Fat Ollie's Book

19

THE CALL FROMthe Reverend Gabriel Foster came at eleven o’clock that Wednesday morning. He asked to speak to Detective Kling, and when Kling came on the line, he said, “I asked for you because of Miss Cooke.”

Kling said nothing.

“Your relationship with Miss Cooke,” he said.

“Deputy Chief Cooke, you mean,” Kling said.

“Yes, Deputy Chief,” Foster said, and Kling could swear he heard a chuckle. “You asked me to call if I heard anything. My having a finger on the community pulse and all. Is what your partner said.”

“Uh-huh,” Kling said.

“This has nothing to do with the councilman, may he rest in peace, poor soul. I understand you’ve already cleared that one.”

“Yes, we have,” Kling said. “Whatdoesthis have to do with?”

“A big drug deal is about to go down,” Foster said, lowering his voice. “Three hundred grand changing hands. A hundred and fifty keys of cocaine. I don’t like narcotics in my community. You want to hear more?”

“We already heard more,” Kling said. “It went down at midnight last night.”

“It did?” Foster said, surprised.

“It did.”

“Oh. Well,” Foster said. There was a long silence on the line. Then he said, “Give my regards to your lady,” and hung up.

Eileen was just leaving the building, coming down the corridor from the squadroom to the metal steps leading below, when Kling came out of the men’s room. Startled, she stopped dead in her tracks.

“Hey, hi,” she said.

“Hi,” he said. “I hear it went down good last night.”

“Oh yeah, terrific,” she said.

“How’s everything otherwise? Did you like working with Andy?”

“Joy and a half,” she said.

“Did he tell you any of his jokes?”

“Oh yes…”

“Which one?”

“The nuns peeing in a gasoline can?”

“Lovely joke.”

“Lovely,” Eileen said, and they both fell silent.

“Well,” he said.

“Listen…” she said.

“Yes?”

“I hope this isn’t going to be awkward for you.”

“No, no. Awkward? Hey, why? Awkward?”

“Cause Pete gave me a little welcoming lecture, you know…”

“He did?”

“Yeah. Did he talk to you, too?”

“About what?”

“About this being one big happy family…”

“No. What? A big happy family? Why?”

“He also told me I’m a good cop, but ‘There’s this thing with Bert,’ quote, unquote.”

“Oh.”

“So I was wondering if he’d given you the same, well,warningwas what it was.”

“No. I’d have told him to shove it.”

“Really?” Eileen said, genuinely surprised.

“My private life…ourprivate lives…are none of Pete’s business. What does he think this is, a soap opera? We’re professionals here,” Kling said. “This really pisses me off, Eileen. I have a good mind to go in there and tell him…”

“Hey, slow down, Bert. I wasn’t trying to incite a riot.”

“What’d you tell him? When he said there was thisthingwith Bert, or whatever it was he said.”

“I told him I didn’t think there’d be a problem.”

“Well, there won’t.”

“I know there won’t. You’re with Sharyn now, and I’m…”

I’m what? she wondered. Still looking for Mr. Right?

“I’mperfectly content to be here at the Eight-Seven,” she said. “I just wanted to make sure it’s cool with you.”

“It’s cool,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”

“So, I mean, we don’t have to avoid each other, or anything stupid like that, tiptoe around each other…”

“Is that what we were doing?”

“No, I meant it’s not something we even have tothinkabout anymore, is what I meant. We’re two professionals, like you said, and this isn’t a soap opera.”

“It certainly isn’t. Besides, why should people have toforgetwhat happened between them?” he said, and she could have hugged him then and there. “Why can’t they just remember the past, and move on?” His voice lowered, but he wasn’t trying to be sexy or anything, he wasn’t coming on or anything. “There’s a lot to remember, Eileen. No one can shoot us for remembering.”

“No one,” she said, and smiled.

“You going back inside?” he asked.

“No, I was just leaving,” she said.

“In that case,” he said, and bowed her in the direction of the staircase.

She suddenly remembered why she had loved him so much.

• • •

THE GAUCHO CALLEDAine at three o’clock that afternoon, hoping he could see her again tonight. He had enjoyed being with her, and now they really had something to celebrate; the bust had gone down as predicted, and he was in possession of five hundred bucks the generous cops of the Eight-Seven had given him as a reward for his services.

He let the number she’d given him ring a dozen times.

Aine didn’t hear it.

She had shot up half an hour ago, and was lying stoned on the mattress in Emilio’s apartment, her eyes closed, a dreamy expression on her face. Emilio didn’t hear the ringing phone, either. He was on the toilet bowl, a needle still in his arm, the same peaceful look on his face.

The Gaucho hung up and went out front to greet a woman who was looking for herbs that would cure her insomnia.

CARELLA CALLED HONEY BLAIRat three-thirty that afternoon.

She came on the phone all treacle and smiles.

“Well,hello,” she oozed, “how’s it goin? What can I do for you?”

“My wife’s looking for a job,” he said.

“I’m sorry,what?”

“My wife’s looking for a job,” he said again, and then he explained that she was this beautiful speech- and hearing-impaired woman who could sign at the speed of light, and whose face spoke volumes besides, and he thought if the station was looking for someone who could appear in that little box in the left hand corner of the screen to sign for the deaf while a news report was going on, she’d be perfect for the job.

“She’s really the most beautiful woman on earth,” he said. “You won’t be sorry, I promise you.”

There was a long silence on the line.

“Honey?” he said.

“I’m here,” she said.

There was another silence.

Then she said, “You are really unique, you know that? You are positively unique.”

He imagined her shaking her head.

“Have her send me a resume,” she said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

And hung up.

AT THE EIGHT-EIGHTlater that afternoon, Ollie ran into Patricia Gomez just as the shift was changing.

“I want to thank you for that wonderful work you did on the Henderson case,” he said.

“Well, hey, thankyou,” she said.

“I already mentioned it to the Boss, he knows what a role you played.”

“Well, gee,” she said, “thanks.”

There was an awkward moment of silence.

“Did you ever find that guy who stole your book?” she asked.

“No, all I still got is the last chapter.”

“I’ll bet it’s good.”

“Oh, yes,” he said. “But I’ll get him, don’t worry. There’s always another day, am I right?”

“Always another day,” she said.

He looked at her.

Quite seriously, he asked, “Are you gonna cut off my dick for a nickel?”

“What?” she said.

“And sell it to the nearest cuchi frito joint?”

“Why would I do that?” she asked, and smiled. “I don’t evenlikecuchi frito.”

He kept looking at her.

“You still wanna go dancin Saturday night?”

“I bought a new dress.”

“So okay then.”

“So okay.”

“Que puede hacer?”he asked, and shrugged.

“Nada,”she said.

I watched him as he came down the steps into the basement.

“So, Olivia,” he said. “We meet again.”

“Apparently so, Commissioner,” I said, narrowing my eyes.

“Does she know?” he asked the black man.

“Nothing,” Ambrose said.

“Then kill her,” the Commissioner said.

There was on his face a look of ineffable sadness. I could tell he felt badly, or perhap seven bad.

“It isn’t midnight yet,” I said.

“But who’s counting?”

“I am. Can you please tell me what’s going on here?”

“Well, since you’ll never be able to tell anyone else,” the Commissioner said, “I see no reason why you shouldn’t share my little secret.”

This was a line I had heard many times before in detective work, and I was surprised to hear it coming from someone as erudite, you should pardon the expression, as the Commissioner, who surely knew that if you told someone he or she would never be able to tell anyone else, then in the next thirty seconds or so he or she was going to kick you in the balls and tell everyone in the entire world.

Strengthened by this knowledge, I began working on the ties that bound me, so to speak, laboring secretly behind my back with a little razor I normally use for shaving my legs and armpits while the Commissioner began telling me what his little secret was.

It turned out that spilling red wine on his white linen suit was only the first of a series of real or imagined affronts he had suffered at my hands over the many years I’d been on the job. Never mind that this was his favorite suit, which he had bought after hearing Tom Wolfe speak at a Barnes & Noble one time long ago. Never mind that I had once crashed my motorcycle into the rear fender of his personal car, which happened to be a Mercedes-Benz—and this is not product placement, believe me; I am a police officer and above such mercantile pursuits. Never mind, too, that I had once—inadvertently—called him an asshole in the presence of several reporters, but that was when he was still only Chief of Detectives and I hadn’t known at the time that he would become the Commish. What really bothered him—

And, honestly, I don’t know how people can be so petty, I mean it.

Whatreallybothered him—it now turned out as strand by strand I worked with the razor on the ropes binding me to the chair—was that I had once turned over to the Property Clerk’s Office a large pile of so-called conflict diamonds without reporting to the Commish that I was about to do so.

This rough ice had come from rebel groups in Sierra Leone or Angola and was virtually impossible to trace, as some enterprising detective had undoubtedly figured out before he committed what was now famous in police archives as the African Connection Theft, later immortalized as a movie starring a promising young actor named Peter Coe, now serving a five-and-dime upstate for possession—but I digress.

As I was saying, or perhaps evenlikeI was saying, the Commissioner himself could have been the one who got his hands on thatpile of blood diamonds sitting on a shelf in the Property Clerk’s Office, instead of some dumb detective from a precinct in the sticks, if only I had told him I was about to turn in the recovered loot as evidence. If I had mentioned my intentions, the Commissioner would now be sipping delicious Veuve Cliquot champagne at a fine Club Med someplace—which, again, is not product placement, but exactly what he said.

“You should have filed a report to the Commissioner,” he said. “I should have been informed. If it hadn’t been for you I would right this minute be sipping delicious Veuve Cliquot champagne at a fine Club Med someplace instead of standing here about to put a bullet in your head,” which was when he pulled a nine-millimeter Glock from a shoulder holster under his jacket.

“Police! Hold it right there!” someone shouted from the stairway, and my good friend and sometime partner Margie Gannon, who got divorced every six years and shot every three, came charging down the steps with a gun in herhand.

By coincidence, it so happened that Margie had been shot almost three years ago to the day. So naturally, the Commissioner shot her once again, and she came tumbling down the stairs, yelling obscenities I won’t repeat. I was out of the chair by then, my hands free. I grabbed a convenient lug wrench sitting in a box near the furnace, and I hit the Commissioner on the head with it, God forgive me for he outranked me, and then I turned on Ambrose and Marie and said, “Okay, who’s next here?”

Nobody was next here.

It was truly all over.

About the Author

EDMCBAINis the first American to receive the Diamond Dagger, the British Crime Writers Association’s highest award. He also holds the Mystery Writers of America’s prestigious Grand Master Award. His most recent 87th Precinct novel wasMoney, Money, Money.Under his own name—Evan Hunter—he has enjoyed a writing career that has spanned almost five decades, from his first novel,The Blackboard Jungle,in 1954, to the screenplay for Alfred Hitchcock’sThe Birds,toCandyland,written in tandem with his alter ego, Ed McBain, toThe Moment She Was Gone,published last year.