own genitals with
his right hand and then released them at once.  "I want to know was
there anybody else in this dump besides those two ugly bastards in the
bathroom.  Cause there's nothing I'd like better than to nail another
son of a bitch up here in Diamondback.  You got that?"

The technician was glaring at him.

"I go off at a quarter to twelve," Ollie said.  "I want to know before
then."

The technician was still glaring at him.

"You got it?"  Ollie said, glaring back.

"I've got it," the technician snapped.  "You fat tub of shit," he
muttered, which he was lucky Ollie didn't hear.

Along about then, Steve Carella was just waking up.

Georgie and Tony had a serious problem on their hands.

"The thing is," Georgie said, "the old lady probably didn't even
remember putting that money in the locker."

"An old lady, how old?"  Tony asked.  "How could she remember?"

"You see the envelope it's in?"

The envelope was in the inside pocket on the right-hand side of his
jacket.  It bulged out the jacket as if he was packing, which he was
not.  Georgie only carried a gun when he was at the club protecting
Priscilla.  Carrying a gun was too dangerous otherwise.  People would
think you were an armed robber or something.  Georgie preferred subtler
ways of beating the System.  Beating the System was what it was all
about.  But now, Priss Stetson had in some strange mysterious way
become the System.

"Even the envelope looks ancient," Georgie said, lowering his voice.

The men were in the bus terminal restaurant, eating an early dinner and
trying to figure out what to do about this large sum of money that had
come their way.  The place wasn't too crowded at a little past seven.
Maybe a dozen people in all.  Black guy and what looked like his mother
sitting at a nearby table.  Three kids in blue parkas, looked like
college boys, sitting at another table across the room.  Old guy in his
sixties holding hands with a young blonde maybe thirty or forty, she
was either his daughter or a bimbo.  Two guys hunched over racing
forms, trying to dope out tomorrow's ponies.

It had been snowing since two this afternoon.  Beyond the restaurant's
high windows, sharp tiny flakes, the kind that stuck, swirled dizzily
on the air, caught in the light of the streetlamps.  There had to be
six inches on the ground already, and the  snow
showed
no sign of letting up.  Inside the restaurant, there was the snug,
cozy feel of people hunched over good food in a safe, warm place.
Outside, buses came and

The hundred thou in the yellowing envelope was burning a hole in
Georgie's pocket.

"The question here," he said, "is what is our obligation?"

"Our moral obligation," Tony said, nodding.  "If the old lady forgot
the money was there."  "My grandmother forgets things all the time." 
"Mine, too."

"She says it, too.  I mean, she knows it, Georgie.  says if her head
wasn't on her shoulders she'd forget where she put it."

"They forget things.  They get old, they forget things."

"You know the story about the old guy in the nursing home?"

"Yeah, you told us."  "No, not that one."  "Parkinson's?  You told
us."

"No, this is another one.  This old guy is in a nursing home, the doctor
comes in his room, he says, "I've got bad news for you."  The old guy
says, "What is it?"  The doctor says, "First, you've got cancer, and
second, you've got Alzheimer's."  The old guy goes, "Phew,

thank God I don't have cancer."  " Georgie looked at him.  "I don't get
it," he said.

"The old guy already forgot," Tony explained.  -"Forgot what?"

"That he has cancer."

"How can a person forget he has cancer?"  "Cause he has
Alzheimer's."

"Then how come he didn't forget he has Alzheimer's?"

"Forget it," Tony said.

"No, you raised the question.  If he can forget he has one disease, how
come he doesn't forget he's got the other disease?"

"Cause then it wouldn't be a joke."

"It isn't a joke, anyway."

"A lot of people think it's a joke."

"If it isn't funny, how can it be a joke?"

"A lot of people think it's funny."

"A lot of people are pretty fuckin weird, too,"

Georgie said, and nodded in dismissal.

Both men sipped at their coffee.

"So what do you want to do here?"  Tony asked.

"About the envelope?"  Georgie asked, lowering his voice.

"Yeah."

Both of them whispering now.

"Let's say the old lady put it there ten years ago, forgot it was
there."

"Then why did she send Priss the key?"

"Who knows why old ladies do things?  Maybe she had an apparition she
was about to get knocked off."

"Anyway, it doesn't matter either way.  The old lady's dead, how can
she tell Priss what was in that locker?"

"Her note didn't say anything about what was in the locker.  All it
said was go to the locker, that's all."

"What it said exactly was go to locker number thirty-six at the
Rendell Road Bus Terminal."   "Exactly."

"What I'm saying," Georgie said, "As if Priss knew there was a hundred
large ones in that locker, you think she'd have trusted us to come for
it?"

"Us?  She'd have to be out of her mind."

"Exactly the point."

"What you're saying is she didn't know."  "What I'm saying is she
doesn't know."  Silence.  The clink of silverware against coffee and
saucers. The trill of the black woman's laughter at the nearby table. 
The buzz of conversation from the college boys on the other side of the
room. Other voices.  And the loudspeaker announcing the arrival of a
bus from Philadelphia at gate number seven.  At the center of all this,
the core of Tony's and Georgie's thoughtful silence.

"We're the only ones who know," Tony said at last.

"So why should we turn it over to her?"  Georgie asked.

Tony merely smiled.

The next bus back to school wouldn't be leaving for an hour yet.  This
gave them plenty of time to work out  what in the film industry was
called a back story..

What seemed perfectly apparent to them was that the only people with
whom they'd had any contact after the bouncer tossed them out of the
Jammer were all now dead.  This was definitely in their favor.  If they
hadn't even talked to anyone after telling the bouncer to go fuck
himself, then there wasn't anyone alive who

could say they were uptown in Diamondback getting involved with three
people who would later cause trouble for each other, the girl by
refusing to mention she was suffocating, the two black drunks getting
into a fight over her money and her stash, one of them ending up
drowned, the other stabbed, boy.

"What about the cabdriver?"  Richard the Second asked.

"Uh-oh, the cabbie," Richard the Third said.  "What about him?" 
Richard the First said.  "He picked us up downtown, he dropped us off
uptown. So what?"

Two guys who looked like gangsters in a Martin Scorsese movie were
walking past the table, on their way out of the restaurant.  The boys
lowered, their voices, averted their eyes.  In this city, it was best
to be circumspect.  Witness what had happened uptown when they'd got
too chummily careless with three people who'd turned out to be
unwholesome types.

"See that bulge under his coat?"  Richard the Third whispered as soon
as the men pushed through the door into the terminal proper.  Outside,
despite the snow, buses kept coming and going.  The two men disappeared
in the swirling flakes.

"How'd you like to meet one of those guys in a dark alley?"  Richard
the Second said.

None of the Richards seemed to realize that they themselves were now
prime candidates for guys you would not care to meet in a dark alley.
Or anywhere else, for that matter.  They had killed three people.

They qualified.  But the odd thing about what had happened was that it
now seemed to be something

they'd read about or watched on television or seen on stage or in a
movie theater.  It simply did not seem to have happened to them.

So as they discussed whether or not   who'd driven them to
Diamondback posed any kind a threat, they dismissed from their
reasoning reason for their concern.  They had been sitting in the back of a
dark cab, he could not have seen their faces  clearly.  There had been a
thick plastic between them and the driver's seat, further obscuring 
vision.  They had placed the fare and a reasonable tip into the little
plastic holder that flipped out toward them.  The only words that
passed between them and the cabbie was when Richard the First told him
their destination.  Ainsley and North Eleventh, he'd said, The driver
hadn't even muttered acknowledgment.

The way Richard the First figured it, and he told this to the other two
Richards now, the camel jockeys in this city were involved solely with
calculating how more months they'd have to work here before they saved
enough to go back home.  This was why they never spoke to anyone. Never
even nodded to indicate they'd heard you.  Never said thank you, God
forbid.  They were too busy reckoning the nickels and dimes they'd need
to build their shining palaces in the sand.  "He won't be a problem,"
Richard the First said.  But none of them acknowledged the events that
had followed that fateful ride uptown.  None of them even whispered the
possibility that they may have been seen by someone as they entered
black Richard's building in the company of that unfortunate girl who'd
later been too  timid or stupid to mention or even indicate

 that she was having trouble breathing.  Acknowledging the cause of
their concern would concede implication.

No.

The boys were clean.

Their bus would leave in forty-five minutes.

They would be back at school in an hour and forty-five minutes.

Everything there would be white and still and clean.

"Nothing happened," Richard the First said aloud.

"Nothing happened," the other two Richards said.

"Swear," Richard the First said, and placed his clenched fist on the
tabletop.

"I swear," Richard the Second said, and covered the fist with his
hand.

"I swear," Richard the Third said, and likewise covered the fist.

The loudspeaker announced final boarding of the seven-thirty-two bus to
Poughkeepsie.

The boys ordered another round of milk shakes.

Two pieces of significant information came into the squad room in the
final hour of the night shift.  Detective Hal Willis, sitting in his
shirtsleeves in the overheated room, watching the snowflakes swirling
outside, took both calls.  The first came at a quarter past eleven.  It
was from a detective named Frank Schulz who asked to speak to either
Carella or Hawes, and then settled for Willis when he said he'd give
them the information.

Schulz was one of the technicians who'd examined the Cadillac
registered to Rodney Pratt.  He informed  Willis, by the way, that the
limo had already been

returned to the owner, receipt in Schulz's possession  did Willis want it
faxed over or could Schulz drop it in the mail, the receipt?  Willis told
him to mail it.

"What we got was a lot of feathers" Schulz said.

"Now, I don't know if you're familiar with the difference between down and
contour feathers..."  

"No, I'm not," Willis said.

"Then I won't bother you with an explanation because we're both busy men,"
Schulz said, and then went on to give along, erudite dissertation on
feather sacks and quills and shafts and barbs and barbules and l hooklets and knots, all  of which differed in orders of birds, did Willis
happen to see the
film

Alfred Hitchcock wrote?

Willis didn't think Hitchcock had written it.

"The determination of which feathers came from what order of bird is
important in many investigations," Schulz said.

Like this one, Willis thought.

"I don't know whether the Caddy was being used for any illegal
activity, but that's not my domain, anyway."

Domain, Willis thought.

"Suffice it to say," Schulz said, "that the feathers we recovered from
the backseat of the car were chicken feathers.  The shit is anybody's
guess."  "Chicken feathers," Willis said.  "Pass it on," Schulz said. 
"I will."

"I know you're busy," Schulz said, and hung up.

The second call came from Captain Sam Grossman some ten minutes later.
He told Willis that he'd

examined the clothing of the murder victim Svetlana Dyalovich and had
come up with nothing of any real significance except for what he'd
found on the mink.

Willis hoped he was not about to hear a dissertation on the pelts of
slender-bodied, semi aquatic carnivorous mammals of the genus Mustela.
Instead, Grossman wanted to talk about fish, Willis braced himself. But
Grossman got directly to the point.

"There were fish stains on the coat.  Which in itself is not unusual.
People get all sorts of stains on their garments.  What's peculiar
about these stains is their location."

"Where were they?"  Willis asked.

"High up on the coat.  At the back, inside and outside, near the
collar.  From the location of the stains, it would appear that someone
had held the coat in both hands, one at either side of the collar,
thumbs outside, fingers inside."

"I can't visualize it" Willis said, shaking his head.  "Have you got a
book handy?"

"How about the Code of Criminal Procedure?"

"Fine.  Pick it up with both hands, palms over the spine, fingers on
the front cover, thumbs on the back."  "Let me put down the phone."

He put down the phone.  Picked up the book.  Nodded.  Put down the book
and picked up the phone again.

"Are you saying there are fingerprints on the coat?"  "No such luck,"
Grossman said.  "But the stains at the back are smaller, which might've
been where the thumbs gripped it near the collar.  And the larger
ones

inside the coat could have been left by the fingers of each hand."

"So what you're saying..."

"I'm saying someone with fish oil on his or her hands held the coat in the
manner I just described.  to you," he said, and hung up.

Fish oil, Willis thought.  And chicken feathers.  He was glad this
wasn't his case.

"Anything happen while we were gone?"  Carella asked.

"Same old shit," Willis said.  "How are the roads?"  "Lousy."

The clock on the squad room wall read eleven-forty P.M. It was twenty
minutes to midnight.  Cotton Hawes was just coming through the gate in
the slatted rail divider that separated the squad room from the
corridor outside.  Beyond the steel mesh on the high squad room
windows, it was still snowing.  This meant they could add a half hour,
maybe forty minutes to any outside visits they made.

"Frozen tundra out there," Hawes said, and took off his coat.  Carella
was leafing through the messages on his desk.

"Chicken feathers, huh?"  he asked Willis.  "Is what the man said,"
Willis answered.  "And fish stains on the mink."  "Yeah."

"What kind of fish, did Grossman say?"

"I didn't ask."

"You should have.  Just for the halibut."

Willis winced.

"Meyer and Kling tossed the piano player's apartment again," he said.
"Zilch."

"That means a hundred and twenty-five K is still kicking around
someplace."

"For what it's worth, Kling thinks the burglar theory's the one to go
with."

"That's why we're looking for whoever stole a gun," Hawes said.

"If somebody stole it," Carella said.  "Otherwise, Pratt's our man."
"Alibi a mile long."  "Sure, his wife."

"Gee, detective work is so exciting," Willis said  and put on his hat and
walked out.  "Chicken feathers," Carella said.  "What did he say about
the shit?"  "Anybody's guess."

"We can dismiss illegal hunting..."

"Nobody hunts chickens."

"So that leaves theft from a chicken market."  "Not too many chicken
markets around these days."  "Lots of them in Riverhead and Majesta.
Some of the ethnics like their chickens fresh-killed.  Hangover from
the old country."

"Don't Orthodox Jews kill their chickens fresh?"  "You think it was a
dead chicken in the Caddy?"  "Or chickens.  Plural."

"Then how come no bloodstains?"  "Good point.  So it was a live
chicken."  "Or chickens."

"You know how to make Hungarian chicken soup?"  "How?"

"First you steal a chicken."

"Okay, let's say somebody stole a chicken."  "Took it for a ride in the
backseat of Pratt's Caddy."  "Would you make that movie?"

"I wouldn't even go see that movie."

"But, okay, just for the halibut, let's say somebody was hungry enough
or desperate enough to steal a chicken from a chicken market..."  "Do
pet shops sell chickens?"  "Chicks."  "In January?"  "Around Easter."

"Anyway, a chick ain't a chicken."

"No, this had to be a chicken market."

"How about a petting zoo?  Where they have goats and cows and chickens
and ducks ..."  "Do people pet chickens?"  "They cook chickens."

"So, okay, first you steal a chicken."  "They also sacrifice chickens."
"Voodoo."  "Mm."

Both men fell silent.  It was midnight.  Blue Monday.  And still
snowing.

"Let's ask around," Hawes said.

The technician who had thought vile thoughts about Fat Ollie Weeks
nonetheless got back to him just as he was leaving the squad room at a
few minutes past midnight.  Except for the names on desktop plaques and
bulletin-board duty rosters, the squad room here at the Eight-Eight was
an almost exact duplicate of the one at the Eight-Seven, or, for that
matter, any other police station in the city.  Even the newly
constructed

buildings began to look shoddy and decrepit time, an apple-green
pallor overtaking seemingly at once.  Ollie looked at the speckled face
the wall clock, remembering that he'd told the tech wanted the stuff by
a quarter to, and thinking he'll be lucky Ollie was still here, otherwise
it would have been his ass.  He ripped open the manila envelope yanked out
the report.

No latents at all on the champagne bottles and knife used to slit the
estimable Jamal's throat.  No latents on any of the bathroom fixtures
or any of doorknobs in the apartment, either.  Meaning that there hadn't 
been any other person or persons in the room, then he, she, or they had
seen a lot of movies and knew enough to wipe up after themselves.  So
the only thing they could compare against the corpses fingerprints which
the tech had dutifully lifted the two stiffs in the bathroom, copies of
which included in the packet was the prints on the patent-leather
clutch.  The smaller prints on the bag  matched the prints of the woman
named Yolande  Marie Marx, whose Ohio driver's license Ollie found in the
red patent-leather clutch.  Apparently, Yolande was now lying in the
morgue at Hospital; the fingerprints the tech had lifted from the bag
identified her as a white, nineteen-year-old shoplifter and prostitute
with an arrest record that went back several years.  The other prints on the
bag matched the late Richie Cooper's.  According to the report, Jamal
Stone hadn't touched the bag.

Ollie kept reading.

Of hairs, there had been many, and only some of them matched those
plucked from the heads of the poor unfortunate victims.  Some of the
hairs were blond, and they matched samples taken from the head of the
dead girl.  Fibers vacuumed in the apartment matched fibers from the
short black skirt and red fake-fur jacket she'd been wearing at the
time of her death.

There were other fibers and other hairs.

There were a significant number of dark blue wool fibers.  They did not
match any fibers from the clothing of the two victims.

There were red hairs.  And black hairs.  And blond hairs.

Some of them were head hairs.

Some of them were genital hairs.

All of them were hairs from white human beings.  All of them were male
hairs.

Three white males, two dead black dudes, and a dead white hooker, Ollie
thought, and farted.

El Castillo de Palacios would have been ungrammatical in Spanish if the
Palacios hadn't been a person's name, which in this case it happened to
be.  Palacio meant "palace" in Spanish, and palacios meant "palaces,"
and when you had a plural noun, the article and noun were supposed to
correspond, unlike English where everything was so sloppily put
together, thank God.  El Castillo de los Palacios would have been the
proper Spanish for "The Castle of the Palaces," but since Francisco
Palacios was a person, El Castillo de Palacios was, in fact, correct
even

though it translated as "Palacios's Castle," a play words however you
sliced it, English or Spanish.  And worth repeating, by the way, as
were many things in this friendly universe the good Lord created.

Francisco Palacios was a good-looking man with clean-living habits, now
that he'd served three years upstate on a burglary rap.  He owned and
operated a pleasant little store that sold medicinal herbs, books,
religious statues, numbers books, tarot cards and the like.  His silent
partners were named Gaucho Palacios and Cowboy Palacios, and they ran a
store behind the other store, and this one offered for sale such
medically approved "marital aids" as dildos.  French ticklers,
open-crotch panties bra gas sin entrepierna), plastic vibrators
(eight-inch and in the white, twelve-inch in the black), leather
executioner's masks, chastity belts, whips with leather thongs, leather
anklets studded with chrome, extenders, aphrodisiacs, inflatable
life-sized dolls, condoms every color of the rainbow including
vermilion, books on how to hypnotize and otherwise overcome reluctant
women, ben-wa balls in plastic and gold plate, and a highly mechanical
device guaranteed to bring satisfaction and imaginatively called
Sue-u-lator, in case you missed all this while you were out in the
fragrant cloisters reading your vespers.

Selling these things in this city was not illegal; the Gaucho and the
Cowboy were breaking no laws.  This was not why they ran their store
behind the store owned and operated by Francisco.  Rather, they did so
out of a sense of responsibility to the Puerto Rican

community of which they were a part.  They did not, for example, want
a little old lady in a black shawl to wander into the back store shop
and faint dead away at the sight of playing cards featuring men, women,
police dogs and midgets in fifty-two marital-aid positions, fifty-four
if you counted the jokers.  Both the Gaucho and the Cowboy had
community pride to match that of Francisco himself.  Francisco, the
Gaucho, and the Cowboy were, in fact, all one and the same person, and
they were collectively a police informer, a stoolie, a snitch, or even
in some quarters a rat.

El Castillo de Palacios was in a ratty quarter of the Eight-Seven known
as El Infierno, which, until the recent influx of Jamaicans, Koreans,
Haitians, Vietnamese and Martians had been almost exclusively Puerto
Rican, or if you preferred "of Spanish origin," which was both clumsy
and cumbersome but favored over the completely phony "Latino."  On the
politically correct highway, both of these categorizing expressions
fell far behind the ever-popular (by fifty-eight percent) simple
descriptive term "Hispanic."  Ten percent of the Hispanics queried
didn't care what they were called, so long as it wasn't "spic" or late
for dinner.

El Infierno meant guess what?  The Inferno.  It was.

Palacios was just closing up when they got there at about twenty past
midnight after a snowy fifteen-minute ride cross town which under
ordinary circumstances would have taken five minutes.  Palacios wore
his black hair in a high pompadour, the

way kids used to wear it back in the fifties.  Dark eyes. Matinee-idol
teeth.  It was rumored in the town that Palacios had three wives, which like
the violation the police held dangling over his head against the law.  All
of which Hawes and Carella and every other cop in the precinct (and every
other being in the world) already knew, but so what?  Nobo was
counting, and nobody was sending anyone to just yet--provided the
information was good.

It was.

Symbiosis, Hawes thought.

A nice word and a cozy arrangement.

Hawes sometimes felt the entire world ran on arrangements.

"Ai, mari cones Palacios said, "quO pasa?"  He knew the cops could send
him up anytime they felt like  it. Meanwhile, he could be friendly with them,
no?  Besides, mar icon meant "homosexual," mari cones was the plural of
that, which he didn't think they knew.  They did know, but they also knew it
was a friendly form of greeting among Hispanic men, knew why, and God
protect any non-Hispanic if they used it in greeting.

They got straight to the point.

"Voodoo."

"Mm, voodoo," Palacios said, nodding.  "Anything go down this past
Friday night?"  "Like what?"

"Any Papa Legbas sitting on the gate?"  "Any Maitresse Ezilis tossing
their hips?"  "Any Damballahs?"  "Any Baron Samedis?"

"Any chickens getting their throats slit?"  "You know some voodoo,
huh?"  "Un poquito," Hawes said.

"No, no, muchisimo," Palacios said, praising him as extravagantly as if
he'd just translated Cervantes.

"So," Carella said, cutting through the bullshit, "anything at all this
past Friday?"

"Talk to Clotilde Prouteau," Palacios said.  "She's a mamaloi .. ."

"A what?"

"A priestess.  Well, sometimes.  She also conjures.  I sell her War
Water and Four Thieves Vinegar, Guinea Paradise and Guinea Pepper,
Three Jacks and a King, Lucky Dog, jasmine and narcisse, white rose and
essence of van van whatever she needs to conjure.  Tell her Francois
sent you.  Le Cowboy Espagnol, tell her."

The three of them were sitting at a table somewhat removed from the
piano and the bar, Priscilla trying to control her anger while
simultaneously venting it, Georgie and Tony trying to catch her
whispered words.  This was Sunday night well, Monday morning already
and Priscilla's night off, but the bar was open and the drinks were
free and this was a good quiet place to talk on a Sunday, especially
when it was snowing like mad outside and the place was almost empty.

Priscilla was steamed, no doubt about it.

She had been steamed since eight P.M. when the boys finally got back to
the hotel with an envelope they'd retrieved from the pay locker at the
Rendell

Road Terminal.  The envelope had contained a letter that read:

My dearest Priscilla:

In the event of my death, you will have been this locker where you will
find a great deal

I have been saving this money for you all these years never touching it,
living only on my welfare eh, and whatever small amounts still come in
on company royalties.

It is my wish that the cash will enable you to your career as a concert
pianist.

I have always loved you

Your grandmother,

Svetlana

In the envelope, there was five thousand dollars hundred-dollar
bills.

"Five thousand?."  Priscilla had yelled.  "This is great deal of
cash?"

"It ain't peanuts," Georgie suggested.

"This is supposed to take care of me?"

"Five grand is actually a lot of money," Georgie said.

Which it was.

Though not as much as the ninety-five they'd stolen from the locker.

"Five thousand is supposed to buy a career as a fucking concert
pianist?"

She still couldn't get over it.

Sitting here at ten minutes to one in the morning, drinking the
twenty-year-old Scotch the bartender had brought to her table, courtesy
of the house, Priscilla kept shaking her head over and over again.  The
boys sympathized with her.  Priscilla looked at her watch.  "You know
what I think?"  she asked.

Georgie was afraid to hear what she was thinking.  He didn't want her
to be thinking that they'd opened that envelope and stolen ninety-five
thousand dollars from it.  Priscilla didn't notice, but his knuckles
went white around his whiskey glass.

He waited breathlessly.

"I think whoever delivered that key went to the locker first," she
said.

"I'll bet," Georgie said at once.

"And cleaned it out," she said.

"Left just enough to make it look good," Tony said, nodding.

"Exactly," Georgie said.

"Made it look like the old lady was senile or something," Tony said.
"Leaving you five grand as if it's a fortune."

"Just what she did," Priscilla said.

"Well, it is sort of a for{tfune," Georgie said.  Priscilla was getting
angrier by the minute.  The very thought of some blond thief who
couldn't even speak English cleaning out the locker before delivering
the

key to her!  Tony kept fueling the anger.  Georgie listening to him in
stunned amazement.

"Who knows how much cash could've been in the locker?"  he said.

"Well, after all, five grand is quite a lot," Georgie said, and shot
Tony a look.

"Could've been twenty thousand in that
envelope Tony suggested.

"More," Priscilla said.  "She told me I'd be taken care of when she died."

"Could've been even fifty thousand in that

Tony amended.

"There was five, don't forget," Georgie said.  "Even a hundred, there
could've been," Tony said which Georgie thought was getting a little too
close for comfort.

Priscilla looked at her watch again.

"Let's go find the son of a bitch," she said, and graciously.  Flashing
a dazzling smile at the seven eight people sitting in the room, she
strode ele into the lobby, the boys following her.

They found Clotilde Prouteau at one A.M. Monday, sitting at the bar of
a little French  smoking.  Nobody understood the city's

Code prohibiting smoking in public places, but it generally agreed that
you could smoke in a restaurant  with fewer than thirty-five patrons.  Le
Canard met this criterion.  Moreover, even in restaurants larger  than
this, smoking was permitted at any bar serviced by a bartender.  There
was no bartender on duty at the moment, but Clotilde was covered by the

size limitation, and so she was smoking her brains out.  Besides, they
weren't here to bust her for smoking in public.  Nor for practicing
voodoo, either.

A fifty-two-year-old Haitian woman with a marked French accent and a
complexion the color of oak, she sat with a red cigarette holder in her
right hand, courteously blowing smoke away from the detectives.  Her
eyes were a pale greenish-grey, accentuated with blue liner and thick
mascara.  Her truly voluptuous mouth was painted an outrageously bright
red.  She wore a patterned silk caftan that flowed liquidly over ample
hips, buttocks and breasts.  Enameled red earrings dangled from her
ears.  An enameled red pendant necklace hung at her throat.  Outside a
snowstorm was raging and the temperature was eight degrees Fahrenheit.
But here in this small smoky bistro a CD player oozed plaintive Piaf,
and Clotilde Prouteatt looked exotically tropical and flagrantly
French.

"Voodoo is not illegal, you know that, eh?"  she asked.

"We know it."

"It is a religion," she said.

"We know.  ,

"And here in America, we can still practice whatever religion we
choose, eh?"

The Four Freedoms speech, Carella thought, and wondered if she had a
green card.

"Francisco Palacios tells us you sometimes do the ceremony."

"Pardon?  Do the ceremony?"

"Conduct the ceremony.  Whatever."

"What ceremony do you mean?"

"Come on, Miss Prouteau.  We're talking here, and we're talking the
lady who implores

Legba to open the gate, and who sacrifices..."  "Sacrifices?  Vraiment,
messieurs..."

"We know you sacrifice chickens, goats..."  "No, no, this is against
the law."  "But nobody cares," Carella said.  She looked at them.

The specific law Clotilde had referred to was Article 26, Section 353
of the Agriculture and Markets which specifically prohibited
overdriving, overloading  torturing, cruelly beating, unjustifiably
injuring maiming, mutilating, or killing any animal, wild or tame.  The
offence was  punishable by imprisonment for not more than a or a fine
of a thousand dollars, or both.

Like most laws in this city, this one was designed to protect a
civilization evolved over centuries.  rarely ever invoked the law to
prevent animal in religious ceremonies, lest all the civil rights   advocates
demanded their shields and their Clotilde was now weighing up whether
these two were about to get tough with her for doing something was done
routinely all over the city, especially Haitian neighborhoods.  Why
bother with me?  she was wondering.  You have nothing better to do,
messieurs' You have no trafiquants to arrest?  No terroristes?  how had
they learned about Friday night, anyway?

"What is it you are looking for precisely?"  she asked.

"We're trying to locate a person who may have driven a live chicken to
a voodoo ceremony," Hawes said, and felt suddenly foolish.

"I am sorry, but I did not drive a chicken anywhere," Clotilde said.
"Live or otherwise.  A chicken, did you say?"

Hawes felt even more foolish.

"We're trying to find a person who may have stolen a gun from a
borrowed Cadillac," Carella said.

This didn't sound any better.

"I did not steal a gun, either," Clotilde said.

"But did you conduct a voodoo ceremony this past Friday night?"

"Voodoo is not against the law."

"Then you have nothing to worry about.  Do you?"  "I did."

"Tell us about it."  "What is there to tell?"  "What time did it
start?" "Nine o'clock?"

An indifferent shrug.  Another drag on the cigarette in its red holder
that matched the earrings, the necklace and the pouty painted lips.  A
cloud of smoke blown away from the two detectives.

"Who was there?"

"Worshipers.  Supplicants.  Believers.  Call them whatever you choose.
As I have told you, it is a religion."

"Yes, we've got that, thanks," Hawes said.  "Pardon?"

"Can you tell us what happened?"

"Happened?  Nothing unusual happened.  What do you think happened?"

We think someone delivered a chicken for sacrifice  and stole a gun from the
car while he was at it.  Is what  we think happened, Hawes thought, but did
not say.  "Did anyone arrive with a chicken?"  Carella asked. "For what?"  "For
sacrifice."

"We do not sacrifice."

"What do you do?"  Hawes insisted.

Clotilde sighed heavily.

"We meet in an old stone building that was once a Catholic church," she
said.  "But, as you know, are many elements of Catholicism in voodoo,
al though  our divinities constitute a pantheon larger than holy trinity.
It is my role as mamaloi to call upon Legba..."

"Guardian of the gates," Carella said.

"God of the crossroads," Hawes said.

"Yes," Clotilde whispered reverently.  "As mentioned earlier, I implore
him to open the gate..."

"Papa Legba, ouvrez vos barr ires pour Papa Legba, oh sont vos petits
enfants?"

The gathered faithful in the old stone church their eyes and chant in
response, "Papa Legba, violht.  Papa Legba, ouvrez vos barribres pour
laisser passer!"

"Papa Legba," Clotilde pleads, "open the gate,.."  "Open the gate," the
faithful intone.  "Papa Legba, open the gate..."  "So that we may pass
through."  Call and response.

Africa.

"When we will have passed..."

"We will thank Legba."

"Legba who sits on the gate ..."

"Give us the right to pass."

The strong African elements in the religion.

And now a girl of six or seven glides toward the altar.  She is dressed
entirely in white and she holds in either hand a lighted white candle.
In a thin, high,

liltingly haunting voice, she begins to sing.  "The wild goat has
escaped.  "And must find its way home.  "I wonder what's the matter. 
"In Guinea, everyone is ill.  "I am not ill.  "But I will die.

"I wonder what's the matter."

Clotilde fell silent.  The detectives waited.  She drew on the
cigarette again, exhaled.  Piaf was still singing of unrequited love.
"Guinea is Africa," Clotilde explained.  She fell silent again, as if
drifting back to

Haiti and beyond that to Africa itself, to the Guinea in the child's
plaintive song, to the Grain Coast and the Ivory Coast and the Gold
Coast and the Slave Coast, to the empires of the Fula and the Mandingo
and the Ashanti and Kangasi, the Hausa and the Congo.  Still the
detectives waited.  Clotilde drew on the cigarette again, exhaled a
billow of smoke, and began speaking in a low, hoarse voice.  From the
rising smoke of the cigarette and the hypnotic smoke-seared rasp of her
voice, the old stone church seemed to materialize again, a young girl
in white standing before Clotilde,

the priestess sprinkling her hair with wine and oil water, whitening
her eye-lids with flour.  Clotilde blows out the candles.  The faithful
are chanting again.  "Mistress Ezili, come to guide us!  "If you want a
chicken, "We will give one to you!  "If you want a goat, "It is here
for you!  "If you want a bull,

"We will give one to you!  "But a goat without horns, "Oh, where will
we find one..  "Where will we find one... "Where will we find one?" 
The bar went silent.

Clotilde exhaled another cloud of smoke, blowing over her shoulder,
away from the detectives.

"That is essentially how the ceremony goes," she said "The faithful call to
Ezili until she appears.  Usually takes the form of a woman being
mounted..."  "Mounted?"

"Possessed, you would say.  Ezili possesses her.

Goddess Ezili.  I left out some things, but essentially..."  "You left
out the sacrifice," Carella said.  "Well, yes, in Haiti a goat or a
chicken or a bull be sacrificed.  And perhaps, centuries ago in Africa,
the': sacrifice may have been human, I truly don't know.  I suppose
that's what the goat without horns is all about.  But here in America?
No."

"Here in America, yes," Carella said.

Clotilde looked at him.

"No," she said.

Yes, Carella said.  "After the oil and the water... "No."

"... and the wine and the flour, someone slits the throat of a chicken
or a goat..."

"Not here in America."

"Please, Madame Proteau.  This is where the priestess dips her finger
into the blood and makes a cross on the girl's forehead.  This is where
the sacrifice is placed on the altar and the drumming begins.  The
sacrifice is what finally convinces Ezili to appear.  The
sacrifice..."

"I am telling you there are no blood sacrifices in our ceremonies."

"We're not looking for a cheap three-fifty-three bust," Hawes said.

"Good," Clotilde said, and nodded in dismissal.

"We're working a homicide," Carella said.  "Any help you can give
us..."

ats, quest-ce que je peux faire?"  she said, and shrugged.  "If there
was no chicken, there was no chicken."  She ejected the cigarette stub
from the holder, and inserted a new one into its end.  Piaf was singing
"Je Ne Regrette Rien."  Taking a lighter from her purse, Clotilde
handed it to Hawes.  He lighted the cigarette for her.  She blew smoke
away from him and said, "There are cockfights all over the city on
Friday nights, did you know that?"

The interesting thing about Jamal Stone's yellow sheet was that it
listed the names of several hookers in his on-again off-again stables.
Among these, and

apparently current until her recent demise, was Yolande Marie Marx,
alias Marie St.  Claire, who left behind in the apartment of the dead
Cooper her handbag and samples of hair and fiber Ah, yes, Ollie thought,
doing his world-famous W  C Fields imitation even within the confines of
his mind, a small world indeed, ah, yes.  Another one Stone's current
racehorses was a girl named Rowland, alias Carlyle Yancy, whose address
listed as the very same domicile Stone had while among the living, ah,
yes.

Ollie didn't expect to find a working girl home this hour of the night.
But even the good Lord works on Sunday (although it was already Monday), so
he drove downtown through the snow and into Precinct territory, getting to
Stone's block at quarter past one, and stopping for a cup of coffee in
open diner before going into Stone's building  of piss in the hallway and
then upstairs to the floor to knock on his door.  Lo and behold, and
wonders never, a girl's voice answered his knock.  "Yes, who is it?"

"Police," Ollie said, "sorry to be bothering you late at night, would
you mind opening the door please?"  All in a rush in the hope that she'd
just open the goddamn door before she began thinking about search warrant,
and police brutality, and invasion of privacy, and civil rights, and all
the bullshit people up here thought about day and night.

"Just a minute," she said.

Footsteps inside, approaching the door.

He waited.

The door opened a crack, pulled up short by a night chain.  Part of a
face appeared in the wedge.  High-yeller girl looked about nineteen,
twenty years old.  Suspicious brown eye peering out at him.  "What is
it?"  "Miss Rowland?"  "Yes."

"Detective Weeks, Eighty-eighth Squad," he said, and held his shield up
to the wedge.  "Okay to come in a minute?"

"Why?"  she asked.

He wondered if she knew her pimp was dead.  News traveled fast in the
black community, but maybe it hadn't reached her yet.

"I'm investigating the murder of Jamal Stone," he said, flat out.  "I'd
like to ask you a few questions."

She knew.  He could see that on her face.  Still, she hesitated.  White
cop banging on a black girl's door one o'clock in the morning.  Did he
think nobody watched television

"What do you say, miss?  I'm trying to help here," he said.

He saw the faint nod.  The night chain came off.  The door opened wide.
She was wearing a short silk robe with some kind of flower pattern on
it, black with pink petals, sashed at the waist, black silk pajama
bottoms under it, black bedroom slippers with pink pompoms.  She looked
very young and very fresh, but he knew in her line of work this
wouldn't last long.  Not that he gave a shit.

"Thanks," he said, and stepped into the apartment.

She closed the door behind him, locked it, put on the chain again.  The
apartment was cold.

"Police been here already?"  he asked.  "Not about Jamal."  "Oh?  Then
who?"  "Yolande."

"Oh?  When was this?"

"Yesterday.  Two detectives from the Eight-Seven."  "Uh-huh.  Well,
this is about Jamal."  "Do you think they're related?"  "The murders,
do you mean?"  "Yes."

"Well, I don't know.  You tell me."

"Richie was killed, too," she said.  "Isn't that richard?" "He didn't like to
be called Richie."  "I didn't know that."

"Yeah.  He liked to be called Richard."

The scumbag, he thought.

"Do you think somebody was after all three of them?"  she asked.

"Well, I don't know.  You tell me."

Ollie often found this effective.  Get speculating, they told you all
kinds of things.  Sometimes, they speculated themselves right Murder One
rap.  Cause they all thought they were fuckin smart.  Far as he knew,
this sweet, looking doll here had torn open the other hooker drowned
Richard the scumbag and then slashed her own pimp, who the hell knew? These
people  could tell?  So they ask do you think they're and do you think
somebody was after all three of them,

which could all be a pose, the one person you could never trust was
anybody.

"All I know is the last time I saw Jamal, he was going out to look for
her bag."

"Her bag, huh?"

"This red clutch bag she was wearing when she left here."

"Which was when?"

"Saturday night.  Jamal drove her down the bridge."  "Which bridge?"
"The Majesta."  "What time was this?"

"They left here around a quarter to ten."

"What time did Stone get back?"

"Around eleven.  He came to pick me up, take me to this party he
arranged with some businessmen from Texas."

"How many?"

"The Texans?  Three of them."

"Remember their names?"

"Just their first names.  Charlie, Joe, and Lou."  "Where was this?"

"The Brill.  They had a suite there."  "On Fawcett?"  "Yeah."

"What time did you get there?"

"Jamal dropped me at midnight.  I took a cab home."  "When?" 
"Three."

"What kind of car did he drive?  Stone."

"A Lexus."

"Know where he kept it?"

"A garage around the corner.  On Ainsley.  Why?"  "Might be something
in it, who knows?"

He was thinking dope.  There might be dope in the car.  Jumbos on the
bathroom floor and in the girl's  handbag, this might've been a dope
thing, who the knew, these people.

"You know the license plate number?"  he asked.  "No."

"Did they know him at the garage?"

"Oh, sure."

"On Ainsley, you said?"

"Yeah."

"You know the name?"

"No, but it's right around the corner from here."

"Okay.  So you say you got back here around
three

Was Yolande home yet?"

"No.  Just Jamal."

"What time did Yolande get home?"

"She didn't.  Next thing we know, two cops banging down the door."

"When was this?"

"Eight o'clock Sunday morning.  Jamal though  was this crazy Colombian
crack dealer who said stole some bottles from him and he was gonna kill
for it, which Jamal didn't, by the way."

"Didn't steal no crack from him, you mean."  "Right.  Still, Jamal
popped four caps through door, thinking it was this crazy buck Diaz,
but it was two cops instead."  "Shot at two cops, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Not a good idea."

"Tell me about it."

"Who were they, do you remember?"

"Two guys from the Eight-Seven.  One of them had red hair."

"Hawes, was that his name?"

"I don't know."

"What's Diaz's first name?  The crack dealer."

"Manny.  Manuel, actually.  You think he killed them?"

"Well, I don't know.  You tell me."

"I think he coulda killed Jamal, cause he's crazy, you know, and he
thinks Jamal stole some shit from him, which he didn't.  But I don't
see how that ties in with Yolande or Richie."

"Richard.  You know him?"

"Just to say hello."

"He deals, too, you know."

"Yeah"

"You think he might've known this Diaz guy?"

"I don't know."

"So Jamal pops four through the door..."  "Yeah."  so naturally they
arrest him."

"Yeah."

"Then what?"

"Dragged him out of here."

"How come he was on the street again?  How come they didn't lock him
up?"

"I guess they figured they didn't have nothing on him."

"How about the gun?  He shot at two fuckin cops, they didn't lock him
up?"

"He thought it was Diaz."

"Did he have a license for the gun?"

"I think so."

"Guy with a record, they gave him a license?"  "Then maybe not."

"So why'd they let him go?"

"I got no idea."

Ollie was thinking that sometimes a bull shit misdemeanor wasn't even
worth taking downtown.  included violations of 265.01, where a criminal with
a firearm could get you a year in prison, which was insignificant even
if you behaved yourself and got on the street in three and a third
months.

But this Jamal jerk had popped four at a pair of cops which should have
irked them considerably caused them to haul his ass downtown toot
Unless they were thinking he'd be more valuable to them outside, lead them
to whoever had torn out a dead hooker's insides, who the hell knew?  Take
a look at Ollie, first thing you'd be picking up all your and next thing
you'd be downtown waiting arraignment with your shoes falling off and
your falling down cause they took away your belt and shoelaces and your
brand-new stolen Rolex.

Or and this was a possibility maybe they with a murder on their hands
and the shift change they didn't want to bother with booking and mug
shots and printing and court appearances on an Amis the guy might even
walk if he pulled a bleedin black judge.  Better to let the shithead
walk especially since he'd been trying to chill shithead, which maybe
next time he'd succeed,

more power to him.  There are more things in police work, Horatio,
than are dreamt of in your potato patch.  Still, Ollie would ask.

Next time he was up the Eight-Seven, he would ask why they let a nigger
in criminal possession of a weapon stroll right out of that li'l ole
squad room ah, yes, m'dear boys, yes, indeed.

"So Yolande, and Jamal left here about a quarter to ten..."

"Yeah."

"And Jamal got back around eleven..."

"Yeah."

"And drove you to the Brill."

"That's right."

"And he was here when you got home around three..."  "Three-thirty, it
must've been."  "He was home."  "Yes."

"But Yolande never made it."  "No.  Which is funny."  "Funny how?" 
Ollie asked.

"Cause she called to say she was on her way."  "Oh?  When was this?"

"Around five-thirty in the morning."

"Called here?"

"Yeah.  Told Jamal she was just leaving the Stardust..."

"The Stardust?  Down on Coombes?"

"Yeah."

"And said she was coming home?"

"Soon as she could catch a cab," Carlyle said.  Bingo, Ollie thought.

The uniformed radio motor patrol cops who pulled the taxi to the curb
didn't think it was a stolen vehicle oh anything because a 10-69 was
specifically an incident.  But then why had the dispatcher radioed cars
and asked them to stop and detain the taxi this particular license
plate?  Stop, detain, and back.  That was the message.

So they pulled the cab over and asked the driver his license and while
one of the cops looked it over if he were intercepting a huge dope
shipment Colombia, the other one radioed home to say  the perp and
what should they do now?  They  asked where they were and told them to
sit tight Detective Oliver Weeks from the Eight-Eight on the scene.
Meanwhile, Max Liebowitz was behind the wheel, wetting his pants.

This was a bleak area of Calm's Point.

had just dropped off two suspicious-looking guys who, it turned out,
were stockbrokers home late from a party celebrating a dollar merger.
He didn't like being in this part of the city at a quarter to two in the
morning, and he didn like being pulled over by cops, either both of
them black, by the way---especially when they wouldn't tell him what the
violation was, and especially since he was losing money sitting here by
the side of the curb." Eventually a battered Chevy sedan pulled up in

front of the cops' car, and a fat guy wearing a lightweight trench coat open
over his beer barrel belly got out.  Under the trench coat Liebowitz
could see a plaid sports jacket, also unbuttoned, and a loud tie that
looked like it had on it every meal the guy had eaten for the past
week.  He waddled over to where the two black cops were sitting in
their car flashing lights like it was still Christmas, and rapped on
the driver's side window, and held up a badge.  Liebowitz caught a
flash of gold.  A detective.  The guy behind the wheel rolled down the
window but didn't get out of the car.  The fat guy seemed impervious to
the cold.  Had to be three above zero out there, still snowing, and he
was leaning on the window with his coat wide open like a flasher,
chatting up the two black cops.  Finally he said something like "I've
got it," or I'll take it," and thanked the two of them, and waved them
off into the night, their car trailing white exhaust fumes.  Ollie
walked over to the taxi.  "Mr.  Liebowitz?"  he asked.

"Yeah, what's the trouble?"  Liebowitz said.

"No trouble, Mr.  Liebowitz.  I'm Detective Weeks, there's a few
questions I need to ask you."

"I'm losing money here," Liebowitz said.

"I'm sorry about that, but this is a homicide, you see."

Liebowitz went pale.

"Okay to come sit inside?"  Ollie asked.

"Sure," Liebowitz said.  "What do you mean, a homicide?"

"Three of them, actually," Ollie said cheerfully, and came around to
the passenger side and opened the door

to the front seat.  He climbed in and made comfortable behind the
meter hanging above the Reading from the card, he said, "Max R. huh?
What's the R for?"

"Reuven," Liebowitz said.

I'll bet that's Jewish, right?"  Ollie said, grinned.

Something in the grin told Liebowitz had to know about Fat Ollie Weeks.
Not for had he lost half his family to the ovens at

"That's right, Jewish," he said.

"Nice," Ollie said, still grinning.  "So tell me, did you pick up a
young lady outside the Stardust yesterday morning around
five-thirty?"

"How should I remember who I picked up yesterday morning at five-thirty?"

"The Hack Bureau tells me your call sheet five-thirty pickup outside
the club, is that right,

"I really can't remember."

He was thinking this was a vice cop.

He could already see the headlines.

"Could you turn down your heater a little?"  Ollie said.  "It's very hot in
here.  Don't you find it hot here?"

Max was freezing to death.

He turned down the heater.

"This would've been a blond girl," Ollie said. "nineteen years old, wearing a
short black skirt fake-fur jacket, red.  Carrying a shiny red handbag.
clutch, they call it.  Do you remember such a girl Max?"

"I think I do, yeah.  Now that you mention it."

"She's dead, Max."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"So are two other people she may or may not have known.  Dead, I mean.
Not sorry like you.  Well, maybe sorry, too, considering they're dead.
Two black guys, Max.  Were there any black guys with her when you
picked her up?"

"No, she was alone."

"You remember now, huh?"

"Yeah."

"This was five-thirty?"

"Around then."

"Your call sheet said five-thirty."

"Then that's what it must've been.  Cause we have to write it down, you
know."

"I know.  Max, did you drop her off on Ainsley and

North Eleventh, like your call sheet says?"

"Yes, I did."

"At what time, Max?"

"It must've been six o'clock."

"Took you half an hour to drive three miles from the

Stardust to Ainsley and North Eleventh?"

"Yeah."

"How come, Max?  That time of day, it should've taken no more than ten,
fifteen minutes."

"Must've been traffic," Liebowitz said, and shrugged.  "Five-thirty on
a Sunday morning?"  "Well, sometimes there's traffic."

"So you're saying there was traffic, huh?"

He was leaning in close to Liebowitz now.  The front seat of the cab
seemed suddenly very crowded.  The man had terrible body odor;
-Liebowitz was thinking it

wouldn't hurt he should take a bath every now then.  Some people, they
claimed it wasn't the person it was the clothes that smelled, clothes that
hadn't been dry-cleaned in a while.  But how could clothes smell unless the
person wearing them smell.  Liebowitz was willing to bet this guy hadn't
bathed 
since Rosh Hashanah, which last year had fallen September 24.  Also,
his breath stank of garlic onions.  Besides, what the hell did he want
here, the meter wasn't ticking?

"I don't remember whether there was traffic or not he said.  "I know it
took whatever time it took from wherever to wherever."

"Half an hour, you said."

"If that's what it took, that's what it took.   Liebowitz said.  "Now
listen, Detective, I'm a man, I got a living to earn.  You want to
ask something about this girl, ask me.  Otherwise, let me get back to work."


"Sure," Ollie said.  "Did you know she was a prostitute?"

"No, I didn't know that," Liebowitz said, "She told me she was a
topless singer and

"What I'm trying to find out, Max, is whether you might have dropped the
girl off at St.  Sab's First..."

"No, I .. ."

"... instead of Ainsley and Eleventh.  You saw her going in an alley on St.
Sab's and First, did

"No."

"Because that's where she was found dead, in the alley there, you see.
We're wondering did these

black shits really rob her and kill her, or was it some other shits?
This is a serious thing here, Max."

"I know it is."

"So if you dropped her some place different from

what it says on your call sheet..."

"No."

"Or if she stopped some place to score..."

"No, no."

"Cause she was in possession of ten jumbo bottles, you see."

"I don't know what that is, jumbo bottles."  "Crack, Max.  Big vials of
crack.  Red tops."

"I didn't take her any place but Ainsley and Eleventh."

"Not even for a minute."

"Not even for ten seconds."

"So what took you so long to go three miles uptown, Max?"

The taxi went silent.

"Max, are you lying to me?"

"Why would I lie to you?"

"Well, I don't know..  You tell me, Max."

Outside on the street, an ambulance siren wailed to the night.
Liebowitz was silent.  Ollie waited.  The sound of the ambulance melted
into the city's constant nighttime song, a murmur that rose and fell,
rose and fell, the pulse beat of a giant metropolis.  Still Ollie
waited.

"Max," he said.

"Okay," Liebowitz said, "the young lady and I had relations, okay?"

"You and the young lady are related?."  Ollie asked, being deliberately
dense.

I I

Liebowitz cleared his throat.

"No, we had relations."

"Ah," Ollie said.  "Your mutual relatives are de

"We had sex," Liebowitz whispered.

"Sex?"

"Yes."

"You mean you had intercourse with her, Max?"

"No, no."

"Then what do you mean, Max?"

"She performed.."  uh... fellatio on me."

"That's why it took so long to get uptown."

"Ah."

"I'm not a young man anymore, you see."

"I see."

"It takes a while."

"I see.  Max, you could've got arrested doing  that, Max?"

"I know."

"You did a foolish thing, Max.  You could AIDS, Max, do you know
that?"

"Please.  Don't even mention such a thing."

"Very dangerous, what you did, Max."

"I

know, I know."

"Anyway, that explains it."

"Yes."

"A half hour to drive only three miles uptown.""

"Yes."

"But you did drop her off at Ainsley and Eleventh, is that right?"

"Oh yes."

a "

,.  "No stops along the way, "Well, yes.  I pulled over to the curb
while she.."  uh did..."

"Where?"

"I don't remember.  A dark street.  I picked a spot that looked
dark."

"And then went directly to Ainsley and Eleventh afterward, is that
right?"

"Yes.  Dropped her right at the curb."

"Where'd she go then, did you happen to notice?"

"Well, no.  I guess she went off with these people who were waiting for
her."

"What?"  Ollie said.

"Some people were waiting for her."

"Who?  What people?"

"Three white kids and a black guy," Liebowitz said.  "Tell me what they
looked like," Ollie said.

The night manager at the Hotel Powell had given Priscilla the addresses
and phone numbers of both the manager and doorman who'd been on duty
when the tall blond man delivered the envelope containing the key to
the pay locker.  The letter had been delivered at a little past eleven
on Sunday morning and this was now a little before two on Monday
morning, but Priscilla felt it wouldn't be tomorrow until she went to
bed and woke up again.

This was not a view shared by James Logan, who was asleep at
one-fifteen A.M. when Priscilla telephoned him to say she was coming
over, and who was still asleep at one fifty-eight A.M. when she rang
his doorbell.  Swearing mildly, Logan got out of bed in his pajamas,
pulled on a robe, and went mutteringly to
the front door.  He would have told anyone else where to go at this
hour of the night, but Miss Stetson  was a performer who brought mucho
bucks into hotel's cafe.  Putting on a false smile, he opened the door and
welcomed her as if she were Princess whom she slightly resembled, to
tell the truth.  Logan was gay.

He would have combed his hair had he known she was bringing two men along,
one of whom wasn't at all bad looking.  As it was, he stood there the in
doorway wearing his tatty robe, his wrinkled pajamas, his worn bedroom
slippers, and unconvincing smile, and asked them all to please come in,
wouldn't they?  They all went in.  Logan offered them a drink.  The
good-looking one Georgie, that his name?  said he wouldn't mind a
little if Logan had some, thanks a lot.  Rough trade if Logan  was any
judge.  He poured the Scotch.  The other Tony, said he'd thought it
over, and he would have a little Scotch, too, please.  Logan poured
another glass.  With a splash of soda, please, Tony said.  Logan  went to fetch a
bottle of club soda from the refrigerator.  This was turning into a regular
little  party at two o'clock in the morning.  With a black named
Daryll in the bedroom.

"I want to know whatever you can tell me about the man who delivered that
letter to me this morning,!  Priscilla said.

"Yesterday morning," Logan corrected, since he himself had already gone to
bed and awakened,  had  been awakened, more accurately.

"Did he give you his name?"  Priscilla asked.

"You asked me that yesterday morning," Logan said.  "No, he didn't
give me his name."

"What did he say exactly?"

"He said to be sure to have the envelope was delivered to your suite."

"He said suite?"

"Yes."

"Not room?"

"He specifically said suite."

"So he knows I have a suite there," Priscilla said to Georgie.  Georgie
nodded wisely and sipped at his Scotch.  His job here was to make sure
she never found this tall blond guy, whoever he was, because then he
would tell her the envelope was very fat when he'd left it in the
locker.  Then it would become a matter of believing some tall blond
stranger or two Italian guys who looked like they just got off the boat
from Napoli, albeit in Armani threads.  In Georgie's experience, blond
broads always trusted blond men over swarthy wops.  So next thing you
knew, she'd be asking them how come the envelope was now so skinny, and
before you could say Giuseppe Umberto Mangiacavallo, she'd actually be
accusing them of having stolen the fuckin ninety-five K all because
they were Italian..  Boy.  "Tell me what he looked like," Priscilla
said.  "Tall blond man."  "How tall?"  "Six-two."

"Would you say a blond blond or a dirty blond?"  "More like a dirty
blond."  "Like Robert Redford?"

"Not as blond.  Redford tints, I'll bet."

 "But a dirty blond, right?"

"Muddy, I'd say.  Actually, he looked like

"Robert Redford delivered the envelope?"  I said, astonished.

"No, no.  But he resembled Redford.  Except for accent."

"What accent?"

"I told you.  Some kind of heavy accent."

"Russian?"

"I really couldn't say.  There are so many accents in this city."

"What was he wearing?"

"A dark blue overcoat."

"Hat?"

"No hat."

"A scarf?."

"Yes.  A red muffler."

" "

Gloves?

"What color shoes?"

"I couldn't see them from behind the desk."

"Beard?  Mustache?"

"Clean-shaven."

Priscilla didn't know that the cops had virtually these same questions
on the night of grandmother's murder.  Nor did she realize, of that the
man who lived down the hall from her given them this exact
description.

"Anything else you remember about him?"

Sounding more and more like a cop.

Maybe she'd missed her calling.

"Well .. this will sound funny, I know," Logan said.

"Yes?"

"He smelled of fish."

"What do you mean?"

"When he handed the envelope across the desk,

there was a faint whiff of fish rising from his hands."  "Fish?" 
"Mm."

"James?"  a voice from the bedroom called.

"Yes, Daryll?"

"Man, you goan be out there all night?"

"I think we're about finished," Logan called.  In explanation, he
added, "My cousin.  From Seattle."

Georgie raised his eyebrows.

They called on Danny Gimp because they couldn't find The Cowboy again,
and they didn't particularly like to deal with Fats Donner, the third
man in their triumvirate of reliable informers.  Danny, unlike most
good informers, was not indebted to the police.  They had nothing on
him that could send him away.  Or, if they did, they'd forgotten what
the hell it was.  Danny was a businessman, plain and simple, a superior
purveyor of information who enjoyed the trust of the criminal community
because they knew he was an ex-con, which was true.  What was not true
was that he'd been wounded during a big gang shoot-out, hence the limp.
Danny limped because he'd had polio as a child, something nobody had to
worry about anymore.  But pretending he'd once been shot gave him a
certain cachet he considered essential to the business of

informing.  Even Carella, who'd been shot once or twice himself, thanks,
had forgotten that story about getting shot was a lie.

"You ever notice that most of the cases we work together, it's wintertime?"
Danny asked.

"Seems that way."

"I wonder why," Danny said.  "Maybe it's cause  you hate winter.  Don't
you hate winter?"

"It's not my favorite season," Carella said.  He was behind the wheel of
the police car driving Danny and Hawes to an all-night deli on Stem.  The
snow had stopped and they were in a hurry to get going on this damn thing,
but Danny something of a prima donna who didn't like to be treated like
some cheap snitch who transfered information in back alleys or police
cars. Hawes sitting in the back.  Danny didn't ask Hawes what his favorite
 season was because he didn't particularly like the man.  He didn't know why.
Maybe it was the streak in his hair.  Made him look like the fuckin of
Frankenstein.  Or maybe it was the faint trace of Boston dialect that made
him sound like one ofthe fuckin Kennedys.  Whatever, he directed most of
his conversation to Carella.

There were maybe three, four other people in the diner when they walked in,
but Danny looked the place  over like a spy about to trade atomic Satisfied
he would not be seen talking to cops, chose a booth at the back, and
sat facing the door.  and grizzled, and looking stouter than he
actually was because of the layers of clothing he was wearing  Danny picked
up his coffee cup in both hands

sipped at it as if a Saint Bernard had carried it through a blizzard.
His leg hurt.  He told Carella it hurt whenever it snowed.  Or rained.
Or even when the sun was shining, for that matter.  Fuckin leg hurts  all
the time.

Carella told him what they were looking for.

"Well, there ain't no cockfights on Sunday nights," Danny said.

He hadn't been to bed yet, either; to him, it was still Sunday night.

"You get them on  Saturday nights, different parts of the city," he
said, "mostly your Spanish neighborhoods, but you don't get them on
Sunday nights."  "How about Friday nights?"

"Sometimes, when there's heat on, you know, they change the night and
the location.  But usually, it's Saturday night."

"We're looking at Friday."  "This past Friday?"  "Yes."

"There might've been one, I'll have to make some calls."

"Good, make them."

"You mean now?  It's two in the morning!"  "We're working a homicide,"
Carella said.

"What are those, the magic words?"  Danny said.  "Let me finish my
coffee.  I hate to wake people up in the middle of the night."

Carella shrugged as if to say you want to do business or you want to
lead a life of indulgence and indolence?

Danny took his time finishing the coffee.  Then he slid out of the
booth and limped over to the pay phone

 on the wall near the men's room.  They watched'  he dialed.

"He doesn't like me," Hawes said.

"Naw, he likes you," Carella said.

"I'm telling you he doesn't."

"He came to the hospital when I got shot," 
Carella

said.

"Maybe I ought to get shot, huh?"

"Bite your tongue."

They sipped at their coffees.  Two Sanil

Department men came in and took stools  

Outside the deli, their orange snowplows sat at the curb.  The night was
starless.  Everything was black outside, except for the orange plows.
Danny reached his party.  He was leaning in close to the mouthpiece,
talking, nodding, even gesticulating.

' limped back to the table some five minutes later.

"It'll cost you," he said.

"How much?"  Hawes asked.

"Two bills for me, three for the guy you'll be talking to."

"Who's that?"

"Guy who had a bird fighting in Riverhead

Friday night.  There was also supposed to be a fight

Bethtown, but it got canceled.  Big Asian there, this ain't only a
Spanish thing, you know."

"Where in Riverhead?"  Hawes asked."

"The bread, please," Danny said, and rolled thumb against his
forefinger.

Hawes looked at Carella.  Carella nodded.

took out his wallet and pulled two hundred-dollar bill out  from it.
Danny accepted the money.

"Gracias," he said.  I'll take you up there, introduce you to Luis.
Actually, I'm surprised you don't know about this already."

"How come?"  Carella asked.

"The place got busted Friday night.  That's the only reason he's
willing to talk to you."

Ramon Moreno was the doorman who'd been on duty outside the hotel on
Sunday morning, when the tall blond man delivered the envelope.  They
had telephoned him at the Club Durango, down in the Quarter, and he was
just packing up to go home when they got there at a quarter past two.
Ramon was a musician.  He worked days at the hotel to pay the bills,
but his love was the B-flat tenor saxophone, and he played whatever gig
came his way whenever.  He told Priscilla who he knew way a fellow
musician that he'd played the Durango three nights running so far, and
he was hoping it would turn into a steady gig.  The club was Mexican,
and they played all the old standby stuff like "El Jarabe de la
Botella" and "La Chachalaca" and the ever-popular and corny "Cielito
Lindo," but occasionally they got a hip crowd in and could cut loose on
some real jazz with a Hispanic tint.  When he wasn't playing the
Durango, he did weddings and anniversary parties and birthday
parties... "A girl's fifteenth birthday is a big thing in the Spanish
culture..."  and whatever else might come along.  He even played a barmitzvah a couple of weeks ago.

All of which is very fucking interesting, Georgie thought.

The way he got to be a tenor player was strange, Ramon said.  He used
to play the alto, instrument better suited to his size in that he was
five feet six inches tall.  At the time, he was playing in a band with a
four-piece sax section, and one of the playing tenor was this big tall
guy, six-three, which was appropriate because the tenor is a large
instrument, not as big as your baritone sax, but good-sized horn, you
understand?  Then one time during rehearsal, they switched instruments just
for fun, and discovered they were better suited to horns  they'd borrowed,
the short guy, Ramon himself, blowing this tenor sax almost bigger than
he is, and the tall guy, Julius, playing the smaller alto, which looked  almost
like a toy saxophone in his hands.

All of which is even more interesting, thought.

"About yesterday morning," Priscilla said,

to the chase.

"Yeah," Ramon said, sounding a bit

"What did you want to know?"

"Tall blond man wearing a dark blue coat and a scarf.  Walked in around
eleven, walked out a couple of minutes later.  Did you see him?"

"Not when he walked in," Ramon said.  He still sounded miffed, Georgie
thought.  wondering why his dumb story about a tall guy playing a small sax
and a short guy playing a big one wasn't quite wowing the crowds here in
the big city.  Hell with you, Georgie thought.  Just don't tell
anything'll lead her to the blond guy.

"But you did see him," Priscilla said.

"Yeah, when he came out.  Cause he asked me to get him a cab."

"What'd he sound like?"  "Sound like?"  "His accent."

"Oh.  Yeah.  That's right."  "Was it a Spanish accent?"  "No. 
Definitely not."

"He didn't speak Spanish to you, did he?"

"No.  It was English.  But with an accent.  Like you say."

"Russian?"

"Italian, maybe.  I'm not sure."  "Did you get him a cab?"  "Yeah."

"Do you know where he was going?"  "As it happens, yes," Ramon said.
They waited breathlessly.

Master of suspense, Georgie thought.

"The doormen at the Powell are trained to ask our guests their
destinations, and to relay this information to the cabdriver," Ramon
said, as if reciting from the hotel's brochure.  "Many of our guests
are foreigners," he said.  "They will have an address scribbled on a
piece of paper, and will have no idea where that address might be.
Japanese people, for example.  Arabs.  Germans.  We try to help them
out.  As a Courtesy," he said.  "These people who can barely speak
English."

But the blond guy did speak English, Georgie
said. 

"So where was he going?"  Priscilla said  impatiently.

Georgie hoped he wouldn't remember.

"I remember because I played there once," he said.

"Where?"  Priscilla insisted.

"A place called The Juice Bar," Ramon said.  an after-hours club on
Harris Avenue.  In Near the Alhambra Theater."

At two-thirty that morning, Luis Villada was outside the Alhambra
Theater when Danny arrived with the two detectives.  Danny with them all
around, told them he was sure they had no further use for his services, hailed
a cab and downtown without so much as a backward glance. Hawes was ever more
certain that the man didn't like him.

Luis looked the two detectives over.

He was not afraid of telling them anything they wanted to know about Friday
night because in the city already knew what had gone down.  least every
cop in Emergency Service and every cop in  the Four-Eight Precinct and every
cop on Riverhead Task Force, not to mention twenty from the ASPCA,
which not very many German, or Arabian tourists knew stood for American
Society for the Prevention of cruelty to Animals.  As if cock fighting was being
animals.  Besides, they couldn't charge him anything more than they
already had.  As a he'd been arrested for one misdemeanor count

to animals and another misdemeanor count for )ating in animal
fights.

"They kept us in the theater overnight," he said,

tickets."

Not a trace of an accent.  Carella figured him for third-generation
Puerto Rican.

"They let us go after they gave us dates for court appearances," he
said.  "I have to go downtown on

february twenty-eighth."

He looked the cops dead in the eye.

"Danny says you have something for me," he said.

Hawes handed him an envelope.

Luis didn't bother to open it or to count what was inside it.  Hey, if
you couldn't trust cops, who could you trust?  Ho ho ho.  He pocketed the
envelope and an walking them down along dark alley smelling of  piss,
toward the back wall of the theater, where he there was a door the
police had broken down night and couldn't padlock afterward.  The door
in splinters, small wonder.  Nailed to the lintel was printed CRIME
SCENE notice, which should have

:l anyone from seeking entry, door or no door.

Luis believed that printed notices from the police were to be ignored,
and so he stepped over the ng bottom panel of the door and into a ss
deeper than the one outside.  The detectives d him in.  Hawes turned on
a penlight.  vejor, Luis said.  Hawes flashed the light around.  They
moved deeper into the theater.  Luis began talking.

He seemed to think he'd been given a miilion-dollar publishing advance
to cover a sporting event, rather than a mere three hundred for
information about whatever he'd seen and this past Friday night.  Like
an eyewitness ab to describe a major disaster like an earthquake,
avalanche, or a plane crash, he began setting the scene by describing the
excitement of the night, the sheer excitement of being there on this special
occasion.  penlight Carella offered him, he led them through abandoned
movie theater that had served as the Where once there had been
upholstered seats, were now bleachers surrounding a carpeted Dried
blood stained the carpet.

"The walls are on rollers," Luis explained.  "If police come, the
promoters slide them back to look like a prizefight is going on.  They
have two in boxing trunks and gloves in the back office.  lookout
sounds the alarm, the walls move.  out, boxers are in the ring hitting
each other, nice and legal.  Cockfighting shouldn't be against the law,
anyway. It's legal in some states, like Louisiana, Oklahoma, I forget
the other two.  It's legal  in four states altogether.  So why should it be
against the law here?  Farmers in the South get to cockfights, but here in a
sophisticated city like this one, it's against the law.  Shit, man!  I go to
a cockfight to enjoy myself, and all of a sudden I'm charged two
misdemeanors, I can go to jail for a year on What for?  What crime did
I commit?  This was a social  gathering here."

The social gathering, as he tells it to them, began at nine o'clock on
Friday night, when the spectators,

some two hundred and fifty of them, began gathering at this theater on
Harris Avenue in the Harrisville section of Riverhead, both avenue and
neighborhood named for along-ago councilman named Albert J. Harris. The
fight was supposed to take place on Saturday night, at another Venue,
but someone leaked it to the police and so the date and the place were
changed although, as it turned out, someone leaked this to the police
as well.

This is an important event tonight because it's the first big fight of
the season, which begins in January and runs through to July.  Roosters
don't molt during these months.  When they're molting, blood flows into
their quills, causing them to become vulnerable and incapable of
fighting... "Did you see that movie The Birds?"  Luis asked.  "There
was a line in it where the girl says that birds get a hangdog
expression when they're molting.  That was a very funny line Hitchcock
wrote. Because how can birds get hangdog expressions?"

Carella shook his head in wonder.

"Anyway, there was only one other event after the holidays, and then
came this one on Friday night, which was supposed to be the next night,
but the promoters sold a lot of tickets in advance, and it was just a
matter of letting people know the date had been changed and instead of
the athletic club on Dover

Plains, it was now the Alhambra here on Harris.  The tickets cost..."

... twenty dollars each, which is practically giving the seats away.  The
promoters don't expect a lot of  money on the gate.  What's twenty
two-fifty?  Five K?  So what's that?  Where  the real money is
selling food and alcohol.  And, of course, the betting.  Thousands of
dollars are wagered on each of the fights.  During a typical   night,
there can be anywhere from twenty to thirty matches, depending on the
ferocity and duration of each contest.  The average match will run
minutes, but some will end in five and more popular ones with the crowd
can last as long as half an hour or even forty minutes, the birds tearing
themselves apart in frenzy.

There is a huge indoor parking garage across the street from the Alhambra,
and it is here that the customers park their cars, hidden from the eyes
of  prying police officers though on this Friday informers have already
been paid, and a massive is in preparation even before the first of them 
arrives.  Inside, there is joviality and conviviality, atmosphere
reminiscent of the old days on the where cock fighting is still a
gentleman's sport.  can remember attending his first fight when he
was seven years old.  His father was a breeder of fighting birds, and he
recalls feeding them special diets of meat and eggs supplemented with
vitamins for their stamina and strength.  Now, here in this city, owners
of fighting birds sometimes pay three, hundred dollars a month to hide
their roosters clandestine farms in neighboring states.  These

areexpensive birds.  Some of them are worth five, ten thousand dollars.

"It's a gentleman's sport," he says again.

Drinking rum at the bar, eating cuchifritos, speaking their native
tongue, the customers mostly men, but here and there one will see a
pretty, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman dressed elegantly for the occasion
relax in an ambiance of total acceptance and fond recall.  There could
easily be tropical breezes blowing through this converted theater, the
swish of palm fronds outside, the rush of the sea against a white sand
beach.  For a moment, there is respite for these transplanted people
who more often than not are made to feel foreign in this city.

The fights are furious and deadly.

This is a blood sport in every sense.

The roosters are crossbred with pheasants to fortify their most
aggressive traits.  Nurtured on steroids that increase muscle tissue,
dosed with angel dust to numb pain, they are equipped with fighting
spurs and then are moved into the carpeted cockpit to kill or be
killed.  In India, where the sport enjoys wide popularity, the birds
fight "bare-heeled," using only their own claws to shred and destroy.
In Puerto Rico, the trainers attach to the birds' heels along plastic
apparatus that resembles a darning needle.  Here in this city, the
chosen device is called a slasher.  It is a piece of steel honed to
razor-sharp precision.  These spurs are fastened to both claws.  They
are twin weapons of mutilation and destruction.

Luis himself can't bear to watch the final moments of a fight, when the
roosters, doped up with PCP, rip

and tear at each other with their metal talons, and feathers flying,
the crowd screaming for a More often than not, both birds are killed.

"It's a sad thing," Luis says.  "No one likes to animals hurt.  This is
a gentleman's sport."

The police who raided the theater at eleven-twenty-seven P.M. last Friday
apparently with his premise.  Captain Arthur Forsythe, Jr., led the
team of E.S. officers who spearheaded operation, later told the press
that the forced these birds was nothing less than barbaric, a criminal act
that had to be abolished if this city were ever to call itself civilized.
His men had taken out the lookouts posted at the entrance, handcuffing
them putting them down on the sidewalk before they sound an alarm. They
then went in wearing vests and carrying machine guns, followed by 
the Four-Eight, the Task Force, and the 

"There's cameras and guard dogs," Luis don't know how they got in so
quick and easy."

Even so, by the time the raiders broke into the ring area upstairs,
some of the false walls had been moved back and the event's organizers
fleeing over rooftops and through tunnels, one out to Harris Avenue,
another running under  a beauty parlor adjacent to the parking garage.
police caught only one of the promoters, a man Anibal Fuentes, who was
charged with two counts.

"This shouldn't be allowed to happen," Luis shaking his head.  "Kings
and emperors used to cockfights, did you know that?  Even Am

presidents!  Thomas Jefferson!  George Washington!  The father of the
nation, am I right?  He liked to watch cockfights.  This is a sin, what
they're doing.  Persecuting people who enjoy an honest-to-God sport!"

In his report to the Police Commissioner, Captain Forsythe noted that
on the street behind the theater his men had found twenty-five bloodied
roosters, all fitted with metal talons, twenty of them dead, the rest
still alive and twitching in agony.  In rooms behind the false walls,
officers from the Four-Eight found another forty birds in cages,
pillowcases over their heads to keep them calm in the dark before they
were tossed into the ring.

"They came from all over," Luis said.  "Florida and Pennsylvania,
Connecticut and Washington, D.C. Some trainers brought their birds all
the way from San Juan and Ponce!  This was a big event, man!  There
were birds coming to the ring from all over!  Like toreadors
arriving!"

"You didn't happen to notice a black limo, did you?"  Carella asked.

What the hell, he thought, toreadors arriving!

"Oh sure," Luis said.

"What kind of limo?"  Carella asked at once.  "A Caddy."  "Where'd you
see it?"

"Back of the theater.  When I was walking over from the garage.  The
door we came in before.  Where the trainers take the birds in, you
know?  The stage door, I guess they call it.  The one that's busted
now."

"You saw a trainer taking a chicken out of a Black Caddy limousine, is
that right?"

"Not a chicken.  A rooster.  A fighting cock!"  "Trainer drove him up
in a Caddy, is that right?"  "That's right.  Took him out of the
backseat." "In a cage, or what?"

"No cage.  Just a pillowcase over his head.  Just legs showing."

"You wouldn't know this trainer, would you?"  "Not personally."  "Then
how?"

"I looked up his name."  "I'm sorry, you did what?"  "On the card." 
"The card."

"Yeah, the owners' names are on the card recognized him when he was carrying
the bird in the ring.  Remembered him driving up in the Caddy.  Figured he was a
big shot, you know?  Caddy I mean, a movie star bird in a limo, am I right?
So I looked up his name on the card."

"And what was his name?"  Carella asked, and held his breath.

"Jose Santiago," Luis said.

 Priscilla and the boys could not find the club.

Their taxi drove up and down Harris Avenue forever, passing the
darkened marquee of the Alhambra theater more times than they cared to
count.  On their last swing past it, two men in heavy overcoats, both
of them bareheaded, one of them a red-head, were climbing into an
automobile.  Priscilla thought they looked familiar, but as she craned
her neck for a better look through the fogged rear window, the car
doors slammed shut behind them.  A third man, smaller, slighter, and
wearing a short green barn coat that looked as if it had come from L.
L. Bean or Lands' End, stood on the sidewalk, watching the car as it
pulled away.

"Back up," Priscilla told the cabdriver.

"I'm not gonna spend all night here looking for this club," the cabbie
said.

"Just back up, would you please?"  she said.  "Before he disappears,
too."

The cabbie threw the car into reverse and started backing slowly toward
where Luis Villada, his hands in his coat pockets, was walking away
from the Alhambra.  At this hour of the morning, in this neighborhood,
Luis would have run like hell if this was anything but a taxi.  Even
so, he was wary until he saw the blond woman sitting on the backseat,
lowering the window on the curbside.

"Excuse me," she called.

He stood where he was on the curb, not moving closer to the taxi
because now he saw that the blond  was with two men, both of them wearing
hats.

didn't trust men who wore hats.

"Yeah?"  he said.

"Are you familiar with a club called The Juice B "Yeah?"  he said.

"Do you know where it is?"

"Yeah?"

"Could you help us find it, please?"

"There's no sign," he said.

"We can't even find the address," she said.  "Half the addresses up
here, the numbers are gone "It's supposed to be 1712 Harris."

"Yeah, that's up the block," he said, taking his hand from his pocket
and pointing.  "Between the cleaners and the carniceria.  They probably
don't numbers, either."

"Thank you very much."

"It's a blue door," Luis said.  "You have to ring."  "Thank you."

"De nada," he said, and put his hand back in his pocket, and began walking
home.

He was mugged on the next corner.

His hatless assailant stole his watch, his wallet, the envelope
containing the three hundred dollars the detectives had paid him for his
time and his
information

In this city, you could legally serve alcoholic be vera till four in
the morning, but the underground operated till a bit before sunrise,
when all

to be back in their coffins.  The Juice Bar offered booze, beer, wine
and the occasional fruit drink right up to the legal closing limit, and
then to the accompaniment of a three-piece jazz band began serving
anything that turned you on.  At six, the club offered breakfast while
alone piano player filled the air with dawn like medleys.

It was close to three o'clock when Priscilla rang the bell button set
in the jamb to the right of the blue door.

"The fuck is this?"  Georgie wanted to know.  "Joe sent us?"

They waited.

A flap in the door opened.

Fuckin speakeasy here, Georgie thought.  Priscilla held up her
card. "I'm here to listen to the band," she said.

"Okay," the man behind the flap said at once, and opened the door. Fact
of it was he hadn't even glanced at her card.  Until four A.M. the club
would be operating legally and he'd have admitted even a trio of
Barbary pirates carrying swords and wearing black eye patches.

The club was constructed like a crescent moon, with the bandstand at
the apogee of its arc, farthest from the entrance door.  The entrance
and the cloakroom were side by side on the curving flank of the arc's
left horn.  The bar was on the right horn, a dozen stools ranked in
front of it.  Priscilla and the boys left their coats with a hat check
girl who flashed a welcoming smile as she handed Georgie the three
claim checks.  She was Wearing a black mini and a white scoop-necked
blouse, and Georgie looked her up and down as if

auditioning her for a part in a movie.  The a maitre d' that is to
say, he was wearing a jacket offered to seat them at a table, but Priscilla  said
she preferred sitting at the bar, closer to the In any club, it was
always the bartender  who came in when and did what where.  It was
the bartender who had information.

The band was playing "Midnight Sun."

The tune almost brought tears to Priscilla's eyes, possibly because she
realized she could never hope to  play it as well as the piano player here in
a 
Riverhead dive, possibly because her pathetic note had expressed a hope
abandoned ago.  Priscilla knew she would never become a pianist.  The
thought that Svetlana had still this a viable ambition was
heartbreaking, when one considered the meager sum of money left for the
achievement of such an impossible goal, had there been more in the
envelope?  Which, after all was why she was here looking for the tall blond
man who'd delivered it.  But even so, even if there'd been a million dollars in
that shabby yellow packet, knew she didn't have, would never have the
How could she even begin to approach a beast like presto agitato
movement of the Moonlight when she hadn't yet truly mastered the chart
"Midnight Sun"?  She dabbed at her eyes and

Grand Marnier on the rocks.  The boys ordered again.

The bartender looked like an actor.

Every would-be actor in this city was a bartender or a waiter.

Long black hair pulled into a ponytail.  Soulful brown eyes. Delicate,
long-fingered hands.  Great profile.

His name was Marvin.

Change it, Priscilla thought.

I'll tell you why we're here, Marvin," she said.  Marvin.  Jesus.

He was looking at her card, impressed.  He figured the two goons were
bodyguards, Lady played piano at the Powell, she needed bodyguards.  He
hoped that one day, when he was a matinee idol, or a movie star, or
both, he would have bodyguards of his own.  Meanwhile he was honored
that she was here in their midst.  Shitty little dump like this, hey.

"The man we're looking for, Marvin..."

Jesus.

"... is someone who would've been here yesterday morning around
eleven-thirty, maybe a bit later."

She was figuring half an hour or so to get uptown by cab, on a Sunday
morning, when the traffic would've been light The blond man had left
the hotel at a little past eleven.  Placing him on Harris Avenue at
eleven thirty was reasonable.

"Yeah, it's possible," Marvin said.  "We start serving breakfast at
six."

"Are you still serving at eleven-thirty?"

"On Sundays, yeah.  We-get a big brunch crowd, serve till two-thirty,
three o'clock, then open again at nine.  We're open all weekend, closed
on Mondays and Tuesdays, dead nights here in the city."

"Were you working this past Saturday night?"

"I come on at four every night.  That's when underground and the shift
changes.  Well, Tuesdays or Wednesdays."

"Did you come on at four this past Saturday nil "Yeah.  Well, Sunday
morning it was, actually."  "Four A.M."  right?"  "Yeah."

"Were you here at eleven-thirty, twelve o'clock  "Yeah, I work through
till we close.  Sunday's a day  I put in almost twelve hours.  Rest of
the close at nine in the morning.  It's like a breakfast we serve.  For
the all-night crowd."

Georgie was wondering how come, if Marvin on at four every morning but
Tuesday and how come he was here, now, at  three- whatever the
hell it was on a Monday morning?  looked at his watch.  Twenty after.
So how Marvin?

Marvin was a mind reader.

"Jerry called me to come in early," he

Who's Jerry?  Georgie wondered.  "Cause Frank started throwing up."
Who's Frank?  Georgie wondered.

"Must've been one of those flu bugs," explained.

"So today you came in early, is that what saying?"  Tony asked.

"Yeah, I got here about an hour ago."  "How about yesterday?" 
Priscilla asked.  "I got here the usual time."  "Four A.M."  "Right."

"The man we're looking for would've been blond,"
Priscilla said.

"You're a cop, right?"  Marvin said.

"No, I'm an entertainer.  You saw my card."

"How about your two friends here?  Are they cops?"  "Do they look like
cops?"  Priscilla asked.  They didn't look like cops to Marvin.

"Tall blond man wearing a blue coat and a red scarf," Priscilla said.

Marvin was already shaking his head.

"See anyone like that?"  Georgie asked.

He was pleased that Marvin was shaking his head.  What he wanted to do
now was get out of here fast, before Marvin the mind reader changed his
mind.

"I don't remember anyone who looked like that," Marvin said.

Good, Tony thought.  Let's get the hell out of here.

"But why don't you ask Anna?"  Marvin said.  "She's the one who would've
taken his coat."

They finally found Jose Santiago at 3:25 A.M. that Monday.  They
figured that a man who kept pigeons, and also drove a fighting rooster
around in the backseat of a borrowed limo, had to be a bird fancier of
sorts.  So they checked out the roof of his building again, and sure
enough, there he was, sitting with his back against the side wall of
his pigeon coop.  Last time they were here, dawn was fast approaching
on a cold Sunday morning.  Now, on an even colder Monday morning,
sunrise was still approximately four hours away, and they were no
closer to learning who killed Svetlana Dyalovich on Saturday night.
Nor

did it appear that Santiago was going to offer assistance in that
direction.  Santiago  was also very, very drunk.

"Jose Santiago?"  Hawes asked.

"That is me," Santiago said.

"Detective Cotton Hawes, Eighty-seventh Sc "Mi gusto," Santiago said.

"My partner, Detective Carella."  "lgualmente," Santiago said, and
tilted a Don Quixote rum to his lips and took along

It was perhaps two degrees below zero out here, Santiago was wearing only blue
jeans, a white shirt, and a V-necked cotton sweater.  He was a slender
man early thirties, Carella guessed, with curly black hair anda pale complexion,
and delicate features.  His brown eyes seemed out of focus, moist at
the moment because he was still weeping.  Immediately after the detectives
introduced themselves, he seemed to be unaware of their presence.  As if alone here
on the roof, he kept shaking his head over and over again, weeping bitterly,
clutching the rum to his narrow chest, knuckles white around the neck
of the bottle.  In the bitter cold, his breath plumed onto the night.
"What's the matter, Jose?"  Hawes asked. 

"I killed him," Santiago said.  "Here in the dead of night, the pigeons
still silent behind Santiago, both detectives felt themselves  stiffen.  But
the man who'd just confessed to a killing seemed completely harmless, sitting
there clutching the bottle to his chest, hot tears rolling down his face and
freezing at once.

"Who'd you kill?"  Hawes asked.

Voice still gentle.  The night was black around them.  Carella standing
beside him, looking down at the sobbing man in the pink cotton sweater,
ridiculous for this time of year, sitting with his knees bent, his back
to the dark silent pigeon coop.

"Tell us who you killed, Jose."  "Diablo."  "Who's Diablo?"

"Mi herma no de sangue."

"My blood brother."

"Is that his street name?  Diablo?"  Santiago shook his head.  "It's
his real name?"  Santiago nodded.  "Diablo what?"

Santiago tilted the bottle again, swallowed more rum, began coughing
and sobbing and choking.  The detectives waited.

"What's his last name, Jose?"

Hawes again.  Carella stayed out of it.  Just stood there with his right
hand resting inside the overlapping flap of his coat, where three
buttons were unbuttoned at the waist.  He may have looked a bit like
Napoleon with his hand inside his coat that way, but his holster and
the butt of a .38 Detective Special were only inches away from his
fingertips.  Santiago said nothing.  Hawes tried another tack.

"When did you kill this person, Jose?"

Still no answer.

"Jose?  Can you tell us when this happened?"

Santiago nodded.

"Then when?"

"Friday night."

"This past Friday night?"

Santiago nodded again.

"Where?  Can you tell us where, Jose?  Can you tell us what happened?"

And now, in the piercing cold of the night, began a rambling recitation
in English and in telling them it was all his fault here  it wouldn't
have happened if he hadn't allowed it, he had killed D as certainly as if
he'd slit his throat with a Swilling rum, spitting, slobbering down 
the absurd cotton sweater, his hands shaking, then he'd always taken
care of him like a brother, they were partners, he'd never done anything to
harm him never.  But on Friday night he'd killed him as sure he'd, oh dear
God, he'd killed him, oh sweet he'd allowed the thing he loved most in
the world to be slashed and torn... Carella was  beginning to get it.
to shreds, he should have stopped it then  he realized... So  did Hawes.
how it would end, the moment he saw that other bird was stronger, he
should have stopped the fight, climbed into the ring, snatched his prize
rooster away from the ripping steel talons of the bigger, stronger bird.
But no, instead he'd watched horror, covering his face at last,
screaming aloud woman when poor Diablo was slain

"I killed him," he said again.

And now he confessed that he'd suspected from the start that the other bird
was on steroids, the sheer

size of him, a vulture against a chick, poor brave Diablo strutting into
the ring like the proud champion he was, battling in vain against
overwhelming odds, giving his life... "I was greedy," Santiago said, "I
had ten thousand dollars bet on him, I thought he could still win, the
blood, so much blood, all over his feathers, madre de Dios!  I should
have tried to stop the slaughter.  There are owners who jump into the
ring during a fight, without the permission of the fence judge, there
are strict rules, you know, but they break the rules, they save their
beloved birds.  I was greedy and I was afraid of breaking the rules,
and so I let him die.  I could have saved his life, I should have saved
his life, forgive me,

Mary, mother of God, I took an innocent life."  "What else did you
take?"  Carella asked.

Because all at once this was still the tale of a gun and a dead old
woman, and not a sad soap opera about a dead chicken.  People ate
chicken every Sunday.

"Take?"  Santiago asked drunkenly.  "What do you mean?"

"You drove Diablo uptown in a limo, didn't you?"  "He was a
champion!"

"You stole a black Caddy..."

"I borrowed it!"

"... from Bridge Texaco.  A limo that..."

"I returned it!"

"... was in for a new engine."

"He was a champion!"

"He was a bird who needed a ride uptown."

"A hero!"

"Who made a mess all over the backseat."

"A mess?  A champion's feathers!  Dialo  Diablo's shit, too, Hawes
thought.

"How could I bear touching them?"  Santiago  began weeping again. He
tilted the rum to his lips, but it was empty.  He wiped his nose on  the sleeve
of the pink sweater.

"Did you find a gun in the glove compartment of that car?"  Carella asked.

"No.  Hey, no.  No."

"Did you know there was a gun in the compartment?"

"No.  What gun?  A gun?  No."  "A .38 Smith & Wesson."  "No, I didn't
know that."  "Didn't see the gun, huh?"  "No."

"Didn't know it was in the glove compartment."

"That's good, Jose.  Because the gun was used to murder..."

"A murder?  No."

"A murder, yes."

"And if we can trace that gun to you..."  "If your fingerprints are on
that gun, for "I didn't shoot anybody with that gun."  "Oh?  You know
the gun we mean, huh?"  "I know the gun, yes.  But..."

"Did you steal it from that glove compartment?"  "I borrowed it."

"Same way you borrowed the limo, huh?;'

"I did borrow the limo.  And I borrowed the

"Why?"

"To shoot the bird who killed Diablo."

"So this was after the match, huh?"

"You took the gun from the car after the match."  "Si.  To shoot the
bird."  "Did you shoot the bird?"

"No.  The cops came.  I was going back in the theater when I saw all
these cops.  So I ran back to the garage."  "With the gun."  "With the
gun, si."

"What did you do with the gun then?"

"I sold it."

The detectives looked at each other.  "That's right," Jose said.  "I
sold it."  Carella sighed.  So did Hawes.  "Who'd you sell it to?"

"A man I met at a club up the street."  "What club?"  "The Juice Bar."
"What man?"

"I don't know his name."

"You sold a stolen gun to a man you didn't even know?"

"We were talking, he said he needed a gun.  So I

happened to have a gun.  So I sold it to him."

"You sold him a gun you'd just stolen."

"I had just lost my best friend in the whole world."

"What's that got to do with stealing a gun and selling it?"

"I also lost ten thousand dollars."

"Ah.  So how much did you get for the gun?"  "Two hundred and fifty
dollars."

"That's cutting your losses, all right," Hawes said. "My greatest loss was
Diablo."

"What'd he look like?"  Carella asked.

"He was a white bird, large in the chest, with.  "The man who bought
the gun."

"Oh.  He was a tall blond guy."

"Blond guy with a blue coat and a red scarf, Anna said.  "Tall blond
guy.  Sure.  Matter of fact was in here twice."

This was beginning to get interesting.  Georgie hoped it wouldn't get
too interesting.  "The first time was Friday night around midnight  Anna
said.  "He was meeting a guy named Bernie comes in here all the time.  Scar on
his right think he's a bookie."

"The blond guy?"  Tony asked.

"No, Bernie."

"Did you happen to get his name?"  asked Priscilla "I just told you. 
Bernie." "I mean the blond guy."

"No, I didn't.  Matter of fact, the first time I laid eyes on him was Friday
night."

"When was the next time he came in?"  "Yesterday," Anna said.  "Around
twelve noon.  with Bernie again.  They sat right over there," she 
pointed to a table.  "Money changed hands.  least yesterday, it did. 
On Friday, they were talking.  He seemed very angry."

"The blond guy?"  Priscilla asked.

"No, Bernie."

"He was angry yesterday?"

"No, he was angry Friday.  Yesterday, he was all smiles."

"So as I understand this," Georgie said, interpreting for Priscilla,
"on Friday night the blond guy and Bernie the bookie just sat over
there and talked, and Bernie was pissed off about something, is that
correct?"

"Yes," Anna said.

"But money changed hands yesterday and Bernie the bookie was all
smiles, Is that also correct?"  "Matter of fact, yes," Anna said.

"You know what this indicates to me?"  Georgie said.

"What?"  Priscilla asked.

"A man paying off a marker."

"That's what it looks like to me, too," Tony said, nodding sagely.

Priscilla nodded, too, and then turned back to Anna.  "But you never
got the blond guy's name," she said.  "Matter of fact, I didn't" Anna
said.

"And you don't know Bernie's last name."

"Just his first name."

In which case, let us be on our way, Georgie thought.  "But maybe
Marvin knows," Anna said.  Matter of fact, he did.

Three black guys who looked like they were homeless bums were warming
themselves up around a fire in an oil drum on the corner of Ainsley and
Eleventh.  Ollie felt like arresting them.  He was cold and he was
tired

after a full eight-hour shift, not to mention here and there around
the city afterward trying to get a line on who iced the hooker and her two
black Three-thirty in the fuckin morning, he really felt like arresting
them.

"You guys," he said, approaching the blazing dram.  "You know arson's
against the law?"

"Nobody committin no arson here, suh," one of the men said.  He was a
grizzled old bum looked like a black guy in the prison picture, whatever
it was The Scrimshaw Reduction, about this black guy used to drive
around this old Jewish southern before he got sent up.  The old bum
standing with hands stretched out to the fire looked just like that in
the picture.  The other two looked like black bums you'd see standing
around any three-thirty in the morning.  Nobody looked They all just
kept staring into the flames, reaching toward them.

"So is this your usual corner here?"  Ollie asked. "This lovely garden spot
here?"

He was being sarcastic.  This was an unusual stretch of Ainsley
Avenue.  Because of the  storm and because this was Diamondback, nobody
gave a damn about refuse collection  anyway overflowing garbage cans stood
against tenement walls and marauding rats the size c were boldly
shredding stacks of black plastic bags  noise of the rats was
frightening in itself.  crackle of the fire in the oil drum, Ollie
could hear their incessant squealing and squeaking scratching.  He felt like
shooting them.

"Everybody hard of hearing here?"  he asked.  "This's our regular
corner here, yessuh," the one from the Scrimshaw picture said.  Ollie
didn't know who he hated most, the ones who bowed and scraped or the
ones with attitude.  There wasn't much attitude around this fire
tonight.  Just three cold homeless bums afraid to go crawl into their
cardboard boxes lest one of their brothers did them in the night.

"You happen to be here Saturday night around this time?"  he asked.
"Little later, actually?"

None of the men said anything.

"Hey!"  Ollie shouted.  "Anybody listening to me here?"

"What time would that've been, suh?"  the older bum said.  Doing his
Uncle Tom bit for the benefit of the dumb honkie cop.

"This would've been six o'clock in the morning, suh," Ollie said,
mimicking him.  "This would've been a taxicab letting out a white
blonde in a short skirt and a red fur jacket who was being met by three
white guys in blue parkas and a black guy in a black leather jacket. 
So were you here at that hour, suh, and did you happen to see them?"

"We was here," he said, "and we happen to see em."

Carella and Hawes got to The Juice Bar about five minutes after
Priscilla and the boys left.  Marvin the bartender and Anna the hat
check girl both felt it was deja vu all over again.  Just a few minutes
ago, three people who might, have been under-covers had been here
asking about a tall blond man, and now here were two more very definite
detectives flashing badges and

asking about the same tall blond man.  Then Carella and Hawes asked exactly
what they had told Priscilla  and the boys.

So now five people were looking for a guy  named Bernie Himmel.

The cops had an edge.

At this hour, The Silver Chief Diner was populated with predators.  The
morning shifts not begin till eight, and any honest person with a job
office cleaners and hospital personnel, employees and cops, night
watchmen, bakery cabdrivers, short-order cooks, hotel workers, takers
was still busy earning a living.  Here in  the diner, there were mainly
prostitutes and burglars and muggers, dealers and users, occasional
noncriminal sprinkling of drunk  insomniacs, or writers with blocks.
Ollie sorted the wheat from the chaff at once.  The minute he got in, every thief in
the joint recognized him for what he was, too.  None of them even glanced
in his

direction He went straight to the counter, took a stool, ordered a cup of coffee
from a redheaded girl in a green uniform.  Her name tag read SALLY.
"You serve Indian food here?"  he asked.  "No, sir, we sure don't,"
Sally said.  "Native American food?"  he asked.  "Nor that neither,"
she said.

"Then how come you call yourself the Silver  Chief?."

"It's spose to be like a train," she said.

"Oh yeah?"

"That's what it's spose to be, yes, sir."  "What part of the South you
from, Sally?"  "Tennessee," she said.

"You serve grits here, Sally?"  / "No, sir."

"You serve hominy?"

"No, sir."

"How about a nice hot cup of coffee then?  And one of those donuts
there."

"Yes, sir," she said.

Ollie looked the place over again.  Each time his gaze fell upon
someone who'd been out victimizing tonight, eyes turned away.  Good, he
thought  Shit your pants.  Sally came back with his coffee and donut.

"I'm a police officer," he said, and showed her his shield.  "Were you
working here on Saturday night around this time, a little bit later?"

"I was," she said.

"I'm looking for a blond girl who was wearing a black mini and a red fur
jacket."

He didn't mention that she was dead.

"Fake fur," he said.  "Fake blonde, too."

"We get lots of those in here," Sally said, and with a faint tilt of
her head indicated that lots of those were in here right this very
minute, sitting at tables hither and yon behind Ollie.

"How about Saturday night?  Remember a blonde in a red fur jacket?"

"I sure don't," Sally said.

"How about three white guys in blue hooded parkas?"

"Nope."

"Or a black guy in a black leather jacket."

"We get thousands of black guys in black jackets."

"These three white guys would've been in the gutter."

"Where?"

"Outside there," Ollie said, jerking his head and shoulder toward the front
windows of the diner.  "This weather?"  Sally said, and laughed.  Ollie
laughed, too.

"Need Willie warmers, this weather," Sally said Black guy would've run out
the diner, told them to stop peeing."

"Can't blame him," Sally said, and began laughing again.

Ollie laughed, too.

"How do you know all this fascinating stuff?." Sally  asked.

Ollie figured she was flirting with him.  women preferred men with a
little girth, as he
had. 

"Three black guys outside told me," he said.  "Oh, those three."  ....
"You know them?"

"They're out there every night."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, they're crazy."

"Yeah?  Crazy?"

"Yeah, they just got out of Buenavista a few ago."

"Buenavista, huh?"

"Yeah.  What they do, these mental hospitals, medicate all these
psychos till they're stabilized.

they let them loose on the streets with prescriptions they don't
bother filling.  Before you know it, they're acting nutty all over
again.  I saw a man talking to a mailbox the other day, would you
believe it?  Holding along conversation with a mailbox.  Those three
guys out there stand around that fire all night like it's some kind of
shrine.  The one who looks like Morgan Fairchild..."

"That's his name!"  Ollie said and snapped his fingers.

"He's the nuttiest of them all.  Anything he told you, I'd take with a
grain of salt."

"He told me these three white guys were peeing in the gutter when this
black man in a black leather jacket came running out of here to stop
them."

"Naw," Sally said.  "Don't believe it."

"Were you working here alone on Saturday night?"  Ollie asked slyly.

He spent the next fifteen minutes talking to another waitress, the
short-order cook, and the cashier, who was also the night manager. None
of them had seen three white guys in hooded parkas peeing in the
gutter.  And whereas all of them had seen half a dozen black guys in
black leather jackets, none of them had seen one running out into the
street to prevent mass urination.

Five minutes after Ollie left, Curly Joe Simms walked in.

There was no one named Bernie Himmel or Bernard Himmel listed in any of
the phone directories for the city's five separate sectors.  On the off
chance that Marvin the bartender had got Bernie the bookie's

family name wrong, they even checked all the listings under HIMMER and
HAMMIL but found matching first name.  There were two listings for
HEMMER, but these turned out to be women, surprise, who did not
appreciate being awakened at a quarter to four in the morning.

"So that's it," Georgie said.  "Let's forget it for tn.

Go home, get some sleep."

"No," Priscilla said.

She had just had an idea.

The computer listed a Bernard Himmel, alias B Himmel, alias Benny
Himmel, alias Bernie Banker" Himmel, a thirty-six-year-old white who
had taken two prior falls for violation of 225.10 of the state's Penal
Law, titled Gambling in the First Degree, which read:

A person is guilty of promoting gambling in the degree when he
knowingly advances or profits unlawful gambling activity by  Engaging
bookmaking to the extent that he receives or accepts in any one day more
than five bets totaling more five thousand dollars or  Receiving, in
 with a lottery or policy scheme... And so on, which the second provision
did not apply either of Bernie's arrests and subsequent

Violation of 225.10 was a class-E felony,

by a term of imprisonment not to exceed four The first time around,
Bernie was sentenced to one three and was back on the street again, and
at the old stand again, after serving the requisite year.  next time,
he drew two to four as a so-called

felon and was paroled after serving the minimum.  The address he'd
registered with his parole officer was 1110 Garner Avenue, not a mile
away from The Juice

Bar, where apparently he'd set up business again.  Carella and Hawes got
to Garner at four A.M.

If Himmel was in fact taking bets again, then he was breaking parole at
best and would be returned to prison to serve the two years he still
owed the state.  If, in addition, he was once again arrested and
charged and convicted, then he would technically become a so-called
persistent felony offender, and could be sentenced for an A-1 felony,
which could mean fifteen to twenty-five years behind bars.  Neither
Carella nor Hawes had ever heard of anyone in this city or this state
taking such a fall on a gambling violation.  But Bernie the Banker
Himmel was still looking at the two years owed on the parole violation,
plus another two to four as a predicate felon with a new gambling
violation.  Such visions of the future could make any man desperate.
Moreover, only two mornings ago, Carella and Hawes had knocked on a door
and been greeted with four bullets plowing through the wood.  They did
not want to provoke yet another fusillade.

Without a no-knock arrest warrant, they were compelled to announce
themselves.  Gun-shy, they flanked the door.  Service revolvers drawn,
they pressed themselves against the wall on either side of it.  Carella
reached in to knock.  No answer.  He knocked again.  He was about to
knock a third time when a man's voice said, "Who is it?"  "Mr.
Himmel?".  "Yes?"



"Police," Carella said.  "Could you come to the door please?"

Still standing to the side of it.  Hawes on the side of the jamb,
facing him.  Cold in the hallway

Not a sound from inside the apartment.  Not 

anywhere in the building.  They waited.

"Mr.  Himmel?"

No answer.

"Mr.  Himmel?  Please come to the door, sir."

they waited.  "Or we'll have to go downtown for a

Still no answer.  "Mr.  Himmel?"

They heard footsteps approaching the door.

They braced themselves

Lock clicking open.

The door opened a crack.  A night chain

The same voice said, "Yes?"

"Mr.  Himmel?"

"Yes?"

"May we come in, sir?"

"Why?"

"We'd like to ask you some questions, sir."

"What about?"

"Well, if you'd let us in, sir..."

"No, I don't think so," Himmel said, and the door was shut in their faces.  The
lock snapped shut.

They waited.  In a moment, they heard the sound of a window going up.

Carella took a calculated risk.

He kicked in the door.

He would worry later about convincing a reliable witness who had seen a
paroled  offender accepting money from a suspected

in an underground club that served booze illegally after hours.  He
would worry later about convincing a judge that slamming a door shut on
two police officers merely here to ask questions, and then locking that
door, and then opening a window were acts that constituted flight, than
which there was no better index of guilt, tell that to O.J.

Meanwhile, the wood splintered, and the lock sprang, and the chain
snapped, and they were inside a studio apartment, looking at a
wide-eyed girl in bed clutching a blanket to her, the window open on
the wall beyond, the curtains billowing on a harsh cold wind.  They
rushed across the room.  Carella poked his head into the night.

"Stop!  Police!"  he yelled down the fire escape.  Nobody was
stopping.

He could hear footfalls clanging on the iron rungs of the ladder
below.

"I didn't do anything," the girl said.

They were already out the door again.

 In the movies, one cop goes out the window and the fire escape and
comes thundering down  after the fleeing perp, passing windows where
ladies  in nightgowns are all aghast, while the other cop down the steps
inside the building, and dashes into the backyard so they have the perp
sandwiched  between them, All right, Louie, drop da gat!

In real life, cops know it's faster and especially if the perp is
armed, to come down inside steps while he's outside descending to level
on narrow, often slippery metal ladders  especially when the temperature
outside is three zero.  Carella and Hawes were a beat behind Bernie
Banker Himmel.  They rounded the rear corner ofthe  building just as he was
climbing a small wooden fence separating the backyards.

This was a beautiful night for a little jog through the city.  The clouds
had passed, the sky above was a canopy studded with stars and hung with
an almost moon that washed the terrain with an eerie glow.  All was silent
except for the sound of their crunching on crusted snow, their labored
puffing from chapped lips.  They followed over the fence, right hands
cold against the stocks of their pistols, left hands gloved, flapping
loose, mufflers flying behind them as if they were World War I fighter
pilots.  

 Himmel was fast, and both Carella and Hawes were large and out of
shape, and they were having a tough time keeping up with him.

In the movies, detectives are always lifting weights down at the old
headquarters gym, or shooting at targets on the old firing range.  In
real life, detectives aren't often in on the big action scenes.  They
hardly ever chase thieves.  They rarely, if ever, fire weapons at
fleeing suspects.  In real life, detectives usually come in after the
fact.  The burglary, the armed robbery, the arson, the murder has
already been committed.  It is their job to piece together past events
and apprehend the person or persons who committed a crime or crimes.
Sometimes, yes, a suspect will attempt flight, but even then there are
strict guidelines limiting the use of force, deadly or otherwise.  The
LAPD has these guidelines, too; tell it to Rodney King.

Here in this city, tonight or any other night, gunplay was the very
last thing Carella or Hawes wanted.  The second least desirable thing
was brute force.  Besides, the way this little chase was developing,
Bernie the Banker would be out of gun range at any moment.  All three
of them had now emerged from the barren backyards onto deserted well,
almost deserted city streets, Himmel running ahead through narrow paths
shoveled on icy sidewalks, banks of snow on either side of him, fast
out-distancing Carella and Hawes who followed him and each other through
the same narrow sidewalk burrows, knowing for damn sure they were going
to lose him.

And then, three things happened in rapid succession.

Himmel rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.

A dog began barking.

And a snowplow went barreling up the street.

"This is what I'd like to know,"."  Priscilla said.  Georgie yawned.

Tony yawned, too.  "If this tall blond guy delivered the key to
the locker..."

"Well, he did," Georgie said.  "We know he "Then he had to know my
grandmother, right?"  "Well... sure."

"I mean, she had to have given him   the key in it, am I right?"
"That's right."

"So why are we wasting time looking for this bookie, is what I'd like to
know?  When all we do is go to my grandmother's building and see
if anyone there knows the blond guy."

"Good idea," Georgie said.  "Let's do it in the morning when everybody's
awake."

"It is morning," Priscilla said.

"Priss, please.  We go knocking on doors at this hour..."

"You're right," she said.

Which astonished him.

Bernie Himmel was astonished to see a large dog standing there like
some fuckin apparition on a narrow path cleared through the snow.  He
stopped dead in his tracks.  Ahead of him was the
dog
snarling and barking and baring his teeth and blocking Himmel's
escape route through the snow.  Behind him, somewhere up the street, he
could hear the roaring clang of a snowplow rushing through the night.
He did what any sensible man would have done in the face of threatening
fangs dripping saliva and slime.  He leaped over the snowbank on his
left, into the street, just as the plow came thundering by.

Where earlier there had been an evil growling monster guarding the icy
gates of hell, now there was an avalanche of snow and ice and salt and
sand pouring down onto Himmel's shoulders and head, knocking him off
his feet and throwing him back against old snow already heaped at the
curb, virtually burying him.  He flailed with his arms, kicked with his
legs, came spluttering up out of a filthy grey mountain of shmutz, and
found himself blinking up into a pair of revolvers.

Fuckin Cujo, he thought.

The questioning took place in the second-floor interrogation room at
five-thirty that Monday morning.  They explained to Himmel that they
weren't charging him with anything, that in fact they weren't
interested in him at all.

"Then why am I here?"  he asked reasonably.

He had been this route before, though not in this particular venue,
which looked like any other shitty police precinct in this city, or
even some he had known in Chicago, Illinois, or Houston, Texas.

"Just some questions we want to ask you," Hawes said.

"Then read me my rights and get me an

"Why?"  Carella asked.  "Did you do something?"  "You had my address,
chances are you already know from  the computer.  So you know my record.  So
you have to ask me some questions.  So I'll be back tomorrow morning for
breaking parole.  I want a lawyer."

"This has nothing to do with breaking parole."  "Then why are you even
mentioning it?"  "You're the one who mentioned it."  "Cause I'm six
steps ahead of you."

"This has to do with a person you were talking to

in The Juice Bar on Friday night..."

"I want a lawyer."

"... and again on Sunday morning."

"I still want a lawyer."

"Give us a break here, Bernie."

"Why?  You gonna give me a break?"

"We told you.  We're not interested in you."

"I'll say it again.  If you're not interested in me, why am I here?"

"This tall blond man you were talking to'"  Carella said.

"What about him?     You were  talking to him."  Progress, Carella thought.

"We traced a murder weapon to him," he said.

"Oh, I see.  Now it's a murder.  You'd better get me a lawyer right this
minute."

"All we want is his name."

"I don't know his name."

"What do you know about him?"

"Nothing.  We met in a club, exchanged a few words . . ."

"Exchanged some cash, too, didn't you?"  The room went silent.  So did
Himmel.

"But we're willing to forget that," Carella said.  "Then whatever I say
is hypothetical," Himmel said.  "Let's hear it first."

"First let's understand it's hypothetical."

"Okay, it's hypothetical," Carella said.

"Then let's say the man is a big gambler.  Bets on any event
happening."

"Like?"

"Boxing, baseball, football, hockey, basketball, a man for all seasons.
My guess is he bets on the nags, too,

but at one of the off-track parlors."

"Okay, he's a gambler."

"No, you weren't listening.  He's a big gambler.  And he's usually in
over his head.  Wins occasionally, but most of the time he doesn't know
what he's doing.  Fuckin grease ball can't tell the difference between
baseball and football, how would  he know how to bet?

I give him the odds, he picks whatever sounds..."  "What do you mean,
grease ball  Hawes asked.  "He's Italian."

"From Italy, you mean?"  Carella said.

"Of course from Italy.  Where would Italians come from, Russia?"

"You mean he's really Italian," Carella said.

"Yeah, really really Italian," Himmel said.  "What,s with you?"

"Never mind."

"You're surprised he's Italian, is that it?  Cause he's blond?"

"No, I'm not surprised."

"He also has blue eyes, does that surprise you, "Nothing ever surprises
me," Carella said weari].  "You expect a wop to have black curly hair and
eyes, you expect him to be a short fat guy.  This one's six-two, he weighs at
least about one-ninety.  Handsome  can be.  Dumb Buck doesn't even know
what the

Bowl is, he bets a fortune on Pittsburgh, loses his "When was this?"

"Two Sundays ago.  Hypothetically."

"So, hypothetically, what was he doing in The Bar this past Friday
night?"

"Hypothetically, he was telling his bookie, in broken English, that he
didn't have the twenty large to  pay him."

"Is that what he bet on the Steelers?"

"Twenty big ones.  Gave him a a-half-point spread.  Cowboys took it by
sixteen."  "So what happened last Friday night?"

"The bookie told him to come up with the bread Sunday morning or he was
going to be swimmin with the goddamn fishes."

"How'd he react to that?"

"Said he had to make a phone call."

"Did he?"

"Yeah, from the phone right there on the wall."  "What time was
this?"

"Around one-fifteen in the morning.  A few minutes after the cops raided the
Alhambra'  the  club up the street.   Where they hold the cockfights."

"How'd you know that?"

"One of the owners came in.  His bird had just got chewed up, he was
practically weeping at the table.  He told me he had a gun, he was
thinking of shooting himself."

"His name wouldn't be Jose Santiago, would it?"  This city was full of
mind readers.

"Yeah" Himmel said.  "How'd you know that?"

"Lucky guess," Hawes said.  "What time did he come in?"

"Santiago?  Eleven-thirty, twelve o'clock.  Right after the bust went
down.  I was sitting there waiting for Larry."

"Who's that?"

"The guy owed the twenty."

"I thought you didn't know his name."

"That was before everything got hypothetical."  "Larry what?"

"It's Lorenzo, but everybody calls him Larry.," "Lorenzo what?"

"I can't even pronounce it."

"I'm telling you I can't.  I wrote it down first time he placed a bet,
it's one of those fuckin wop tongue twisters."

Carella sighed.

"Where'd you write it down?"  "On the slip."  "The betting slip?"

"No, a lady's pink slip, lace-trimmed."

The detectives looked at him.  He knew he was a smart-ass.  He
grinned.  Nobody grinned back.  shrugged.

"Yes, the betting slip," he said.  "Long since "Never wrote the name
down again?"

"Never.  Couldn't have if I wanted to.  It was along.  Besides, I had
his phone number.  A man don't his marker, I give him a call, I say,
Joey, you owe a little something, am I right?  It usually scares them."

"Did it scare Lorenzo?"

"He came up here to see me one o'clock in the morning, didn't he?"

"And made his phone call fifteen minutes later that right?"

"Yeah.  We didn't have much to talk about'  mentioned him swimming with
his little fishies."

"You didn't happen to overhear his end of the conversation, did you?"

"Yeah, but it was all in Italian."

"You think he called an Italian-speaking person, that it?"

"I don't know who he called.  I know he was Italian."

"What happened next?"

"He came back to the table, said he'd have money by Sunday.  Then he
asked did I perhaps know where he could buy a gun."

"So you recommended Santiago," Carella said.  "Yeah, that's right,"
Himmel said, looking

"You didn't witness the gun changing hands, did you?"  Hawes asked.

"No.  But hypothetically, Larry bought it."

"What time did he leave here?"  "One-thirty or so."

"One more thing," Carella said.

"His phone number, right?"  Himmel said.  Still six steps ahead of
them.

At six-oh-four that Monday morning, the desk sergeant at the
Eight-Eight called Ollie Weeks at home to tell him something had come
up that might relate to the triple homicide he was investigating.  He
didn't know whether he should be waking Ollie up or not... "Yeah, well
you did," Ollie said.

" but some guy named Curly Joe Simms had called to say he was having a
cup of coffee in the Silver Chief Diner on Ainsley, and a waitress
named Sally told him a detective named Oliver Weeks was in there asking
about three kids pissing in the gutter, and Curly Joe had seen these
three kids with a person named Richie Cooper, who was a good friend now
deceased.  So if this detective wanted to talk to him..."

"What's his number?"  Ollie asked.

The phone company told Hawes that the call from the wall phone of The
Juice Bar at 1:17 A.M. on January nineteenth had been made to a
telephone listed to a subscriber named Svetlana Helder at 1217 Lincoln
Street in Isola.

This was puzzling.

Why had Larry Whoever called a woman who was murdered the very next
night with a gun he'd purchased not five minutes after he'd got off the
phone with her?

Meanwhile, Carella was dialing the number  the Banker had given them.
This was now a quarter past six in the morning.  A woman's sleepy voice
"Pronto."

"Signora?"  he said.

"St'?"

"Voglio parl are con Lorenzo, per piacere."

" "

"Non c e.

In the next five minutes, in tattered Italian shattered English, the
woman whose name was Carmela Buongiorno and who said she was landlady of a
rooming house on Trent Street, blocks from where Svetlana had been
Carella that Lorenzo Schiavinato had been living there  since October the
twenty-fourth, but had moved out last Sunday.  She did not know where
he was now.

seemed to be a nice man, was something the "Che succese?"  she asked.
"What happened?"

"Niente, signora, niente," Carella said.

Nothing, signora, nothing.  But something indeed happened.

Murder had happened.

And Lorenzo Schiavinato had purchased the weapon the night before
someone used it on Dyalovich.

They now had his full name.  They ran it through the computer.  There
was niente, signora.  Niente.

Ollie figured Curly Joe Simms would turn out to be a bald guy and he
wasn't disappointed.  He made a note to mention to Meyer Meyer, up at
the Eight-Seven, that he would start calling himself Curly Meyer. Curly
Joe was wearing yellow earmuffs and a brown woolen coat buttoned over a
green muffler.  His eyes kept watering and he kept blowing his nose as
he explained to Ollie that he was a night person, which meant that he
only slept during the daytime.  He was beginning to get a little drowsy
right now, in fact, but he.  felt it was important to do his civic
duty, wasn't it?  Ollie was a little drowsy, too, but only because he'd
just got up half an hour ago.  At six forty-two in the morning, there
weren't too many places open near the 88th Precinct station house. 
They met in the coffee shop of the Harley Hotel on Ninety-second and
Jackson.  The Harley was a hotbed dive catering to hookers and their
clientele.  A steady stream of girls walked in and out of the coffee
shop while Ollie and Curly Joe talked.

Curly Joe was bothered that someone had drowned poor Richie Cooper.

"Richie was a close friend of mine," he said.

So close you didn't know he hated being called Richie, Ollie thought,
but did not say.  The man had come all the way over from Ainsley and
Eleventh, six in the morning, he deserved a hearing, even if he was
bald.  Ollie ate another donut and listened.

Curly Joe sipped at his coffee and told him how on Saturday night he
was sitting with Richie in one of the window booths at the Silver Chief
Diner, both of them having coffee, when all at once Richie jumps up and
yells, "Look at that, willya?"

"Look at what?"  Curly Joe said.  "Out there.  Those three guys." 
Curly Joe looked.

Three big guys in hooded parkas were at the curb, pissing in the gutter.
This was not an unusual sight up here, so Curly Joe couldn't   understand why
Richie was so upset by it.  But he certainly was annoyed, jumping up out
of  the  bar and putting on his black leather jacket... "He was dressed all
in black,"."  Curly Joe "Black jeans, black shirt, black boots, the
jacket..."

"Yeah, go on," Ollie said.  putting on the jacket, and tossing a couple of bucks
on the table as his share of the bill, and storming out of the diner
and walking over to the three guys who were still standing there, shaking
their dicks.  From where Curly Joe watched from the diner window, he saw,
but could not hear, conversation taking place between the four of
them. Richie dressed all in black and appearing before them like an avenging angel
of death.  They almost all of them peed on his boots, he was standing
that close

-Now what do you call this?

--We call it pissing in the gutter.

-I call it disrespect for the neighborhood.

what the letter P stand for?  Pissing?  -Join us, why don't  you?  My
name is Richard.

Big white guy zipping up and extending his hand to Richie.

So is mine.

Second white guy holding out his hand, too.  --Me, too.

Third guy holding out his hand.

--As it happens, my name is Richard, too.

Richie holding out his hand, shaking hands with the three white guys,
one after the other.  And now there's a serious conversation at the
curb, Richie probably explaining that what he did up here in
Diamondback was sell crack cocaine to nice little boys like the three
preppies here in their hooded parkas.  In a minute or so, he begins
leading them up the street, past the diner where Curly Joe is still
sitting in the window booth, probably taking them to a place called the
Trash Cat, which is an underground bar where there are plenty of girls
all hours of the night, just like the Harley here.

They stop again not far from the diner, like at an angle to it, for
another serious conversation Curly Joe can see but not hear.

You dudes interested in some nice jumbo vials I happen to have in my
pocket here?  You care for a taste at fifteen a pop?

And now Curly Joe sees crack and money changing hands, black to white
and white to black, and all at once a taxi pulls up to the curb, and a
long-legged white girl in a fake-fur jacket and red leather boots steps
out.  She looks familiar but Curly Joe doesn't recognize her at first.
The driver's window rolls down, he's got like a dazed expression on his
face, as if he just got hit by a bus.

Thanks, Max.

The girl blows him a kiss and swivels onto the sidewalk, a red handbag
under her arm... Hey, Yolande, you jess the girl we lookin and Curly
Joe recognizes her all at once hooker Jamal Stone fixed him up with one
time Jamal laid two bills on a pony and was a little cash.  Her name
was Marie St.  Claire, she'd given Curly Joe the best blow job he'd ever had
in his lifetime, did in his llie ever hear of a Moroccan now there's another big
conference at the curb, Joe watching but not hearing, Richie's hands
Six hundred for the three preppies here, shy?  Two hundred apiece for
the next few hours, bobbing, you take me on, I'll throw five jumbos
pot, whutchoo say, girlfriend?  big summit here on Ainsley Avenue We
all go up my place some crack, get down to realities, sistuh, you whut I'm
sayin?

--Well, I've been out since eleven last night, been along one, bro. So
maybe we ought to just unless we can sweeten the pot a little, mm?

--Whutchoo mean sweeten it?  How sweet do' wish to sweeten it?

If you 'll be joining the party I'll need ten No problem.

And a grand from the college boys here.

you're all so cute, I might do it for nine.

Make it eight.

I can't do it for less than nine.  Hey, you "re cute, but... How about
eight-fifty?

-It has to be nine or I'm out of here.

--Will you accept travelers checks?

-Done deal.

" and they all start laughing.  They musta concluded their
negotiation, don't you think?"  Curly Joe said.  "Cause next thing you
know, she's looping her hands through two of the guys' arms, and they'
 all marchin off toward Richie's buildin, her in the red jacket, and
Richie in his black leather, and the three kids with these hooded blue
parkas got big white Ps and footballs on the back of them."

Daybreak is aptly named.

Unlike sunset, where colors linger in the sky long after the sun has
dropped below the horizon, sunrise is heralded by a similar flush, but
the display is brief, and suddenly it is morning.  Suddenly the sky is
bright.  Day literally breaks, surprising the pinkish night, setting it
to rout.

From the windows of the squad room on the second floor of the old
precinct building, they watched the day break over the city.  It, was
going to be cold and clear again.  The clock on the squad room wall
read seven-fifteen.

At a little past seven-thirty, the detectives began drifting in for the
shift change.  Officially this was called the eight-to-four, but it
started at seven forty-five, because many uniformed cops were relieved
on post, and detectives all of whom had once pounded beats honored the
timeworn tradition.  They hung their hats and coats on the rack in the
corner, and exchanged morning greetings.  Complaining about the vile
coffee from the pot brewing in the clerical office down the hall, they
sat nonetheless on the edges of their desks and sipped it "

from soggy cardboard containers.  Outside the wind raged at the windows.

They double-teamed this one because it was more than thirty-one hours
since they'd Dyalovich squeal and they were not very much to finding
the person or persons who'd killed It was also two full days since
they'd discovered  the body of Yolande Marie Marx in the alleyway Sab's
and First.  But whereas the Marx murder was  officially theirs under the
First Man Up rule, they had been informed that Fat Ollie Weeks of the Eight-eight
had caught a related double murder, and they were more than content to leave
the three-way investigation  to him.  A hooker, a pimp, and a smalltime
dealer?  Let Ollie's mother worry.

So here they all were, those legendary stalwarts the Eight-Seven,
gathered in Lieutenant  Byrnes sunny corner office at ten minutes to eight
Monday morning, Carella and Hawes telling others what they had so far,
and hoping that in this brilliant think tank would offer a clue or that
would help them crack the case wide open.

"What it sounds like to me," Andy Parker said, you have nothing."

Parker was a good friend of Ollie Weeks.  because they were both
bigots. But whereas Ollie also a good detective, Parker only rarely
rose heights of deductive dazzle.  He was almost as big a  slob, as Ollie,
however, favoring unpressed soiled suits, unpolished shoes, and an
unshaven face he believed made him resemble a good television cop. Parker figured
there were only two kinds

of cop shows.  The lousy ones, which he called The Cops of Madison
County, and the good ones, which he called Real Meat Funk.

As a detective, albeit not a very good one, Parker knew that the word
"funk" descended from the word "funky," which in turn evolved from a
style of jazz piano-playing called "funky butt," which translated as
"smelly asshole."  He was amused the other day when a radio restaurant
critic mentioned that the food in a downtown bistro was "funky."

Not many things amused Parker.

Especially so early in the morning.

"Well, we do have the guy's name," Hawes said.  "What guy?"

"The guy who bought the murder weapon."  "Who you can't find."

"Well, he moved out yesterday," Carella said.

"So he's in flight, is that what you figure?"  Willis asked.

He was poised on the edge of the lieutenant's desk like a gargoyle on
Notre Dame cathedral, listening carefully, brown eyes intent.  Byrnes
liked him a lot.  He liked small people, figured small people had to
try harder.  Willis had barely cleared the minimum-height requirement
for policemen in this city, but he was an expert at judo and could
knock any cheap thief flat on his ass in less than ten seconds.  His
girlfriend had been shot and killed only recently, by a pair of
Colombian goons who'd broken into her apartment.  Willis never much
talked about her, but he hadn't been the same since.  Byrnes worried.
He worried about all of his people.

 after the murder, he

"Day powders,"

Kling

"it's got to be flight."

Worried a lot about Kling, too.  Never had any trouble with women, it seemed.
Byrnes understood he'd split up with a black woman, a deputy chief in
department, no less, as if the black-white thing wasn't difficult enough.
Byrnes wished him the best, but remained to be seen.  Next chapter, he
thought.  Life always full of next chapters, some of them written.

"Maybe he's already back in Italy," Brown said.  Scowling.  Always
scowling.  Made it look as if he was angry all the time, like a lot of
black people in the city were, with damn good cause.  But in all the time he'd
known Brown, he'd never seen him lose his temper.  Giant of a man, could
have been  for a professional football team, reminded him a lot of Rosie
Grier, in fact, though Grier was now, what, minister?  He tried to
imagine Brown as a minister.

imagination would not take him quite that far.  "Maybe," Carella said.

"Where in Italy?"  Meyer asked.

"Don't know."

"What'd you find when you tossed her

Byrnes asked.

"Me?"

"You."

"Dead cat lying alongside her," Carella said.  "Skip the cat."

"Fish bones all over the kitchen floor."

"I said skip the cat."

"Savings account passbook in a dresser drawer, hundred-and twenty-five
thou withdrawn the morning before she got killed."

"What time?"

"Ten twenty-seven A.M."  "Cash or bank check?"  "Don't know.

"What do you know?"  Parker asked.

Carella merely looked at him.

"We know the guy's name," Hawes said.

"If he killed her," Parker said.

"Whether he killed her or not, we know his name."  "But not where he
is."

"Check the airlines," Brown suggested.  "Maybe he did go back to
Italy."

"And we've got a clear chain of custody on the murder weapon," Carella
said.

"Running from where to where?"

"Registered to a private bodyguard named Rodney Pratt, stolen from his
limo on the night before the murder..."

"Who boosted it?"  Kling asked.

"Guy named Jose Santiago."

"The famous bullfighter?"  Parker asked.

This was a line he'd used before.  The expression was his way of
putting down anyone of Hispanic descent.  Byrnes had heard rumors which
he tended to disbelieve that Parker was now living with a Puerto

Rican girl.  Parker?  Sleeping with a famous bullfighter?  "The famous
cock fighter Hawes corrected.  "He fights with his cock?"  Parker
asked.

No one laughed.

Parker shrugged.

"So what do you figure?"  Byrnes asked.  " interrupted burglary?"

"If the him-twenty-five was in the apartment, yes, "What,d you find
when you tossed it?"  "Us?"  Meyer asked.  "You."

"Dead fish stinking up the joint."  "Piss, too," Kling said.  "Cat
piss."

"Are we back to the cat again?"  Byrnes asked.  He was not noted as an
animal lover.  When he was ten, a pet turtle named Petie had suddenly died.
 Canary named Alice when he was twelve.  And he was thirteen, his
mother gave away his pet named Ruffles.  For peeing all over their area
Which apparently Svetlana Dyalovich's cat had been fond of doing, too.  He
did not want to hear a word about the dead woman's dead cat.

"Be nice if cats could bark, huh?"  Parker sad.

 Be nice if we could get off the goddamn

cat. Byrnes said.  "What else did you find?"  "Us?"  Kling asked.  "You."
"Nothing."

"No money, huh?"  "Nothing."  "So maybe it was a burglar."

"The cat could explain those stains on the Carella said.

"What  stains?"  Brown asked.

"The fish stains.  They could've got on the coat that way."

"There were fish stains on the coat?"  Brown asked.  Byrnes was
watching him.  Eyes narrowing, scowl deepening.  He was looking for
something. Didn't know what yet, but looking.

"If she fed the cat raw fish, I mean," Carella said.

"How do you know there were fish stains on the coat?"  Byrnes asked.

"Grossman," Willis said.  "I took the call."

"She was wearing a mink while she fed the goddamn cat?"  Parker said.

"Are you saying the cat might've rubbed up against her?"  Brown
asked.

"No, these were near the collar," Carella said.  "Near the collar?"

"I took the call," Willis said again.

"Well, what'd Grossman say, actually?"  Byrnes asked.

"He said there were fish stains on the coat."  "Near the collar?" 
Brown asked again.

"High up on the coat," Willis said, and opened his note-book.  "These
are his words," he said, and began reading.  " "Stains inside and
outside, near the collar.  From the location, it would appear someone
held the coat in both hands, one at either side of the collar, thumbs
outside, fingers inside'.  Quote, unquote."

"I can't visualize it," Brown said, shaking his head.  "Okay to use
this?"  Willis asked.  "Sure," Byrnes said.

Willis picked up a magazine from Byrnes's desk, handed it to Brown.

"Hold it with your fingers on the front cow thumbs on the back
cover."

Brown tried it.

"That's how Grossman figures the coat was held, "You mean there were
fingerprints?"

"No.  But he thinks somebody with fish oil on his her hands held the
coat the way you're holding the magazine."

Brown looked at his hands on the magazine  Everyone in the office was looking
at his hands on the magazine.

"Didn't you say she was wearing a wool coat  Kling asked.

"Yeah.  When she went down to buy the booze."  "When was that?"  Byrnes
asked.  "Eleven o'clock that morning."  "The day she was killed?"

"Yes.  Half an hour after she made the withdrawal."

"Something's fishy here," Byrnes said,

he was making a pun, and not realizing how close it was, either.

When Priscilla and the boys drove up in a taxi at eight that morning,
the superintendent of  the building was out front with the garbage
wondering if the Sanitation Department would start pickups again. 
Priscilla told him she was  Svetlana's granddaughter, and he expressed his
sympathy, clucking his tongue and shaking his head over the mysteries and
misfortunes of life.  chit chatted back and  forth for maybe three
or
four
minutes before he finally mentioned that Mrs.  Helder's closest friend
in the building was a woman named Karen Todd, who lived just down the
hall from her.

"Probably there right this minute," he said.  "Doesn't leave for work
till about eight-thirty."

Georgie fell in love at once with the slender young woman who opened
the door to apartment 3C.  He guessed she was in her mid-twenties, a
very exotic-looking person who reminded him of his cousin Tessie who
once he tried to feel up on the roof when they were both sixteen.
Tessie later married a dentist.  But here was the same long black hair
and dark brown eyes, the same bee-stung lips and high cheekbones, the
same impressive bust, as Georgie's mother used to call it.

Karen was just finishing breakfast, but she cordially invited them into
the apartment batting her lashes at Georgie, Priscilla noticed and told
them she had to leave soon, but she'd be happy to answer questions
until then.  Although, really, she'd already told the police everything
she knew.

Priscilla suggested that perhaps the police hadn't asked her the same
questions they were about to ask.  Karen looked puzzled.

"For example," Priscilla said, "did you ever happen to notice a tall
blond man visiting my grandmother's apartment?"

"No," Karen said.  "In fact, I did not."

"How well did you know the old lady?"  Georgie asked kindly.

Karen looked at the clock.

Then she gave them much the same she'd given the police, telling all
about her sitting with Svetlana sipping tea together in the late afternoon  listening
to her old 78s... "It reminded me of T. S. Eliot somehow," she
said and smiled at Georgie, who didn't know who T. S. Eliot was.

She told them, too, about accompanying Svetlana to her internist's office
one day... "She had terrible arthritis, you know..."  and another time
to an ear doctor who told her she ought to see a neurologist.  Because of
the ringing in her ears, you know.

"When was this?"  Priscilla asked.

"Oh, before Thanksgiving.  It was awful.  She was crying so hard in the
taxi, I thought her heart would break."

"And you're sure you never saw her with a blond man?"

"Positive."

"Never, huh?"

"Never.  Well, not with her."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't think he went inside."

"Inside?"

"Her apartment.  But one morning, when she was sick..."

"Yes?"  Priscilla said.

"He brought fish for the cat."  "Who did?"  Tony asked.  "A tall blond
person."

"His name wouldn't have been Eliot, would it?"  Georgie asked
shrewdly.

"I have no idea what his name was."

"But he brought fish to her apartment?"  Tony said.  "Fish.  Yes."

"But didn't go in?"

"Well, actually, I don't really know.  I was leaving for work when he
knocked on her door.  Svetlana answered, and he said.."  mm, yeah,
that's right, wait a minute.  He did give her his name, but I don't
remember it.  It was something very foreign.  He had a foreign
accent."

"Russian?"  Priscilla asked.

"I really don't know.  He said he was here with the fish for Irina."

"For Irina.  So he knew the cat's name.  Which means he knew my
grandmother, too.  But he didn't go in?  When she opened the door?"

"Well, in fact I really can't say.  I was already starting down the
stairs."

"What kind of fish?"  Georgie asked.  "I have no idea."  "Where'd he
get this fish?"

"Well, I would guess at the fish market, wouldn't you?"

"What fish market?"  Priscilla asked.

"Where Svetlana went for the cat every morning."

"And where's that?"  Priscilla asked, and held her breath.

"Let's try a timetable on this thing, okay?"  Byrnes said.  He was
getting exasperated.  He didn't like little

old ladies in faded mink coats smelling of fish shot with a gun stolen
from a limo that had transfered: a fighting rooster uptown.  He didn't
like period.  Turtles, canaries, dogs, cats, fish, cockroaches,
whatever.

"Where do you want us to start, Pete?"  Carella asked.

"The gun."
  

"Belongs to a man named Rodney Pratt.  He Keeps it in the glove
compartment of his limo.  breaks down Thursday night, he takes it to
the garage off the Majesta Bridge.  Place called 

Texaco.  Forgets the gun in the glove box."  "Okay, next."

"How do you know he's not the murderer?"  Byrnes asked.

"We know," Hawes said, dismissing the very

"Gee, excuse me for fucking breathing!"  Parker said.

"Next," Carella said, "they work on the car all Friday.  One of the
mechanics, guy named Santiago, borrows the car, quote unquote, to drive
prize rooster uptown that night to a cockfight at Riverhead."

"Excuse me while I puke," Parker said.  "Puke," Kling suggested.

"A fuckin bird in the backseat of a limo?"  "So puke," Kling suggested
again.  "Santiago's bird loses.  He finds the gun in the box, decides
to shoot the winning bird, changes mind when the Four-Eight raids the
place.  He goes nearby after-hours joint called The Juice Bar..."

"I know that place," Brown said."... where this tall blond son of a
bitch we're trying to find is meeting with a bookie named Bernie Himmel
who tells him he's gonna be swimming with the fishes unless he pays him
by Sunday morning the twenty grand he lost on the Cowboys-Steelers
game."

"Swimming with the fishes," Hawes corrected.  "What?"

"He stressed the word 'swimming."  "

"I don't know what you mean."

"He told Schiavinato he'd be swimming with the fishes."

"As opposed to what?"  Meyer said.  "Dancing with them?"

"I'm only telling you what I heard."

"Let me hear the rest of the timetable," Byrnes said.  "Okay.  Saturday
night, a quarter to twelve, we get a DOA at 1217 Lincoln Street, old
lady named Svetlana Helder, turns out to be Svetlana Dyalovich, the
famous concert pianist."

"I never heard of her," Parker said.  "Two to the heart," Hawes said. 
"I saw that picture," Kling said.  "Was that the name?"  "I'm pretty
sure."

"Next morning, around seven, we get a dead hooker in an alley on St.
Sab's."  "Any connection?"  "None."

"Then why bring her up?"

"A policeman,s lot," Carella said, and shrugged.

"He also called them the blond guy's fish," said.

"I'm lost," Parker said.

"So am I," Byrnes said.

"Himmel.  The bookie.  Bernie the Banker.  He then didn't have much to
talk about after he mentioned

Schiavinato swimming with his little fishies."

"I'm still lost," Parker said.

"Yes, can you please tell us what the hell you are driving at?"  Byrnes
asked.

"His little fishies.  Not the little fishies, but his fishies.
Schiavinato's little fishies."

Everybody was looking at him.

Only Carella knew what he was saying.

"The cat," Carella said.

"Not the goddamn cat again," Byrnes said.

"She went out every morning to buy fresh fish for the cat."

"Where'd you say her apartment was?"

asked, suddenly catching on.

"1217 Lincoln."

"Simple," Parker said.  "The Lincoln Street Market."

"Selling fish," Meyer said, nodding.  "As opl swimming with them."

 At eight-fifteen that morning, the Lincoln Street Fish Market was not
quite as bustling as it had been between four and six A.M. when fish
retailers from all over the city arrived in droves.  As Priscilla and
the boys pulled up in a taxi, only housewives and restaurant owners
were examining the various catches of the day, all displayed enticingly
on ice well, enticingly if you liked fish.

The market was a sprawling complex of indoor and outdoor stalls.  On
the sidewalk outside the high-windowed arching edifice fishmongers,
wearing woolen gloves with the fingers cut off, woolen caps pulled down
over their ears, and bloodstained white smocks over layers of sweaters,
stood hawking their merchandise while potential customers picked over
the fish as if they were inspecting diamonds for flaws.

It was a clear, cold, windy, sunny Monday morning.  "Where do we
start?" Georgie asked.

He was hoping to discourage her.  He did not want her to meet the man
who'd dropped off' that key to the bus terminal locker.  He did not
want her to learn that nobody had been in that locker except him and
Tony here, who was backing away from the fish stalls as if his
grandmother had cooked fish for him whenever he visited her on a
Friday, which she had, and which he'd hated.  He learned after her
death that she'd hated fish, too.  His mother, on the other hand,
never had to cook

fish in her entire lifetime because the church changed  its rules.  His
mother was a staunch Catholic practiced birth control and didn't
believe in confession.  Priscilla looked bewildered.

She had never been to this part of the city certainly never to a fish
market here, had never seen much damn fish  ever and could not imagine
how could even hope to find a tall blond man among these men wearing
hats and smocks and gloves.  The bitter cold did not help.

Priscilla was wearing a mink, dark and soft supple in contrast to the
ratty orange-brown coat her grandmother had been wearing when someone shot
her. The fur afforded scant protection against the harsh wind blowing in over the
river.  Georgie and Tony wearing belted cloth coats and woolen
mufflers, fedoras pulled down low on their foreheads, in their pockets,
just like movie gangsters.  wailing around them, the three walked the
dockside blocks, studying the men behind each outdoor stalls and ice
bins, searching for telltale sideburns at the rolled edges of
ubiquitous woolen

At the end of twenty minutes of close scrutiny, were happy to be
entering the long enclosed After the howling wind outside, even the
indoor seemed welcoming, fishmongers touting and squid, sea bass and
flounder, mackerel shrimp, sole and snapper.  They were coming down
center aisle, tall windows streaming wintry sunlight  stalls of iced fish
on either side of them, Georgie blowing on  his hands, Tony wearing a
pained look in memory of his grandmother, Priscilla holding

the collar of the mink closed with one hand because to tell the truth it
was almost as cold inside here as it was outside, when all at once...
Behind the stall on the right... Just ahead... They saw a hatless man
with muddy blond hair... Standing some six feet two inches tall...
Wearing a white smock over a blue coat and a red muffler... Bearing a
marked resemblance to Robert Redford, and lifting a nice fat halibut
off the ice to show to a female customer.

Hawes and Carella were just pulling up outside.

"Blond hair and blue eyes," Hawes said.  "Must be from Milan," Carella
said.  "Or Rome.  Rome has blonds, too."  Redheads," Carella said.

A gust of wind almost knocked Hawes off his feet.

"Which first?"  Carella asked.  "Inside or out?"  Ask astupid
question.

Hawes reached for the doorknob.

At the downtown end of the enclosed market, four city blocks from where
the detectives went in, Priscilla was just asking Lorenzo Schiavinato
if he knew her grandmother Svetlana.

"Non par lo ingle se Lorenzo said.

Thank God, Georgie thought.

"He doesn't speak English," he translated for Priscilla.

"Ask him if he knew my grandmother."

"I don't speak Italian," Georgie said.

"I do," Tony said, and Georgie wanted to kill him Ask him if he knew my
grandmother."  Tony's grandmother was from Siciliy, where you did not
exactly speak Dante's Italian.  The dialect  now used was the one he'd
heard at Filomena's while she was cooking her abominable fish.  First
asked Lorenzo his name.

"Mi chiamo Lorenzo Schiavinato," Lorenzo said.

"His name's Lorenzo," Tony translated.  "I could make out the last
name."

Small wonder, Georgie thought.

"Ask him if he knew my grandmother."  "Where are you from?"  Tony
asked. "Milano," Lorenzo said.

Where they spoke Florentine Italian, and where Sicilian dialect was
scarcely understood.  Lorenzo in fact, squinting his very blue eyes in
an effort to understand Tony's Italian, which itself was bastardization of
the dialect his sainted grandmother had spoken.

It occurred to Georgie that the so-called conversation between them was
taking place in a market reputedly run by the mob, whose Italian
limited to a few basic words like "Boffon gool," itself was a
bastardization of the time-honored "Va in culo," better left
uninterpreted in the presence of  a fine lady like Priscilla Stetson.

Who now said, rather impatiently this time, ask him if he knew my goddamn
grandmother."

In Sicilian Italian, Tony asked if Lorenzo  had known Priscilla's
grandmother.

In Florentine Italian, Lorenzo asked who perchance her grandmother
might have been.

"Svetlana Dyalovich," Tony said.

And Lorenzo began running.

From where the detectives were coming down the center aisle of the
indoor market, checking out the men selling fish from stalls and
barrels and bins and ice chests on either side of them, they saw a tall
blond man running toward them, chased by Svetlana's grand daughter and
the two goons who'd braced them at the club on Saturday night.

If the tall runner was, in fact, Lorenzo Schiavinato, then he was the
one who'd bought the gun that killed Priscilla's grandmother.  Despite
what was known in the trade as "background" the number of innocent
bystanders at any given scene the fact that Lorenzo had purchased the
murder weapon was justification within the guidelines for Carella and
Hawes to draw their own guns.  Besides, the man was running.  In this
city, unless you were running to catch a bus, the very act was
suspicious.

The guns came out.

"Stop!"  Hawes shouted.  "Police!"  "Police!"  Carella shouted.  "Stop!"
Lorenzo wasn't stopping.

A hundred and eighty pounds of muscle and bone plowed right through
them, knocking Hawes off his feet, tossing Carella back onto a stall of
very nice iced salmon, and causing a mustached man in a brown derby to
throw his hands over his head in fright.  Both

detectives recovered at once, Carella first, Hawes an  instant later.

"Stop!"  they shouted simultaneously.

Hawes was in a crouch, pistol levered, holding gun steady in both
hands.

Carella was standing beside him, gun extended both hands, ready to fire.
 "Stop!"  he shouted.  Lorenzo kept running.

Hawes fired first.  Carella fired an instant later Carella missed.  Hawes did,
too.  He fired again. This  time, his shot took Lorenzo in the left leg,
sending him tumbling.  Everywhere around them, the back was screaming.  The
mustached man in the derby was running in the opposite direction, from
the shooting, waving his hands hysterically in the air.  He tripped over
Georgie, who had thrown himself flat on the floor the moment he'd heard shots,
the way  his uncle Dominick had taught him to do.  Lorenzo trying to crawl
away, dragging his wounded leg  behind him.  Hawes kicked him and then
stepped on his back, holding him down while Carella cuffed
him.

"Ask him if he knew my grandmother," Priscilla said.   "Few things we'd like to
ask you, too," Carella said.  Everyone was breathing very hard.

Fat Ollie Weeks was asking the computer for tri-state area high school,
prep school, parochial: school, Christian academy or so-called
alternative school whose name began with the letter P. There were
fifteen such private schools in the metropolitan area alone.

Thirty-eight in the entire state.

Of the public schools, there were a hundred and forty-six, thirty of
them beginning with the word "Port."  Port This, Port That, more damn
coastal towns than Ollie knew existed.

In the two neighboring states combined, there were thirty-nine private
schools and a hundred and ninety eight public schools that began with
the letter P. All of the public schools in this city were designated
with the letters P.S. before the name, and so the computer belched out
what looked to Ollie like more high schools than he could possibly
cover in ten years of investigation.  He limited the search to proper
names alone and came up with sixty-three schools that had the letter P
in their names.

Some of these schools were named for areas of the city, like Parkhurst
or Pineview or Paley Hills.  Others had been named after people.  The
computer did not differentiate between given names and surnames.  The
letter P appeared in Peter Lowell High, but it also appeared in Luis
Perez High.  But Ollie had been born and raised in this fair city, and
he knew that kids never said they went to Harry High or Abraham High,
but instead said they went to Truman High or Lincoln High.  So he
figured if the letter on those parkas stood for a person after whom a
school had been named, then it sure as hell was the surname.  Running
down the printed list by hand, he limited the city's sixty-three public
schools to a mere seventeen.  He was making progress.

By the time he was ready to begin making his calls, his trimmed-down
list seemed like a one... Sort of.

The way the joke goes, a woman is telling a woman about her son in
medical school, and she's referring to him as a doctor.  The other woman
says 
"By you, your son is a doctor.  And by your son, son is a doctor.  But
by a doctor, is your son a

By Byrnes, Carella was Italian.  And by Carella was Italian.  But by an
Italian, was Italian?

Lorenzo Schiavinato asked for an interpreter.  The interpreter's name
was John McNalley.

He had studied Italian in high school  one because he'd wanted to
become an opera singer.  never did get to sing at La Scala or the Met
because he had a lousy voice, but he did have a certain with language, and
so in addition to interpreting for the police and the courts, he also
worked for publishers, translating for worthy books from the Italian and
Spanish.

He still wanted to sing opera.

McNalley informed Lorenzo that he was charged with murder in the second
degree.  In this state, you could be charged with Murder One only you killed
someone during the commission of felony, or if you'd been earlier
convicted of murder, if the currently charged murder was particularly
 wanton, or if it was a contract killing, or if the victim was a police
officer, or a prison guard, or

prisoner in a state pen, or a witness to a prior crime, or a judge all
of whom, according to one's personal opinion, might deserve killing.

Murder Two was killing almost anybody else.

Like murder in the first, murder in the second was also an A-1 felony.
In accordance with the new law, Lorenzo was looking at the death
penalty at worst, or fifteen to life at best, none of which added up to
a tea party on the lawn.

Naturally, he asked for a lawyer.

He was an illegal alien in the United States of America, but, hey, he
knew his rights.

Lorenzo's lawyer was a man named Alan Moscowitz.  He was a tall angular
man wearing a brown suit and Vest, looking very lawyerly in gold-rimmed
spectacles and shiny brown shoes.  Carella disliked most defense
attorneys, but hope springs eternal so maybe one day he'd meet one who
wouldn't rub him up the wrong way.  Moscowitz didn't understand Italian at
all.  The melting pot realized.

They read Lorenzo his rights in Italian, and he said he understood
them, and Moscowitz ascertained, through back-and-forth interpretation,
that his client understood Miranda and was willing to answer whatever
questions the detectives posed.  The questions they posed had to do
with shooting an eighty-three-year-old woman at close range in cold
blood.  Lorenzo didn't much look like a man who'd committed murder, but
then again not many murderers did.  What he looked like was a slightly
bewildered Robert Redford who spoke only basic English like Me Tarzan,
You Jane.

The back-and-forth, in English and Italian and

English again, went this way.

"Mr.  Schiavinato..."

Very difficult name to pronounce.  Skeeahve nah-toe..

"Mr.  Schiavinato, do you know, or did you know, a woman named Svetlana
Dyalovich?"

"No."

"How about Svetlana Helder?"

"Her granddaughter told us... did you know she had a granddaughter?"

"We've been talking to her.  She told us things we'd like to ask you
about."

"Umo"

"Mr.  Schiavinato, did you deliver to Miss Stetson at the Hotel Powell
the key to a pay locker at the Rendell Road Bus Terminal?"

"No."

"Delivered it on the morning of January

twenty-first, didn't you?"

"No."

"Miss Stetson says you did."

"I don't know who Miss Stetson is."

"She's Svetlana Dyalovich's granddaughter."

"I don't know either of them."

"Locker number one thirty-six.  Do you remember that?"

"No, I don't."

"Where'd you get that key?"

"I don't know what key you're talking about."

"Did Svetlana Dyalovich give you that key?"  "Nobody gave me a key."

"Did Svedana Dyalovich ever come to your stall at the Lincoln Street
Fish Market to purchase fish for her cat?"

"No."

"Early in the morning, this would have  been."

"No."

"Every morning."

"No.  I don't know this woman."

"Ever go to her apartment?"

"How would I?  I don't know her.  I don't know where she lives."

"Her neighbor down the hall told the granddaughter you went there to
deliver fish one morning."

"I don't know her or her neighbor.  Or the granddaughter, either."

"Then you never went to 1217 Lincoln Street,

apartment 3A, is that right?"

"Never."

"Mr.  Schiavinato, I show you this weapon tagged as evidence and ask if
you've ever seen it before."  "Never."

"Didn't you buy this pistol from a man named Jose Santiago..."

"No."

"On the night before..."

"No."

"... Svetlana Dyalovich was murdered?"  "No."

"Didn't you telephone her a few minutes before you bought the gun?"

"Mr.  Schiavinato, we have here a tele company record showing that a
call was made from a wall phone at a club called The Juice Bar at one- 
A.M. this past Friday night to a telephone listed
to 
Svetlana Helder at 1217 Lincoln Street..."  "Cosa?"

The precinct's civilian stenographer read back the question.  McNalley the
interpreter translated it Lorenzo and his lawyer.  Moscowitz nodded
that it was okay to answer it.

"I don't know who called this woman,"

he said, "but it wasn't me."

"Weren't you in The Juice Bar that night at

A.M.?"

"No.  I don't know this place."

"Uptown in Riverhead?"

"No."

"Harris Avenue?  Uptown?"

"No."

"Mr.  Schiavinato..."

Such a damn difficult name to pronounce.

"Mr.  Schiavinato, do you know a man named Bernard Himmel?"

"No."

"Bernie Himmel?"

"No."

"Benny Himmel?"

"No."

'Bernie the Banker Himmel?"

"I don't know any of these people."

"Never placed a bet with him, huh?"

"Never.  Any of them."

A good imitation of a Robert Redford smile.  Hawes wanted to smack
him.

"Ever place a bet with him on the Super Bowl?"  "What is this Super
Bowl?"

Smack the fucking smile off his face.

"Steelers against the Cowboys?"

"I don't know what any of this means."  "Twenty grand on the Steelers?"
"What is twenty grand?"

"You lost the bet.  Because of the point spread."  "What is a point
spread?"  "Twenty grand gone in a wink."  "What is a wink?"

"He sounds like Jeopardy t. ," Carella said.

"Please, Detective," Moscowitz warned, raising an eyebrow.

"Sorry, Counselor," Carella said, and raised his own eyebrow.  "Mr.
Schiavinato, didn't you lose twenty thousand dollars on the
Steelers-Cowboys game?"

"I never had twenty thousand dollars in my entire life."

"You had it when you paid your marker, didn't you?"

"I don't know what a marker is."

"A promise to pay money you owed."

"I don't owe anybody money.  I have an honest job.  I do honest
work."

"You owed Bernie Himmel the twenty thousand dollars you lost on the
Super Bowl, didn't you?"

"No."

"You went to see him on Friday night..."

"... and he told you he'd kill you if you didn't the money by Sunday
morning."

"I don't know who you're talking about."

"Bernie Himmel.  Your bookie.  Bernie the B You're a gambler, aren't
you, Lorenzo?"

"Sometimes I bet on horse races.  At the OTB.  B don't know this man
you're talking about."

"Then you don't remember him telling you to get money or you'd be
swimming with your little fishie

"I don't know him.  How could he tell me this?"

"After which you went directly to the wall

telephone..."

"No."

"... and called Svetlana Dyalovich.  Why,

Did you want to make sure she'd be out of her  apartment when you went there
to burglarize it?"  "Cosa?"  he said again.

The stenographer repeated the question.  M translated it.  Moscowitz
cleared his throat.

"Detective," he said, "my client has told you  repeatedly that he did not
know Svetlana D) did not know her granddaughter, and never went to
her apartment on Lincoln Street.  Nor does he know a bookmaker named Bernie
Himmel or a guy named Jose Santiago.  Now, if..."

"He's not a gun dealer."

"Excuse me, I thought he's supposed to have my client a gun."

"He did sell him a gun.  But he's not a dealer.  He pumps gas at a Texaco
station."

"Whatever he does, my client doesn't know him."

Carella figured he kept calling him "my client" only because he
couldn't pronounce his last name.

"So unless you have something new to..."  "How about a clear chain on
the gun, Counselor?"  "You!"  Moscowitz shouted, and pointed his finger
at the stenographer.  "Hold it right there."  He turned to

Carella.  "Is this off the record?"  he asked.

"Sure."

The stenographer waited.  Carella nodded.

"Then let me hear it," Moscowitz said.

"We've traced the gun from its registered owner..."  "Named" "Rodney
Pratt."

"TOT"

"Jose Santiago, who stole it from the glove compartment of Pratt's
car..."  "He's admitted this" "He has."

"And from there... ?"

"To Mr.  Schiavinato here, who bought it from him for two hundred and
fifty dollars."

"Well, this is where it begins to get speculative, Detective.  But
let's assume for the moment, arguendo, that my client did buy a gun
from this man.  How does that make it the murder weaponT"

"The bullets that killed Mrs.  Helder and her cat were fired from it.
We found them embedded in the door behind her body and the baseboard
behind the cat.  We recovered the gun itself in a sewer outside her
building.  The only thing we don't have is Mr.  Schiavinato's
fingerprints on the gun, and frankly..."

"Well, that's a very big negative, Detective.

could have fired the gun."

"Perhaps your client..."  Byrnes said.

He couldn't pronounce the name, either.

"can explain why he telephoned the minutes before he bought the gun
that killed her."  "Why exactly did he call her, Lieutenant?"  The weak
spot.

Byrnes knew it, Carella knew it, Hawes knew it now Moscowitz had zeroed
in on it: Why had he  called Svetlana before buying the gun he later used 
to kill her?

"We think he was planning to burglarize her apartment," Carella said. "He
called to find out would she be safe.  When she'd be home."

It still sounded weak.

"Are you saying he called to ask her when she'd be home?  So he could run
right over to burglarize..."  "Well, no, he didn't ask her flat out."
"Then how did he ask her?"

"I don't know the actual conversation that took

"But you think he was trying to determine she'd be out of the
apartment..."

"Yes."

"So he'd know when it would be safe to go into  burglarize it." 
"Exactly." "In Italian" "What"

"This conversation.  Was it in Italian" "Yes, it was.  According to a
witness."  "Because he doesn't speak English, you see."

"I suspect he speaks some English."

"Oh.  And why is that?"

"He sells fish to English-speaking people, I'm sure he must speak at
least a little English."

"We'll have to ask him, won't we?"  Moscowitz said, and smiled sweetly.
"In Italian."

Hawes wanted to smack him, too.

"How long was this phone conversation, do you know?"

"No, I don't."

"The phone company would know, I suppose."  "Yes, but..."

"Should we contact them?"

"Why?"

"Find out how long it took my Italian-speaking client to learn when his
prospective victim would be out of the apartment so he could burglarize
it."

He's trying his case right here in the interrogation room, Carella
thought.  And winning it.

"By the way, were there any signs of burglary at the scene?"  Moscowitz
asked.

"The window was open."

"Oh?  This means a burglary was committed?"

"No, but Mr.  Schievinato must have know there was money in the
apartment..."

"Oh?  How would he have known that?"

"He knew the woman.  Talked to her every morning at the market.  Even
made a delivery to the apartment when she was sick one morning.  She
was a lonely old lady.  She confided in him.  And he took advantage of
her trust."

"I see.  By shooting her and killing her, is that it?"

"Yes"

"He was surprised during the commission of..."

"But I thought he called her to find out when she'd be out."

"Yes, but..."

"If he knew when she'd be out, how come he was surprised?"

"People come home unexpectedly all the time."  "So he shot her.  Was
that after he found out that he supposedly knew that she was in the apartment?"

"It had to've been.  He paid off his bookie the next day."

"Gave him twenty thousand dollars the next day that right?"

"Yes.  Himmel told us..."

"A bookie," Moscowitz said, dismissing him with an airy wave of his hand.

"He had no reason to lie."

"Oh?  When did bookmaking become legal?"  "We offered no deals."

"How about offering me one?"

"Like what?"

"We all go home.  My client included."

"Your client is a murderer."

"Who stole twenty thousand dollars from an old lady, right?"

"Maybe more."

"Oh?  How much more?"

"She withdrew a hundred and twenty-five from her bank the morning before
she was killed."

Moscowitz looked at him.

"Let me get this straight," he said.  "Are you now saying he stole a
hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars from her?"

"I'm saying the money is gone.  I'm saying twenty thousand of it was
turned over to a bookie the following morning.  I'm saying it's highly
likely, yes."  "Stole all that money and then shot her, is that it?"
"Yes, that's it.  That's what it looks like to us."  "Detective, I'll
tell you what.  This is so preposterous that I'm going to ask that you
stop the questioning of my client right this..."

"It's Schiavinato," Carella said.  "Skeeah.veenah-toe."  "Thank you. All
we're doing here is going over the same tired ground over and over
again.  You're wasting everyone's time here, and I think you know a
grand jury will kick this right out the window in ten seconds flat."

"I think not."

"We think not," Byrnes amended.

"Either way, let's quit.  Right now."

"Sure," Carella said.  "In fact, I have a suggestion."  "And what's
that, Detective?"  "Let's hold a little lineup."  Moscowitz looked at
him.

"Let's drag Himmel and Santiago out of bed, and let's go wake up the
man who saw your client kneeling over the sewer where we recovered the
gun."

Moscowitz was silent for what seemed a very long time.  Then he said,
"What man?  You don't have such a witness."

"Wanna bet, Counselor?"

"What I don't understand," Priscilla said, "is what happened to the other
hundred and twenty."

"Me, too," Georgie said.

They were sitting in Lieutenant Byrnes's office Priscilla in the
comfortable black leather winged  chair behind the lieutenant's desk, the
men in straight-backed wooden chairs across the room, near the bookcases.
Outside the lieutenant's office was the squad room proper.  They could  hear
a telephone ringing out there.  Outside the grilled corner window" there
was the steady sound of traffic on Grover  Avenue and the intersecting
side street.  Beyond slatted wooden railing that divided the square
from the corridor outside, in a little room with words INTERROGATION
lettered on its frosted glass upper panel, Lorenzo Schiavinato was
still being questioned.  The little digital clock on the lieutenant's
desk, alongside a picture of a woman Pr presumed to be his wife, read
10:32 A.M. The day beginning to cloud over.  It looked as if it might
snow again.

"He said she'd withdrawn a hundred and five from the bank, didn't
he?"

"The cop, yeah," Tony said

"Told us a hundred and twenty-five, didn't he?"  "Carella, yeah."

"So how come there was only five in the envelope Priscilla asked.

'"Which isn't exactly horseradish," Georgie  reminded her yet another
time.

He desperately wanted her to believe that th was what the old lady had
in mind when she said her

granddaughter would be taken care of.  He wanted her to get off that
missing hundred and twenty.  He knew where ninety-five of that was.  It
was in an envelope inside a shoebox on the top shelf of his bedroom
closet, tucked into one of a pair of black patent-leather slippers he
wore with his tuxedo on special occasions like New Year's Eve.

"What happened to the other hundred and twenty?"  Priscilla asked
again.

Georgie was still doing arithmetic.

Old lady took a hundred and twenty-five from the bank.  But there was
only a hundred in the locker.  So where'd the other twenty-five go?

Lorenzo was weeping into his hands.

This was because he was Italian.  It was also because his lawyer had
advised him to tell him everything he knew about this old lady's death
before the cops called in a lot of people who'd begin pointing fingers
at him.  Moscowitz listened without benefit of an interpreter as

Lorenzo broke his tale in broken English.

It was a sad story.

After he heard it, Moscowitz told the detectives he had no doubt the
crime had been committed, but there were unique and sympathetic
circumstances surrounding it.  In view of these unusual conditions, he
had advised his client to tell his story in the presence of a district
attorney, and was therefore requesting one now.

Which meant he was ready to cop a plea.

It was snowing outside by the time Assistant District Attorney Nellie
Brand got to the Eighty-sevel Precinct: She felt cold and bedraggled
even though she looked toasty warm and well-tailored in   brown
leather boots, a beige blouse, and a headband that complemented, and
complimented, blue eyes and sand-colored hair.

She'd had an argument with her husband leaving for work this morning,
and her manner  with detectives she knew as well as those from
Eight-Seven was unusually brusque.  She knew  Moscowitz, too, had in fact
lost a court case to him six months ago.  Altogether, her mood did not
go well for Lorenzo Schiavinato, who looked handsome by half and who
had, by his own  admission to his attorney, pumped two slugs into a
little old lady.  Nellie had already been briefed.  And  in translating, she
began the Q and A with the name/address/occupation bullshit, and then
eased into a routine she'd followed a hundred times before.  Thousand
times.  It was exactly 11:04 A.M.

Q:

So tell me, sir, how long did you know the murdered woman?

Carella noticed that Nellie, too, had avoided using Schiavinato's name.
He figured if the man ever got out of jail, he should change it to
Skeever or something.  But it also occurred to him that Nellie had
called Svetlana Dyalovich "the murdered woman," and wondered if she was
having difficulty pronouncing her name, too.  Maybe everyone in the
world should change his name, he thought, and missed part of Lorenzo's
reply.

A:... at the fish market.

Q: Would this be the Lincoln Street Fish Market?  A: Yes.  Where I
work.

Q: And that's where you first met her?

A: Yes.

Q: When was this?

A: The middle of September.  Q: This past September.  A: Yes.

Q:

So you've know her approximately four months.  A bit more than four
months.

A:

Yes.

Q:

Were you ever in her apartment on Lincoln Street?

A:

Yes.

Q:

1217 Lincoln Street?

A: Yes.

Q: Apartment 3A?

A: Yes.

Q: When were you there?  A: Twice.  Q: When?

A: The first time to deliver fish for her cat.  Svetlana was sick, she
called the market... Q: You called her Svetlana, did you?

A: Yes.  That was her name.

Q: And that's what you called her.

A: We were friends.

Q:

Did you visit your friend in her apartment on the night of January 20,
two days ago?

A:

I did.

Q:

To deliver fish again?

A: No.

Q: Why were you there, sir?

A: To kill her.

Q: Did you, in fact, kill her?  A: Yes.  Q: Why?

A: To save her.

The way Lorenzo tells it, Svetlana is a nice old lady who comes to the
market every morning to buy fish for her cat, telling him every day in
almost  perfect Italian... Mica, lei par la Italiano bene.  Solo un
pocotino.  No, no, molto bene.

Congratulating her on the way she speaks his tongue, she shyly denying
her facility with language, telling him she needs... Mi bisogna un po
di pesce fresco per il mio gatto .. . fresh fish for her cat every day,
two fish a day, in the morning, one at night.  She feeds him only a
day, but the fish must be absolutely fresh my Irina is very fussy," she
says in Italian, with girlish wink that tells him she must once have
been very beautiful woman.  Even at her age, there is still something
elegant about the way she walks, a long graceful stride, as if she is
crossing a stage; he wonders, sometimes if perhaps she was once an
actress.

He first realizes she is in constant pain when, one early morning at
the fish market, she can scarcely hold her handbag to pay for her purchase.
This is September, and the weather is mild and sunny, but she is
struggling nonetheless with the catch on the bag,

and he notices for the first time the gnarled hands and twisted
fingers.

She is having such difficulty with the catch on her bag that the pain
contorts her face and she turns away from him in embarrassment,
continuing her struggle in silence, her back turned to him.  When at
last she frees the stubborn interlocking metal pieces, she turns to him
and he sees that tears are running down her face as she hands him the
several dollars for the two fish.  "Are you all right?"  he asks.

"Puoi alzare la voce?"  she asks.  "Sono unpo sordo."

Asking him to speak a little louder as she is a little deaf.  :

He repeats the question, and she answers, in Italian, "Yes, fine, I'm
fine."

He learns one day, early in October, that she is originally from Russia
and at once a stronger bond is forged, these two immigrants in a city
of immigrants, he an Italian seller of fish, thirty-four years old and
adrift in a foreign land, she a Russian expatriate in her eighties, a
former actress, perhaps, or dancer perhaps, or perhaps even a princess,
who knows, seeking fresh seafood for "mio piccolo tesoro Irina."

My little treasure Irina.

She.  reminds him somehow of his gentle and cultivated Aunt Lucia who
married a greengrocer from Napoli when Lorenzo was only twelve,
breaking his heart when she moved to that beautiful but barbaric city
so very far to the south.

Their daily exchanges are no longer than ten or fifteen minutes, each,
but during this time they each learn much about the other, and he finds
that he looks

forward to her early morning visits to the market, pretty silk scarf
on her head now that winter is" approaching, woolen gloves on her
twisted hands; a worn blue woolen coat, he senses she was once a woman
of elegance and taste who has now fallen on hard times here in this harsh
city.

One day he tells her why he left Milano.

"I am a gambler," he says.  "I owed money."

"Ah," she says, and nods wisely.

"A lot of money.  They threatened to kill me.  In Italy, this is not an
idle threat.  I left."

"Do you still gamble?"  she asks.

"Ehh," he says, and shrugs, and smiles saying with the slight lifting
of his shoulders and faint grin, Yes, signora, every now and then, che
fare?  "And you?"  he asks.  "Do you have any habits?"

"I listen to old records," she says.

A week or so later, he learns that she once played piano on the concert stage,
often performing at

La Scala in Milan, which is where she learned Italian... "But no!  La
Scala?  Veramente?"  "Yes, yes!"  Excitedly.

"Not only in Milan," she says, "but also in New

York and London and Paris..."

"Brava," he says.

" Budapest' Vienna Anvers, Prague, Liege,

Brussels, everywhere.  Everywhere."  Her voice falling.  "Bravissima,"
he says.  "Yes," she says softly.

They are silent for a moment.  He is wrapping the fish he recommended
to her.  "And now?"  he says.  "Do you still play?"

"Now," she says, "I listen to the past."

Just before Thanksgiving, she comes to the market one morning and tells
Lorenzo she had been to see her ear doctor yesterday and he made some
tests... "Audiometric tests," she says.  "Non so il parole Italiano ..
." she doesn't know the Italian word for the tests, they reproduce
various sounds in each ear.  The results weren't good, she tells him,
and now she is fearful there may be something else wrong.  She has
lately begun to hear ringing in her ears, she is afraid... Lorenzo
tells her that tests aren't always accurate, and doctors often make
mistakes, they think they're God, they think they can play with a
person's emotions, but she keeps shaking her head and saying she knows
the tests were correct, her hearing is getting worse and worse every
day of the week.  What if there comes a time when she can no longer
listen to her own recordings?  Then even the past will be gone.  And
then she might just as well be dead.

It is not until he delivers the fish to her, on the morning she got
sick..,

Q: What do you mean, sick?

A: Nothing serious.  A cold.  Although, for an old woman... Q: When was
this?

A: The beginning of the month.  Q: This month?  January?  A: Yes... Q:
How'd you know she was sick?

A: She telephoned me.

Lorenzo, non mi sen to tanto bene oggi.  Me lo puoi port are i pesci?

Q: Phoned you at the market?

A: Yes.  And asked me if I could please pick out two nice fresh fish
for Irina, same as always, and deliver them to the apartment.  I told
her I would.  She was a friend.  I got there... At eight-thirty that
January morning, there is no one in the hallway when Lorenzo knocks on
the door to apartment 3A.  But just as Svetlana calls, "Yes, who is
it?"  the door to apartment 3C opens, and an' exotic-looking woman with
long black hair and brown eyes, and a mouth like Sophia Loren's,

high cheekbones and wonderful... Q: What about her?

A: She was coming out of the apartment.  Q: 3C, did you say?  A: Down
the hall.

Q: So what about her?

A: Nothing.  I'm giving you all the details.

He tells Svetlana through the closed door that it's him, Lorenzo, and
he's here with the fish for Irina.  She calls to him to come in, the
door is open.  The girl from 3C has already gone down the stairs.
Lorenzo goes into the apartment.  It is a small apartment and
frightfully cold on this day when winter has  scarcely begun in
earnest. Svetlana is sitting up in a double bed in the tiny bedroom,
wearing a faded pink silk robe, covered with a blanket and a quilt that
looks almost Italian.  There is a dresser that is almost certainly

Italian, or so he believes, like one you might find on Sicilia or
Sardegna, with ornate drawer pulls and paintings on the sides and
top.

"C'ho un mal raffredore," she says, telling him she has a bad cold, and
then gently warning him not to come near her, "Non ti avvicinare."

Irina the cat is lying at the foot of the bed.  She is a fat grey and
black and white animal.  She blinks up at Lorenzo as he comes into the
room, and then catches the scent of the fresh fish wrapped in white
paper, and is suddenly all uptight ears and flashing green eyes and
twitching nose.  Like a jungle beast, Lorenzo thinks.

Svetlana asks if he would mind feeding Irina one of the fish.  He
needn't do anything but put it in Irina's bowl under the sink; Irina
eats everything but the spine and the hard part of the jaw.  Lorenzo
goes out to the kitchen, unwraps the fish while the cat rubs against
his leg.  There is something about cats that makes him enormously
uncomfortable.  He never knows what a cat is thinking.  He never knows
whether a cat is going to lick his hand or spring for his throat.  He
puts the raw fish in the cat's bowl and backs away at once.

When he comes back into the bedroom, Svetlana asks him to sit for a
moment, please, there is something she would like to discuss with him.
He takes a chair near the dresser.  Across the room, he can see into an
open closet where old but stylish clothes, tattered and frayed, are
hanging on silk-covered hangers the color of Svetlana's robe.  She
coughs, takes a Kleenex from a box beside the bed, blows her nose, and
then says, "Lorenzo, voglio che to mi ammazi."

"Lorenzo, I want you to kill me."

 He does not at first know how to react to this.  Is this some sort of
Russian joke?  If so, Slavs have a very peculiar sense of humor.  But
is he supposed to laugh?  No, she seems quite serious.  She wants him
to kill her She would do it herself, she says, but she doesn't have the
nerve.  Besides, how does a person kill herself if she doesn't own a
gun?  Does she jump off the roof?.  Or turn on the gas?  Or slit her
wrists with `:-3,' a razor or a knife?  Or hang herself from the closet pole?
No, all these seem too horrible even to contemplate.  A gun swift and
sure, but where would she get a gun?   Does Lorenzo know where to get a
gun?  And if he can get one, would he be so kind as to shoot her?  She is
not smiling.  This is no joke.

In the kitchen, he can hear the cat demolishing fish Lorenzo put in her
bowl.  The sounds are obscene.  Cats are too much like wild animals.
One step backward and they would be in the jungle again, hunting.

Svetlana goes on to explain that she has been to see a neurologist who
diagnosed a benign tumor on the nerve in her left auditory canal.
Unless this is removed surgically, she will go completely deaf in that
ear.  But the chances of... "Well, then of course you must..."

"No," she says, "you don't understand.  Even if I elect surgery.."
this is what they say, Lorenzo, as if I would be electing a president,
elect surgery, can you imagine?  Even if I were to choose surgery,
agree to surgery, even then..."

She shakes her head.

"I've waited too long, Lorenzo.  The tumor is very large, they may not
be able to save my hearing.  The larger the tumor, the smaller the
chance, is what he told me.  The doctor.  And with . ."  with anything
larger than three centimeters in diameter . ."  with any tumor larger
than that..."

And here she begins weeping.

"They might not.."  be... be able to save my facial nerves, either.  Is
what he told me.  The doctor."  Lorenzo stands helplessly beside the
bed.

"So what's the use?  My hands are already dead, I can't play anymore.
Should I now choose to live without being able to hear?  Without being
able to express feeling on my face?  Whenever I played, my hands and my
face said all there was to say.  Do you know what they called me?  A
tornado.  A tornado from the Steppes.  A wild tornado.  My face and my
hands.  A tornado."

Sobbing bitterly, the words coming out brokenly... "What's left for me,
Lorenzo?  What?  Why should I choose to live?  Please help me."

Her hands covering her face, crying into them.  "Please," she begs.
"Kill me.  Please."  He tells her this is absurd.

He tells her that in' any case, however slender the chances of success,
she must undertake surgery, of course she must.  Besides, a person
shouldn't make

decisions when she isn't feeling right, she's sick just now .. .

"See how pale you look!"  she'll feel different about all this when her
cold is gone.  But she keeps shaking her head as he talks, no, no, no,
insisting that she's given this a great deal of thought, truly, and he
would really be doing her an enormous service if he would only get a
gun and kill her.  "You're serious," he says.  "I'm serious." 
"Svetlana," he says, "no."  "Why not?"

"Because we're friends.  You're my friend, Svetlana."

"Then kill me," she says.

"No."

"Please, Lorenzo.  Kill me.  Take me out of my misery.  Help me.
Please!"

"NO"

"Please."

"NO"

I'll pay you."

"No."

"I'll pay you ten thousand dollars."

"NO."

"Twenty thousand."

"No."

"Lorenzo, please.  Please."

"No Svetlana.  I'm sorry no."

"Twenty-five.  To kill me and to take care of Irina afterward.  Take
her home with you, feed her, care for her."

"I can't.  I won't."

"I would pay you more, but..."

"No, Svetlana.  Please.  Never.  Not even for a million.  Never.
Please."

But that is before he loses the money to Bernie the Banker.

What Bernie is telling him, if he correctly under stands his very rapid
English, is that he is going to kill Lorenzo unless he comes up with
the money he owes by Sunday morning.  Bernie is a Jew, he supposes, but
he is beginning to sound very Italian with all this talk about swimming
with the little fishes, very Italian indeed.  Lorenzo has dealt with
enough bookmakers, both Italian and American, to know that very often
they won't necessarily kill you because then they will never get the
money you owe them.  On the other hand, having your legs broken or an
eye put out is not a very cheerful prospect, either.  He listens quite
solemnly to what the little bookie is telling him, never doubting for a
moment that Bernie himself or someone Bernie knows will hurt him very
badly if he doesn't come up with the twenty thousand dollars he bet on
those fucking Steelers, what are Steelers anyway, people who steal? The
English language is sometimes mystifying to him, but he sure as hell
understands what Bernie is telling him now.  Bernie is saying "Pay me
by Sunday morning, my friend, or you may have cause to be very
sorry."

Is what B.ernie is saying.

Which is when he calls Svetlana to say that if she still wants him to
do what she proposed earlier this month... "Yes," she says at once.

"Then I'm ready to do it," he whispers into the phone.

"When?"  she whispers.

Both of them whispering in Italian like the conspirators they are.

"Now," he says.  "Tonight."

"No.  I have some things to do first."  "Then when?"  "Tomorrow
night?"

"Yes, all right," he says.  "Tomorrow night."  All of this in Italian.
Domani sera?

Si, va bene.  Domani sera.

"I'll call you tomorrow," he says.

"Good.  Call me.  But not in the morning.  I'll be out in the morning.
I have some business to take care of."  "Then when?"  "Early
afternoon." I'll call you."  "Ciao," she says.  "Ciao."

Two old pals signing off.  No mention at all of murder.

It is a little before eleven when he arrives at her apartment that
Saturday night.  She is wearing a flowered cotton housedress and
scuffed French-heeled shoes.  She tells him she went to the bank this
morning to withdraw the money she promised him... "I hate to take money
for this," he says.  "I would not expect..."

"I'm in serious debt," he says.  "Otherwise I wouldn't accept this."

"Take it," she says, and hands him an envelope.  "Count it," she
says.

"I don't have to count it."

"Count it.  It's twenty-five thousand dollars."

He shakes his head, puts the envelope into the pocket of his coat.  It
is eleven o'clock sharp now.  "I had my hair done this morning," she
says.

"It's very pretty," he says, admiring the finger wave.  "You look
beautiful."

"I would have put on along black concert gown," she tells him, "but I
want it to look as if an intruder surprised me.  So there'll be no
suspicion cast on you.  We'll open the window.  It will seem that
someone came in."

"Yes," he says.

He is wondering what kind of man he is, to be willing to do this to a
poor old deaf woman.  What kind of man?  But he keeps remembering
Bernie's threat.  And he rationalizes what he is about to do, telling
himself that with the twenty-five thousand he can pay off the twenty he
owes Bernie and with the remaining five can perhaps pick a good horse
or two in next week's races, parlay the money into God knows how much,
a fortune perhaps.  Besides, he tells himself he is not really taking a
life.  He is only doing what Svetlana herself wishes him to do.  He is
helping her to die with dignity and honor.  He is helping her to leave
this world with her memories intact.  For this, God will forgive him.
This is what he tells himself.

They open the bedroom window.

Cold air rushes into the apartment.

She goes to the bedroom closet and takes from it an old mink coat.

"I want it to look as if I just got back from the store," she says. "So
no one will suspect you."

His hand is beginning to shake on the butt of the gun in the pocket of
his coat.  He is not sure he will be able to do this now that the time
is so close.  He is not sure at all.

"Would you help me, please?"  she asks.

He holds the coat for her as she shrugs into it.  He can smell fish on
his hands.  There is always the stench of fish on his hands.

He is beginning to shake all over now.

From the table just inside the front door, she take her handbag, begins
searching in it, and at last finds what she's looking for, a white
envelope with someone's name written on the front of it.

"Take this to the front desk at the Hotel Powell," she says.  "My
granddaughter's name is written on it.  Ask the clerk to send it up to
her suite.  Make sure you say suite.  She has a suite there, you know."
He nods, accepts the envelope.  "Promise me," she says.  "I promise,"
he says.

He slides the envelope into the left-hand pocket of his coat, the one
containing the envelope with the twenty-five thousand dollars in it.
The blood money.  His right hand is in the pocket where the gun is.  He
is sweating nw.  His hand in the pocket is slippery on the handle of
the gun.

It is now ten minutes past eleven.

The cat is in the hallway with them now.  Looking up at them.  First
at 
Svetlana's face, then his.  As if expecting to be fed.

"Her carrying case is in the kitchen," Svetlana says.  "On the table.
She's used to it, she'll think you're taking her to the vet."

He looks at her, nods.  Looks down at the cat.  The cat is rubbing
herself against his leg.  It gives him the chills.  He is sweating and
shivering at one and the same time.

"Swear to me you'll take good care of her."  He says nothing for a
moment.  "Swear," she says.  "I swear."

"Swear to me you'll feed her fresh fish every day."  "I promise."
"Swear."  "I swear."

"On your mother's eyes."

"On my mother's eyes, I swear."

The apartment goes very still.

In the kitchen, he can hear a clock ticking.

He looks at his own watch.

It is almost twenty minutes past the hour.

From the same hall table, Svetlana picks up a brown paper bag with a
bottle of whiskey in it.  "I drink," she says in explanation.  "Son" un
" umbriaga," she says.

"I'm a drunk."  "Everyone knows that."

As a matter of fact, he doesn't know this.

As a matter of fact, he doesn't know this woman at all.

But he is about to kill her.  "Are you ready?"  she asks.  "Yes," he
says.

She is standing just inside the door.  The bag with the whiskey is
cradled in her right arm.  He removes the gun from his coat pocket. The
cat keeps rubbing against his leg, purring.  Sweat is beading his face,
sweat is rolling down under the collar of his shirt, sweat dampens his
armpits and the matted blond hair on his chest.  His hand is shaking
violently.  "Thank you for doing this," she says.  He steadies the gun
in both hands.

"Take good care of Irina," she says, and closes her eyes.

The interrogation room went silent.  Q: Did you shoot her at that time?
A: Yes.

Q: How many times did you shoot her?

A: Twice.

Q: Did the shots kill her?

A: Yes.

Q: What did you do then?  A: I shot the cat.  Nellie looked at him.

"Why'd you do that?"  she asked.

"I didn't want to take care of her.  I know I promised

Svetlana.  But cats are not to be trusted."  Men, either, Nellie
thought.  "So you took her money..."

"Yes, but only because I was afraid Bernie would do something bad to
me."

"Did you pay him the twenty you owed him?  Or did you stiff him,
too?"

"I don't know what stiff means."

"Tell him what it means to stiff somebody," Nellie said to the
interpreter.

"Ever leave a restaurant without tipping the waiter?"  McNalley
asked.

"I always tip waiters," Lorenzo said.  "What does that have to do with
Bernie?"

"She's asking did you go back on your word with him, too?"  Moscowitz
said.  "Isn't that right, Counselor?"

"It's close enough," Nellie said.  "Ask him" she told McNalley, who
immediately translated the question.

"I didn't go back on my word with him or anyone else," Lorenzo
answered.  "I didn't stiff anybody, however you say it.  I paid Bernie
his money, and I did everything Svetlana paid me to do.  Except for the
cat."

"Except for the cat, right," Nellie said.  "The cat, you shot in the
head."

"Well."

"Well, didn't you?"

"Yes.  I don't like cats."

"Gee, I love them" Nellie said.

And I'm the D.A."  she thought.

"What'd you do with the other five thousand?"

"I bet it on the horses."

win?

"Did you " "

"I lost."

"All around," Nellie said.

All during lunch, Priscilla kept complaining about her cheap
grandmother leaving her a mere five thousand clams.  Georgie kept
thinking about the ninety-five thou hidden in one of the black
patent-leather dancing slippers in a shoebox in his closet.

First thing he did when he got back to the apartment was check the
stash.  There it was, in a spanking-clean envelope with a rubber band
around it, as beautiful as when he'd put it there yesterday, bulging
with money.  He counted the money.  He wanted to throw it up in the air
and let it come down on his head.  Instead, he put it back in the
envelope and put the rubber band around it again, and put the envelope
in one of the shoes, and then put the lid back on the box and put the
box back on the top shelf.  He closed the closet door.  The phone on
the kitchen wall was ringing.  He went out to it.

It was Tony.

"When do we split the cash?"  he wanted to know.

I'll come by your place before we go to the club tonight," Georgie
said.

"What's half of ninety-five?"  Tony wanted to know.  "Forty-seven and
change."  "How much change?"  "Five bills."

"Bring the change, too," Tony said, and hung up.

"What we've got here," Moscowitz said, "is a mercy killing, pure and
simple."

"What we've got here, pure and simple," Nellie said, "is Murder Two. In
fact, what we may have here, Alan, is murder for hire, which just may
qualify for the death penalty."

"Oh, come on, Nellie, really."

"Man takes money to kill someone, that sounds to me like a contract
killing."

"Woman gives a man money to assist her in committing suicide, that
sounds to me like a mitzvah."  "What's a mitzvah?"

"You don't know what a mitzvah is?"

"No, what's a mitzvah?"

"How long have you been practicing law in "this city?"

"Are you going to tell me what a mitzvah is?"  "It's a good deed."

"Man shoots a woman .."  "She asked him to shoot her."  "That's a good
deed by you?"

"That's a mitzvah.  Nellie, this man isn't a criminal, he's .. ."

"Then what is he?  An angel?  He murdered a woman in cold blood.  Shot
her twice in the chest."

"She wanted to die!"

"How about the cat?  Did she want to die, too?"  "Okay, I'll give you
the cat."

"You'll give me more than the goddamn cat, Alan."  "What are you
looking for?"

"Are the acoustics in here bad?  I told you.  Murder Two.  Murder for
hire.  Lethal injection.  That's what I'm looking for."

"This wasn't murder for hire, and you know it."  "He got twenty-five
grand to kill her!"

"But she's the one who gave it to him.  This wasn't some outside party
who hired him to kill her.  This was the victim herself who..."

"Victim, you've got it, Alan."

"... who wanted to die, but didn't have the nerve to kill herself.
She's arthritic, she's got a brain tumor, she's about to go stone-deaf,
she's about to lose the nerves in her face, all she wants is out.  My
client helped her."

"Right, he's a Good Samaritan."

"No, he's a compassionate man who..."

"Who murdered her for twenty-five grand so he could pay off his
bookie!"

"The best you've got here is Criminal Facilitation One.  But this case
is something that'll bring tears to a jury's eyes.  Give him
Facilitation Four, and we've got..."

"Facil .  " She almost choked on it.  "That's a class-A mis!"

'"Okay, forget it then.  Take a look at 120.30 instead.  Promoting a
Suicide Attempt.  A person is guilty of promoting a suicide attempt
when he intentionally

"

causes... " or aids another person to attempt suicide," Nellie finished
for him.  "This wasn't an attempt, Alan!  This was eminently
successful. The woman is dead.  And so's her cat."

"Lay off the goddamn cat, will you?  We're talking about a woman in
agony and pain, we're talking about a sympathetic man who..."

"You're talking about a lousy class-E felony, is what you're talking
about.  We're wasting time here, Alan.  Let's roll the dice."

"All right, I'll grant you the suicide attempt was a

"

success ..

"What suicide?  He murdered her."

"Didn't you just say the attempt was successful?  Eminently
successful, weren't those your words?  So what's it going to be,
Nellie?  Did the guy go in there and shoot her in cold blood, or did he
merely help her commit suicide?  You go for Murder Two, that's what the
jury'll have to decide."

"Good, let them decide."  "Take a look at Michigan."  "Don't sing me
Kevorkian."

"Gets kicked out each and every time."

"This isn't Michigan.  And Kevorkian didn't shoot anybody."

"A jury might not see it that way, Nell."

"Don't call me Nell.  I wasn't raised in the woods."  "Tell you
what..." "Sure, tell me."

"We're forgetting murder for hire, am I right?"  "Who said so?"

"Arguendo.  And I guess you know that an affirmative defense..."

"Don't insult me, Alan."

"... under 125.25 is that the defendant caused or aided another person
to commit suicide."

"That's an affirmative defence, all right."

"Which happens to be the case here.  An assisted suicide."

"So?"

"So you're absolutely right.  You go for Murder Two,

we'd be rolling the dice.  And you just might lose."  "What do you
suggest?"  "man Two."  "No way."

"A person is guilty of manslaughter in the second degree..."

"I know the section."

"... when he intentionally causes or aids another person to commit
suicide."

"Man One is the best I can give you, Alan.  Provided we agree on the
max."

"That's too much to pay for a mitzvah."

"A mitzvah, my ass.  Man One.  The max, Alan.

Eight and a third to twenty-five.  Take it or leave it."  "Make it two
to six."  "No."

"The poor bastard's a foreigner."

"Tough."

"He can't speak English, he looks like Robert Redford.  You know what
they'll do to him in prison?"

"He should've thought of that before he murdered the old lady."

"Come on, Nellie.  You know he's not a killer.  What do you say?  The
minimum, okay?  Two to six, okay?"

"I'll give you a straight five to fifteen.  And we'll oppose parole
after five."

"You're a hard woman."

"I'll also throw in the cat.  Have we got a deal?"  "A hard woman,"
Moscowitz said, shaking his head.  "Yes or no?"

"What choice do I have?"

"Good.  Let's go home."

It was almost twelve' thirty when Carella and Hawes finished all the
paperwork.  They both looked bone-weary.

"Go home," Byrnes told them, "it's been along night."

"Uh-huh," Carella said.  "Get some sleep."  "Uh-huh," Hawes said.

"You've still got a dead hooker on your plate," Byrnes reminded them.

To qualify, a school had to answer positively to two questions: "Do you
have a football team?"  and "Are your school colors navy blue and
white?"

Didn't matter if he was talking to St.  Peter's High or John Parker
High.  If he got an affirmative answer to both questions, he saddled
his horse and rode on over.

By one o'clock that afternoon, Fat Ollie Weeks had personally visited
all of the qualifying P schools in the metropolitan area and had struck
nothing even faintly resembling pay dirt.

Only twelve of the blue and white schools had football teams.  Only
eight of those had parkas with a big white P on the back of them.  Of
those, only two had a white football logo under the letter P. Ollie
talked to some sixty football players, all of them shitting their
pants, trying to determine what each and every one of them had been
doing this past weekend while a white hooker and two black dudes were
respectively being eviscerated, drowned, and stabbed.  These kids were
used to TV violence, but man, this was real life.

The way Ollie looked at it, nobody in this country was really concerned
about violence, anyway.  If they were, they'd put the V-chip on
football and hockey

games.  What really bugged Americans was sex.  It was okay to talk
about it obliquely on all those morning and afternoon TV programs, but
show two people actually doing it, and, man, the house suddenly got
hushed, and all at once everybody was running to protect the little
kiddies smoking crack in the next room.  Sex was The Great American
Hang-up, legacy of those fuckin Puritans who came over from England.
Speaking of which, he hadn't had any in a week and a half sex, not
Puritans and here he was shagging ass all over the universe trying to
find three football players who maybe had got a little bit sexy and
violent off the playing field, and whose head hairs might just match
those he already had.

He was back in the squad room again by a quarter past one.

He checked his computer list again.

Began making phone calls again.

At two-fifteen that afternoon, he began driving upstate to a school
named Pierce Academy, whose colors were blue and white and whose
football team wore hooded parkas with a white letter P and a white
football logo on the back.

At two-thirty that afternoon, Georgie looked up the name Karen Todd in
the Isola directory and found a listing for a K. Todd at 1217 Lincoln
Street.  He dialed the number, and her answering machine told him she
could be reached at work and gave him the number for St.  Mary's
Hospital.

He hadn't known she was a nurse, if she was a nurse, This only whetted
his appetite.

He dialed the number and was connected to a woman who said, "Records
Office," immediately shattering a young boy's dreams.

"Karen Todd, please," he said.

When she came on the line, he told her who he was, and reminded her
that he'd been to see her earlier this morning, did she remember, the
tall good-looking guy,

he actually said, with the black hair and brown eyes "I was with a
blond woman and another man."

"Oh, yes"' she said, "of course.  Svetlana's granddaughter, in fact."

"Yes," he said.

"I remember you, sure," she said.  "Did you have any luck finding that
guy who delivered the fish?"

"Oh, yes," he said.  "The police have him.  He killed her, I guess. Was
what I could gather."

"No kidding?  Wow."

"Yeah," he said.  "Uh, Karen," he said, "do you think you might perhaps
care to join me for dinner tonight?"

"Sure, why not?"  she said.

From where Richard the First stood in the back row of the choir, he
could see out over the heads of the two other Richards and all the
other singers.  Like a true monarch surveying his lordly domain, he
looked down the center aisle of the church and beyond the transept to
the huge oaken entrance doors.  Late afternoon sunlight streamed
through the leaded stained-glass windows on either side of the massive,
vaulted space, illuminating it as if a religious miracle were in
progress.  Professor Eaton, the choirmaster, had just given them notes
on how badly they'd sung the hymn

the last time around.  They were now waiting for his hand signal to
start the third chorus all over again.

Hand and head dipped at precisely the same moment.

"Keep Thou my all, O Lord, hide my life in thine... "Oh let Thy sacred
light o'er my pathway shine..."  The central portal doors opened.

A very fat man stepped into the narthex and looked up the aisle.

"Kept by Thy tender care, gladly the cross I'll bear... "Hear Thou and
grant my prayer..."  "Professor Eaton?"  The fat man.

Calling from the back of the church.

"Hold it, hold it," Eaton said, and turned with obvious annoyance
toward where the fat man who was coming down the aisle now, a lightweight
trench coat open over his beer barrel belly.  Under the trench coat
Richard could see a plaid sports jacket, also unbuttoned, and a very
loud tie.  Now he was reaching into the back pocket of his trousers.

"What is it?"  Eaton asked.

Now he was holding some kind of small leather case in his hand, a fob,
whatever it was, the flap falling open as he waddled toward the altar.
Sunlight caught glittering gold and enameled blue, sending shivers of
reflected light into the echoing stillness of the church.

"Detective Oliver Weeks," he said.  "There's some hairs I need to
match.  You got any singing football players?"

Georgie was expecting her at six-thirty.  The arrangement was that
she'd stop by at her own apartment to change her clothes after work, and
then come to his place for a drink before they went to dinner.  That
was why he'd gone downstairs to the liquor store to pick up a bottle of
Canadian Club, because what she drank was Canadian Club and ginger ale,
she'd informed him on the phone.  He was downstairs for no more than
fifteen minutes.  The phone was ringing when he got back to the
apartment.  He put the brown paper bag with the booze in it on the
pass-through between the kitchen and living room, yanked the wall phone
from the hook and said, "Hello?"

It was Tony again.

"What time do you think you'll be here?"  he asked.

"Sometime after dinner," Georgie said.  "But I may be a little late."

"Like how late?"

"Maybe eleven, twelve o'clock."  "Why so late?"  "Well."  "Who is she?"
"Somebody."  "Who?"  I'll tell you later.  I got to go, Tony.  She'll
be here any minute."

"Bring me half of her, too," Tony said.

Smiling, Georgie put up the phone, and checked his watch.  Six-twenty:
Plenty of time to go look at the money again.  It never failed to
delight him, looking at all that money.  Still smiling, he went into
the bedroom.

The window was open.

The smile dropped from his face.

The drawers had been pulled out of his dresser and his shirts and socks
and sweaters and underwear were strewn all over the floor and the bed.
The closet door was open, too.  Jackets and suits had been ripped from
their hangers and thrown everywhere.

An open shoebox was lying on the floor.

Two black patent-leather shoes lay on the floor beside the box.

Both shoes were empty.

All of fifteen minutes downstairs, he thought.

This city.

Carella woke up at a quarter to seven that evening.  The house was very
still.  He put on a pair of jeans and a

T-shirt and padded around looking for someone.  Not a soul was in
sight.  "Fanny?"  he called.  No answer.  "Dad?"

Mark, calling from his bedroom down the hall.  He was sitting up in
bed, reading, when Carella walked in.  "Hi, Dad," he said.  "Have a good
sleep?"  "Yes.  How do you feel?"  "Much better."

"Let's see," Carella said, and sat on the edge of the bed, and put the
palm of his hand on Mark's forehead.  "Where is everybody?"  he
asked.

"Fanny took April to ballet and Mom's out shopping."

"Shopping or marketing?"

"What's the difference?"

"About five hundred dollars."

"How can you tell my temperature that way?"  Mark asked.

"Your forehead's supposed to feel hot at first.  If it continues
feeling hot, you've got a fever."  "I still don't get it."  "Trust
me."

"So what's my temperature?"

"Ninety-eight point five.  Wait," he said, and looked at his palm.
"Five and a half," he corrected.  "Either way, you'll be ready for
school tomorrow."

"Good.  Did you like school when you were a kid?"  "I loved it," Carella
said.  "So do I."

"How's the book?"

"Crap."

"Then why are you reading it?"

"It's the best Mom could find at the supermarket."  "Speaks well for
our culture."

He tousled Mark's hair, kissed him on the cheek, and was heading into
the living room when Fanny came through the front door.

"Well, look who's up and about," she said.  "Wipe your feet, April."

April shuffled her feet on the hall mat, put down her black tote bag
with the ballet school's name and logo on it, and sat on the hall bench
to take off her boots.  "How's Mark?"  she asked.  "Better."  "Good,"
she said.  "Better get dinner started," Fanny said, and went off into
the kitchen.

Carella watched his daughter, her head bent, as she struggled with the
zipper on the left boot.  Of the twins, she was the one who most
resembled Teddy.  The same black hair and dark brown eyes, the same
beautifully expressive face.  Mark favored his father, poor kid, Carella
thought.

"How was dance?"  he asked.

"Okay," she said, shrugging.  "Where's Mom?"  "Shopping."

"Did you sleep good?"  "Well," he said.  "Well what?"

"Not good," he said.

"That's too bad," she said, and suddenly looked up at him.  "Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"The other day, when Mark was feeling so awful,

you know?"

"Yeah?"

"And I thought he might die?"  "He wasn't going to die, honey."  "I
know, but that's what I thought."  "Well, don't worry, he's okay
now."

"Yeah, but that's not what I'm trying to say, Dad."

She seemed suddenly distraught, her brow furrowed, her eyes troubled.
He sat beside her on the bench, put his arm around her, and said, "What
is it, darling?"

"When I thought he was going to die?"

"Yes?"

"I wished I would inherit his guitar."

And suddenly she was crying.

"I didn't want him to die," she said.

"I know you didn't."

Tears streaming down her face.  "But I wanted his guitar."  "That's all
right, honey."  Sobbing bitterly.

"Am I a terrible person?"

"No, darling, you're a wonderful person."  "I love him to death, Dad."
"We all do."

"He's my very best brother."

"In fact, he's your only brother," Carella said.  April burst out
laughing, almost choking on her own tears.  He held her close, and said
into her hair, "Why don't you go say hello to him?"

"I will," she said, "thanks, Dad," and rushed out of his arms and out
of the room, yelling, "Mark!  Wake up!  I'm home I"

The old house was still again.

He went into the living room, and turned on the imitation Tiffany lamp,
and sat in the comfortable easy chair under it, thinking about Mark's
guitar and Svetlana's cat and the dead hooker with the plastic bag over
her head.

When Teddy came home some five minutes later, he watched her as she
eased the door shut with her hip, and then put two shopping bags
brimming with groceries on the chair near the mirror.  Watched her
silently in her silent world as she took off her coat and hung it in
the closet, thinking that here in this violent city where he plied his
daily trade... Here in a universe that seemed to grow darker and
darker each day until every day threatened to become eternal night ...
Here there was Teddy to come home to.

He almost called her name out loud.

But she hadn't yet seen him, would not have heard him in any event.  He
kept watching her.  She turned toward the living room, seeing him at
last, surprised, .... her eyes widening, a smile blossoming on her
face.

He rose and went to her.

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