Long Time No See

Ten

The Tahitian Gardens was crosstown and slightly uptown on Talbot Avenue, four blocks from the Calm’s Point Bridge. As short a time as ten years back, one might have said that The Tahitian Gardens was “in the shadow of the el.” But there no longer was an elevated train running above Talbot Avenue, and so the turn of phrase, however fresh, did not now apply. Then again, ten years ago there was no such thing as a massage parlor in the city for which Carella worked, and so The Tahitian Gardens could not possibly have been there in the shadow of the el, or even in the shadow of the Law. Or, more correctly, if The Tahitian Gardens had existed on Talbot Avenue ten years ago, it would have been in the shadow of the el and also in the shadow of the Law. Today, it was neither. All clear, Harold? Try to concentrate, Harold.

The façade of the massage parlor was decorated with real bamboo poles and straw matting. The name was scorch-lettered into a wooden sign nailed to a pair of bamboo poles that formed an X across the door. A shorter piece of bamboo served as a handle. Carella opened the door and stepped into a room similarly decorated with bamboo and matting, but softer-looking than the outside facade, in that it was lighted with subdued reds and greens emanating from bulbs hidden behind valances or tucked into niches. Some four feet from the door was a desk. A girl sat behind the desk, her back to the wall. She glanced up as Carella came in. Judging from her looks, she was either Chinese or Japanese, may be Polynesian, certainly Oriental. She was wearing a Madame-Gin-Sling costume, the material looking like brocade, the collar coming an inch or so up on her neck, the sleeves short, her naked arras wreathed in jade bracelets. She smiled as the door whispered shut behind Carella.

He smiled back. He had not yet decided quite how to play this. If he identified himself as a cop, they might not even let him inside without a warrant. On the other hand, if he did manage to get inside, he’d have to identify himself to Stephanie Welles if he expected to get any information about the dead woman. He was still debating his approach when the girl behind the desk said, “Yes, sir, may I help you?”

He decided on a scam, hell with it.

“That depends on what you’re offering,” Carella said.

“Well, sir, why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll explain it to you.”

“I wish you would,” Carella.

He took a chair beside the desk. The girl swiveled her own chair out toward him. The gown she wore was long and slitted to the thigh. A fringe of black underwear lace showed in the slit. She was wearing black satin shoes with extremely high heels and ankle straps. The telephone on her desk had a multitude of buttons on it, none of them lighted at the moment. The wall bearing the door had a fish tank set into it. The tank swirled with tropical fish and iridescent bubbles. To the right of where Carella sat, there was another door. It opened suddenly, and a girl wearing what appeared to be a bikini bathing suit came out, glanced at him briefly, walked directly to the desk, said “Benny,” and put a pink slip of paper on the desk. The Oriental girl repeated “Benny,” and took the slip and wrote something on it. The other girl turned, glanced at Carella again, opened the door, and went into the other room. The door closed slowly behind her.

“That was Stacey, one of our girls,” the receptionist said.

“How many girls are there?” Carella asked.

“Six,” the receptionist said.

“What’s your name?”

“Well, why do you want to know that?”

“I’m just curious.”

“My name is Jasmine.”

“Ah, Jasmine.”

“Yes. I was about to explain that this is a private health club, and that for a small renewable initiation fee, we offer the use of our facilities — including the shower, the sauna and the whirlpool — plus unlimited bar service, and of course a massage by one of our girls, or by two of them, if you prefer.”

“Two of them, I see,” Carella said.

“We offer a half-hour session for twenty dollars and an hour session for thirty dollars. You understand, don’t you, that an hour would normally cost forty dollars if we were doubling the price for a half-hour, but instead...”

“Yes, it’s quite a bargain,” Carella said.

“It is.”

“And for that I get a massage and...”

“Use of the facilities.”

“And free drinks.”

“Yes.”

“What would two girls cost me.”

“Double what one girl would cost you.”

“Oh. No bargains on that.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Jasmine said, and smiled. “I should explain to you that the girls work exclusively on tips. Whatever arrangements you make with them is private and personal.”

“I see,” Carella said.

“So what would you prefer?” Jasmine asked, and picked up a pencil and moved into place a pink pad upon which there was printing Carella could not decipher in the dimness of the room. “One girl or two? Half-hour or hour?”

“Is an hour the longest I can have?”

“You can have two hours for sixty dollars.”

“Can I take a half-hour and then change my mind and decide on an hour if I need more time?”

“Well... we’ve never done it that way before.”

“I see,” Carella said. “Well, let me see if I understand this, okay?”

“Take your time,” Jasmine said, and smiled again.

“This is a health club, and what you offer for your initiation fee is the facilities of the club and a girl to provide a massage. Whatever other arrangements 1 make with any of the girls is strictly private and personal and works on a gratuity basis.”

“That’s exactly right.”

“You said a renewable initiation fee...”

“Yes.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you must renew it each time.”

“I see. I pay each time.”

“Yes.”

Translated from the English, all of this meant that The Tahitian Club was renting Carella the use of a space for twenty dollars a half-hour or thirty dollars ah hour, and providing him access to one or two prostitutes who would perform sexual services for mutually agreed-upon additional fees. The club, if charged with violation of PL 230.25, Promoting Prostitution 2nd Degree, would undoubtedly claim as its defense that a person was advancing prostitution only when knowingly causing or aiding someone to commit or engage in prostitution (here at The Tahitian Club, all arrangements made between client and girl were strictly personal and private) or—

Providing persons or premises for prostitution (the club was a health club providing only massage, free drinks, showers, sauna and whirlpool) or—

Operating or assisting in the operation of a house of prostitution or a prostitution enterprise (for the hundredth time, this was a health club!) or—

Engaging in any other conduct designed to institute, aid or facilitate an act or enterprise of prostitution (sauna and whirlpools and massages and free drinks did not constitute an aid to the act of prostitution, and a single swallow did not a summer make).

“I’ll take just one girl for a half-hour,” Carella said.

“All right, sir, what’s your name, please? Just your first name, please.”

“Andy,” Carella said.

“All right, Andy, how did you hear about us?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did someone hand you literature on the street, or did you read one of our ads?”

“No, a friend told me about it.”

“All right, Andy, would you like to pay me now, please? That’ll be twenty dollars.”

“Yes, sure,” Carella said, and took a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and wondered if the Police Department would reimburse him for the outlay. He could just see himself walking into the Clerical Office and handing Miscolo a chit for a visit to a whorehouse.

“Thank you,” Jasmine said, taking the bill and putting it into a metal cashbox in the top drawer of her desk. There were a great many bills in that box.

“If you’ll take this pink slip now,” Jasmine said, ripping the top sheet from the pad, “and step into the lounge, one of our girls will take care of you. I know Stacey’s free if you—”

“I had a particular girl in mind,” Carella said.

“Oh,” Jasmine said, and raised her eyebrows. “Then you’ve been here before?”

“No, my friend told me to ask for her.”

“Who?” Jasmine said.

“Stephanie,” he said, and cut himself short before he gave the last name.

“Stephanie?”

“Yes.”

“We have no Stephanie.”

“That’s her real name,” Carella said, and decided to go whole hog. “Stephanie Welles.”

“Mm,” Jasmine said. “But you see, all the girls here use their real names. They’d have no reason to hide their real names.”

“I know,” Carella said. “That’s probably why she told my friend her real name, don’t you think? Because all the girls use their real names and she had nothing to hide, right?”

“Mm,” Jasmine said.

“So could I have her?” Carella asked.

“Well, as I told you...”

“I know she works here.”

“Well, why don’t you just go inside now and see if you can find anyone named Stephanie? Whatever transpires between you and any of the girls—”

“Yes, is personal and private.”

“Right.”

“Thank you. Can you tell me what Stephanie looks like?”

“I don’t know anybody here named Stephanie,” Jasmine said, and smiled.

“Okay, thanks,” Carella said and rose and opened the door on his right.

The room beyond was decorated just as the reception room was, with bamboo and straw. On the wall to the left of the door was a bar that ran its entire length. On the bar top there were half-gallon bottles of Scotch, vodka, gin and rye, as well as quart bottles of club soda and quinine water. A bucket of ice rested beside a pitcher of water and a dish of sliced lemons and limes. Plastic glasses were stacked along the wall behind the ice bucket. The wall opposite the bar was semicircular in design, lined with high-backed wicker chairs painted white and cushioned with pillows in brightly colored fabrics. Sitting in two of those chairs were a blonde and a brunette, each wearing the same bikini sort of costume the girl Stacey had been wearing. Both looked at Carella and smiled as he came into the room.

“Hi,” the blonde said. “I’m Bobbie.”

“Hi, Bobbie.”

“I’m Lauren,” the brunette said.

“Hello, Lauren.”

“What’s your name?”

“Andy.”

“Would you like a drink, Andy?”

“Not right now, thank you. I’m looking for Stephanie.”

“She’s got somebody with her just now,” Bobbie said.

“Think she’ll be free soon?”

“I guess,” Lauren said. “Why don’t you have a drink meanwhile?”

“Scotch and a little water, please,” Carella said.

“Could I have your pink slip, please?” Bobbie said, and got out of the wicker chair and walked across the room.

The costume, Carella now saw, was similar to what a stripper wore, the bra top clasping in the front, the G-string bottom covered with what appeared to be a scarf of the same material and color as the bra, tied diagonally across it. Bobbie was wearing high-heeled ankle-strapped pumps that gave her legs a singularly long look even though she was no taller than five six or seven. In the other chair, Lauren was looking at Carella. The bra top she wore seemed skimpier, perhaps because she was fuller in the bust. Neither of the girls looked older than twenty-five. Neither was beautiful, but both were attractive. Moreover, they looked clean-scrubbed, fresh and wholesome.

“Here you go, Andy,” Bobbie said, and smiled. “Scotch and water.”

“Thank you,” Carella said, and carried the drink to one of the wicker chairs.

“You’ve been here before, I take it,” Bobbie said.

“No, I’ve never been here before. Or any massage parlor, for that matter.”

“Then how do you know Steff?”

“A friend recommended the place to me.”

“Oh, and he liked Steff, huh?”

“Yes.”

“She must’ve liked him, too.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well... she’s Shana, you know.”

“Here, you mean.”

“Yeah. Shana. That’s her name here. That’s a nice name, I think. Shana.”

“Bobbie’s nice too.”

“Well, it’s not bad,” Bobbie said, “but Shana’s better. If I had it to do over again, I think I’d call myself something like Shana. Maybe Sherry. Something like that.”

“Mm.”

“Though there’s a lot of Sherrys around.”

“There’s a lot of Bobbies around, too,” Lauren said.

“But not a lot of Shanas. That’s my point Steff picked a good one. I wonder where she got it from.”

“There was once a Shana, Queen of the Jungle,” Lauren said.

“No, that was Sheena.”

The door to the reception room opened and a short fat man smoking a cigar came into the lounge. He was wearing a heavy brown overcoat that seemed to weigh him down. His shoulders were slumped, his face was windblown, his hair was disarrayed. He came puffing into the room, and the first thing he said was, “I need a drink. Fix me a drink, Blondie.”

“It’s Bobbie,” Bobbie said.

“Great, it’s Bobbie,” the fat man said. “Fix me a bourbon and water.”

“We don’t have any bourbon.”

“Great,” the fat man said.

“We ran out just a little while ago,” Lauren said. “We had a lot of bourbon-drinkers today.”

“Great,” the fat man said again, and puffed violently on his cigar. He looked distraught to the point of tears. It almost seemed he had come in here for the bourbon rather than the pleasure of the company.

“How about some rye?” Bobbie said. “That’s like bourbon.”

“Okay, rye,” he said. “Rye and water.”

“Could I have your pink slip, please?” Bobbie said, and the fat man handed it to her.

Carella hadn’t yet figured out the accounting system. Bobbie had written nothing on either of the pink slips; she had merely placed them on the bar, under an ashtray. Sitting in the wicker chair, sipping at his drink, he studied first the louvered doors on his right and then the bamboo-covered door just beyond the far end of the bar.

Lauren was still watching him. “Drink all right?” she asked.

“Yes, fine.”

“Colder’n a witch’s tit out there,” the fat man said.

“One more guy says that today,” Lauren said, and rolled her eyes. “You sure you want to wait for Shana?” she asked Carella.

“Yes,” Carella said.

“I mean, it’s only your friend’s hearsay, am I right?”

“That's right, but I promised him I’d look her up.”

“Because I’m getting nice vibes from you,” Lauren said. “I think we could get along nicely, you and I.”

“We probably could,” Carella said. “But really, I promised my friend. Maybe some other time.”

“Maybe,” Lauren said, and turned her attention to the fat man, who accepted the drink from Bobbie and swallowed it almost in one gulp.

“What a day I had today,” he said.

“Yeah,” Bobbie said, and nodded. “Saturday’s always a rough day.”

“Let me have another one of these, okay?” the fat man said. “What a day.”

The bamboo-covered door at the far end of the bar opened and a girl walked into the room. Her eyes were a gray the color of smoke, heavily fringed with thick lashes, the lids lightly touched with blue liner. Her blond hair was cut in something resembling a Dutch-boy bob, bangs on the forehead, a shingle effect at the back of her head. High cheekbones, a sweeping profile that curved delicately into her neck and shoulders. She was tall and slender and was wearing the same abbreviated costume the other girls wore. She said “Hi” to everyone and to no one in particular, and then walked through the other door and out into the reception room.

“That was Shana,” Lauren said.

In a moment she came back into the room, looked around, smiled at Carella, smiled at the fat man, and then said, “Everybody happy here?”

“Shana,” Carella said, “a friend of mine suggested that I ask for you when I—”

“I’m taking the big blonde,” the fat man said.

Carella turned to him.

“Yeah, you heard me, pal.”

“There’s plenty of everybody to go around,” Lauren said. “Let’s not argue about it, okay, fellas?”

“There’s no argument,” the fat man said. “I had a hard day. You want the big blonde, you can have her later. Right now I’m ready for my session.”

“Here’s your drink,” Bobbie said.

“Thanks,” the fat man said.

“What’s your name?” Shana asked him.

“Arthur.”

“Let me have Arthur’s slip,” Shana said.

“It’s under the ashtray.”

“How long did you plan on being here?” Carella asked pleasantly.

“What’s it to you?” Arthur said, and puffed on his cigar and then took a swallow of the fresh drink.

“You said I could have Shana later, I just wanted to know how much later.”

“That’s none of your business,” Arthur said, and puffed on the cigar again.

“What does it say on the pink slip, Shana?” Carella said.

“It says two hours on the pink slip,” Arthur said. “That’s what it says on the pink slip.”

“I can’t wait that long.”

“That’s tough noogies.”

“I’d like to talk to you a minute.”

“What about?”

“Something personal and private. Is there someplace we can talk personally and privately?”

“Try the toilet,” Lauren said.

“Where’s the toilet?”

“Through the louvered doors.”

“I’m not going in no toilet with you,” Arthur said. “I’m going for my session with Shana.”

“Arthur,” Carella said pleasantly, “this will only take a minute.”

“I haven’t got a minute.”

“And I haven’t got two hours,” Carella said, and smiled. “Come on, Arthur, let’s talk this over. I’m sure the girls here don’t want any trouble, I’m sure you don’t want any trouble. Let’s just talk this over like gentlemen, okay, Arthur?”

“I’ll give you a minute,” Arthur said, and pushed through the louvered doors.

Carella followed him. There were three curtained shower stalls at the far end of the room beyond. A pair of urinals on the wall bearing the louvered doors. A dozen lockers on the wall opposite the door. Sinks. A black man stood near the sinks. He was wearing a red jacket and string bow tie. He smiled as the men came in.

“We want to talk privately,” Carella said. “Would you mind stepping outside a minute?”

“Got to watch the lockers,” the black man said.

“I’ll watch them for you,” Carella said.

“No, no, it’s my job.”

Carella took out his wallet, handed the man a five-dollar bill, smiled and said, “We’ll only be a minute.”

“Well, okay,” the black man said dubiously, but he took the five-dollar bill and went out through the louvered doors.

“So talk,” Arthur said.

“Arthur,” Carella said, “look.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out the leather case to which his detective’s shield was pinned, and opened it. “Shhh,” he said, and put his finger to his lips.

“Great,” Arthur said.

“I’m not making a bust,” Carella said.

“Then what are you doing?” Arthur asked, looking even more distraught than when he had learned they were out of bourbon.

Carella noticed for the first time that he was wearing a gold wedding band on his left hand. “Arthur,” he said, “you only have to worry about one thing. You only have to worry about not telling anybody outside that I’m a cop. You understand that?”

“This ain’t my day,” Arthur said mournfully.

“This is your day, Arthur,” Carella said. “Believe me, it’s still your day. We’re going out there now, and you’re going to tell Shana you’ve changed your mind about a session with her.”

“If you’re going to bust this place, tell me, okay? Cause I’ll head straight for the door, okay? I can’t afford to be caught in a place like this, I mean it. So do me that favor, okay?”

“This isn’t a bust,” Carella said. “Let’s go, Arthur.”

“We might as well shower first,” Arthur said. “They ask you to shower here before you go in for your session.”

“It figures,” Carella said.

The shower had nothing to do with cleanliness; it had only to do with a legal defense known as entrapment. If Carella entered a room naked or wearing a towel, and a girl came into that room to give him a massage and to discuss fees for sexual services, it could be presumed that Carella had by his own conduct trapped the girl into offering herself to him. Considering this, and remembering that prostitution itself was the lesser of all the offenses in Article 230, a mere violation as opposed to the misdemeanors or felonies in the other sections of the article, it was hardly worth the trouble making an arrest. A violation was punishable by no more than fifteen days in jail and a fine of no more than $250. In cases where a policeman was dumb enough or eager enough to arrest a hooker, the girl was usually out on the street an hour after her pimp paid a fifty-dollar fine. There had been no recent massage-parlor busts in the city for which Carella worked; the legal defenses were too plentiful. If you couldn’t get the people operating the joint, and you couldn’t get the girls performing the services, who was left? Guys like fat Arthur here, who was trembling inside his heavy overcoat at the thought of his wife finding out he’d been in Tahiti this Saturday night?

Carella went outside to tell Shana he was ready for his session.

He had showered, and dried himself, and wrapped an orange towel around his waist. The black man in the red jacket had given him a plastic bag into which he had put his holstered service revolver, his wallet, his leather shield-case, his keys, his cash and his watch. The black man saw the Detective’s Special, but said nothing; five bucks can sometimes go a long, long way. Carella wrapped the plastic bag inside a second towel, and then pushed through the louvered doors into the lounge. Shana was there waiting for him. Arthur was nowhere in sight. Neither were the girls who had been there earlier. Carella wondered which of them Arthur had chosen.

“Will you want to take a drink in with you?” Shana asked.

“No, that’s fine,” Carella said.

“What’s in the towel?” Shana asked.

“Family jewels,” Carella said.

“I meant the one in your hand," Shana said, and laughed. “Come on,” she said, and opened the door near the end of the bar.

Carella followed her into a narrow corridor that had bamboo on the walls and straw mats on the ceilings and floors. She opened a louvered door onto a room some six feet wide and eight feet long. A bed was snugly recessed into the niche formed by one entire wall and parts of two others. Covering the bed was a form-fitting print in swirling reds, yellows and blues. The three walls enclosing the bed were mirrored. The narrow floor space between the bed and the fourth wall was covered with straw mats. Bottles of colored lotions that looked like all the oils of Araby rested on the floor, against the wall. There was a slip bolt on the louvered door. Shana threw the bolt, turned from the door, smiled at Carella, and walked to the bed. Sitting on it, she took off her shoes.

“So,” she said, and smiled again. “This is your first time in a massage parlor, huh?”

“Yes,” Carella said.

“Let me explain how it works. I give you a body rub for the twenty dollars you paid outside — you booked for a half-hour session, didn’t you?”

“Yes, a half-hour.”

“Okay. If there’s anything you want in addition to the body rub, that’s extra.”

“How much is extra?”

“It’s usually twenty-five for a handjob, forty for a blowjob and sixty for sexual intercourse. But Lauren tells me you know a friend of mine, so maybe we can make a special—”

“No, I don’t know any friend of yours,” Carella said.

“You don’t? Lauren told me—”

“I was lying.”

Shana looked at him.

“That’s right,” he said.

“Why?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“You had to lie so you could talk to me?”

“I’d already asked for you by your real name. I had to go along with it.”

“How’d you know my name?”

“It was in someone’s address book.”

“Whose?”

“Your aunt’s. A woman named Hester Mathieson.”

“I don’t get this.”

“I’m a cop,” Carella said.

“Let me see the tin,” she said.

“It’s wrapped in the towel there. Believe me, I’m a cop.”

“Is there a gun in there, too?”

“Yes.”

“So what is this? A bust?”

“No.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“Your aunt—”

“Oh, Jesus, don’t say it. Has something happened to her?”

“She’s dead. Someone killed her.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“I’m sorry.”

“How?”

“Somebody cut her throat.”

“Oh, Jesus!”

The room went silent. Down the hall Carella heard someone laugh. A door eased shut. He looked at the girl. She was staring down at the ankle-strapped shoes on the floor. The sloping tops of her breasts in the bra top were dusted with freckles. She sat with her hands in her lap, staring at the shoes. Her fingernails were long and manicured, the color a red as bright as blood. He wondered what he should call her. Until a moment ago she had been Shana, a girl who casually quoted prices for sex acts with a stranger. But the name in Hester Mathieson’s book was Stephanie Welles, and mention of the murder seemed to have transported them both from this dimly lighted place of fantasy to a tenement hallway no less dimly lighted but only all too real.

“Miss Welles?” he said, and this seemed correct; she nodded briefly in response, still staring at her shoes. Against the wall the bottles of lotion shimmered with reflected light. “When did you see her last?”

“Before I started here.”

“When was that?”

“About six months ago. May. Is that six months?”

“You hadn’t seen her since?”

“No.”

“Were you particularly close?”

“I liked her a lot. I guess maybe I loved her.”

“But you hadn’t seen her since May.”

“No.”

“Had you talked to her?”

“You mean on the phone?”

“Yes.”

“I tried to call her at least once a week. She was blind, you know. How could anybody... why would anybody...?” Stephanie shook her head.

“When did you talk to her last?”

“Last week.”

“When last week?”

“Thursday night, I guess it was. I get Wednesdays and Thursdays off.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Well, the usual.”

“Which was?”

“Well, you see, I lied to her about the job here. I mean, that’s why I stopped going to see her. Because if, you know, I had to sit there face to face and lie... she could sense things, you know. Blind people can sense things. And if I lied to her sitting right there in the room with her, well, she’d just know it, and I... I couldn’t bear that. My mother’s dead, you know, Aunt Hess was all I had, I didn’t want to... to hurt her... or to... you know... by her finding out I’m working in a place like this.”

“Where did you say you worked?”

“I told her I was a flight attendant. A stewardess. And I said I was based in Chicago and only got to the city here every now and then. I used to say I was calling from the airport. I told her I was trying to get my flight schedules changed so I could come see her again. I told her I was working on it. Meanwhile, I wrote to her a lot, and I called her whenever I could.”

“How’d you manage writing to her?”

“What do you mean?”

“You told her you were living in Chicago.”

“Oh. I have a girl friend there, she used to work here at the Tahitian. She forwarded my aunt’s letters to me, and then I’d send my answers back, you know, for her to mail from Chicago.”

“Wouldn’t it have been easier to just quit the job here, find some work your aunt...”

“Well, the money’s good,” Stephanie said, and shrugged.

“How’d you get started here?”

“Well, I don’t want to talk about it. I needed a job, that’s all.”

“There are lots of jobs in this city.”

“They don’t pay as much as this one. The job here gave me plenty of money for myself, and enough to send Aunt Hess a little every now and then. Besides, I wanted a Benz.”

“A what?”

“A Mercedes-Benz. I wanted one for the longest time. So I answered an ad in one of the fuck-papers, and took the job. I’m paying off the car now, I bought it on time. I make a lot of money here. And I’m really good at it,” Stephanie said, and shrugged. “I give good blow-jobs.”

“How often did you send money to your aunt?”

“Every now and then.”

“How much?”

“Fifty dollars, a hundred. It depended.”

“Did anyone know she had this extra money coming in?”

“Why? Was she robbed? Did someone rob her?”

“No, it doesn’t look that way. But sometimes people get envious and...”

“It wasn’t that much money. I sent her whatever I could, but it wasn’t a fortune. Anyway, my aunt never told her business to anybody. I’m sure she wouldn’t have told anybody she was getting money from me.”

Again there was laughter down the hall. A girl’s laughter, high and genuine. Stephanie reached for a tissue in a box resting on the floor. She blew her nose, and tucked the tissue into the waistband of the skirted scarf covering the G-string. Then she looked at her watch.

“The last time you spoke to your aunt...” Carella said.

“Yeah,” Stephanie said, and nodded, “but could you please hurry it up, cause you paid for a half-hour, you know, and they like us to keep track of the time.”

“Did she mention anything that was frightening her?”

“No.”

“Any threatening letters or phone calls?”

“No.”

“Anything that was worrying her, or troubling her...”

“Nothing,” Stephanie said.

“Nothing,” Carella repeated.

Driving back home to Riverhead, the faulty car-heater clanking and rattling but doing little otherwise to defrost the windshield, he began adding up what he had. The tally came close to the nothing he had got from Stephanie Welles. He bunched his gloved fist, rubbed it against the rime forming on the glass, and cleared a spot about the size of a melon. He knew it would frost over again in no time at all, but meanwhile he enjoyed the luxury of being able to see the road ahead. It was not yet eleven-thirty, there wasn’t much traffic going out of the city this early on a Saturday night.

The case had begun on Thursday with the murder of Jimmy Harris, had lurched into Friday morning with the subsequent murder of Jimmy’s wife, and had zigged and zagged an essentially unrewarding path across the city and the state until it smashed into a dead-end brick wall with the murder of Hester Mathieson earlier tonight. Thursday, Friday, Saturday, three days, and the case was still as cold as a herring, red or otherwise.

Carella was tired and he was irritated and he was probably inconsolable, but he tried nonetheless to console himself with facts because he knew that in police work there were no mysteries; there were only crimes and the people who committed them. The people were sometimes professionals — as were armed robbers and burglars and some murderers. Or they were sometimes amateurs — as were most murderers. Or they were sometimes crazies — as were most pyros and some murderers and a mixed bag of other lawbreakers as unrelated as rapists or false-alarmists or muggers or parakeet-thieves or—

The facts, please.

Three blind people killed in as many days. Nothing stolen from any of them. Apartment of the first two victims turned inside out and upside down. Okay, the murderer was looking for something. What? Was it something Jimmy had buried? Dirt under his fingernails — soil, soil. So yes, he had possibly buried something. Then why did the killer tear up the furniture and overturn the lamps and dump forks and knives all over the floor and generally behave badly? Because he didn’t know beforehand that Jimmy had buried whatever it was he was looking for. All right then, did he find whatever Jimmy had buried? Yes, he found it. How do you know? Because he didn’t similarly ransack Hester Mathieson’s apartment. If he’d already found what Jimmy had buried, there was no need to search for it elsewhere. Good. In fact, brilliant. Then why did he bother to kill Hester Mathieson? If she had nothing he wanted, why did he kill her?

Problems, problems. There were always problems in the murder business. Carella had called Meyer the moment he’d got home from Fort Mercer, hoping to learn if Meyer had found any evidence of recent digging in the Harris apartment or in the back yard. He had his speech all prepared; he’d worked on it during the latter part of the tedious downstate drive. When Meyer got on the phone, he was going to say, “Well, did you dig up anything?” He was chuckling even as he dialed the familiar number, but he’d got no reply. Meyer was undoubtedly still at the wedding; it was not every day of the week that someone like Irwin the Vermin got married. Carella thought back to the day Irwin got bar-mitzvahed. If memory served — and it did — that was the same day Cotton Hawes got transferred to the Eight-Seven. He could remember their first meeting in the lieutenant’s office, Hawes explaining that he’d been named after Cotton Mather the Puritan preacher, and immediately saying it could have been worse, he might have been named Increase. He’d taken him out into the squadroom and introduced him to Meyer, who was fretting about a liquor-store murder that would surely cause him to miss Irwin’s—

The facts, please. Stick to the facts.

Three blind people dead in as many days. Nobody can remember anybody who had anything against Jimmy or Isabel or Hester. Nice people. Nice blind people, in fact, than which there are no people nicer. Except that Jimmy’s mother thought he was cooking up a crooked scheme like armed robbery or something with one of his old Army buddies, a likelihood Carella considered tantamount to discovering diamond mines on Mars — but who could tell? It’s a wise child who knows his own father, and it’s an even wiser mother who can spot a budding criminal in the little bugger she’d nursed and weaned. Hadn’t Jimmy, after all, once belonged to a street gang named the Hawks? He had indeed. This did not bespeak a lad who’d followed the straight and righteous all his livelong days, oh no. This bespoke a lad who’d bashed a few skulls in his time, and stomped a few ribs, and generally misbehaved as badly as the killer who’d tom up his apartment looking for something that may or may not have been buried, whatever the hell that might have been.

If it was buried in the apartment, it had to be small; there were no fields or pastures in a city apartment. There were back yards, of course, and maybe Jimmy had gone down there to do his digging, if he’d done any digging at all, at all. This information would have to wait on the call to Meyer tonight or tomorrow morning. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow crept in this petty pace, but it never got to be Sunday. It was still twenty minutes to Sunday, and God knew how many weeks or months to Monday. Carella had the feeling Monday would never again come.

So here was this nice blind person named Jimmy Harris, whose mother thought he was cooking up a larcenous scheme involving guns, and here was his sweet and innocent blind wife, Isabel, who was painting the town red or at least living it up a bit in this or that motel with her employer, who was madly in love with her and who planned to marry her. A pair of nice blind people, one of whom was maybe planning something criminal, the other of whom was already doing something criminal, adultery being a crime in the city for which Carella worked — a Class B misdemeanor, no less, punishable by at least three months in jail or a fine of five hundred dollars.

He should have mentioned that to old Janet upstate there at Fort Mercer. He should have said, “Janet, do you know that there is a section of the Criminal Law titled ‘Adultery’ and defined as ‘Engaging in sexual intercourse with another person at a time when one has a living spouse, or the other person has a living spouse’? Did you know that, Janet?” But then again, she hadn’t invited him to break the law, she had only invited him to dinner at a great little restaurant she knew. And besides, why was he thinking of her once again while driving back home yet another time?

Hester Mathieson was another nice blind person who only happened to have a hooker for a niece. Which wasn’t bad, of course, if you didn’t mind the fact that the money your niece sent you was dirty money. Hester couldn’t have minded because first of all she didn’t know her niece was in the life, and secondly, she didn’t know that the C-notes coming to her irregularly were earned in a profession that was presumably victimless but that supplied the boys in the mob with the cash for the pursuit of other victimless crimes like selling dope to teenagers. Arthur may not have realized it tonight, but the sixty dollars he’d paid to old sloe-eyed Jasmine for his two hours of bliss with a prostitute went directly to the bad guys who were running the operation. And whereas Stephanie Welles, also known as Shana, hadn’t told Carella much, he knew for certain that a goodly portion of every nickel she received for those very good blowjobs she knew how to perform also went to the boys in the mob. The boys were not nice people, and whereas Carella could see no connection as yet between Shana’s occupation and the death of her aunt, he knew that where there was rat shit, you were bound and certain to find rats sooner or later.

So there they were, Jimmy and Isabel and Hester — three nice blinds, so to speak. Oh yes, they each and separately had a few skeletons hanging in the closet, but maybe this was meaningful and maybe it was not. And here was Carella, not knowing which way to turn next, knowing only that he had to handle this one the way he handled all the other ones. Dig for the facts, evaluate the facts — which he’d done already and which he had to admit left him exactly nowhere. And then dig for further facts, which you could then evaluate in the hope that they, too, would leave you exactly nowhere, in which case you could quit the force and become a street cleaner, or at least go home to sleep.

Carella yawned.

He bunched his fist again and wiped at the frosted windshield again, and then decided he would go to Diamondback in the morning to try to find out why Jimmy Harris’ nightmares had persisted long after the good Major Lemarre had exposed and explored and explained the trauma that had presumably caused them.