Fiddlers

3.

THEY FOUND THE first of Alicia’s husbands in a salsa club called Loco Tapas y Vargas on Verglas Street, downtown on the edge of the city’s Garment District. Ricky Montero was playing trumpet in one of the club’s two ‘top-name Big Band Orchestras’; neither Parker nor Genero had ever heard of either of them.

Montero’s band was rehearsing when they came in at ten thirty that Tuesday morning, the twenty-second day of June. He explained that both bands played mambo, cha-cha, rumba, son, merengue, guaracha, timba, and songo. He told them each of the bands played both ‘On Two’ and ‘On One’ music…

‘On Two is a mambo style where the break step…”

‘The what step?’

‘The first long step, the break step, comes on the second beat. No pauses.’

‘Uh-huh.’

“With On One, the break comes on the first beat…”

‘Uh-huh.’

‘… and the dancers pause on the fourth and the eighth beats.’

Parker nodded.

So did Genero.

Neither knew what the hell Montero was talking about.

‘Many dancers prefer the On One style.’

‘I can see why,’ Parker said.

‘On Two is based on percussion,’ Montero explained. ‘Not like On One.’

‘What’s On One based on?’

‘Melody.’

‘Right,’ Genero said.

Parker felt like ordering a beer. So did Genero.

‘Tell us about your ex-wife,’ Parker said.

‘Somebody offed her, huh?’ Montero said. ‘I read about it in the papers. Some kind of serial killer, huh?’

‘Well, we don’t know that yet.’

‘All we know so far is she was sexually promiscuous at an early age.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t say that.’

‘You had no reason to believe that?’

‘Well, she had a healthy appetite, let’s say.’

‘For sex, right?’

‘Well, sex, yes.’

‘Which means she was sexually promiscuous, right?’

‘Depends on how you define promiscuous.’

‘How do you define it, Mr. Montero?’

‘Well, yes, she was sexually promiscuous, I would say, yes.’

‘How about drugs? Was she using drugs?’

‘Well.’

‘Because we understand you yourself do…’

‘No, no.’

‘…a little dope.’

‘No, that’s not true. Long ago, maybe. Not no more.’

‘How long ago?’

‘Ten years? When we were together, yes, we experimented a little, you might say.’

‘With what? Crack?’

‘No, no, crack was on the scene much earlier, the crack rage. Alicia and I split ten years ago. Heroin was back by then. All we did was a little shit every now and then.’

‘Just dabbled, would you say?’

‘Oh, yes, nothing serious.’

‘Not even little teeny-weeny chickenshit habits?’

‘No habits at all. Nothing. Like you said, we just dabbled.’

‘Who helped you with all this dabbling?’

‘Not all this dabbling. Come on. It was just every now and then. Recreational, you might say. Recreational use. Hey, I’m a musician.’

‘Alicia wasn’t a musician, though.’

‘Well, we were married. Look, this wasn’t such a big deal. Don’t try to make it into such a big deal.’

‘Was she working when you were married?’

‘Yes.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Manicuring.’

‘Would you remember where?’

‘No. This was before she got into selling beauty products.’

‘Why’d you divorce her, Ricky?’

‘I didn’t.’

The detectives looked at him blankly.

‘She was the one wanted the divorce.’

‘Why?’

‘Different lifestyles, she said.’

‘Dope?’ Genero said.

‘No, we were both experimenting along those lines.’

‘Sex?’

‘I didn’t mind that.’

‘Then what?’

‘I have no idea. She just said our lifestyles were too different.’

‘About this experimenting…’

‘Just a little.’

‘Just a little shmeck every now and then, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Who supplied you?’

‘Shit, man, you can score on any street corner in this city, don’t you know that? I mean, you’re cops, you don’t know that?’

‘Nobody in particular? No favorite dealer?’

‘Nobody I’d remember.’

‘Would you know if she kept on using? After you split?’

‘I haven’t seen her in ten years.’

‘So you wouldn’t know if she was still “dabbling”?’

‘ “Experimenting” ?’

‘How would I know?’

‘But if she was…’

‘I don’t know what she…”

“… you wouldn’t know who might have been supplying her nowadays.’

‘I wouldn’t know anything about her. I just told you, I haven’t seen her in ten years.’

‘Wouldn’t know if she owed some dealer money, for example?’

‘Is there a problem with the sound in here? What is it you don’t understand? I haven’t seen the woman in ten years. I don’t know if she was shooting dope in her arm or in her eye or even up her ass.’

‘How do you know she was selling beauty products?’

‘Huh?’

‘If you haven’t seen her in ten years, how do you happen to know that?’

‘I heard around.’

‘From who?’

‘I forget who told me. She was selling nail polish and shit. Was what I heard. She was like a sales rep, is what they call it. Look, if you got any more questions, make it fast, okay? I gotta get back on the stand.’

‘Where were you last Friday night at eight o’clock?’

‘Right here. On Fridays I play here from eight at night to two in the morning.’

He looked Parker dead in the eye.

‘Anything else?’ he asked.

Parker took that to mean Good-bye.

* * * *

The two detectives from Narcotics thought dope was what made the world go round. They were convinced that 9/11 was all about dope. So was the Iraq War. Everything had to do with dope. If we really wanted to end the war on terrorism, if in fact we wanted to end all wars, for all time, then all we had to do was win the war on dope. Dope was evil. Dope dealers were evil. Even people who used dope were evil. This is why they had no sympathy for the sixteen-year-old girl who’d dropped dead from an overdose of Angel Dust in the alley outside Ninotchka.

‘She had it coming,’ Brancusi said.

He was the bigger of the two Narcotics dicks. You would not want to struggle with this man over a dime bag of shit.

‘You know what Angel Dust is?’ his partner said.

As tall as Brancusi, but not as broad in the shoulders or thick in the middle. Irishman named Mickey Connors. Meyer and Carella sensed a bit of condescension here; they both knew what Angel Dust was.

‘Angel Dust is phencyclidine,’ Connors explained.

‘PCP,’ Brancusi further elucidated.

‘It’s also called crystal, hog, or tic’

‘You forgot zoot,’ Meyer said.

‘Are we wasting our time with these guys?’ Connors asked his partner.

‘No, go ahead, enlighten us,’ Meyer said.

‘Go to hell,’ Connors said. ‘Let’s go, Benny.’

‘Stick around,’ Carella advised. ‘We’re talking a pair of homicides here.’

‘What is that supposed to do, the word “homicide”?’ Brancusi asked. ‘Make us wet our pants? You know how many drug-related murders we see every day of the week?’

‘That’s why we’re here,’ Carella said.

‘Yeah, why are you here?’ Connors asked.

‘Drug-related. Two of our vics may have been users. And one of them was killed outside the club where you guys caught a sixteen-year-old who overdosed on the peace pill.’

‘Her own hard luck,’ Connors said.

‘Also, the manager of Ninotchka took a fall for dealing ten years ago. So we’ve got a dead duster and now another vic outside the same club, who may or may not have been using, and the manager once dealt dope, so maybe there’s a connection, hmm? So we want to know all about this girl.’

‘Naomi Maines,’ Brancusi said.

‘She walked out of a club up the street, disassociating, that’s for sure, maybe hallucinating, too…”

‘Then La Paglia was giving us the straight goods.’

‘Who’s La Paglia?’ Brancusi asked.

‘Manager of Ninotchka. The ex-con.’

‘Oh yeah, him,’ Brancusi said, remembering. ‘A scumbag.’

‘Told us the girl just wandered by Ninotchka. We think she may have walked over from the other club,’ Meyer said.

‘Yeah, that checks out,’ Connors said. ‘Her sister and a girlfriend told us she dropped two tabs of dust inside there.’

‘That’ll do it, all right,’ Brancusi said.

‘Must’ve started convulsing as she came up the alley, dropped dead outside Ninotchka, the garbage cans out back there.’

‘Just stopped breathing,’ Brancusi said.

‘What’s this other club called?’ Meyer asked.

‘Grandma’s Bloomers.’

‘Cute.’

‘Clean, too. Naomi didn’t buy the stuff in there, that’s for sure.’

* * * *

There was a time not too long ago - five years? ten years? - when this stretch of turf was lined with rave clubs. These nocturnal dance clubs were characterized by pulsating, deafening, techno (or so-called ‘house’) music, blinking strobes, dazzling laser lights, and… oh yes… club drugs like Ecstasy, ephedrine, ketamine, GHB, methcathinone, LSD, magic mushrooms, methamphetamine, and - well, you name it, we’ve got it. A crusading mayor padlocked these rave joints all over the city, and the party scene today was a lot milder than it was back then: new mayor, new definition of what was bad for the health; as for example, smoking.

On Austin Street today, only two clubs remained: Ninotchka, dedicated to geriatric lovers of violin music, and Grandma’s Bloomers, a 30,000-square-foot space that used to be called The Black Pit when it attracted thirteen- to twenty-year-old ravers, lo, those many years ago. The manager of GB’s, as it was familiarly called, was a man named Alex Coombes. Pronounced it ‘combs,’ like what you use in your hair. He was in his forties, looked like the kind of father you’d want if you were about to ask for the use of the family car. Gentle brown eyes. Pleasant features. Nice smile. All-around good guy. But a sixteen-year-old had dropped two tabs of Angel Dust in his club six months ago.

‘I don’t even know how she got in here,’ Coombes said. ‘Our strict policy is no admission unless you’re twenty-one or over. We card at the door, search bags and bodies. No drugs in here. Not then, not now.’

Now was eleven fifteen on the morning of June twenty-second. Connors and Brancusi had given them Coombes’s home phone number, and he’d agreed to meet them at the club.

‘Was that your policy six months ago?’ Meyer asked. ‘Twenty-one or over?’

‘It’s been our policy always. In fact, nowadays the average age is even older than that. Late twenties, early thirties, a nice eclectic mix of straights, gays, and who-can-tell-whats. Two or three months ago, our DJs were spinning techno, reggae, and hip-hop, but now they’re moving more toward funkier stuff like the Rolling Stones, T-Rex, MC5, Iggy and the Stooges, all that. We sell alcoholic bevs, yes, mostly exotic, cutesy-poo drinks this age group seems to favor. But drugs? Nossir. Never. I can absolutely guarantee that Naomi Maines did not buy that dust here at GB’s. Nossir.’

‘We think she swallowed two tabs of it in here.’

‘You think wrong. I just told you. We don’t sell

‘Did you see her that night?’

‘Not that I would know.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means if she was here, if she somehow got past the door with a phony ID, I wasn’t aware of her.’

‘Would she have left the club at any time that night?’ Meyer asked.

‘She might have,’ Coombes said. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Who would know?’

‘Al. Bouncer at the back door. Aldo Mancino. He’d have stamped her hand.’

‘Is he here now?’

‘This is a nightclub,’ Coombes said. ‘He doesn’t come in till nine tonight. If you want to come back then…’

‘No, we want his home address,’ Carella said.

* * * *

Aldo Mancino’s landlady told them he usually went over to ‘the club’ this time of day. The club was the Italian American Club on Dorsey Street all the way downtown. This was now one in the afternoon. Mancino and some other men were sitting outside at round tables, enjoying the rest of this mild day, drinking espresso from the coffee bar next door. Inside the club, Carella could see a television set going, some men shooting pool.

Mancino fit the description his landlady had given them. Big and burly, thirty years old or so, with dark curly hair, bushy eyebrows, and brown eyes, he sat in a tank-top undershirt and blue jeans, muscles bulging, grinning as he delivered the punch line to a joke. The two men with him burst out laughing, then stopped abruptly when they saw Carella and Meyer approaching.

‘Mr. Mancino?’ Carella said.

Mancino looked up at him.

‘Detective Carella,’ he said, and showed his shield. ‘My partner, Detective Meyer. Few questions we’d like to ask, if you can spare the time.’

‘Uh-oh, what’d you do now, Aldo?’ one of the other men asked.

‘I guess I’m about to find out,’ Mancino said, and grinned. He had an engaging grin. Nice-looking man altogether. Couldn’t have been anything but a furniture mover or a bouncer. He knew he wasn’t in any trouble here; his manner was relaxed and receptive.

‘Gentlemen?’ Meyer said.

‘I guess he’s saying this is private,’ the same man said.

‘We won’t be long,’ Carella said.

Both men rose. One of them clapped Mancino on the shoulder. ‘Let us know where we can bring cigarettes,’ he said.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Mancino said.

The two men went inside the club. Carella and Meyer took their empty chairs.

‘Grandma’s Bloomers,’ Carella said. ‘Six months ago.’

‘That again, huh?’ Mancino said.

‘Sorry, but something’s come up.’

‘Naomi Maines, right? Cause, you know, they talked me deaf, dumb, and blind already. The two Narcotics cops.’

‘This is a new case.’

‘What’s it got to do with me? I’ll tell you just what I told the narcs. Bobby cards everyone at the front door, even if they look old enough. He would’ve carded her, too.’

‘Who’s Bobby?’

‘Bobby Nardello. He screens everybody going in. Admission is free, but you gotta show ID. And he checks bags and pats you down. There’s a girl does the girls. Her name is Tracy.’

‘We understand you’re on the back door.’

‘Right. We don’t like a lot of smokers hanging around outside the front of the club. You’re not allowed to smoke inside, you know. So we ask them to go out back, in the alley. I stamp their hands when they leave, check them when they come back in.’

‘Did Naomi Maines leave the club anytime before her death?’

‘Is that a trick question, or what?’

The detectives looked at him.

‘Of course she left the club. They found her dead up the street, so she had to’ve left the club, am I right?’

‘Before then, we mean.’

‘I think so. I’m not sure. You know how many people come out of that club for a smoke? The die-hards come out every ten minutes or so, just gotta have that cigarette, you know. I must stamp a hundred hands every night. Maybe more.’

‘You think you might’ve stamped Naomi’s hand?’

‘I think so. They showed me her picture, the narcs. Attractive blonde girl, very mature looking. Meaning great tits. Never would’ve thought she was only sixteen. Dress cut down to here. No bra.’

‘So you do remember her.’

‘I think so. If she’s the one. But she didn’t immediately reach for a pack of cigarettes, the way most of them do. She just sort of strolled up the alley. Well, lots of them do that, too. The smokers. They light up, take a little stroll, puff their brains out, then come back inside again.’

‘Up the street toward Ninotchka?’ Carella asked.

‘Yeah. Well, yeah, in that direction.’

‘Naomi, I mean. Did she head toward Ninotchka?’

‘Yeah. If she’s the one.’

‘How long was she gone?’

‘You mean, before she came back in again?’

‘Yes.’

‘Ten, fifteen minutes.’

‘Could you see her all that time?’

‘I wasn’t looking.’

* * * *

From his cell phone, Carella called Narcotics and asked Brancusi what the sister’s name was.

‘Her and the friend both,’ he said.

‘I don’t know who you’re talking about,’ Brancusi said.

‘Naomi Maines. Her sister and her friend. How do we find them?’

‘Why do you want them?’ Brancusi said. ‘This is a cold case.’

‘Not anymore, it isn’t,’ Carella said.

* * * *

Both girls were checkers at a supermarket called Garden Basket. Naomi Maines used to work there, too. They were on their break now, smoking out back. Meyer wondered if either of them knew that smoking caused cancer.

The sister’s name was Fiona Maines. The other girl was Abby Goldman. They were both older than twenty-one. They both knew young Naomi was breaking the law when she used a fake driver’s license to get into the club. They also knew it was against the law to send her out looking for some ‘stimulants,’ as they called them. But they figured her youth and innocence would attract less attention than if one of the older girls smuggled the stuff in.

They knew they could score here at Grandma’s Bloomers. They’d talked to people who’d been here, they knew the place was wide open. The beauty part was they carded you at the door, checked your handbags, patted you down, went through all the routine; it was like you were a terrorist going through airport security. Fiona was surprised they hadn’t been asked to take off their shoes.

‘But, you know, that’s all a show,’ she said. ‘When the place was still The Black Pit, they got raided a lot. So now they weren’t taking any chances with the law. Two or three visits, the cops saw all the precautions - hell, you aren’t even allowed to smoke in there - they figured the place was clean, they didn’t bother with it anymore.’

‘Also, there may be a little payoff there, hmm?’ Abby suggested, and winked at Carella. ‘You guys know all about payoffs, don’t you?’

‘Sure,’ Carella said, and winked back. ‘In fact, we’re late for a pick-up right this minute.’

‘I believe you,’ Abby said.

‘Don’t,’ Carella said.

‘What I’m trying to say,’ Fiona said, ‘is once you were inside, all you had to do was ask any of the waiters where you could get something a little stronger than a Maiden Aunt, one of the gin drinks is called, all pink with oranges and cherries, and he’d tell you, “Ask Al.” So Al is this big guy Aldo at the back door, he stamps your hand when you go out for a smoke, and you hint to him you might be interested in some powder or pills, and he tells you, “Ask Dom, up the street.”‘

‘Dominick La Paglia,’ Meyer said.

‘You guessed it,’ Fiona said.

‘Manager of this old fart place,’ Abby said.

‘Ninotchka,’ Carella said.

‘Is the name of it,’ Abby said, and puffed on her cigarette. ‘You guys done your homework. Who’d suspect any drug stuff going down there? Naomi goes up the street, talks to a guy at the back door there, tells him Al asked her to ask for Dom. So Dom appears, and takes her inside to this little room where he’s got a whole grocery store of goodies. She comes back with the two tabs of dust for herself and a cap of X each for me and Abby.’

‘Good stuff, too,’ Fiona said. ‘Sometimes, they mix a lot of other shit in with it that can kill you. But pure Ecstasy never hurt anybody.’

‘Pure Angel Dust killed your sister,’ Carella said.

‘Yeah, but nobody done anything about it, did they? You see Aldo in jail? You see Dom in jail? You see them clubs padlocked? We told all this to the two narcs six months ago. You see them doing anything about it?’

‘Little payoff there,’ Abby said, and winked again.

This time they believed her.

* * * *

‘Let’s say we have a place that used to be a rave club,’ Carella said.

‘Let’s say,’ Meyer said.

‘Lots of drug use going down there.’

‘No question.’

‘The Black Pit. And let’s say the former mayor closes it down in his crusade…”

‘Right…’

‘… and it reopens as Grandma’s Bloomers.’

‘Squeaky clean.’

‘Nobody allowed in unless he’s twenty-one.’

‘Cutesy-poo cocktails.’

‘No dope.’

‘Especially no dope. But let’s say the customers might still crave a little taste every now and then.’

‘Too bad. We don’t have any, kids.’

‘Ah, but maybe we do.’

‘By George, maybe we do,’ Meyer said.

‘Just see the club just up the street,’ Carella said. ‘Where the manager took a fall for possession with intent.’

Meyer nodded sagely.

‘You think a judge would grant a search warrant?’ Carella asked.

‘Maybe,’ Meyer said.

‘Have we got probable cause?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Shall we give it a shot?’

‘Nothing to lose,’ Meyer said.

* * * *

Well now, by golly, who’d have thought they were going to make a drug bust at a hangout for geezers? But when you thought of it, what made more sense than strolling up the alley to a nice clean establishment where the elderly sat holding hands at tables in the dark as violinists strolled and meanwhile at the back door a man who’d been convicted of possession with intent was back at the old candy stand again?

La Paglia said they were out of their minds.

But they were there with a search warrant, you see.

Probable cause.

Sixteen-year-old girl in attendance at Grandma’s Bloomers, a club that meticulously IDs anyone seeking entrance, and she later takes a little stroll up the alley to Ninotchka, and yet later is witnessed swallowing two tabs of dust, and then she’s found dead outside Ninotchka, now isn’t that a remarkable coincidence, Your Honor?

Isn’t that probable cause for a search warrant, Your Honor?

Petition granted.

So what say you now, Mr. La Paglia?

‘I say talk to your pals at Narcotics. They’ve been here already. They know the score. Talk to them.’

‘You gonna let us search the premises?’ Meyer asked. ‘Or you gonna give us trouble here?’

La Paglia decided to give them trouble.

He was a big man, not as tall as either Meyer or Carella, but thicker and beefier than either, and he had no intention of going back to jail, especially on charges that might include the death of a sixteen-year-old girl, there was no way anyone was going to put him back in there with all the butt-fuckers, pole-smokers, and peter-gazers. All you had to do was take one look at prison slang, and you figured in a minute that it wasn’t a hell of a lot better doing a grip of time here in America than it was doing it over there in Iraq. There was no way anybody was going to send Dominick La Paglia up again, a three-time loser this time, no way in the world!

He came at them like a bull roaring out of the chutes, looking to gore anybody in the ring. They weren’t used to this sort of activity. Your uniforms, who were there on the spot when a crime was going down, got into physical combat more often than your detectives, who usually came in after a crime was committed. Neither Carella nor Meyer could remember the last time they’d worked out at the police gym. So here came a guy who weighed two hundred and ten pounds, and who was still in good shape from lifting weights when he was on the inside, a guy who’d been paying off Narcotics, and maybe Street Crime as well, and who felt entitled to a little protection here, instead of two starfish assholes waving a search warrant at him. He felt betrayed, and he felt endangered, and besides he felt he had nothing to lose if he could get out of here past these two range queens, so he smashed his fist into Meyer’s face, knocking him off balance and back into Carella, who was reaching for his holstered Glock, when he, too, lost balance.

La Paglia kicked Meyer in the balls, dropping him moaning to his knees. He was about to do the same thing to Carella when the Glock popped into view. He kicked Meyer under the chin instead, hoping this would dissuade the other cop, but the gun was level in Carella’s hand now, pointing straight at La Paglia’s head, and his eyes spoke even before his mouth did, and his eyes said, I am going to shoot you dead.

‘Freeze!’ he yelled.

La Paglia hesitated just another moment. Meyer was lying flat on the floor now. La Paglia brought back his foot to kick him in the head again, just for spite, and then changed his mind when he heard Carella shout, ‘Now!’

He froze.

* * * *

He half expected the number she’d given him to be a fake one, but lo and behold, there was her voice on the phone.

‘Reggie?’ he said.

‘Who’s this, please?’

‘Charles.’

‘Charles?’

‘Remember last Thursday night? You and Trish?’

‘Oh, right, sure. Hi, Charles.’

He still didn’t think she remembered him.

‘You gave me your phone number, remember?’

‘Sure. How you doin, Charles?’

‘Fine, thanks. And you?’

‘Fine. You’re the guy with the shaved head, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Sure, I remember. So what’d you have in mind, Charles?’

‘I bought a new car,’ he said.

‘No kidding?’

‘I take delivery tomorrow morning.’

‘Wow,’ she said, but she didn’t sound at all enthusiastic.

‘What I thought…”

‘Yes, Charles?’

‘If you were free tomorrow…”

‘Yes?’

‘We could go for a ride in the country, have lunch at some nice little place on the road, come back to the hotel for dinner, and then spend the night together. If that sounds interesting to you, Reggie.’

‘It does indeed,’ she said.

‘Well then, good,’ he said, relieved. ‘Where shall I pick you up?’

‘Are you staying at the hotel now?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Well, why don’t I just meet you there?’

‘Fine. Eleven tomorrow morning?’

‘That’ll be a long day,’ she said.

‘I know.’

‘And night,’ she said.

‘I realize that.’

‘We don’t have to discuss money, do we, Charles?’

‘Not unless you want to.’

‘It’s just… it’ll be all day, and then all night.’

‘Yes.’

‘Does five thousand sound high?’

‘It sounds fine, Reggie.’

‘What kind of car did you buy?’ she asked.

* * * *

He wasn’t worried about the money running out. There was enough to last till he did what he still had to do. The home equity loan on the house was big enough to carry him through to the end of this. Just barely, the way he was spending, but that’s what this was all about, wasn’t it? Corrections? Adjustments? Make for himself now the life he should have enjoyed all along? Drive through the countryside with a nineteen-year-old redhead in a leased Jaguar convertible? That’s what this was all about, wasn’t it?

The look on Alicia’s face when he said, ‘Remember me? Chuck?’

Oh, Jesus, that was almost worth it all, he’d been almost ready to quit right then and there! That priceless look of recognition an instant before he shot her. Recognition, and then pain. The bullets smashing home. A pain deeper than his own, he supposed. He hoped so. And she’d known.

They would all know, because he would make sure they knew. Hi, remember me? Long time no see, right? Bad penny, right? So long, it’s been swell’t’know ya!

And bam!

Good.

* * * *

Tomorrow was a school day, and so the surprise birthday party for the twins was an afternoon one, and they were both home by eight that Tuesday night. When Carella came in at nine thirty, April was in the living room with Teddy, still chattering away, her hands moving on the air for her mother to read. Lipstick. High heels. Miniskirt. His thirteen-year-old daughter now. He yelled, ‘Hi, everybody,’ went in to where they were both sitting under the imitation Tiffany lamp, signed, Hi, Sweetie, kissed Teddy, and then kissed his daughter and asked, ‘How was the party?’

‘Cool,’ April said, ‘I was just telling Mom.’

‘Where’s Mark?’ he asked.

‘In his room,’ April said.

‘Everything okay?’

Teddy discreetly rolled her eyes.

Their eyes met. Communicated.

‘I’ll go say hello,’ he said. ‘When’s dinner?’

‘Mark and me ate at the party,’ April said.

Mark and I, Teddy signed.

‘You ate at the party, too?’ April said aloud, and then signed it, just in case her mother had missed her dynamite wit. Teddy mouthed, Ha ha. Carella was already on the way down the hall to his son’s room.

Mark was lying on his bed, hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. No music blaring. No TV on. He made room for his father, sat up when his father took the offered space.

‘What’s the matter?’ Carella asked.

Mark shrugged.

‘Tough being a teenager?’ Carella said, and put his arm around his son’s shoulders.

‘Dad…” Mark said, and hesitated.

‘Tell me.’

‘You know who I always thought was my best friend?’

‘Who, son?’

‘April. Dad, she’s my twin! I mean, she was my womb mate, excuse me, that’s a twelve-year-old joke, I’m thirteen now, I have to stop behaving like a friggen Munchkin!’

And suddenly he was in tears.

He buried his face in Carella’s shoulder.

‘What happened, Mark?’

‘She called me and my friends Munchkins!’

‘Who did?’

‘Lorraine Pierce. The girl who gave the party for us. It’s because lots of us are still shorter than the girls, and our voices are beginning to change, but that’s no reason to tease us. We’re thirteen, too, Dad. We have a right to grow up, too!’

‘What’s this got to do with your sister?’

‘April let her! She just laughed along with all the other girls and the older boys. My own sister! My twin!’

‘I’ll talk to her.’

‘No, let it go, please. They were just showing off.’

Mark dried his eyes. Carella kept looking at him.

‘What else, son?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Tell me what else.’

‘Dad… I think she’s a bad influence.’

‘Who, son?’

‘Lorraine Pierce. April’s best friend.’

‘Because she called you and your friends Munchkins?’

‘No, because…” He shook his head. ‘Never mind. I don’t want to be a snitch.’

‘Nothing wrong with snitches, son. Why is she a bad influence, this Lorraine?’

‘To begin with, I know she’s a shoplifter.’

Carella was suddenly all ears.

‘How do you know that?’

‘April told me.’

‘How does she know?’

‘She was in the drugstore with Lorraine when she swiped a bottle of nail polish.’

‘When was this?’

‘Two, three weeks ago.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Carella said, and got up to close the door.

* * * *

April had already gone down the hall to her room by the time Carella came back into the living room. Teddy was still sitting under the imitation Tiffany, reading, her hands in her lap, her black hair glossy with light. She closed the book at once.

Did he say anything? she signed.

‘Plenty,’ Carella said.

The way Mark reported it to him…

Around the beginning of the month sometime, April had gone to a Saturday afternoon movie with her good friend Lorraine Pierce. They’d stopped in a drugstore on the way home, and April was leafing through a copy of People magazine, when she saw Lorraine slip a bottle of nail polish into her handbag. At first, she couldn’t believe what she was seeing: Lorraine taking a quick glance at the cashier, and then swiftly dropping the bottle into her bag…

‘Lorraine!’ she whispered.

Lorraine turned to her. Blue eyes all wide and innocent.

‘Put that back,’ April whispered.

‘Put what back?’

April looked toward where the cashier was checking out a fat woman in a flowered dress. Moving so that she shielded Lorraine from the cashier’s view, she whispered, ‘Put it back. Now.’

‘Don’t be ridic,’ Lorraine said, and walked out of the store.

On the sidewalk outside, April caught her arm, pulled her to a stop.

‘My father’s a cop!’ she said.

‘It’s just a stupid bottle of nail polish,’ Lorraine said.

‘But you stole it!’

‘I buy lots of things in that store.’

‘What’s that got to do with it?’

‘I’ll pay them when I get my allowance.’

‘Lorraine, you stole that nail polish.’

‘Don’t be such a pisspants,’ Lorraine said sharply.

They were walking swiftly up the avenue, away from the drugstore. April felt as if they’d just robbed a bank. People rushing by in either direction, the June heat as thick as yellow fog. The stolen nail polish, the swag, sitting at the bottom of Lorraine’s handbag.

‘Give it to me, I’ll take it back,’ April said.

‘No!’

‘Lorraine…’

‘You’re an accomplice,’ Lorraine said.

* * * *

Teddy watched Carella’s mouth, his flying fingers. At last, she nodded.

They could have both got in serious trouble, she signed.

‘That’s what Mark told her.’

What’d she say to that?

‘You don’t want to hear it.’

I do.

‘She repeated Lorraine. She said, “Don’t be such a pisspants.”

April said that?

‘I’m sorry, hon.’

April?

Teddy sat motionless for a moment.

When she raised her hands again, she signed, I’ll have a talk with her.

* * * *

When the phone on Lieutenant Byrnes’s desk rang, he thought it was his wife, Harriet, wanting to know why he wasn’t home yet. Instead, it was the Chief of Detectives.

‘I was wondering how you thought the department should proceed with this case,’ he told Byrnes. ‘From now on, that is. The media’s having a field day with the blind guy, you know. War hero, all that shit.’

‘We’re okay with it,’ Byrnes said. ‘In fact, we just wrapped a drug bust. That’s why you caught me here.’

‘What’s a drug bust got to do with two homicides?’

‘Long story,’ Byrnes said.

‘It better be a good one,’ the Chief said. ‘Cause I have to tell you, I’m thinking your plate might be too full just now…”

‘We can handle it without a problem,’ Byrnes said.

‘The Commish thinks we may need a display of special attention here, his words. A dead war hero. Blind, no less.’

‘The Eight-Seven is prepared to give the case all the special attention it needs,’ Byrnes said.

The two men were negotiating.

If the case got pulled away from the Eight-Seven, the tabloids would make the squad appear incapable of investigating something this big. On the other hand, if the Chief left the case solely to a dinky little precinct in one of the city’s backwaters, the tabs would be watching like hawks, waiting for the first mishap.

‘The Commish wants a Special Forces man on it at all times,’ the Chief said at last.

‘In what capacity?’

‘Advisory and supervisory.’

‘Riding with my people?’

‘At all times.’

‘No. They’ll file with him, but they don’t need a third leg.’

‘He rides with them.’

‘I told you no.’

‘We’ll call it a joint task force, whatever. Your people and the man from Special Forces.’

‘And just who might that be?’ Byrnes asked, sounding suddenly very Irish and very stubborn.

‘Georgie Fitzsimmons,’ the Chief said.

‘That prick?’ Byrnes said. ‘No way will I let him ride with any of my people.’

‘Pete…”

‘Don’t “Pete” me, Lou. We’re not cutting that kind of deal here. Call it what you want to call it, a joint task force, a special task force, but all we do is report back to Fitz at the end of the day, and that’s that.’

‘How long have I known you, Pete?’

‘Too long, Lou.’

‘Do me this favor.’

‘No. We’re on it. It’s under control. We’ll file with Fitz at the end of the day. That’s the deal.’

‘They’d better come up with something, Pete.’

‘We’re working it, Lou. We just made a goddamn drug bust!’

‘Soon,’ the Chief warned.

‘We’re working it,’ Byrnes said again.